Authors: A.J. Tata
Nearly thirty Abu Sayyaf were stacked single file behind the lead team, wandering aimlessly into their sights.
As a precaution, he had sent Abe nearly fifty meters to his north to serve as a listening post on the left flank. He had tied their remaining rope around Abe’s waist so that he did not get lost and to serve as a communications device. Two tugs meant enemy soldiers were coming from that direction. Abe had readily accepted the mission, glad he could help. Ramsey, desperately short of personnel, placed complete confidence and faith in him.
Talbosa struggled up
the mountain, still reeling from his conversation with Takishi and the fact that the Luzon faction had Garrett. He had unsuccessfully tried to contact the Fort Magsaysay team and vowed to try again in the morning.
Rocks slipped beneath his feet. Branches whipped into his face, unintentionally launched by the man to his front. They had found a trail, which made movement easier and faster. With Takishi’s report that Matt Garrett was detained in Luzon, Talbosa’s frustration mounted. He found himself thinking less of the enemy and more of a way simply to get to Cateel so he could fly to Manila.
His men had slowed, reaching what seemed like a clearing. The lead company, whittled to only forty rebels, noisily passed back the word to the other two companies of equal size that they would slowly move across the clearing. Talbosa was impatient, frustrated at the elusiveness of the soldiers. Before, he had caught them easily. He knew all of their tactics. They were particularly careless at night, bunching into tight clusters with little to no security. He wanted a quick victory. His brothers in arms had seized control of the government, and he could not even catch a ten-man patrol.
As his first men crossed the clearing, he sensed the second element move along the trail. He had positioned himself at the lead of the second unit and felt the commander brush past him quietly as he watched dark figures drift silently through the night. His frustration was replaced by the exhilaration of watching his men perform. He had read all of the American manuals on patrolling and conventional combat and watched his men execute what he believed to be a perfect danger-area clearing. He thought it was good, too, that his other two battalions had remained north of Davao City. Too many people in the jungle would be difficult to control. His men slid past him in silence as they followed the trail. He was close. He could feel it. Victory would soon be his.
Ramsey had watched
the four-man team barely clear the danger area. They had not checked the far side. Looking through his goggles, he saw the lead man of the patrol walk past the third infrared chemical light.
He squeezed the electrical blasting machine, a small, handheld device that generated an electrical pulse via the rapid pumping of a handle that turned a small motor, sending an electrical signal along the wire to ignite the claymore mines.
Nothing happened. He squeezed again. No response. Groping in the dark, he felt for the firing wires. He found them. Somehow one of the wires had come loose from the post. He awkwardly reinserted the wire, pressing down on the post as if he were inserting a stereo wire into a speaker. The blasting machine tumbled clumsily out of his hands as he watched five men move past the last infrared light. His hand dug into the dirt, snatching the small device. He pumped the blasting machine with two hands cupped around it, forcing it into his chest.
A bright light flashed into the darkness like a single strobe. He had forgotten to look away from the blast, allowing the sudden whiteness to burn out the batteries in his goggles. He was as blind as the rebels, and with the deafening blast he could barely hear.
Nonetheless, his team began firing. All of them had PAQ-4C infrared strobes mounted on their weapons to augment their goggles. Their fire control was rough at first. The men on the right flank started by shooting the lead five men, then turning their rifles on the predetermined sectors. Tracers rocketed downhill and sidehill, most finding their way into the warm bodies of Filipino rebels. Screams of pain sang out in the night, interrupted by the now-cadenced fire of M4s, M203 grenade launchers, shotguns, and sniper rifles.
Because he had lost his night vision, Ramsey could only direct his fire toward the tracers, a default fire-control technique. He hoped that whoever was firing the tracers could see what he was shooting. But he felt stupid, pulling the trigger with no target. Being so low on ammunition, he stopped, deciding wisely to conserve. The withering fire stymied the Filipinos, nonetheless. He could hear men drop, and had yet to see a single shot returned.
Talbosa registered shock
as he watched his first company get raked by a screaming hail of bullets. Half of the second company was trapped as well. He had jumped back into the first cut of trees at the sound of the explosion. Popping his head above a rock, he could see the fire outlining the enemy’s positions. The tracers were coming from directly up the hill and immediately to their right about 150 meters away.
We can flank them.
He tightened down his hat and grabbed a shaking soldier, telling him to get the rest of his company and to follow him.
“Sir, there are only five men left in my company,” the soldier said, smelling of urine.
“Then get them!” Talbosa yelled beneath the sound of the raging American rifles.
He had the trail company lay down a base of fire, to imply that they were not moving. Swiftly, he took his five-man team to the north, moving through the rain forest with unexpected ease.
This is brilliant,
he told himself. As they moved, they were clearly out of any danger from the ambush. The firing grew more distant as he led his team behind the enemy’s north flank. It seemed surreal, the tracers diving into the ground, sometimes arching eastward toward the ocean. The soft pop of the weapons belied their destructive nature. They made the turn and were moving parallel to the ridge. Talbosa could not believe his good fortune. He was behind the enemy, unimpeded. They moved to set up a position from which to kill them. He decided they would attack silently, using knives to kill each man individually.
Eddie was firing
his weapon, looking for more rebels to shoot. As the pivot man in the ambush, his pickings had been particularly good. He fired at will, striking targets easily with the use of his new night-vision sight. He would flip the goggles over his eyes, locate a group of rebels, and train the aiming device on whoever he wanted to shoot. He was removed from the killing almost one hundred meters, not comprehending that he was killing other Filipinos.
But as he felt the knife coming around his neck, he turned and saw a young rebel looking him in the eyes. The darkness accentuated the ferocity of his attacker’s piercing gaze. The knife cut deep into Eddie’s throat, as he had cut the pig’s throat only days ago. The attacker felt resistance at reaching Eddie’s windpipe, but pulled the knife through cleanly to the other side.
Eddie looked at his fellow countryman and mouthed, “My brother,” then fell forward, his blood gushing onto the rebel’s hands. Lying in the tall grass, dying, Eddie watched as the attacker, a boy younger than himself, ran whence he came, disappearing into the woods.
I just wanted a better life for my country
, Eddie thought, his mind spiraling with rapidity. He saw rice paddies outside of Cabanatuan, a small town on Luzon. He saw his mother and father spreading rice to dry on the dirt road. His younger sister played in the dirt beside the thatch hut.
And as he circled above them, they looked skyward, grief-stricken, watching him ascend to another place.
CHAPTER 60
Abe watched with amazement the execution of the ambush. If only he could play a role. He felt his hands reaching for a weapon, pulling an invisible trigger, and delighting in the kill. What kind of transformation was he experiencing? he wondered. Was it something primal?
Suddenly, he heard footsteps in the darkness. The major had told him that no one friendly would be moving unless he saw a green star cluster. None had been fired. Without hesitation, he pulled the rope twice, watching five bodies pass him on either side. One stopped, cocking his head to one side like an alert deer, then proceeded.
Ramsey felt the tug and turned in Abe’s direction. He could see dark outlines moving quietly along through the trees, as if they were looking. They passed him. He had not been firing. They had not noticed a muzzle flash from his direction. Then he saw a dark figure stop only three meters away, turning his head slowly in Ramsey’s direction.
Chuck leveled his hush-puppy pistol in the man’s direction, hoping it was not Abe, and pumped a single, silent shot into the chest of the man, who fell backward into the bushes.
He sensed the others stop and turn. They came back to the shot man and he fired another bullet at a rebel who was bending over to check on the first. Then he sensed at least two had moved to his left, on his downhill side. His position was between two trees. Quickly, he backed away, and the three enemy soldiers converged on one another. One screamed in pain, apparently at a knife wound. The other two leapt directly at him, knocking his pistol to the ground.
Ramsey grabbed his K-Bar knife out of its sheath as he felt the hot steel of an enemy knife pierce his left arm. He screamed in agony, thrusting his knife into the innards of one of the men on top of him, turning the blade back and forth like a fork collecting spaghetti. Pushing away, he saw a man, older than he, wearing a bush hat poised above him ready to end his life.
“Americans?” the voice said.
“Die, scumbag,” Ramsey said, trying to throw the man off him with no success. Talbosa held down Ramsey’s good arm while his wounded arm lay helpless at his side.
“No, my friend. This is a great victory for my people. We will parade your stinking bodies down Roxas Boulevard. Bin Laden will give us money. America will suffer,” Talbosa said, smiling.
Ramsey spit tobacco in his face. Talbosa raised his right arm, the knife silhouetted against the dark sky.
Three shots from the hush-puppy knocked Talbosa off Ramsey. Bursts of machine-gun fire suddenly erupted all around the two men. The tracers and muzzle flashes lit the night sky like strobes. Gaining visual acuity was difficult, and Ramsey sensed that Talbosa was no longer next to him. Staying low to avoid elevating into the cross fire, Ramsey low-crawled through the elephant grass.
Talbosa was gone. Grasping at the grass to his left and right, he touched a foot, then a leg.
The fire abated and Ramsey rose to one knee as Abe helped him to his feet. Looking up, Ramsey saw Abe’s face highlighted by the weak moon. He looked at Abe’s hand, holding the hush-puppy pistol. With a calm demeanor, Abe looked down at the weapon, then at Ramsey.
“Why this thing make no noise?”
The moment was almost comical. Then Abe moved to one knee and lifted an Australian bush hat from the grass. He held it in his hand without commenting as he stood again.
“That man, with the hat, where did he go?”
Abe and Zach were both without night-vision goggles and therefore could not search the darkness with any advantage.
“Ran. Like the wind. Not find. Need to get you a medic.”
The ambush had slowed in intensity, producing an occasional pop from a friendly weapon. No tracers burned in the sky. There was only the collective moan of wounded bodies. Chuck stood eye to eye with Abe, grabbed his pistol, and said, “Thank you.” But then he had to kneel again. His wounds were worse perhaps than he had initially believed.
He still had a fight to command, however, and people to protect. He found his rucksack, which had been riddled with bullets. He cringed when he found the radio shattered inside. The green star cluster was still serviceable, though, and he promptly sent it screaming into the air. He handed Abe his rucksack, and said, “Please.”
Abe was happy to help. He flipped Ramsey’s rucksack onto his back, fitted the Australian bush hat onto his head and started up the mountain.
CHAPTER 61
Near Fort Magsaysay, Luzon Island, Philippines
Matt Garrett looked at Bart Rathburn and Jack Sturgeon. He was thankful that he was practiced enough that he had brought no identification materials and truly looked like a security guard. To his knowledge, none of the rank-and-file insurgents had connected that they had a CIA operative in captivity. They were focused on Rathburn, with all of his important-looking badges.
Sucks to be him,
Matt thought. So far, Matt had not been questioned; nor had any apparent leader presented himself.
Matt was squatting on his haunches in the corner of a dank cellar with adobe walls and a thin green slime of mildew and mold along the dirt floor. So far he had killed one snake and four rats. He should have just let the snake live, he thought; maybe it would have eaten the rats.
Their Filipino captors had stripped them of their weapons, rifles, pistols, and knives, and dumped them unceremoniously into this basement. When they removed their blindfolds and restraints, Matt noticed that there was a large Native-American-looking man sitting in the muck on the far wall. The man opened his half-lidded eyes when the three of them had appeared in his heretofore solitary cell. Just as quickly, he closed them, as if retreating back into some sanctuary.
Matt noticed Rathburn and Sturgeon were visibly shaken, though the pilot seemed like he could handle himself. Rathburn was a different story altogether. The guy was coming unglued, Matt realized. Sturgeon was leaning against one shoulder in the far corner as if he might be twirling a toothpick in his mouth at the local soda fountain. Rathburn was pacing back and forth looking at the floor and muttering to himself like Rain Man.
“Gotta call Mick Jagger. If he can’t help, Ronnie Wood is the man.
The man
, you know what I’m saying? This is Mick’s doing, I know. You know? If not Mick, then for sure Ronnie. You know what I’m saying?”