by A. J Tata
“Red six, this is red three, over,” Staff Sergeant Quinones said urgently into the radio.
“Go,” Kurtz responded to his third squad leader.
“We’ve picked up about thirty enemy moving directly toward us along the pier.”
“Roger, can you defend from where you are?”
“We’re really too close together. This pier’s only about fifty meters wide, then it drops into the water.”
“Roger. Leave one fire team on the pier behind some cover. Remember that they can’t see you. Move the other team near the back to my location by the tire pile. You stay with the pier team, and I’ll take charge of your other team,” Kurtz commanded with crispness.
“Roger. Happening now, out,” Quinones said.
“Red six, this is red two, over.”
“Send it,” Kurtz said, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon to the west.
“Fifteen enemy soldiers wounded or killed, two Enemy Prisoners of War, continuing to observe, over.”
“Roger, red one, status?” Kurtz said to his first squad leader.
“Seventeen enemy dead, five EPWs, continuing to observe, over.”
“Roger, break,” he said, releasing the handset momentarily, and he was back to Quinones, who had called in the advancing enemy element. “Red three, sitrep?”
“Roger. Enemy still advancing. About two hundred meters out,” Quinones whispered.
“Sitrep, Mike,” Captain Garrett said, sliding into position behind the tire pile. Teller was still tethered to him, and Zach was glad that the young man was in good physical condition. Able to listen to all of the action on the radio, Zachary had personally inspected the positions of all three platoons and decided to command from Kurtz’s position, where the largest threat seemed to be.
“Sir, we’ve got some enemy bearing down on Quinones’s men on the pier. I’ve got him with one fire team ready to open up any second. I’m gonna send the other five-man team into their flank about two hundred meters up to keep them from getting in behind second squad.”
“Need First or Third Platoons to do anything?” Zachary asked, unable to envision a mission for either of them worth risking the integrity of the company position.
“Not right now, sir. We’ve got it,” Kurtz said confidently, spitting some chaw over his knee. He looked through his goggles in the direction of the pier about three hundred meters away. It had all come together for him. It was easier than Ranger school or any field-training exercise. Sure, the training had prepared him, but this was something inside of him, something tangible that he could connect with. He knew exactly what to do, like playing a game and being the only one who knew the rules.
“Contact!” Quinones’s voice blurted into the radio, as Taylor and Kurtz heard two audible clicking noises and shortly thereafter two successive explosions. Quinones had let them get within a hundred meters, then opened fire with two high-explosive grenades from the M203 grenade launchers, followed by the squad automatic weapon, which raked the expanse of the pier.
CHAPTER 36
Ayala had never seen anything like it. A withering cross fire had decimated his force heading directly toward the white buildings. Luckily, at the last moment he had joined the smaller group moving along the pier.
It seemed clear sailing, as they less than quietly padded along wooden ties next to the choppy bay. His plan had worked, though, as the Americans were so fixated on his larger force that they had neglected the obscure pier. Looking to his south, he saw Subic Bay, a mixing bowl of windswept water perhaps reflective of the murderous activities ashore. To his left was a five-and-a-half-meter iron retaining wall supported by I-beams that abutted the pier. The top of the wall was even with the ground. He was looking at the outline of the ammunition stockpile, above his eye level about two hundred meters away when an explosion propelled him into the water, momentarily knocking him unconscious.
The Abu Sayyaf charge continued along the pier into a hail of bullets that cut them down three and four at a time. Tracers screamed at them like lighted arrows, too often finding their targets. The muzzle flashes came from behind the I-beams along the retaining wall, the bullets ripping open the attackers’ flesh. There was no place for them to hide, as they were advancing along a bowling alley into a curtain of steel. Their determination was solid, though, like that of a weary marathoner nearing the finish line but about to collapse. The Americans had whittled the advance down to four wounded insurgents, refusing to surrender, yet unable to see the six-member team that had selectively and completely destroyed their flanking effort. The moaning and dead rebel bodies lay strewn over a one-hundred-meter swath along the pier.
Suddenly the night carried nothing but the reverberating echo of gunshots and the howling of dying men.
Ayala floated beneath the surface of the water, then bobbed back up, coughing and wheezing for air. His rifle had dropped like a rock into the deep expanse of the bay. It was all he could do to stay afloat, as he was a non-swimmer, fighting against the saturated weight of his clothes and backpack. Flailing his arms, reaching for anything that would support his weight, he found purchase beneath the pier on a long pipe that carried water to several points along the dock. Grasping the five-centimeter-wide tubing, he rested. After catching his breath, he listened to the diminishing battle above. From his position, it had a distant quality, the sound dampened by the wood and steel pier above him. He could see through the slats in the wood, catching a glimpse of an American tracer etching an orange trail in strobelike fashion as it flew above the pier. He lifted one hand to the strap of his backpack, which met his touch with the reassuring knowledge of his Shansi tucked securely inside. Then he pressed on, shuffling hand over hand along the water pipe, his buoyancy in the water making the process remark-ably easy.
The shooting ceased, distant echoes galloping through the low valleys to the west and north. His plan had not failed, however, as he was still alive and could take the Americans himself. He had thirty-two rounds of ammunition. He vowed to kill that many with his pistol. The rest would surrender, he was sure. He struggled beneath the pier, observed by huge rats pecking and scratching along the concrete to his left. He had seen them before. For a child growing up in the slums of Olongapo, rats were like pets.
The waterline was about a meter below the level of the pier, yet the depth was seven meters directly beneath him. Hand over hand he shuffled along, making progress until he could hear the voices of Americans talking quietly. Perspiration beginning to bead on his forehead, he slowed so that his wake was an unnoticeable ripple, passing the voices above him. Making his way to the end of the pier, he located a steel cable hanging from the concrete wall that marked the end of the dock. Grabbing it, he pulled himself out of the water and was dismayed at his own weight and that of his drenched clothing once the water was no longer supporting him. He momentarily lost his grip, then tightened his fist around the cable, grabbing into some frayed wires that dug deeply into the bone of his right hand. He wanted to scream, but refused. His pain would go away; the suffering of his people at the hands of the Americans would not. He bit his lower lip with force, causing streams of warm, red blood to trickle down his chin and drop into the water like drips from a leaking faucet.
Pushing on, he laid an arm on the pier, his hand pulsing with pain. Putting pressure against his elbow, he flung his right leg on the pier and rolled onto the level surface. Quickly, he looked and saw a ladder that led to ground level and his eventual victory over the Americans.
CHAPTER 37
The entire engagement had taken only twenty minutes since the first mortars landed. At 0520 hours, it would be another twenty minutes until the sun provided enough daylight for them to assess accurately what they had accomplished. What would have been a beautiful sunrise amidst the pleasant music of the adjacent jungle was transformed into a barbaric scene of death, accompanied by the howls of wounded men.
“Red three, status?”
“This is red three. We’re counting bodies ri
ght now. We do need a medic. Say again, we do need a medic!”
“Roger, he’s on the way with a two-man security team,” Kurtz said, motioning to his platoon medic and two members of the fire team that Quinones had sent to Kurtz’s location.
“We’ve got all our personnel, but one has been hit in the neck. Say again, one hit in the neck! Currently holding position with four EPWs. We are low on ammo, but are redistributing right now.”
“Roger. Good job. I’m sending your other three men to pick up those EPWs now. Continue to consolidate and redistribute,” Kurtz said. Captain Garrett and Mike Kurtz sat, mentally exhausted, leaning against the pile of tires. Their exhaustion was paradoxical. As the battle progressed, each leader realized that control of the fight tended to decentralize to the lower level. Zachary had initially felt foolish, running back and forth between positions, but he reminded himself that he had to be at the critical point of the battle.
He had managed to change positions as needed. Plus, it was his plan that had earned what seemed like a victory for his company. Zachary knew in his heart that it was the hard training that had allowed them to survive this first battle. Both he and Kurtz had watched, as tracers bounced wildly over the bay like some macabre fireworks display. He watched Kurtz, wide-eyed and alert, like a wildcat, waiting for the next intruder into his den.
“We will hold in position for now,” Garrett said.
Captain Garrett conducted a communications check with all of his platoons. The only real casualty was Sergeant Cartwright with the gash in his leg. The soldier in Quinones’s squad had merely burned his face firing left-handed from behind an I-beam on the pier. The M4 was designed for right-handed shooters with the casing ejector port on the right side of the weapon. A white-hot metal casing had flown from the port, smacking the soldier in the face and searing his neck as it came to rest beneath the collar of his body armor. In the excitement of the moment, he had thought he was hit. Zachary was thankful and had personally inspected that soldier as well.
He had told his platoons to conduct ammunition redistribution and accountability of personnel. No one was missing, but Kurtz’s platoon was critically short on ammunition. Zachary had Taylor send a squad with some of his platoon’s ammunition to the tire stack, where he gave it to Sergeant First Class McDonell, Kurtz’s platoon sergeant. McDonell then rapidly redistributed the ammunition. All of the platoons held their positions and watched into the surreal green world of the night-vision goggles.
The embassy had radioed with some good news and some bad news. The good news was that the medical evacuation helicopter was on its way to pick up Sergeant Cartwright. The bad news was that the attack on Subic was just a small part of an island-wide Abu Sayyaf attempt to seize power. They had a doctor in the embassy who could examine Cartwright, but they believed that they were in imminent danger of being attacked. Zach told Fraley simply to get the helicopter to him ASAP, that he had a man dying. He knew he had leverage over the colonel and used the man’s guilt to force a decision that a day ago he would not have made.
He spoke briefly with Slick and told him to continue to monitor the SCAMP radio. Calling on Barker’s platoon, he asked them to establish a land-ing zone using red VS-17 panels to signify that the landing was an emergency. The helicopter could not get between the maze of dormant electrical wires that hung above Taylor’s platoon. Cartwright’s squad members constructed a field-expedient litter using a poncho and two-by-fours to carry him to a secure position behind Barker’s lines. Near Cartwright’s position, Barker’s men were establishing the landing zone. Zachary had asked all of the platoon leaders to leave their platoon sergeants in charge and meet him at the tire pile immediately for a quick intelligence update and review of the action.
The sun had risen far enough above the horizon across the island of Luzon to scatter the darkness, casting a gray shade. When Kurtz took off his goggles, he could see dark humps lying on the hardstand about two hundred meters from the tire pile, where first and second squads had executed a perfect L-shaped ambush. Some of the bodies were moving, some were crying out in anguish, yelping as much in their mortal pain as they were bemoan-ing their complete defeat. The thick smell of spent powder hung in the air like a fog, waiting for the sun to burn it, and the memories of a horrible night, away.
Zachary walked toward the ammunition pile, faithfully guarded by Quinones’s squad, then looked over the bulkhead down onto the pier, where he saw Quinones and his men still oriented to the west, ever vigilant. The darkened lumps of bodies were scattered along the pier, across its width.
Zachary returned to the tire pile, the de facto command post, with ever-growing numbers of soldiers gathering there. Some of the headquarters troops, who had remained in the barracks to monitor radios and react to emergencies, came out, looking in amazement at their company’s baptism of fire. The platoon leaders had arrived, kneeling next to each other, comparing notes. As Zachary approached, he made it a point to look at Taylor’s eyes to see what was there. They all stood as the commander and the tethered Teller approached. Taylor returned Zach’s gaze with the reassurance that he had the mettle for this business and the understanding that he had matured immensely in the last hour.
Taylor was the tallest of the lieutenants, but Kurtz’s sheer breadth made him seem larger. Barker was a rather short and slight officer, but large in heart. He performed well, Zachary thought. He did not overreact and secured the flank. Barker’s red hair and boyish looks stood in stark contrast to Kurtz’s partially unshaven face and Taylor’s ruggedness. The three lieutenants stood next to each other, waiting for the commander.
“Take a knee guys,” Zachary said. The lieu-tenants obeyed, forming a semicircle around the captain, who was still standing. First Sergeant Washington scattered the onlookers, telling them to assist their platoon sergeants in detainee control and collection of enemy dead. Zachary began to talk, saying he wanted to gather them and very quickly determine what adjustments they needed to make in case of another attack. The first thing he could think of was that they needed to break into the ammu-nition dump because he was certain they were nearly out of everything.
Teller, Slick’s backup on the radio, looked up at the UH-60 helicopter, its rotor blades beating against the sky like drumsticks. The noise caused everyone except Kurtz to look skyward at the Black Hawk helicopter with the big red cross painted on its side. It was the medevac for Cartwright. Kurtz, however, was consumed in his own thoughts, staring blankly at the ammunition stockpile near the water.
Always shoot the two men nearest the radio, Ayala said to himself. His hand was bleeding profusely despite the white dirt caking inside his palm. His black hair hung in strands over his forehead. He had taken his bandanna and wrapped it around his wounded hand so that he could begin to eliminate the Americans, one by one.
Ayala low-crawled along the barracks building adjacent to the command post and edged his scarred face around the corner. It was just light enough for him to see the ammunition pile about fifty meters to his left and a grouping of Americans kneeling around some old tires. He heard the helicopter fly overhead and used the cover of its roar as an opportunity to extract the Shansi from his backpack. He attached the shoulder stock and fed one ten-round clip into the box magazine. He saw them looking up at the black helicopter and decided the movement could wait no longer. He painfully clutched his pistol, seated it in his shoulder, and began to rise. Moving first to a crouch, then to a low duckwalk, he began walking faster and faster in their direction, completely undetected.
His men had performed beautifully, Kurtz was thinking to himself, fixated in a blank stare in the direction of the ammunition pile. The noise from the helicopter would soon subside and they would get on with business. He was just glad that none of his men had to take that ride. In his periphery, he noticed one of the troops seemed to be walking toward them as the curtain of night gave way to a blue-gray shade. It was still not completely light, and—the platoons are continuing the mission—and why does h
e not have a helmet—and why is he starting to run at us with a rifle in his hand?! The thoughts tumbled through his mind with increasing momentum, each successive notion unable to completely express itself before the next came barging forward. His first instinct was to grab the commander.
Get the radio first. He was only thirty meters away. Ayala stopped, as he saw one of the men begin to rise. His world moved in slow motion. He aimed the front inverted V and V-notched tangent rear sites at the American with the radio. He squeezed the trigger and actually saw the large .45 caliber bullet fly from the barrel, striking him in the back of the neck, causing his head to jerk violently backward and his arms to outstretch as if to break his fall. The second round bored through the radio, scattering shrapnel in all directions.
Kurtz grabbed his captain as he heard the first shot thud into Teller’s neck, causing streams of bright red blood to spray onto Lieutenant Barker, who by then was moving as well. With his uniform sleeve shredded and his forearm bleeding, Kurtz thought the second bullet had hit him. Regardless, he pulled Captain Garrett to the ground, trying to shield him with his body, but to no avail. The third shot ripped through the captain’s scalp, tearing his Kevlar helmet from his head. Kurtz dropped the captain, rolled away from the tires with his M4, and leveled the weapon at the insurgent.
The third shot must hit the man standing next to the radio. One down, thirty-one to go, Ayala thought, walking, then stopping to fire, then walking again. Success once again, as the third bullet tore the skull off its victim. Then he saw the American rolling to his left with a weapon. Fourth bullet is for him, Ayala said to himself. Always counting ammunition, the cause needed all it could get. He aimed and felt his own blood pump from his chest as his shot flew silently, but wildly into the air. “Yes,” he whispered, “they must take many shots to kill me.” He felt the other shots impacting on his body like small-fisted punches in a street fight. He watched his world collect before him and gather into a twisting cloud. Faintly, he could hear his deflating lungs wetly sucking for wind.
