by A. J Tata
“Zachary,” the commander said, standing from behind his desk, “we got a blue-flash message from brigade for you to deploy to the Philippines in twenty-four hours.”
Zachary let the statement hang in the air briefly, expecting Buck to follow up with further instructions. He realized that there was an Al Qaeda splinter group in the Philippines and wondered if his mission somehow involved the Abu Sayyaf. He also knew that the Department of Defense had closed Clark Air Base and Subic Bay in the mid-nineties.
“That’s good news, sir,” Zachary reacted. “Do we have any word on the mission?”
“You’ll get a full mission statement at the N+2 meeting.” “N” stood for “notification.” So, Zachary knew he would receive his mission in two hours. “You understand that this is a company deployment?” the commander continued.
“Yes, sir. We’re the quick-reaction force this week for the battalion, so all of my men are within two hours’ return time,” Zachary said, looking at his watch. He cursed beneath his breath as he remembered that the first sergeant had just released them for the day. It was 1700 hours.
“Good. Get back to your unit and start the alert. The bitch of it is that Division’s known about this for nearly a week. Would have been nice to know. The embassy knows you’re coming though. I’ll have a staff meeting set up for you in two hours to determine initial requirements and where your unit stands as far as processing for overseas movement.”
“Thanks, sir,” Zachary said, snapping a quick salute, turning an about face, and exiting the commander’s office before anymore discussion could take place. A week? What kind of bullshit is that, Zach wondered.
He spoke briefly to Glenn, asking him to prepare processing packets for three of his men. Zachary knew that he had three new soldiers enter his unit since he had last processed his company for deployment. Glenn said he would get right on it. Zachary then walked quickly down the steps from the headquarters area into the service road that formed a track on the interior of the quad.
As he walked, he simmered over the fact that Division had held the information, but set aside his anger and made a mental checklist of things to do. They had to be wheels up in less than twenty-four hours. It was a test of his unit’s preparedness; there would not be time to go back and fix things that were broke, either systemic or mechanical. It was basically a come-as-you-are operation.
Reaching his company area, he summoned the first sergeant and the executive officer. First Lieutenant Marcus Rockingham, “Rock,” and First Sergeant Isaiah Washington quickly arrived at the commander’s office, sensing something was happening. Zach closed the door behind the two men and spoke without emotion.
“Good news, guys. We’ve got a blue-flash mission to the Philippines. We have to be wheels up in twenty-four hours. Top,” he said, looking at Washington, “I want you to activate the alert roster. The message is SOP. Just have the CQ say, ‘this is a blue-flash message—report to the unit immediately.’ Write it down for him so he doesn’t mess it up.” The XO and 1SG were frantically writing on hand-size notebooks that Zachary required every soldier to carry.
“XO, I want you to activate the N-hour checklist, ensuring we make all of the proper reports to headquarters. Don’t fudge the numbers, just give the staff the facts. This is no time to try to cover up mistakes. The earlier we identify deficiencies, the better chance we have of making them up before we fly. First Sergeant, as the troops begin to come in, I want them to line their gear up outside in formation and start drawing weapons, night sights, binoculars, and so on. Everything goes, guys. We don’t have any idea what type of mission this is, or how long we will be staying. I’ll be in my office getting my personal gear straight for the first fifteen minutes. Then I’ll be periodically checking company operations and hounding the battalion staff for information.
“It’s now 1705. I have a meeting at 1900 with battalion. I want a quick meeting with you two and the platoon leaders at 1845. At that time everyone should be here, and I want a written, but concise, listing of the number of personnel missing, any problem areas, and issues for deployment. The first thing I can think of right off the bat is that we need maps of the Philippines. Any questions?”
The two simply nodded, salivating to get the train rolling. Both the XO and first sergeant were task-oriented in their own right. Rockingham was a VMI graduate who had starred as a tailback on the football team. He looked every bit the part. Washington had served as a Ranger platoon sergeant during several combat missions and knew how to soldier. They were warriors in the finest tradition.
“That’s all,” Zachary said.
Zach turned to his wall locker, retrieved his duffel bag and rucksack, then walked outside. He placed his gear on top of the letters CO. As commanding officer, he was leading by example by having his equipment ready first.
As he was reentering the headquarters, he saw that the arms room was already open. He walked up to the split door, the top half of which was open, and said to Private Smith, the arms-room chief, “Hey, Smitty, need my M4 and nine mil.”
As Captain Garrett signed for his weapons, an ominous feeling settled over him. He pulled back the charging handle of his M4, looked in the chamber, then slammed the bolt shut.
As he reentered his office, the sound of soldiers dropping their gear in formation resonated throughout the quad.
CHAPTER 22
Subic Bay, Luzon Island, Philippines
The loud hum of the four propellers had kept Zachary awake for most of the flight. With the rush of the rapid deployment behind him, he could contemplate what lay ahead. Bound to his nylon-strapped seat, bouncing with the C-130 as it fought the Pacific trade winds over the Luzon Strait and racing toward the forgotten islands of Asia, Captain Garrett mentally ticked items off his checklist.
He had nearly forgotten to give Riley’s number to Bob McAllister; or perhaps he just loathed doing so. Regardless, his friend said he would “square them away” when they arrived. Whatever that meant.
They were to make two refueling stops, one each at Wake Island and Guam, then land at an old airstrip on the Subic Bay Naval Base. Zachary had been keeping up on developments in the Philippines and knew that there was an Al Qaeda offshoot called Abu Sayyaf, which operated in the island chain. They were closely linked with the New People’s Army, or NPA, many of whose members had seamlessly merged with Abu Sayyaf. As global insurgencies went, Zach surmised, these splinter groups probably wanted to coalesce and tap into bin Laden’s funding stream. He did wish that the intelligence officer had given him a decent update because it wasn’t clear to him whether the locus of the insurgency was on the main island of Luzon, or in the southern island of Mindanao. Furthermore, they had received precious little in the way of maps.
Looking at his soldiers, the weight of his responsibility settled over him with a discernible subtlety. There would be no one to check his decisions or give advice. It was a commander’s dream, yet he felt a bit like he did in his old West Point collegiate wrestling days, when it was him out there to succeed or fail … in front of everyone.
Amidst his tumbling thoughts of isolation and responsibility, it occurred to him that a West Point classmate of his, Major Chuck Ramsey, led a Special Forces A team based out of Fort Magsaysay in the Philippines, and thought perhaps he could catch up with him if time permitted.
As the aircraft began to descend, Zachary figured they were getting close. He unfastened his seat belt and stood to look out of the window. Sure enough, he could see bright city lights below. It was an enchanting sight, reminiscent of flying into Honolulu International Airport and seeing the bright yellow lights twinkle from below. The song “Honolulu City Lights” played briefly in his mind until the aircraft took a sharp dive. The movement threw Zachary back against the stanchion supporting the webbing. He held on to the red strapping tightly. It seemed that they were almost in a delta dive, in which a free-fall parachutist tucks his body to achieve maximum aerodynamics.
Suddenly the aircraft leve
led with a jerk, and Zachary could see out of the window that they were no more than 200 meters off the ground. The plane then banked sharply, turning its wings almost perpendicular to the ground. By now, all of the troops were awake and wondering what in the hell was happening. The aircraft shot up into a steep pitch and banked hard to the right, pinning Zachary against the frame. As soon as he could, Zachary sat down again and refastened his seat belt. The aircraft reverberated as the pilot was obviously stressing it beyond its design capacity. Another steep drop made Zachary’s stomach fly up into his throat. The subsequent leveling slammed it back down into his stomach. Zachary smiled grimly and shook his head at First Sergeant Washington, who seemed to be enjoying the ride. The plane’s turbo propellers whined and craned, trying to carve into the night air and defy gravity.
Zachary’s silent thought was a humorous one, not reflected on his furrowed brow. He envisioned the C-130 in the middle of a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds aerial show. Perhaps the pilot was a frustrated fighter jock. He did not care as long as all the wheels touched the ground safely.
The aircraft jolted, causing a loud bang underneath, and Zachary could hear the familiar sound of all of the engines going into reverse. More jolts followed until the plane rolled to a hot landing, using nearly the entire runway. Regardless, they were on the ground safely. One of the pilots came into the back of the aircraft wearing night-vision goggles, smiling broadly. It suddenly occurred to Zachary that they had been doing nap of the earth, or NOE, flying where the pilots follow the contours of the ground. If the pilot used night-vision goggles, the technique was especially dangerous. Well, Zachary thought, looking at the pilot with a wide grin, half of my troops puked in the back of your airplane, so we’re even.
The ramp dropped, giving way to an eerie darkness as a blast of warm, sticky air rushed into the hull of the plane. The men poured into the dark expanses of the runway and surrounding scrub grass. Zachary, Rockingham, and Washington were immediately making things happen. The airfield was deserted except for the two C-130s, a forklift, and a lone white Chevy Blazer with U.S. government markings on it. Inside the Blazer, Zachary presumed, was his contact. The forklift was to unload the pallets of duffel bags.
Meanwhile, the troops had taken up security around the airfield. Each platoon leader had a green metal can full of 5.56mm ammunition locked and stored in his rucksack only to be issued on the personal direction of the commander. Those were the rules of engagement that had been wired from the JUSMAG to the Twenty-fifth Division headquarters. Zachary was not happy with it and had every intention of distributing the ammunition once he got settled.
He walked over to the vehicle to meet his contact, his boots cracking the crusty shell of dried lava from the Mount Pinatubo eruption several years earlier. He had never seen anyone play it so close to the vest, thinking the guy would at least come and talk to him. Looking through the window from a distance, he saw a lone man wearing Army battle dress uniform. On the dashboard was his black beret with the silver oak leaf cluster indicating that he was a lieutenant colonel. Beret meant one thing to Zach; that the U.S. military in the Philippines was in administrative mode rather than combat focused.
Zachary walked around to the driver’s side to talk to the man, who had not yet looked at him. In fact, the colonel was motionless. The closer he came to the window he instinctively began to raise his M4. Something was definitely wrong. The colonel was leaning against the door, and as Zachary began to reach for the door handle to open it, a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him away.
“Sir, don’t touch that,” Washington said, urgently, pulling his captain away from the vehicle and turning his glistening black face from side to side. He saw for the first time the bullet hole in the center of the colonel’s forehead.
“See these wires, sir?” Washington said, pointing through the windshield at a taut silver wire connected to a small credit-card-like object that was clamped between the teeth of a metal clothespin. Zach got it immediately. Open the door, the wire pulls the card out, and the clothespin snaps shut, completing the electrical circuit, which would then trigger whatever explosives had been assembled. Someone had shot the man, then rigged the Blazer with explosives. “Jackson from First Platoon had a report of a local running fast along the other end of the runway. I got suspicious and came over here and saw this shit. Improvised explosive device—IED. Sir, this is some spooky shit,” Washington said.
Zach took control immediately. “Might be remote-controlled as well, so let’s move out. Top, find someone who can run a forklift. I’ll come back over here with our engineer after we’ve secured the perimeter. You can get the forklift moving the pallets to those buildings back that way.” He pointed in the direction of some white barracks huts about three kilometers across the runway. There were a few operational streetlights around them, and he figured that would be the safest place for the equipment in the interim.
As they jogged away from the vehicle, Zach continued. “Have the loadmaster roll the pallets off the planes now and tell the troops to make sure they have all their crap off the aircraft because I’m sending them away from here. Then we will cover the airfield until we can secure the buildings over there. Get the ammo issued out immediately and put out a net call for everyone to stay away from the Blazer.”
Zachary quickly pulled his night-vision goggles out of his rucksack, snapped them onto his helmet mount, and flicked the metal on switch. It was a deep black night with ample starlight to give the goggles adequate illumination. As Zachary scanned his surroundings, he came to the grim conclusion that his troops were in a valley. There was high ground to his north, east, and west. Obviously, the water must be to the south.
He heard the pallets slide off the back ramps. Zachary explained to the pilots that it was not safe for an airplane in that location. They agreed and said that they still had enough fuel to make it to Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. Zachary thanked the pilots for their concurrence, because he felt the aircraft would only make them a bigger target.
The equipment was unloaded, the forklift had safely cranked, and Slick, the commander’s radio operator, handed him the radio handset, saying, “Let’s get down to business, sir.”
With that, Zachary began controlling the movement of his platoons, leaving Kurtz’s platoon to cover to the north, while Taylor’s platoon provided flank security to the east. The XO led the headquarters platoon, while the first sergeant floated between platoons, keeping the men alert. Second Platoon led the way for the company as it followed the beacon of the streetlights. The Air Force crewmen did a good job of turning the aircraft.
As they were maneuvering the ancient beasts, images of the disaster in Iran at Desert One popped into Zachary’s mind. He had mixed emotions as he watched them quickly turn, bump along the runway noisily, then float into the silent night sky. In a sense, he wished that he and his men could be flying away with them. On the other hand, he had a mission to do, and the soldier in him thrived on situations like these. With the deafening roar of the two aircraft gone, the silence was enhanced. Ears rang, unable to hear the more subtle noises.
The three-kilometer walk was uneventful, which Zachary attributed to the unit’s good security during the move. They found four white Quonset huts unlocked and ready for their occupancy, with metal-frame beds, mattresses, and sheets laid out. A row of three streetlights illuminated the buildings. Zachary had the sapper inspect the buildings for bombs or other booby traps as he searched the area.
To Zachary, they seemed positioned in the middle of a desolate wasteland. By now, he could see Subic Bay to their south. It was not far away, maybe another three hundred meters. But other than a pier to the south, the barracks were not remotely close to anything that resembled a naval base. Walking with Slick to the pier, he saw what appeared to be a more complete facility across the water. Mists of salt water stung his eyes, and he returned to his company and decided to move them another two hundred meters to the west, away from the buildings. They’re magnets, tho
se buildings. The base was a ghost town, complete with tumbleweed rolling through the spotlights of the streetlamps like lost children searching their way home.
At that moment, Zach reaffirmed every com-mander’s mantra. All my men are coming home.
CHAPTER 23
Zachary had his company form the standard triangular patrol base. It was the most secure position for his troops. He did not trust the buildings, yet. The night was strangely silent except the low muffled sound of crates opening, 5.56mm ammunition speed loaders zipping the rounds into magazines, and the assorted metallic clicks and clanks of equipment distribution and inspection.
He probably could have reached the embassy from Subic Naval Base using standard frequency modu-lation communications, but he wanted to test the Single Channel Anti-jam Man Portable (SCAMP) radio and saw this as the perfect opportunity. Slick knelt on the hard-packed dirt and popped open a white metal suitcase about the size of a gym bag. It weighed thirty pounds altogether. One half of the suitcase lid separated from the other and served as the radar dish. It was square and pivoted on a metal frame with four legs that angled out from each corner of the chassis. The other half of the suitcase contained the voice and data sending units. The SCAMP operated on extremely high frequency (EHF), using the Military Strategic, Tactical, and Relay Satellite Communications System (MILSTAR). A satellite positioned somewhere over the Pacific Ocean would receive the message and relay it to the receiving station.
Zachary tucked his map into the cargo pocket of his pants while Slick performed the standard RTO habit of blowing into the mouthpiece after turning on the transmitter. He heard nothing come back to him in the earpiece, but delivered the handset to the captain anyway.
