by Dan Cragg
“Alistair?”
“Sir, if you want me to come up with an attack plan—”
“I do, Alistair, and I also want you to lead the operation in person. You’ve been too long cooped up down here and I think you have earned the right to command this task force.”
“Hear! Hear!” several of the officers shouted. Sturgeon relaxed because he knew perfectly well that any task force Lieutenant General Cazombi commanded would include 34th FIST, and right now he’d give anything to get as far away from Jason Billie and his staff as he could, even if it meant throwing him and his men back into the line again.
“Very well, sir. I want Brigadier Sturgeon to assist me, as well as your staff, as required. And I want to pick whichever units I wish to comprise the task force.”
“You have it.”
“Then, sir, may I be excused to start work on the operation order?”
Billie nodded. “You are excused. Gentlemen, this meeting is over. Return to your commands and begin refurbishing them for our next and final attack. This will be the hammer and anvil play that you’ve all been waiting for. I want you all to coordinate fully with General Cazombi; his planning mission has precedence over everything else. Otherwise, congratulations on a job well done. Oh, there’ll be a memorial service for General Godalgonz in the G3 shop at fifteen hundred sharp. Balca, stay behind for a while, would you?”
Alone with General Sorca in his small office, Billie unfastened his tunic. “Killed by a falling tree limb!” He began to laugh. “Rich! Rich! Oh, how fucking rich! What am I going to say at his memorial ceremony?” His voice cracked with laughter. “Will anyone be able to keep a straight face?” He began laughing so hard he convulsed over his desk, the laughter rising quickly to a shrill bray like a jackass with the hiccups—“Ark! Ark! Ark!” Tears streamed down his cheeks. He gasped for breath, pounded on his desktop. “Killed by a fucking tree limb! Oh, God, thank you! Rich! Rich! Oh, fucking rich!”
Sorca sat quietly, a small tendril of fear and doubt starting to take life inside his brain. The man commanded a huge field army and this is how he reacted to the death of one of his senior officers? Sorca himself had no love for Marines. He knew perfectly well what the combat commanders in this army thought of him, what they think of every chief of staff in every army.
Billie was breathing hard but he’d gotten control of himself. “And now, Balca, I’m going to get rid of Cazombi and that goddamned Marine buddy of his. Yes. I’m sending them off to bang their heads against those cliffs at Phelps, Balca. And you”—he pointed his finger at Sorca—“you, Balca”—he jabbed the finger into Sorca’s face—“you will see that it is done! Do you understand? It will be done! It will be!”
Major General Balca Sorca realized then that his commander was coming unhinged.
Major General Balca Sorca sat uncomfortably in General Cazombi’s little office tucked away in the bowels of Fortress Bataan. “Make it quick, Balca,” Cazombi had told Sorca coldly after reluctantly agreeing to see him on such short notice. “I’ve got a lot of planning to do and I know you’re not here to assist me.”
“Yes, sir, I am here to ‘assist’ you. I’ve just come from a private conference with General Billie—”
“Lucky you.” Cazombi’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“Sir, I’ll come straight to the point”—Sorca took a deep breath—“I have doubts about General Billie’s mental stability and his fitness to continue in command of this army.”
Cazombi’s mouth almost fell open in surprise. Sorca was known throughout the army as Billie’s lapdog, and until now Cazombi had listed him, if not as Billie’s only ally, at least his most steadfast. “Come again, Balca?”
Nervously, Sorca cleared his throat. “You know, I wouldn’t have this second star if it hadn’t been for General Billie. I’ve served him faithfully ever since he came here. I know”—he nodded his head in affirmation—“we’ve had our differences, especially when it came to the defense of Fort Seymour, but those were professional disagreements, sir, and I admit your foresight should’ve taken precedence over my tactical decisions.” He shifted his position uneasily and looked at the floor. “That raid on Gilbert’s Corners was meant to fail. That’s why Billie had you write that memorandum, and had General Wyllyums write his own memo setting out reasons why the mission should not have been launched. Rather, Billie dictated the memo and Wyllyums signed it. Wyllyums’s reward was his star. Billie wanted these opinions on file so that when the raid failed he could put the blame on you and the Marines. He wants you and General Sturgeon out of the picture—just like he wanted to get rid of General Godalgonz.”
“Hold on a second! You mean Billie planned to get Godalgonz killed?”
“Not exactly, sir, but he was not unhappy that the Marine was killed. And now he wants you to go on this seaborne attack to get you out of Bataan, and possibly get you killed as well. I tell you this, sir: If the landing is not successful do not expect Billie to support you. You are being hung out to dry.”
“How the hell do you know all this, Balca?”
“He told me. I am in on it. I just came from a private conference with him and frankly, sir, I am sick and tired of playing Eichmann to his Himmler.”
Cazombi said nothing for a long moment. “You know, Balca,” he said at last, tapping his fingers on his desk, “what you are doing is the most disloyal act a subordinate can perform toward his commander.”
“I am aware of that, sir. What I am telling you now, General, I am telling you because I fear that the fate of this entire army is at risk because our commander is more interested in pursuing a personal vendetta than in winning this war.”
“Hmmm.” Cazombi continued tapping his fingers on his desk. “Well, I have my orders and I am going to carry them out, General Sorca. I think the landing will be a success, and once Billie sees that he’ll have no choice but to launch the breakout and split Lyons’s army in two and win this war. Nothing succeeds like success, General.”
“General Billie should be relieved of his command,” Sorca blurted out suddenly.
Cazombi stiffened and glared at Sorca. “That is plain mutiny, General, and I won’t hear of it! You will never repeat those words again, and you will stop that line of thought immediately, do you hear me? It will be you who’ll be relieved and face court-martial if you ever mention this to me again!”
Sorca stood to attention. “Very well, sir. I shall never mention this to you or anyone else. I’ve said my piece. But remember what I told you: He will not support you, General. He has no intention of doing that.” He stepped back one pace, saluted smartly, about-faced, and marched out of Cazombi’s office.
“Whew!” Cazombi muttered. Who’d ever have thought Sorca had it in him to betray his patron? But Sorca had not told Lieutenant General Alistair Cazombi anything he did not already know or suspect. Well, the landing would go off, and if necessary, Cazombi vowed, he would break the siege of Bataan on his own. But no more talk about relieving anybody of his command. Cazombi shook his head. Besides, if Billie was relieved, who’d replace him?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Keep your seats, gentlemen,” Lieutenant General Cazombi said as he entered the small conference room. “We don’t have time for spit-and-polish this afternoon. Sergeant.” He gestured for a technical sergeant sitting at a control console to activate the huge vid screen that occupied one wall of the room. At the sergeant’s command, two words leaped onto the screen, OPERATION BACKDOOR.
“Does everyone know everybody else here?” Cazombi asked, perching on the edge of the sergeant’s desk. “I think Ted Sturgeon knows Major General Koval, commanding the 27th Infantry Division?”
General Koval stood and nodded at the others. “They call me Korny Koval. You’ll find out why once you get to know me better.” He grinned and the others chuckled. “Ted there, and I, we had a grand time kicking some ass together a while back.” He sat down.
“Then there’s Brigadier Nuemain, 17th FIST, Brigadier D
evh, 29th FIST, and the,”—he grimaced, which for him passed as a grin—“the ‘irrepressible’ Brigadier Sturgeon, 34th FIST.” Everyone laughed at that. “Next there’s Captain Bukok, our navy liaison officer.”
Captain Bukok stood and bowed slightly. He was a short, stocky officer, skull almost clean-shaven, heavy jowls, cheeks dark with beard stubble. “They call me Bulldog,” he said, “but that’s only because I look like one.” This was met with a rousing chorus of laughter. Brigadier Nuemain slapped Bukok on the back as he took his seat.
“Welcome to hell, Captain,” someone said.
“Ever hear about the engineer who died and went to hell?” an older brigadier general asked. “When the devil found out who he was, he had him install air-conditioning, escalators, running water; really spruced hell up. But one day God called down and told the devil the engineer was there by mistake. ‘Send him right back up here!’ God ordered. ‘Oh, no!’ the devil replied, ‘You made the mistake! I’m keeping him!’ God said, ‘Send him back up right now or I’m going to sue your ass!’ ‘Where are You gonna get a lawyer?’ the devil asked.”
Cazombi grimaced. “That, gentlemen, is our resident humorist, and when you find out what he does you’ll realize his whole life in this army is a joke. But he is an essential member of our team, along with these other gentlemen. They will prepare the appropriate annexes to your operation order. Just to make sure you all know each other: Brigadier General Wilson Wyllyums, our staff intelligence expert.” Wyllyums stood, acknowledging the introduction with a slight nod. He was unshaven and his tunic was unbuttoned at the collar. “And Brigadier General Thayer, our plans and operations officer.” Thayer did not bother to stand, merely raised his hand self-consciously. “Finally, our logistics expert, Brigadier General Pankake.”
Brigadier Pankake stood, a smile still on his face from his engineer joke. “Thank you, sir.” He bowed slightly in Cazombi’s direction. He was a thin, white-haired officer who stooped slightly at the shoulders. His face was creased with laugh lines, and indeed, the expression usually on his face made him look as if he were savoring some private joke and was ready to burst out laughing. “I got a rather unusual name, I know, but I was once in an office with a guy named Bacon. We used to joke that if we could get a guy named Coffee to join us we could call ourselves The Breakfast Trio.”
Cazombi shook his head slightly. “You’ll get to know General Pankake. Well, that’s it. We are the team that is going to plan and execute”—he gestured toward the vid screen—“Operation Backdoor.” He stood, walked to the front of the small room, and thrust both hands into his pockets. “We’re going to pull an end run on old General Lyons, kick open his back door, light a fire under his ass, and the rest of the army’s going to break out of this place. Gentlemen, this operation can put an end to this war.”
Hours later.
General Koval was summing up. The small room was heavy with cigarette smoke; half-empty coffee cups and the remains of hastily eaten meals littered the place. On his own authority Cazombi had permitted smoking even though technically, that was against General Billie’s orders. “We’re in a goddamned war; we could all be dead tomorrow,” he said. “So who the hell gives a damn about the carcinogenic content of the air we’re forced to breathe down here? Besides, if you come down with lung cancer it’ll have been contracted in the line of duty, so the treatment’ll be free.”
“So that’s it, Task Force Cazombi,” General Koval was saying. “So here, sir, one more time”—the other officers groaned good-naturedly—“in a nutshell, is how we recommend the operation be conducted.”
“I’m honored,” Cazombi said with a sigh. He sat with his legs stretched out before him, his tunic unbuttoned, a cold cup of coffee in one hand. “Please continue, General.”
“We mount this attack in three phases: Phase One. A Force Recon team from Task Force 79”—he nodded at Captain Bukok—“will establish a landing zone inland, here.” He pointed to an uninhabited area about ten kilometers north of the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion along the coast near Phelps. “This is where we’ll land the 27th Infantry Division. From here it will be able to move forward to take Phelps supported by 34th and 29th FISTs, with 17th FIST in reserve.”
“Admiral Hoi Yueng has already designated a Force Recon squad for this mission, sir,” Captain Bukok interjected.
“Thirty-fourth FIST will simultaneously execute a vertical envelopment on the 7th MPs and take them out. Intel tells us”—he nodded at Brigadier Wyllyums—“that the men in this unit are incapable of mounting an adequate defense of this position. We’ve all studied the reports and we agree. They were put there to get them out of the way and to act as a tripwire. So even though they may be a pushover, once we hit these guys, we’ve got to move very fast.
“Simultaneously, 29th FIST will execute a vertical envelopment at Cranston—this little hamlet here—about fifty klicks north of the 7th MP position. Recon has determined that there is at least a battalion of amphibs hiding there. They will eliminate that threat and then join the rest of the task force in its push on Phelps.
“Phase Two. Two brigades from the 27th Division will occupy the LZ established by Force Recon and secure the perimeter. They are followed immediately by our heavy equipment, and that includes our artillery support. For the purpose of this operation, we have agreed to combine all our artillery assets under Colonel Ramadan of 34th FIST. He will be the task force artillery commander and he will coordinate supporting fires for all the units in the attack. He will have the capability of bringing massed artillery fires on any target in the zone of operations.
“Phase Three. The reserve FIST and the third brigade of the 27th Division come ashore followed by our logistical train. We will rapidly consolidate our forces and move inland. The operation will commence at first light and by zero-seven hours we shall be moving inland against the enemy’s 4th Composite Infantry Division at Phelps. Attempts to reinforce them from Ashburtonville or Gilbert’s Corners will be handled by close air support, but once we have taken Phelps we should be in strength enough to fend off counterattack and push on to Ashburtonville.
“The 29th and 34th FIST will provide flank security, left and right respectively, for the main body of the task force. Their job will be to intercept and destroy any reinforcements the enemy sends against us.
“An essential element of this plan is a diversion to be mounted by the main army at Ashburtonville. Major General Sorca assures me that General Billie will mount major assaults all along our perimeter as soon as TF Cazombi is over the shore. That should keep General Lyons occupied until we can reach Phelps. Then what was a mere diversion will transition into the actual breakout. General Pankake?”
When General Pankake stood up to deliver his précis of the logistical annex to the operation order he was all business. “Gentlemen, we have calculated the level of logistical support required to keep Task Force Cazombi combat-capable for an army corps–size operation that will last five days. Ordnance, engineer, medical, and transportation units will support the organic assets of each maneuver element in the task force. You will kick off with your full combat load plus one thousand short tons of reserve ordnance to be allocated per the task force commander’s directions. During Phase Three we will establish a depot in the landing zone from which your troops can resupply as needed. General Wyllyums?”
The intelligence chief, a Caporal nonchalantly lodged in one side of his mouth, got wearily to his feet. “Gentlemen, if we carry this off swiftly and without any unforeseen problems, the task force should be in the outskirts of Phelps and closely engaged with the enemy there by not later than noon on D-day. As you all know, the coast-watch MP battalion is no obstacle. The 4th Composite Division at Phelps is another matter. Its commander, Major General Barksdale Sneed, is an experienced and capable field commander. We estimate the division itself has been reinforced to about one hundred and twenty percent of its TO&E strength in personnel and equipment. It is a potent obstacle on the roa
d to Ashburtonville. We can overcome that obstacle, but surprise is essential. Once we are on the ground, we must move quickly out of the landing zone and engage Sneed as soon as possible.” He sat down.
“Gentlemen, there you have it, Operation Backdoor. You shall have the operation order within the hour. Return to your commands now and prepare your troops. Kickoff time is zero-three hours tomorrow.”
The men stood, stretched, picked up their briefing materials, gathered their staff personnel, and prepared to leave. But one officer approached General Cazombi.
“Sir?” It was Brigadier General Wyllyums.
“Yes, Wilson?”
“May I speak to you in private, sir?” He spoke quietly, so none of the others could hear what he was saying. They moved over into a corner of the room. Wyllyums told Cazombi about the memo General Billie had him write before the Gilbert’s Corners raid. “He thought the raid would result in civilian casualties. To avoid any personal embarrassment and to pass the blame on to you and Sturgeon, he had me sign a memo he wrote expressing reservations. He let that raid go off because he wanted it to fail. I signed the damned thing because he promised me my star if I’d do it, sir. I was a goddamned self-serving coward and I admit that to you now.”
Cazombi was silent for a moment, thinking of the conversation he’d had with General Sorca, who thought that General Billie might be out of his mind. “Well, Wilson, in the event, the Gilbert’s Corners fiasco was a flash in the pan, didn’t particularly harm anyone’s reputation—”
“Sir, General Billie hates you and the Marines and he’d do anything, anything to destroy you, even if it meant sacrificing the men in this army! I believe the man is”—he hesitated—“the man has lost his bearings.”
“Wilson, we are going to open that back door. We are going to push straight up the road into Lyons’s army and if we have to, we will break through to General Billie.”
