Cameron Curtis
May, 2021
1 Executive Protection
Bukidnon, Philippines
A Month Earlier
Life is good.
I open the front door of the plantation house and step onto the wide colonial veranda. The early morning air is warm, with a hint of stifling heat and humidity to come. I wear khaki trousers, Oakley desert boots, and a white short-sleeved dress shirt. Over the dress shirt, I wear a plate carrier. The level three body armor will stop assault rifle bullets. My M4 carbine is slung over my right shoulder. Four spare magazines are stuffed in the vest’s cargo pockets.
The warm breeze ruffles my hair and the collar of my shirt. The air is laced with the sweet scent of pineapples. Around the house, the crop stretches over hundreds of acres. A quarter mile in the distance squat the greenhouses and nurseries of Delos Foods. The administrative and operational buildings of a global food corporation.
“Hi, Mr Breed.” Chrissie Garcia is the daughter of the Delos Foods’ president and CEO. She’s fifteen years old, a freshman at Brent International School, Manila. Home for Easter break. Her family stayed at the plantation over Christmas. Long enough for the kid to develop a crush on me. She’s awkward and too shy to flirt, but the signs are all there. I treat her kindly.
“Hi, Chrissie. Ready to go?”
“I’ve been ready for hours. Here, I made you something for the trip.” The girl hands me a big coffee thermos.
The container rattles. The sound of ice cubes. “What’s this?”
“Iced tea,” Chrissie smiles. She holds my eyes, tries to convey sentiment with the gesture.
“Thanks, Chrissie. I appreciate it.”
The voice that interrupts us is confident and hearty. “Breed. All set?”
Juan “Johnny” Garcia, president and CEO of Delos Philippines. Average height and build, impeccably groomed. Khaki trousers and a white dress shirt, open at the collar. A man in control.
“Good to go, Mr Garcia.”
“We fly out of Manila at three o’clock,” Garcia says. He gives me a sharp look. “I don’t trust these island connector flights to get us there on time.”
I say nothing. The CEO should have left the island yesterday. Like most top executives, his job came first.
“Two weeks in LA,” he says. “Chrissie shouldn’t have to spend Easter vacation alone on this island.”
Garcia doesn’t want his daughter on the island at all. Threats have been made against expatriate executives and their families.
Three white Suburban SUVs are parked in the gravel drive. The five other men in the Long Rifle Consultants Inc. detail prepare to mount their vehicles. Although dressed casually, all are unmistakably ex-military. They carry sidearms in open holsters, and M4 carbines slung low across their plate carriers.
I step off the porch and walk Garcia and his daughter to the middle Suburban. “Hop in,” I tell them. “We’ll roll in five minutes.”
Chrissie gets in the back seat and Garcia piles in after her. I grasp the handle of the heavy bulletproof door, and make sure all his body parts are inside the vehicle. Principals have had bones crushed by careless bodyguards. The hinges have been reinforced to carry the armor’s extra weight. I slam the door.
Kevin Carmichael gets behind the wheel. Parks his M4 between his left leg and the door. The SUV is armored, but it’s a good habit. In a normal vehicle, the rifle provides a bit more protection against bullets. For me, there is a more important consideration—if I open the door, the rifle leaves the vehicle with me. I pile into the front passenger seat and park my M4 the same way. Set Chrissie’s thermos of iced tea on the molding next to the bucket seat.
My short-range squad radio is in the left chest pocket of my plate carrier. I wear an earpiece and clip a small microphone to my lapel. I key the mike. “One-Five Delos from Delos Actual.”
“One-Five Delos,” Terry Posobiec responds. Poso is my number two security consultant. Like myself, he was once a member of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, the army’s elite counter-terrorist unit. He sits in the front passenger seat of the lead Suburban. “Go ahead, Actual.”
“Are you good to go?”
“Affirmative.”
Carmichael starts the Suburban’s engine. Switches on the air conditioning.
“One-Niner Delos from Delos Actual.”
“One-Niner Delos. Go ahead, Actual.” Larry Keefe sits in the third SUV, our rear guard.
“Are you good to go.”
“Affirmative.”
I’ve gone through the radio protocol to test our comms. Time to contact our Philippine Army escort.
“Tiger Two, this is Delos Actual.”
“Go ahead, Delos Actual.”
It’s First Lieutenant Reggie Bandonil, commander of the army company assigned to protect the Delos plantation. Today, one of his platoons will provide escort for our trip to the airport.
“Interrogative,” I say. “Are you ready to meet on the highway?”
“Affirmative,” Bandonil responds with a crisp tone. “Halt at the intersection, then follow our lead elements.”
“Roger that, Tiger Two. Delos Actual out.”
Bandonil, a graduate of the Philippine Military Academy, is a consummate professional. In command of the Delos detachment for the past year, he is gnashing his teeth. Bandonil has been saddled with poorly trained conscripts and old Humvees with inadequate armor. I have seen his men welding steel plates onto the sides of their vehicles.
I have a good relationship with Bandonil. The lieutenant and I have stayed up late at night discussing ways to shore up his company. Elite units of the Philippine Army and Marines get the best officers and men, the best equipment. An understrength company patrolling a pineapple plantation does not qualify.
“Okay, Poso,” I say. “Let’s hit the road.”
Dieter Henke, driver of the lead SUV, pulls out of the driveway. Carmichael follows him, and Keefe slides into the number three slot. It’s a two-hour drive from the Delos plantation to
