Sea’s Reckoning
This story is dedicated to the brave soldiers manning the Barko ng Republika ng Pilipinas (BRP) Sierra Madre. Sending you boys the snappiest of salutes with plenty of thanks from a civilian who is grateful you keep that lonely post out there. You all rock. Itaas po ninyo ang watawat natin at iwagayway!
Marine Sgt. Junio del Mundo peered through his battered binoculars across the bow of the BRP Teresa Magbanua. The sea mist kicked up by the new Philippine Navy cutter stung his face as he stood there, stolidly watching as they drew closer to the wrecked hulk of the BRP Sierra Madre.
It’s just a regular supply drop, Jun, he told himself as he ran his scarred, darkly-tanned left hand through the black crewcut taming his otherwise tightly-curled hair and ran that hand down to his sharply angled jaw. His round black eyes squinted on the peering end of the binoculars, as if seeking something more than the seemingly serene sea before him, his generous mouth pursed into a thin line that brought out the cleft in his chin.
It’s not like you’re going to see combat. That thought aside, del Mundo’s right hand dropped from the binoculars to the hilt of the bolo at his side — force of habit for del Mundo, especially after his tenth deployment to Mindanao, where he’d chased down everything rebellious from New People’s Army fighters to suspected Daesh terrorists supposedly training in the wilds of the triple canopy jungles there.
For all that it could no longer ride the waves nor even fire its corroded guns, the Sierra Madre was still classed as a working warship of the Philippine Navy.
Call it a tactical strategy, but that bucket of rusted bolts held together by spit, duct tape and various other ingenious materials found by the soldiers manning it was not given the happy fate of retirement. Rather it was there as pambalang-kanyon, cannon-fodder, a taunt of rust and peeling paint aimed at the Chinese military building on reefs just out of the Sierra Madre’s line of sight. You see, opening fire on a vessel still classed as an active warship is considered an act of war. Even if it is a sitting duck.
A loud splash along the starboard side of the cutter’s prow, then a quick series of splashes, caught the Marine’s attention. He leaned over the gunwale railing to get a closer look at what was splashing so close to the cutter. Sometimes dolphins swam alongside ships, providing the crew abovedecks with a lovely, wild show of aquabatics.
But, as quickly as the splashing caught del Mundo’s attention, it ceased. He shrugged and walked back to the stairs that would lead him below. It was time to make sure the supplies they brought were ready to deploy.
The Teresa Magbanua slowed to a halt and the topside crewmen were busy mooring her alongside the Sierra Madre. The supplies were moving now on dollies to the cargo bay’s offloading ramps. The Teresa Magbanua resupply run was at its halfway point and the ship would stay overnight to gather reports from the men on the Sierra Madre before returning to its home base at Sangley Point in Cavite.
It was del Mundo’s job to collate these reports and organize them for his commanding officer. He’d done it before and knew that they did not vary except to say what little skirmishes there were with Chinese ‘fisherfolk’ transgressing their way into the Philippines’ exclusive economic zone. Not that these reports would gain more than a flicker of attention at the higher command levels, really. No, it was the media that would have a field day with them.
Making the short, routine trip, del Mundo finally put the splashing he’d heard out of his mind. Eleven Marines and a dozen more sailors from the Philippine Navy were hauling ass to get the resupply underway and he didn’t have the luxury of lazing about abovedecks.
***
Jahariyasya raised a webbed hand to his comrades as the vessel of the Taga-Lupa slowed to a stop. He made a firm fist over his head as he swam upright, the signal for all 20 siokoy warriors to halt and tread water.
“The Taga-Lupa are busy now. We have to make sure they stay where they are,” Jahariyasya said to his men in the sonorous language of their folk. “Ydolosiya,” he called out to one of the younger siokoy in the school with him, “bring the bag with the charges we got from the Diwatas to me.”
“This is risky, my prince,” one of the siokoy close to Jahariyasya said gravely. “I know you want to stop the invaders from building more harmful structures out there in the Isles of Dispute, but you risk the lives of these Taga-Lupa.”
“And what are we to do, Heriadios, wait for the invaders to truly destroy our waters and reefs? To keep making off with the turtles that are so few? To keep fishing with their trawlers and leave the Taga-Lupa we are bound to protect to starve as a result of that over-fishing? These Taga-Lupa in the heavy, metal boats are warriors and they have weapons. They can handle whatever happens after we begin to destroy the invaders’ ships and those things they build that suffocate the coral of our reefs.”
Heriadios bowed his scaly head, the sunlight refracting off it in small, scattered rainbows spinning around him. “I just want to remind you of your father’s command: That you do not put at risk more lives than you need to. It would be good for you to remember that. Those Taga-Lupa have children and mates who need them, too.”
Jahariyasya paused to consider Heriadios’ words, his body stretched beneath turbulent waves, refracted sunlight kissing a muscular, man-like body covered in scales, skimming the large dorsal fin that ran from his brow to his tailbone.
“Bathala himself gave the order to the king,” Jahariyasya said to Heriadios. “An order sent through the voice in the Deep Trench. When the SkyFather speaks, we listen and we obey or we are no more. Now, unless you want lightning to strike deep into the waters, I suggest you, shaman, do as we are bid.”
With that princely command, Jahariyasya floated to the head of their formation and began swimming with powerful strokes toward the place the Taga-Lupa called Panganiban Reef.
***
The resupply was ordinary, quotidian, boring. Del Mundo couldn’t help but wish for some excitement — never mind if that meant he would need to unsheathe his bolo. Night had fallen and the Marines on the Teresa Magbanua began conversing with the Navy regulars as the cool salt air washed over the deck.
He could hear snippets of conversations here and there, again, mundane: Soldiers betting on cards in a game of tong-its, the faint strumming of a guitar from down aft. Some soldier probably talking about his baby boy: “He’s starting young. We brought him for his well-baby checkup and he couldn’t take his eyes off the pretty nurse.” Chuckles and the sound of someone munching on crunchy food, possibly some of those nutrient-rich crackers they’d all been given for this trip.
Del Mundo stretched his tall, wiry frame to the heavens and held his arms out to his sides. A good Marine always, always stays alert and prepared, after all, no matter how calm the waters may seem. There was also that little tickle at the back of his neck that told him he would need to be awake and ready for battle, even as his dark eyes drank in the stunning vista of a sea calm as glass set against a midnight blue sky where the moon shone bright as the Philippine smile.
He took a whetstone from one of his combat pants’ pockets and settled down on an old three-legged stool, took a deep breath and unsheathed his bolo. All the better to hone the blade glinting in the bright moonlight. Del Mundo’s skillful hands took firm grasp of the machete’s mahogany hilt char-graven with the baybayin symbols for warrior (mandirigma) — the name he’d given it — and put the ceramic whetstone to the blade-edge.
***
The siokoy prince and his warriors worked silently beneath the slapping waves and stolid concrete and soil pilfered from the Philippines, with which the Chinese would grab Mischief Reef. The malignos began planting small, shiny discs of silver and chromite firmly into the crevices between the coral lacework at the base of the reef. On each disc, arcane symbols glowed with a cold light that illuminated the deep undersea umbra that shielded the white bones of the coral formations on which the discs were placed.
The siokoy swam in a slow, deliberate downward spiral, going from just beneath the surface of the water down deeper and deeper until the water was dark as midnight, planting the charges as they went, all the way to the most ancient of the coral formations, to the very root of the reef that kissed the white and silver sand of the ocean bottom.
That done, the siokoy swam out to converge almost ten nautical miles away. Far enough to be safe when their charges went off, yet near enough for their keen, bright eyes to watch the unraveling begin.
One by one their heads broke the surface of the water and Jahariyasya scanned the horizon. He had the BRP Sierra Madre and the BRP Teresa Magbanua to his right. The Chinese reclamation area, with its three airstrips and dock were right in front of him.
The siokoy joined hands, with Heriadios treading water dead-center of the circle. They began a low serial chant, their humming gaining strength and intensity as they called on SkyFather Bathala and EarthMother Poon to send sea god Aman Sinaya to their side.
Their chanting swelled, like the crashing of cyclone-lashed waves to the shore. It rose to a wordless, clangorous roar and, slowly, the charges planted in the coral underpinning all the structures built by the invaders expanded, gently pushing the live coral polyps out into the sea so the organisms could swim free of their self-built shells to populate another reef.
The siokoy ended their chant and gently called the coral polyps to their sides, scooping the organisms up for Aman Sinaya to claim upon his arrival. The polyps chittered their thanks to the siokoy, and danced on the waves as they awaited their maker.
As the Chinese personnel on Mischief Reef patrolled the artificial island they’d built, its foundations came apart like a demolition filmed in slow motion. A thin fissure glowed red with lava on the sea floor, belching modest puffs of ash and steam that began bubbling their way to the surface of the West Philippine Sea.
The airfields and docks upon the disputed reef rocked with gentle temblors that grew more and more intense with the passing minutes. Some soldiers posing for selfies in sweat-stained fatigues on the dock frowned and looked beneath their booted feet as they felt the jarring beneath them, but the quake paused and they resumed their jovial photobombing on territory the Filipinos called Panganiban Reef — a very fitting name, come to think of it, since, “panganib” is the Filipino word for “danger.”
Beneath the coral, the fissure widened into a truly frightening red mouth full of brimstone and fire, as if the EarthMother herself were opening the crevasse into a hungry maw. Lava began to simmer its way up, climbing the corals’ stony homes and hardening back into the igneous rock it truly is as it went.
***
Bakunawa the Great Serpent raised his sleepy, armor-scaled head from the sea floor as his master approached in swirls of sand and opened his eerie kelp-green eyes.
Aman Sinaya stood before Bakunawa, a smile on his thin, chiseled face. The sea-god’s arms were raised in greeting, a glint of eager battle-light shone from the god’s eyes, dark as the sea-depths themselves, and Aman Sinaya’s stormcloud hair swept out behind him, carried on the currents generated in his wake.
“Rise, old friend. It is time to give me a ride. The Taga-Lupa have need of us.” Aman Sinaya’s thoughts echoed sharply in Bakunawa’s black head and he answered them with a feral grin.
“Good, Sea Lord, for I find that I hunger for flesh. I would feed on screams, for dreaming of slaughter has whetted my appetite these hundred years past. It is time to feast.”
“You will carry me to Ayungin Shoal before I unleash you on Panganiban Reef, my friend,” Aman Sinaya said with a wave of his hand in the general directions of both locations. “I must walk in a human body to complete the Sea’s Reckoning.”
Bakunawa inclined his great head and yawned widely, baring row after row of gleaming, deadly-sharp teeth as he lazily uncoiled his long, sinuous body. His hide of armored scales in shimmering silver and deepest black gave off a dull gleam in what little moonlight pierced the ink of the nighttime waters, limning the fine rainbow whorls interspersed with the metallic sheen of Bakunawa’s scales.
So arose the great serpent, his muscles rippling under his armored skin. The sea god was mounted behind his huge head, hands raised to the sky holding spear and shield aloft as they broke through the surface with barely a ripple and Bakunawa rose into the air: Blackest penumbra and finest silver against the darkling firmament.
“Shine upon us, Bulan, and share with us what you see,” Aman Sinaya intoned into the sky’s vastness as he looked straight above him to the pearlescent moon hung regally amid the cold sparkle of stars. “I know you hear me. Let us begin as we mean to proceed.”
***
The dinner bell had rung and the Teresa Magbanua mess hall was all abustle with sailors busy with their third square meal. The cook aparrently had a wry sense of humor, for on the menu were breaded ayungin fillets served with steamed rice, arosep salad with salted eggs and tomato and cold iced tea from a powder mix.
Del Mundo took his meal tray and ate quietly in a corner. He’d perused the reports from the Sierra Madre and found nothing unusual other than one observation, a footnote amid the mess of “as usuals” and “situation normals.”
“Ocular inspection of Panganiban Reef and the illegal structures on it shows possible flaws in construction: Sinkholes seem to have formed at 1400 this afternoon. The uniformed personnel on the reclaimed areas of the reef seem to be making an orderly but hurried evacuation to the three ships moored at the dock.” Del Mundo kept turning that little afterthought tacked onto the latest report over in his head. Perhaps it was worth attempting a satphone call to HQ over? Perhaps not.
There went those prickles at his neck again, as rain began to patter on the metal deck of the Teresa Magbanua, the sound making the monsoon seem so much stronger than it really was.
Del Mundo slid a hand over the taut muscles at the nape of his neck and moved to his quarters, where he cleaned and checked his guns, prepared his spare ammunition clips and cleaned his big hunting knife for the nth time. If his instincts were driving him to lock, load and gear up, he sure as hell wasn’t going against them.
***
Bakunawa’s shadow cast a long stain on the starboard deck of the Teresa Magbanua and Aman Sinaya slipped quickly off the great serpent’s back to drop soundlessly on the cutter’s forecastle, just behind the radar array. He walked on quiet, bare feet into the ship’s interior, wending his silent way to the door of Del Mundo’s cabin.
The Marine was intent on his preparations as Aman Sinaya melted through the metal door to stand behind him, the sea god’s eyes a gray-black tempest that focused on the human uncurling from his crouch to place handfuls of munitions, and a two-way radio and earpiece onto a tightly-made bunk.
“Taga-Lupa,” the god addressed the Marine, his voice soft like a distant rumble of thunder and surf crashing on rock. “I have need of you.”
“Anak ng teteng! Who are you?” Del Mundo’s already tense muscles coiled even tighter as he pivoted, pulled himself into a compact weaver stance, he cocked the 9mm pistol he was holding against his trouser leg and aimed it at the center of Aman Sinaya’s barrel chest.
And the sea god laughed with the glint of warlust in his eye as he cocked a thick eyebrow at the Marine. “Do you really think shooting me will make me go away, Taga-Lupa? Put that down before you hurt someone who isn’t me.”
Del Mundo lowered and uncocked his pistol before sitting as calmly as he could on his bunk. He blinked several times before looking at Aman Sinaya again, taking in the froth of the sea-god’s hair wafting behind him from a tight ponytail, as if he were still in his underwater domain. The god stood a head taller than the already tall Marine (for del Mundo already topped “tall” at six feet, two inches), and his stature was imperious.
“Look, whoever, whatever you are, I really don’t appreciate people talking to me the way you do,” del Mundo tried to keep his voice civil, but couldn’t mask the anger shooting through it. His wide nostrils flared as if scenting the air for fear — something that was, quite sadly, lacking. “What need do you have for me if you can do things like walk through a locked metal door?”
“I have need of a mortal shell, for I, Aman Sinaya, cannot just walk into battle looking as I do,” Aman Sinaya answered, his chin raised so he looked down his hawkish nose at del Mundo. “Just so the fight is fair, I must battle as a human. Will you let me walk in you? Just for a while? I promise you this: You will have all the honor and glory that comes.”
“What honor and glory is that? You mean blood and gore, right?” Del Mundo’s voice was wry with sarcasm. “There is no glory in battle, just pain and death. Then you go home to find your politicians screwing you sideways and wasting what blood you’ve spent. And now here I am talking to you, a figment of my bored imagination.”
“So cynical, young man, tsk,” Aman Sinaya raised a languid hand and waved it in a circle around del Mundo’s face. “You don’t realize the pogi points you’ve got with us warrior gods, do you? Think you that we didn’t all watch over you even as you called for your Jesus Christ and Mama Mary? I’m no figment of your imagination. I am part of who you are. All you need to do is remember. I am in your genetic code, hardwired into your system. Just accept that and move on.”
Surprise flitted across the battle-hardened Marine’s face, flickered like lightning across his black coffee eyes. Deep in his gut, he heard the truth in Aman Sinaya’s words, in his unearthly voice, and nodded slowly, bowing his head as his soul recognized a primal memory from the beginning of time. This was, indeed, one of his gods.
“Oh, yes, Junio del Mundo, we’ve kept watch over you. We are the old gods, the ones your ancestors worshipped, the ones who promised long ago that the Taga-Lupa would have our protection in times of need, no matter what and come what may,” Aman Sinaya’s voice was serene as the night waters, its charm lapping at the shores of del Mundo’s reason as Aman Sinaya continued to speak. “I am the god of the sea and of battle. It is I who cleanses the blood from the dead and returns warriors’ bodies to their beloved Inang Bayan. It is I who calls the storm to wreak vengeance on your enemies. Merge with me now and we will do just that. Obey me and you will be victorious.”
“Whatever.” Del Mundo rolled his eyes up to the ceiling of his cabin and stretched his arms out wide. “If you feel that I’ve got something you need, well, I live to serve.” Anything was better than dying of boredom on this reconditioned, hand-me-down ship, he thought.
“Very well. But first, hold onto these. And put this in your pack.”
“Mang Tomas hot and spicy lechon sauce? What the — ”
“Ah-ah-ah. Language, Marine. Watch it.”
With a sigh and an exasperated shake of the head, del Mundo put the bottle of liver sauce spiced with bird’s eye chilies into the large pocket of his combat uniform pants. “O — kay.” He laid Aman Sinaya’s ornate (and heavy!) coral and silver spear on the bunk and set its matching shield beside it.
“Now, let’s… how do you put it now? Rock and roll,” Aman Sinaya said with a fierce grin that deepened the dimples in his cheeks. “Close your eyes and let me in.”
***
Chaos began to spread slowly, but surely, through the ranks of the Chinese on Mischief Reef as sinkholes began to eat their artificial island like acid. The ground’s shaking grew more and more intense, with fewer and shorter durations of relative steadiness in between.
The seawater began to simmer and give off steam as the already dark water blackened with roils of hot ash and spears of cooling igneous rock shooting several meters above the surface of the rising waves like a dragnet of sharp obsidian spines around the reclaimed inlet and the narrow opening to its harbor.
“Lai, lai!” The terse, urgent calls of commanders screaming from the prows of the three docked warships rang out like clarion calls in the darkness as sailors on the piers and decks scrambled to loosen the mooring ropes.
“Choo-lai!” The command to leave the shaky ground was issued by officers herding their soldiers to the gangplanks and up to the huge seacraft bobbing like paper boats amid the sudden and violent squall that shrouded the reef in lashing rain and even harsher gales.
Agonized screams echoed in the background as several soldiers fell off the gangways into a sea that boiled them alive before the screams died into terrible gurgles and hopeless whimpers. Those sounds, weak as they were, terrified the rest of the soldiers into clambering for whatever safety their ships offered.
Mooring lines were cut in desperation, to the outraged and terrified yells of the soldiers who didn’t make it to the gangplanks. The three ships pulled out and made for the harbor entrance amid the sudden eruptions of igneous rock bolting up from the depths of the sea.
***
Jahariyasya led the siokoy contingent to the ambush point a few nautical miles outside the man-made inlet, right along the safest exit route from Panganiban Reef. He motioned to his warriors and held up one slim silver disc, pointing at the two ships that made it out of the harbor before the entire man-made island sank amid the groaning of breaking coral and the sucking sounds made by riptide and deep whirlpools.
The last ship did not make it out: It was swallowed whole into the boiling waters before being impaled on a particularly large jag of igneous rock and suspended almost 40 feet above the pounding of storm surges.
The siokoy prince cast a grim eye at the scene of destruction before him and turned to signal his warriors forward. He pointed to the shaman, Heriadios, to begin chanting.
With the shaman’s voice rising to the sky and ringing across storm and sea, the disc in Jahariyasya’s hand began to glow and he and another siokoy bearing a similar device in hand swam hard for the escaping ships.
The two siokoy caught up with their targets in minutes, their powerful, heavily finned legs propelling them to preternaturally high speeds, like living torpedoes unimpeded by the drag of the roiling sea.
They slapped the discs to the ship rudders and swam swiftly away, curling their bodies and bracing for the impact of the discs’ eruptions of molten rock that jolted the Chinese vessels out of the sea for seconds that stretched out into forever before time resumed and the ships fell back to the furious sea.
Dead in the water, the Chinese ships were left squarely in Philippine territory, the nine-dash line within sight but out of reach. Automatic mayday signals went up and red alert clarions blared in a caterwauling crescendo that drowned out the screams of panicking sailors whose last thoughts, perhaps, were whether they’d have to kiss their asses goodbye or not.
***
Aman Sinaya strode to the bridge of the Teresa Magbanua with purpose and supreme confidence, patting the pocket of del Mundo’s pants where the Mang Tomas bottle sat. Ah, this body is strong and its mind is keen. I have chosen well, the sea god thought to himself.
Enough of your preening, sea god. Just do what you have to and get me out of it in one piece, okay? Del Mundo’s voice rang inside his skull and Aman Sinaya had to hold back a chuckle.
Easy, Marine, we’ll do what we have to and you will be stronger and better than ever when this is through. The sea god spoke to del Mundo in a tone that conveyed his delight at the Marine’s irritation. You’re so much fun to tease.
Asshole.
Hardass.
Seaweed-breath.
Mortal.
The mental back-and-forthing came to an abrupt stop as the sea god and the Marine heard del Mundo’s commander snap out his name on a snarl.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes for you to get here,” the commander’s voice was cold with anger. “Gaddemit, Marine.”
The god and his meat-suit saluted crisply. “Sir, I’m here now, sir. Orders?” The commander nodded, motioned for del Mundo to take a seat and turned to the officers and men crowded on the cramped space of the cutter’s bridge.
“There’s a mayday coming in from Panganiban Reef and we have the Phivolcs director on the satellite uplink,” the commander said. “It seems an uncharted undersea volcano has begun erupting beneath Panganiban Reef. Very violently.”
The commander went on to brief his men: The illegal runways and docks were destroyed in the eruption — or this was what the intelligence service had picked up from the unencrypted radio chatter emitted from the disputed reef.
“We have been ordered by HQ to render aid and offer rescue to the Chinese vessels that made it out of the calamity zone. We are not to engage them in combat. I repeat, NOT to ENGAGE them in combat. Rescue and assistance only.”
“Aye, sir. Rescue and assistance only,” someone from behind del Mundo said.
***
Bakunawa swam in the hot waters of the artifical inlet, reveling in the heat and sulfur of the volcanic eruption beneath him. Here and there he snapped up a body, sometimes two, and crunched them between massive jaws.
Ah, yes, it is so nice to have parboiled Chinese dumplings for a midnight snack. He smiled at that witty turn of phrase. Dragons need their calcium and their protein, after all. Oops, I’m going to need a toothpick later. Someone’s shin got stuck between my teeth. Damn.
The siokoy swam around the stilled ships, impatient to see action. Jahariyasya spread both of his webbed hands out above his head and brought them down in matching lateral arcs. Not yet.
Out of the darkness, the Teresa Magbanua’s shining white bow cleaved the choppy waves, its halogen floodlamps lighting the sea and sky dead ahead.
“Ahoy, Chinese vessels, this is the BRP Teresa Magbanua,” the Philippine Navy commander’s voice rang across the distance between the ships over the loudspeaker. “Is there any assistance we can offer?”
Back and forth flew signals in morse code and verbally, over loudspeakers. The Chinese ship closest to the Teresa Magbanua was easily twice the cutter’s size, but the sailors who were doing the talking figured the Teresa Magbanua could, if just barely, tow the Chinese ships, one at a time, to relative safety off Ayungin Shoal.
The communications officers on both ships mediated a delicately balanced agreement: There would be no firing on each other, just a friendly tow or two. Rescues for the ailing Chinese vessels’ passengers and crews would be done in batches.
The first tow and rescue was uneventful, and the Chinese soldiers decided to stay on their ship, as there wasn’t room enough on either the Teresa Magbanua or the nearby Sierra Madre to accommodate them all.
The second tow nearly broke the Teresa Magbanua’s engines, as a spear of hardened lava had punctured the Chinese ship’s aft hull — a shallow puncture, true, not enough to sink the warship, but one that made towing that much more work amid the eerie groaning of ripping metal.
Then some dumb bubba on the second Chinese warship decided to aim its foredeck guns at the Sierra Madre. Why that fool chose such a bad course of action, no one could say, as radio and loudspeaker chatter between the first Chinese warship and the Teresa Magbanua made it pretty clear that neither side in the ill-starred rescue attempt wanted to open hostilities.
The soldiers on the Sierra Madre made haste to get to land as they monitored the conversation between the Teresa Magbanua and the first Chinese ship.
One of the guns trained on the Sierra Madre fired, its aim true, a shot that punched through the sitting-duck rust-bucket from port to starboard. Her soldiers would not abandon her. They rushed back up on deck and ran for the aft guns which they’d attempted to restore over their months of watch-and-wait. It was time to see if their efforts paid off.
“That is an act of war,” Teresa Magbanua’s commander said, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Cease firing on the Sierra Madre. It is an active warship of the Philippine Navy. I repeat, this is an act of war. Cease firing! We will defend the Sierra Madre if you don’t hold your fire.”
Well, the big warship that could didn’t hold its fire and shot another volley at the Sierra Madre’s radar and communications array — about the only part of that spit-and-rust structure that still worked well enough to justify its status as an active vessel of the Philippine Navy fleet.
The first warship lost its reluctance to fight and trained its fore and aft guns on the Teresa Magbanua, which was, quite naturally, preparing its own weapons to defend the Sierra Madre.
“This is war. Prepare to defend yourselves.” That was the final transmission out of the Teresa Magbanua as her guns went online. “You may be the bigger ships with bigger guns, but we’re Filipino and we don’t back down.”
Dancing gracefully on the waves in a martial choreography of tactics handed down from the vintas of old, the Teresa Magbanua protected the Sierra Madre with its mass and dodged what missiles it could, giving back even more viciously than it got.
The Philippine Navy may not have much in the way of ships, but the Filipino has been a sailor longer than he has been called Filipino. That came through loud and clear as the Teresa Magbanua took only superficial damage while dealing out punitive blows of her own.
Being stranded did not make the Sierra Madre helpless. It only made her sailors calculate their shots even more. This sitting duck was armed and dangerous in a manner all her own. After all, nobody can sink a ship already run aground.
***
The siokoy had been swimming alongside the Chinese ships as they were towed, in batches of ten — five on either side. All were eager to board ship and engage the enemy — for, in their panic and upset, these Chinese had opened fire on the Filipino ships that sought only to aid them. It was time to send them to the Skyworld for Bathala to judge.
Jahariyasya looked to his men and swam for the surface, his fins fully extended to catch what light they could, for that was their pre-agreed signal to begin battle.
Silently the siokoy swarmed aboard the Chinese ships, slashing at shocked and frightened soldiers with wicked black claws sharp as obsidian knives that they popped out of their hands and feet like cats.
Rallying their courage, the Chinese combatants let loose controlled bursts of fire at the siokoy from their assault rifles and impressively swift shots from semiautomatic pistols. Some of their bullets hit the attacking siokoy only on their shoulders or limbs, mostly because these creatures moved faster than the Chinese thought they could. And they kept on coming.
Jahariyasya pulled himself up on the deck of the hull-punctured warship just as a dark presence shimmered beside him. He turned to see a swarthy, tall Philippine Marine with a bolo in hand looking down at him.
“Ah, Prince Jahariyasya, welcome to the battle,” Aman Sinaya’s voice came out cool and clear, though the body he wore was that of a Taga-Lupa.
“Well met, Stormbringer,” Jahariyasya said with as much courtesy as he could. “It is good that you join us tonight as we return these enemies of the Taga-Lupa to the sea.”
“Have you seen Bakunawa, by any chance?” The query came out casual, as if Aman Sinaya was just preparing to take a dip to ease the tropical heat.
“Not yet, my lord Aman Sinaya, but I am sure he’ll find you. He always does.” With that, Jahariyasya responded to the guttural yelling behind him by making a swift turning long kick, followed by a forty-fiver to his opponent’s head. “Pardon me, sea god, that interruption was unintended.”
More Chinese came up on deck and opened fire on the siokoy prince and the sea god, who waved his hands and scattered the bullets tearing through the air in their direction as Jahariyasya dropped to the deck, rolled toward a cluster of soldiers and leapt out over the gunwale and into the sea bearing two of the unfortunate soldiers with him. It was, of course, only polite to leave some prey to Aman Sinaya.
“Carry on,” Aman Sinaya said with a laugh in his deep voice. “I guess I’m just going to have to pull bolo and fight, too. At least until Bakunawa shows up. Blasted dragon.”
Plowing forward, bolo flashing in metallic elysee swirls, Aman Sinaya proceeded to make like a blender and pulse-liquefy the mortals foolishly holding their ground with guns that never hit their mark.
“Come here, my pretties. It’s time to die,” the sea god said in Mandarin. “I know your language, for long have I spoken and heard it. I will happily insult you thus until you are all dead and prepared as dragon feed.”
***
The Teresa Magbanua’s guns roared in righteous anger, raking both Chinese ships with her ire.
The Sierra Madre, punched full of holes as she was, was no slacker, either as her aft guns roared to life and shot at what targets she could reach, her economy of munitions precise and deadly. The guns on this most decrepit of active duty vessels may have looked dead, but, lo and behold, they could still fire with deadly intent.
“Surrender and we will spare you,” the Teresa Magbanua’s commander spoke over the ship to ship lines that remained open despite the hostilities. “We will stop firing if you do.”
An angry retort from the Chinese came over the lines, something the Filipinos interpreted as “hell, no, keep shooting.” So they did, until the Chinese guns fell silent.
When the smoke cleared, dawn was filtering through the haze of gunpowder and ash and the silence was broken only by the curt orders issued by the Filipino officers to initiate search and rescue of the Chinese who had, just hours before, engaged them in battle.
The siokoy saw that their jobs were done. They did, after all, fish the Filipinos who fell into the water out of it right quick and some of them who were still on the ships when the exchange of fire was underway pushed the Chinese guns off the mark as they discharged. It was time for Jahariyasya to return home to claim his promised mate and take over the Hiyas throne. It was time to form his council and spawn the next of his bloodline.
Floating on the surface of the water, Bakunawa met up with Aman Sinaya in Junio del Mundo’s clothing. “Hey, yo, amo. You brought my Mang Tomas?”
With a laugh and a snort, Aman Sinaya tossed the bottle of Mang Tomas over to the dragon.
“Thanks!” Bakunawa held a dead Chinese soldier up in one clawed hand and breathed a gout of flame upon him, roasting him as surely as Filipinos roasted the best lechon in the world. Then Bakunawa uncapped the Mang Tomas sauce and daintily dripped half the bottle on his Chinese roast before opening his great maw and popping his treat in.
Bakunawa closed his eyes and chewed slowly, his craggy dragon face all scrunched up in gustatory delight. “See, I like being on the Pinoy side for one simple reason: They know their condiments.”
***
Del Mundo sat bolt upright on his bunk, his pistol cocked and in his hand by force of habit. Mid-morning sun streamed in through the porthole of his cabin on the Teresa Magbanua and he felt the cramping of toes left in combat boots overnight.
He ran his hands over his chest and thighs to find that he’d not shucked his uniform at all before falling asleep. He also found that his sheathed bolo was beneath his boot and that some of the rifle and pistol magazines he’d prepared had fallen to the floor beside his bunk.
Had he dreamed that battle with the Chinese? Was the possession of his body by Aman Sinaya just a figment of fantasy made up by his bored brain? Del Mundo rose from his bunk, splashed some water on his face in the cramped little en suite head and made his way to the ship’s bridge. Breakfast could wait.
He walked onto the bridge just as the ship’s commanding officer was on the satphone, barking at what seemed to be a Phivolcs official on that line.
“What do you mean ‘Panganiban Reef no longer exists?’ Explain that to me in terms I can understand, sir,” the man’s voice was fraught with disbelief. “You can’t tell me that without elaborating on such a statement…”
Del Mundo looked toward the radar screen and did a double take: The blip that once was Panganiban Reef was not visible on the radar screen. At all.
The angry demands on the commander’s end of the line did nothing to make del Mundo feel any less strange, either, so he went aboveboard to peer over the gunwale with his binoculars to see what he could for himself.
There were two big holes a meter or so above the faint waterline mark on the Sierra Madre. More holes dotted the deck of the grounded warship.
Del Mundo furrowed his brow slightly as the cold, salty wind ran like silk across his cheeks and jowls.
“Taga-Lupa, you did well last night. You have my congratulations. I didn’t know you were so good with your bolo.”
That voice, sonorous as a steady headwind filling a large spinnaker, filled his ears in much the same way. It was familiar, powerful and inhuman, but definitely warm and very welcome.
“Mr. Sea God, it’s you,” del Mundo said with a cocky smile that brought out the cleft in his chin. “So, was it real, or was it all a dream?”
“Well, Bakunawa has fed enough to sleep a decade or so, I think, and there is one less isle of dispute to worry about now,” Aman Sinaya said, fixing his charcoal eyes on del Mundo’s black ones. “To answer your question: Even dreams can be real. I think you can have peace for a few more years, since the last Chinese transmission to their command posts further out in the South China Sea tell the tragic tale of tectonic instability and vigorous volcanic activity in what was once Panganiban Reef.”
Del Mundo turned his binoculars and gazed out in the direction of Panganiban reef to see the tip of — was that a baby volcano? — sitting smack in the middle of what should have been the artificial island built by the Chinese to enforce their nine-dash line directive.
Instead, fireworks filled that part of the horizon, as the visible crater spewed pyroclastic ash and jetted red-orange streams of lava and rock ejecta several meters into the air.
“You’re welcome, Marine. You may close your mouth now.” Aman Sinaya said with a wink and a wide smile before he faded into the wind. “Take care of what we’ve helped you win, Taga-Lupa. Remember that we’re Filipino, too.”
