Sudden Threat (55 page)

“Sir, Captain McAllister’s coming up the hill now. He just called on the radio!” Slick said, not sure why he thought it was important for the commander to know. More than anything, he wanted to protect the man he had grown to know and respect. They had developed a bond, a bond that vanished as soon as Zachary watched the bullet strike Slick in the gut, just beneath the outer tactical vest, causing blood to pump like a stuck water fountain.

“Medic!” Zachary screamed, realizing he would get no help. He pulled Slick’s first-aid dressing, ripped open his uniform, and placed it on the wound, but blood was everywhere.

“Kill those bastards, sir,” Slick said as he died, his hand holding the black handset that had practically become an appendage.

Bastards!

The circle of death, once again, tightened its noose around Zachary.

A bullet struck him in the back of his right shoulder, balancing the throbbing pain from the knife wound and knocking him onto the ground. He stared skyward, his mind fuzzy, and would have sworn he saw buzzards circling the sky.

Big black birds, hovering, and turning, arching high and low, their beaks closed tight, waiting for the kill. Some moving fast, others just circling, while even more just hovered above the trees and began to fire at the Japanese tanks.

Suddenly, AH-64 Apache helicopters and Air Force A-10s began swooping along the strung-out column and pumping 30mm depleted uranium sabot bullets into the backs of the enemy infantry climbing the ridge in order to complete the destruction of B Company.

Then he saw McAllister’s men rise from the stream that bordered Fort Magsaysay and converge on the left-flank infantry battalion that had by then dismounted. Only three hundred meters away, he saw McAllister leading the charge with an M4, bayonet fixed, his head turned, screaming something over his shoulder, and pulling his arm forward with his palm open. He saw his lips form the words, “Follow me,” as his troops came screaming from the riverbed and tangled with the Japanese infantry.

The Apaches and A-10s raked the Japanese column with relative impunity, concerned only with ensuring that they didn’t shoot any of the American soldiers.

Zachary watched an A-10 swing low, spit its 30mm, and take a direct hit from a missile, knocking it sideways and forcing the airplane to tumble end over end through the enemy infantry.

At least he took a bunch with him.

Flaming tanks and infantry fighting vehicles burned a brilliant orange, emitting a black smoke that rose to the heavens—perhaps dusty souls escaping the dying.

Zachary stood and joined his company, still locked in hand-to-hand combat. He had lost his weapons and used his helmet to hold at bay a charging Japanese soldier, crushing the Kevlar into the man’s face. His attacker flipped backward in the mud, the man’s weapon firing errantly into the sky. Curiously, Zachary noticed that the downed man was no soldier; his attacker looked more like a civilian. Perhaps he was Japanese intelligence?

Zachary pulled his K-Bar from its sheath and drove it into the man’s neck until he felt it penetrate into the mud below. It hung on the civilian’s trachea as he pulled it out, forcing him to grab the neck and yank hard to retrieve his knife. The jagged edge of the knife caught Zachary’s hand on the way out, cutting deep into the bone of his thumb.

He felt the crushing impact of wood on his mouth as he caught a glimpse of an enemy pant leg move toward him. Teeth bounced loose into his throat, almost choking him.

He grabbed the man’s thrusting weapon, slicing open his hands on the bayonet, but somehow gripping the muddy stock tightly before the pointed object could enter his body. It didn’t matter, the infantryman pulled back on the weapon, leering at him from above, but Zachary held on firmly and rose as the man pulled the trigger.

Frozen in time, he saw the weapon emit a bright muzzle flash, and felt something hot burn its way through his abdomen. Another muzzle flash and he fell backward, reaching out with his knife, trying to stab at the foot of his attacker.

He could barely sense the feel of the wet, cold steel against the back of his head.

There was no time to remember the flashing images of Amanda or Matt or Riley or Karen or Slick or Rock or Teller or Father or Mother.

He heard a shot … and saw the quail drop and looked at his brother, Matt, and smiled. They both watched their dog Ranger bounce through the high weeds and cattails along the stream in search of the fallen game. They followed, bare-chested and laughing in the cool mountain air, each looking at the other, Matt’s crooked smile prominent. Thorny vines scraped at their tattered dungarees as they reached a high rock outcropping, which rose sixty feet above a deep pool in the South River. Turning their heads slowly, they looked back at the towering Blue Ridge, waved at each other, and leapt over the brink.

CHAPTER 98

The hot sun boiled onto Mike Kurtz’s face as he lifted his head and saw shimmering waves of heat rising above the soggy ground like charmed cobras.

Through the ripples in the air, he noticed hundreds of bodies lying motionless, some wearing Army combat uniforms, many others clad in dark olive uniforms. Armored vehicles still burned brightly, the heat intensified by the searing sun.

He stood, or at least tried, and fell back to one knee, his weight causing immense pain to course through his body. The jungle was just to his east about three hundred meters up the hill, and it struck him that the terrain always looked different when he finally got to see it in broad daylight.

They had defended from a ridge that overlooked the road to Bongabon. It was the only place on the ground where they could have effectively engaged the Japanese. Once again, Captain Garrett had made the right choice. He lifted his eyes and tried to spot the captain walking about, motivating the troops as he did so well. He had remembered seeing him briefly during the battle, then had lost track.

Nothing. Nothing but the soft swish of helicopter blades ferrying bodies away from Fort Magsaysay to a hospital ship.

The silence was eerie, almost causing him to believe he had died, but then he saw a body roll over and try to elevate. Kurtz stood and limped badly to the man, stepping over bodies.

Andy Taylor turned and looked at Kurtz, his old friend. A large scar ran across Taylor’s chin, still damp with blood.

“What the hell happened?” Taylor said more out of exasperation than to ask a question.

“I think we won,” Kurtz said, then fell forward, almost passing out.

“Geez, man, you okay?” his friend asked, concerned. Kurtz had lost a lot of blood and needed a doctor badly. But he almost fainted because he recognized a name tag on a uniform that covered a dead body. There were no facial features to recognize, as the head was basically … gone. He prayed against all hope that the man was alive, but saw nothing to indicate so. The body was motionless, flies buzzing around his blood-soaked upper torso. Body parts were strewn about in macabre fashion. All they could recognize was the name tag and rank and identification tags that were oddly in plain view. His unspoken thought was that it looked like the man had received a direct hit of a mortar or artillery shell.

“Shit,” Kurtz said, looking at Taylor. He looked at the dog tags, and the name on the identification tags matched those on the uniform. Taylor hobbled to his rucksack, pulled out a poncho, and rolled the “remains” into the rubber material. He snapped the sides and asked Kurtz to help him.

They carried the heavy poncho down the hill toward the airfield they had silently attacked last night, where an American UH-60 sat hovering. Just beyond the aircraft were General Zater and Colonel Lindsay, surveying the destruction. In their estimation, the mission had to have been a success. One or two light infantry companies had defeated an entire division, or so the awards would read.

Taylor and Kurtz hauled their precious cargo toward the aircraft, their route made circuitous by the battlefield littered with bodies and burning vehicles. Zater and Lindsay approached, looking grimly at the two men. They had been discussing the fact that the singular actions of Zachary Garrett’s men had prevented the armored division from moving to Manila to destroy the Marines.

“They saved the day,” Zater said.

Taylor and Kurtz acknowledged the presence of the two senior officers and continued with their business, neither wearing a helmet, nor did they have any weapons. Their uniforms were tattered and mostly a dark red from dried blood. Kurtz’s dog tags lay against his hairy chest, and his matted hair was glued with blood to his forehead.

Taylor’s scar seemed deeper and longer than when Kurtz had first seen it. A Japanese bayonet had carved a permanent war memory into Taylor’s rugged good looks.

“Who’s in the body bag, son?” Zater asked solemnly.

Kurtz looked at the man, then at Taylor.

“Just one of the soldiers, sir. Just another soldier,” he said absently.

They walked past the two high-ranking officers and laid the body inside the general’s helicopter.

Kurtz turned to the pilot and told him to take good care of the man they had placed in his aircraft. The pilot looked at the lumpy poncho, then out at the horrible sight of the battlefield, wishing that his aviator brethren could have made it sooner. Just five or ten minutes would have made a difference.

The pilot gave Kurtz and Taylor a sad nod and watched as the two warriors merged into the field of bodies.

General Zater walked over to the helicopter, pulled at the poncho just enough to see that Kurtz had written a name in black marker against light green tape.

A tear formed in his eye, and he thought,
You’re right, just another soldier.

CHAPTER 99

A large gold cross was perched atop the simple white building adjoined to the Malacanang Presidential Palace by a short catwalk. Beneath the cross was a stained-glass window depicting the Mother Mary holding Baby Jesus. The welcome sun shone upon the multicolored glass, diffusing its light like a prism and licking at the standing puddles of water.

Five hundred years ago, when the Spanish first colonized the archipelago, naming it after King Philip, they Christianized the natives by introducing them to the Catholic religion. Every leader of the country since that time has been a Catholic, in name at least, and after achieving independence in 1947, the chapel was erected as a monument to the religion and its important role in Philippine society. The Pope himself had visited the enclave and declared the fenced chapel the property of Vatican City.

That day, a week after the final battle at Fort Magsaysay, Mizuzawa used it for other purposes.

“Get me Sazaku,” Mizuzawa said to General Nugama from the confines of the small chapel. Mizuzawa did not expect the Americans to wait much longer, but hoped they would respect the sanctity of the Catholic Church long enough for him to make one last move.

The Marines had unhinged the northern edge of the Manila defensive line, rolled the flank with one brigade, and surrounded the Presidential Palace with another brigade, while the third brigade fixed the southern flank, preventing the Japanese from reinforcing against the breakthrough.

Takishi had made a frantic call only moments before Mizuzawa and Nugama had run into the chapel with as much radio gear as they could garner.

“I’m being destroyed!” Takishi had reported. The road from Fort Magsaysay to Bongabon was littered with burning Japanese tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, some ignited internally from stored ammunition.

“You’re on your own,” Mizuzawa responded to his friend, hearing the sound of exploding tanks in the background of Takishi’s transmission.

Mizuzawa learned from the Americans that Takishi had been found among the dead littered on the battlefield outside of Fort Magsaysay, a knife wound to the neck. Indeed, Mizuzawa was watching his plans for a new, more dominant Japanese Empire fade like the setting sun, melting into the western horizon.

But he had one more card to play. It was, after all, a game of high-stakes poker, where each country tried to read the other’s bluff, raising the ante when appropriate. Mizuzawa reached into his shirtsleeve and yanked out the ace he had tucked away before he had set the deadly train of events in motion.

“Sazaku, my friend. It is time,” Mizuzawa said into the satellite radio.

The transmission soared as a neat bundle of words through the atmosphere, bouncing off one satellite, then another, and finally entering the receiver screwed to a metal frame inside the cabin of Admiral Sazaku’s merchant marine car carrier: the
Shimpu.

“Yes. I figured as much,” Sazaku responded, his transmission reversing the path of Mizuzawa’s.

“How long until you will detonate?” Mizuzawa asked, an edge to his voice. He was anxious to deal the Americans a fatal blow, even if it was a solitary strike that might invite massive retaliation. But he doubted that would happen. Americans were always believers in just wars, just victories, and just punishments.

A nuclear explosion in Los Angeles would be devastating for sure, but Mizuzawa would have shot his complete wad, having nothing else to fight with except his meager self-defense forces.

“I’m six hours out from the harbor. As soon as I touch the pier, I will vanish in a blaze of glory for my country,” Sazaku answered, reminiscent of the kamikaze pilots of World War II. Sazaku carried on the Japanese kamikaze tradition of writing a final poem before the splendid final moments of life.

I am the final victor/my country proud/the ship I steer/finishing loud/I am not alone/friends by my side/others gathered/in the ebbing tide/in the end/my floating corpse/finding safe harbor/Banzai Japan, no remorse.

“Yes, good. Continue your mission,” Mizuzawa ordered, then placed the handset back in its receiver. He looked at Nugama, an old friend whom he trusted.

“Do you have misgivings, my friend?” Mizuzawa asked, hoping for an honest answer.