Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 109: Near Perfection

I raised a hand in the air as I slowly went down on one knee.

At once, the squelching of boots against the damp ground and the hiss of grass brushing against fabric ceased. The line froze. Sargento Guzman crept to my side, his movements smooth despite the mud. He was followed by Mario, who crouched low, unable to hide the nervousness on his face—his wide eyes flicked between the trees and the distant lights of the town.

On the other side of the field, Roque’s platoon had also halted. The cadet and a few of his men had pushed slightly ahead of our line, now crouched behind a group of large boulders. Their outlines were barely visible in the faint grayness before dawn.

We had successfully advanced to the outskirts of Buenavista. The treeline, scattered shrubs, and tall cogon grass, coupled with the slight downward slope, gave us the cover we needed to approach undetected.

Our first hurdle lay just ahead—right at the mouth of the town proper.

A makeshift barricade blocked the road. It was constructed of bamboo poles lashed together with vines and reinforced by a few wooden stakes. Smoke from a dying campfire drifted lazily in the air, carrying the faint scent of burnt wood. Beside it, two men stood guard. We could hear the low murmur of their conversation carried by the breeze, mixing with the distant rustling of palm leaves.

They wore the expected attire—red strips of fabric tied around their bodies. One had a band across his forehead, the other had pieces wrapped tightly around both arms. From the silhouette of their postures, I could tell they were armed with rifles, though the low light made it difficult to identify the type.

Teofilo spotted them before I did. He was watching from a concealed position closer to the front, eyes steady. He looked toward me. I nodded once. He already knew what to do.

Roque, crouched behind the rocks, gestured with two fingers. Two of his men silently separated from the group and crawled forward. They moved efficiently and silently—clearly the lightest and quickest in his platoon. Roque whispered instructions to them, barely more than a breath. They didn’t nod or reply—they just moved.

A small clump of banana trees stood within striking distance of the checkpoint. The two recruits took the long route, slipping through the tall grass and circling behind the trees. The rest of us held our breath, rifles ready.

We didn’t hear it—but maybe the sentries did. A faint rustle. A sudden shift in the breeze. Whatever it was, the Pulajanes stopped chatting. The one nearest the trees stepped forward, gripping his rifle tighter, eyes scanning the darkened thicket. The other looked less concerned—his weapon still loosely pointed at the ground, more for show than readiness.

Teofilo’s sharpshooters had already trained their rifles on the sentries, fingers resting on triggers. The safety was off. freewēbnoveℓ.com

It happened fast.

The curious sentry took one more step, trying to part the banana leaves.

A bayonet struck from the shadows—clean into his throat. The man jerked back, gurgling. Before the second sentry could even bring up his rifle, the second recruit rushed forward and buried his blade into the man’s chest, pushing deep into the heart. Both collapsed nearly at the same time.

The only sounds were the soft thud of bodies hitting earth and the short, sharp whimper from the second man as he dropped to his knees.

Executed to near perfection.

Roque looked to me again from across the field. I slowly stood up and raised my arm forward—signal to advance.

The rest of the recruits emerged like ghosts from the grass and bushes. What had looked like an empty field a moment ago suddenly produced fifty armed men, moving swiftly and low. The barricade was pushed aside with minimal noise.

We were inside the town’s edge now.

The outer huts of the población loomed ahead—simple wooden structures, some with thin thatched walls, others with rough planks and open windows. Working in squads, the recruits advanced using what they’d learned from the obstacle course. They sprinted from cover to cover, sticking close to walls and using fences and sheds as shields.

Roque covered the left flank with his group, clearing alleyways and front yards. I moved with Mario on the right flank, staying just behind the lead element to coordinate movements. The two flanks crept toward the center street, converging as we went.

We passed more nipa huts, then some larger houses. The church was already visible from here—its stone bell tower piercing the horizon like a dark silhouette against the pale sky.

It was about 4:00 a.m. The air was cool and still. Even the earliest risers in town would not be up for another hour. At least, that was the hope.

As one recruit prepared to cross into the next backyard, I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.

The back door of a nearby house creaked open.

An old man stepped out, barefoot and muttering to himself. He wore a thin undershirt and loose trousers. His gray hair was uncombed, and he looked half-asleep as he stretched his arms with a loud yawn.

He stepped to the edge of his small backyard, turned to the bushes, and began to piss.

I glanced at Sargento Guzman. To his credit, he had stayed tight behind me through every twist and turn. I could say the same of the Bulakeño recruits.

Mario and his platoon had taken a different path, likely threading through one of the many narrow lanes between the clustered homes.

Guzman and I exchanged a nod.

We crept forward slowly. The sandy soil beneath our boots gave a faint hiss with every step, no matter how carefully we moved.

The old man didn’t notice—until the metallic click of Guzman pulling his bolt handle echoed faintly in the still morning air. The rifle was now pointed squarely at the back of his head.

The old man froze, his stream stopping mid-flow.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.

"I have already given you everything I have," he said quietly, almost conversationally, his hands slowly lifting into the air. "Is there anything else I could help you with?"

Sargento Guzman looked at me for guidance. I gave him a faint smirk.

"That’s interesting," I replied. "I haven’t even asked Gasan for support in the war against the Americans yet."

The man turned his head slightly, just enough to glance behind. His eyes landed on my face, then dropped to my uniform—the rayadillo, the silver regalias glinting faintly in the pre-dawn light.

His expression shifted instantly.

A wide, toothy smile spread across his wrinkled face. He dropped his arms and turned around completely, seemingly forgetting the rifle still pointed at him.

"¡Gracias a Dios! Are you from the Gobernador?"

"Lower your voice, Señor!" I hissed.

He immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, but his grin remained.

"And you are in fact... talking to the Gobernador," Sargento Guzman added, not lowering his rifle yet.

The old man blinked, eyes wide with surprise, then nodded eagerly.

We didn’t have time to explain—but it seemed we wouldn’t need to.