Sea's Reckoning

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 abovedecks 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 war-lust 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 you 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 small 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.