Sudden Threat (48 page)

As he started receiving fire, he pulled back into the forest, ran across the trail, then doubled back to gain the flank.

It worked. The Japanese soldiers, under new direction, charged headlong into the woods where Matt had originally entered. As they melted into the sparse forest, Matt held the Kogyo tightly and sighted into the backs of the Japanese.

This is for Rathburn and Sturgeon, you bastards!

He was far more effective that time, killing at least fifteen soldiers who had bunched in their confusion. They turned on him, coming at him like a Rebel charge through the Devil’s Den at Gettys-burg. The enemy soldiers were screaming and firing weapons, the orange tracers blowing through the leaves, cracking branches, and temporarily painting the night sky like some wicked airbrush.

He swallowed dry spit as he felt the hammer fall on an empty chamber. He saw the barrel steaming and smoking directly in front of him when he realized he had fired all of the ammunition. There was nothing left for him to do except to move back through the woods with judicious use of his pistol.

He scurried along the reverse slope of the hill, hot lead chasing him only a step behind. He heard the helicopters come and go and assumed that they were surrounded.

A twig dug deep into his cheek, just beneath his eye, and snapped. His head turned and as he looked back toward his front, he tumbled over a large root, snapping his ankle as he fell.

In no time, three enemy soldiers were upon him, frothing at the mouth like rabid pit bulls ready to complete the kill. He shot one through the lower abdomen, actually hitting the man’s testicles, then fired a shot into the face of the man to his left.

The bayonet came arching downward, piercing his abdomen. The Asian man smiled, and with the bayonet in Matt’s abdomen, pulled the trigger of his M16 rifle.

Matt heard the deafening blast and felt the initial pain, then his world began to waft back and forth in his mind as if on a pendulum. First he saw the leering Japanese soldier, delighting in the kill, then he heard the faint sound of helicopters chopping behind him. Then he thought of Sturgeon and Barefoot, and seconds later he saw Rathburn. The pendulum swung toward Meredith’s face, then back again to the farm and his family. Then something about the Rolling Stones, but only briefly. Then the farm, rolling hills, the Blue Ridge, Karen, father, mother, Zachary.
Yes, Zachary. My best friend.
Fishing in the stream together. Catching trout. Then Meredith, blond hair, soft skin, sitting by the pool, telling secrets, connecting.

Then Zachary’s voice.

Then nothing.

“
Bravo six, this
is White six,” Kurtz said into the company radio net.

“Send it,” Zachary said, recognizing the voice.

“We’ve got enemy contact to our left flank. Say again. Gunfire you hear is enemy contact, over.”

“Roger. I want you to move to the west, through the woods, and try to develop the situation. I’ll maneuver the other elements after you make contact.”

“Roger.”

Kurtz took a deep breath, sucked in the acrid smell of gunpowder, and told his squad leaders to move in the direction of the weapons fire. There it was again. That confident, almost cocky feeling of invincibility.
Come get me, you sons of bitches!
He spit a large wad of chaw onto the ground and tucked behind his first squad leader, ready to control the action. His chinstrap grated against his stubble beard. He carried his M4 rifle by the pistol grip at the ready with one arm, holding the platoon radio handset in his other hand.
Or I’m gonna come get you!

“Contact,” came Quinones’s voice over the platoon net, followed by a brief exchange of fire. The word sent a thrill up Kurtz’s spine.

“Roger,” Kurtz said, moving to the squad leader’s position. The point man had killed a single Japanese soldier, standing atop another man, apparently dying from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Kurtz had first squad secure the area, while the other two squads continued to maneuver.

“Bravo six, this is White six. We’ve made contact. Killed three enemy soldiers and have found one civilian, looks like it anyway, with severe wounds to the abdomen. Doc says this guy’s not much longer for this world. Continuing mission, over.”

“Roger. I’m moving to your location now. Red six is moving to your right flank. Blue six is in reserve.” Taylor was Red and Barker was Blue.

Again, there was another brief interchange of fire at the point of Kurtz’s platoon. Three more enemy dead.

“Okay, Mike,” Zachary said to Kurtz as he came running forward. “We’re gonna move two squads abreast along this ridge and pop these guys like a zit. When they spill into the open, the rest of the battalion can have them, or we play turkey shoot.”

“Got it, sir.”

They were kneeling next to the wounded civilian, talking. It was dark, especially in the forest with the mahoganies blocking what little moonlight was available, their robust outlines etched against the black sky. Zachary and Kurtz had taken off their night-vision goggles to talk. It was not necessary, but seemed logical to do. Doc Gore worked feverishly on the civilian less than a meter away from them.

Something landed on Zachary’s knee. At first, he thought it was a bug and brushed at it, then noticed the hand. He had no time to deal with some civilian right now. His guys were fighting. He quickly scanned the dark, shredded cargo pants, khaki shirt matted and stained with blood, and disheveled hair of the civilian. Shrouded in darkness, the dying man was unrecognizable to Zachary.
Poor guy. Medics are doing all they can, though.

Like a penny dropped into a shallow cone, the notion or thought or idea or instinct spun around and around and around, circling wide and continuing to circle, then arching more rapidly until it dropped and Zachary had the distinct feeling that something was dreadfully wrong. Not with the mission. Hell, he could not even concentrate on that at the moment. No, especially as he looked back at the wounded figure, moving his face closer to the dying man’s face. The sounds of gunfire continued but faded in Zachary’s mind as he downshifted from the world of battle to another cognitive level.

He did not truly recognize his brother’s face, the green eyes or the signature square jaw, but he realized with sudden and complete devastation that it was Matt reaching out to him, somehow recognizing him, almost magnetically pulled to him, grabbing his kneecap, trying to say something. He looked away in disbelief, then back, and once again saw his brother Matt lying on the ground next to him, his stomach gurgling, the pool of blood growing, the medic poised over him as if he were giving him last rites not applying medical aid.

A voice whispered, “Kill those bastards, Zachary.”

Then it registered.

Christ Almighty!

Zachary scrambled to Matt’s side.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he cried. “Please, Jesus, please, no.”

Kurtz watched the commander completely lose it. He watched him sob and cry, hugging the civilian on the ground.

“No, no, no. Please, oh God, No!” he screamed at the heavens.

Medevac, get a medevac, you idiot!

He ripped off his helmet, then snatched the first-aid dressing from his pouch and began to press onto the bleeding area, but there was blood everywhere.

“Sir, that thing ain’t gonna do much good on him. Hole’s bigger in the back than in the front,” Doc Gore said, matter-of-factly.

“Shut up, Gore. This is my brother and—and—this is my brother. This is my only brother,” he said, his voice reaching a crescendo, then tapering rapidly as his throat knotted, and the tears gushed, his mouth turned downward. “This—is—my—brother!”

“Shit.” Kurtz said, under his breath. “Break, Break,” he said, grabbing the battalion net handset from Slick. “Request immediate dust-off at checkpoint three-one. We have a man dying. Need dust-off now,” Kurtz said, authoritatively.

“Roger, loitering behind checkpoint three-one now. Mark with strobe.” The medical evacuation pilot spoke with calm precision. Fortunately, the plan anticipated casualties and called for pre-positioning of the medical teams.

Kurtz popped the strobe from his pouch, gently nudged the commander to one side and lifted Matt Garrett’s still-warm body onto his wide shoulders, blood draining down his uniform.

Zachary was catatonic. He had flipped a switch. The troops stared at him for direction. Slick, Quinones, and the others. Zachary simply watched as Kurtz hauled his brother away into the clearing behind the knoll. The company was receiving heavy fire, tracers dancing out toward Kurtz and the helicopter. Kurtz turned a steely gaze in the direction of the back-fire, as if to will it away. Zachary saw the intermittent flashing of the strobe, then watched as the helicopter lifted away. Kurtz’s large shadow re-emerged into the forest. He picked up the company radio and told Taylor and Barker to continue the mission, then turned to SSG Quinones and told him to monitor the platoon net.

“Sir, sir,” Kurtz said, shaking the commander. Zachary was trying to regain his composure. “We’ve got to get moving. He’s on the medevac. They’ll take care of him,” Kurtz said, then looked at Doc Gore and shook his head, as if to say about the commander’s brother, “He’s gone.”

Zachary looked at Kurtz from below and grabbed the outstretched hand. He had been there for his lieutenants so many times that it never occurred to him that they might one day be able to return the favor.

About the time he pulled himself to his feet and snatched his helmet from the ground, he heard the high-pitched squeak of mechanized vehicles moving to the east. The recognition of a large enemy presence served as a catalyst to force him to gather himself. The world shifted focus for him, like a camera zooming in, then out. With professional acumen, he understood he had a battle to fight.

“Thanks, Mike,” he said to Kurtz while snapping his Kevlar.

“No sweat, sir. I’ll light a candle tonight, after we kill these bastards,” Kurtz said.

Zachary took notice, then grabbed Slick by the shirt collar.

“Sir, just want you to know how sorry—”

“Give me the mike,” he said, cutting off Slick. There was no time for sympathy. He had already wasted valuable seconds with his little display.
Unprofessional
, he thought to himself, hardening his nerves, like steel rebar. First, Teller, then Rock, then his brother. The circle of death tightened around him as he wondered if he was next.
Who cares?
There it was again, the hand of God, hammering and forging and striking the anvil, dunking the piping-hot ore of his soul into the shallow, ever-so-shallow, pool of faith.
Please God, save him.

“Net call, enemy moving vicinity checkpoint three-zero. Blue, I want you to move to the eastern tip of the woods and set up an anti-armor ambush now, break,” he said, releasing the push-to-talk button to avoid enemy direction-finding capabilities. “Red, link up on Blue’s left flank, you have the first ten vehicles, Blue has the next ten. I’ll move with White. We’ll maneuver onto the enemy if necessary. Acknowledge.”

Barker and Taylor acknowledged, but then Barker’s voice came crackling back through the handset.

“Bravo six, this is Blue six, I’m fighting about twenty enemy on the west side of the knoll! I can’t break contact!” Barker screamed, the sound of machine gun fire amplified by the microphone.

“Blue six, call a fire mission to help you break contact. Make it high-explosive and willie pete. Keep fighting those guys while we set up for the ambush. Let me know when you link up with Red’s left flank, over.”

“Roger!” Barker sounded confused and anxious.

Zachary was placing a great burden on Barker to fight an essentially even-ratio battle, guard the company’s left flank, and join the anti-armor ambush. It was too much, but he had no other choice.

Zachary moved with Kurtz along the back side of the wooded ridge. He found Taylor and told him he was in charge of the overwatch element, that he and Kurtz were going to move about three hundred meters to the east and try to extend the company’s position. Taylor was already sighting his antitank weapons. Each man carried an AT-4, the successor to the light antitank weapon, and his platoon had fifteen Javelin missiles for six command launch units.

Zachary pulled Kurtz and Slick with him as they jogged down the back side of the hill. At the bottom he stopped, put on his goggles, and turned on the bright green world.

“Holy shit,” Zachary said, sighting at least thirty tanks moving in single file along the road nearly two miles away. The low, flat ground made for excellent observation. In the darkness, though, the hulking beasts traveled slowly, as if they feared something.

“C’mon, follow me,” Zachary said. Kurtz and his men jogged behind the commander as he raced across the level hardstand into the clearing. They ran with increasing speed, sounding like a small herd of buffalo trampling across the great open plains.

Zachary had run almost six hundred meters when he suddenly fell, his head jerking backward, and landed in a shallow pool of warm, stinking water. Some of the other troops followed suit, while others tried to stop, each man stumbling over the next like Keystone Kops.

“Rice paddies,” Zachary said. “Perfect.”

He could still hear Barker’s platoon fighting off the enemy about a kilometer away, maybe more, as he called Taylor and changed the plan.

CHAPTER 86

Takishi was through with the games. His forces had practically destroyed the paratroopers, who had so whimsically thought they could tangle with his armored division.
Fools. They are all fools. The Americans, the Filipinos, the Rolling Stones. The world.

But then, a report from General Nugama in Manila had given him great cause for concern. Apparently the Marines were about to close on the Presidential Palace. Losses had been heavy on both sides in the street-to-street fighting of Manila. The Americans, Nugama had told him, were bringing more troops into Subic Bay by the minute, and he had no contact with any of the other ships north of the Luzon Strait to reinforce him. The only saving grace for the Japanese was that their air force was still intact and had exacted a heavy toll on the American pilots.