Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “I sent you some AT4 yesterday. Get the other three. We’re still taking arty,” Kooseman demanded.

  Zachary wanted to tell him to pack sand, but instead obeyed, as he knew he always would.

  “Roger, out,” Zachary replied.

  “You don’t say out to me, Captain! You say, over, over.”

  Zachary threw the handset into the mud and stood. He could still hear Kooseman squawking, but quit listening when he noticed … something was different.

  It had stopped raining.

  CHAPTER 97

  Takishi told Muriami to move out. They weren’t going to wait for the rain to stop. Muriami gunned the jet engine, tossing Takishi’s ribs into the padded rubber of the commander’s hatch.

  Takishi surveyed the wet, gray morning. The rain had continued through the night, and Takishi had decided to move his tanks after the enemy had destroyed his helicopters.

  He radioed his commanders and told them to follow him north. He positioned an infantry battalion on each side of his column of tanks. His soldiers, all soaked to the core, revved the diesel engines and began the muddy trek north toward Bongabon, only to cut south from there toward Manila.

  The light infantry had been pesky, though, and using the new route, he could avoid them. “Just drive around the bastards!” Mizuzawa had told him. The Marines had made a penetration in the defenses and were bearing down Roxas Boulevard with at least three companies.

  He needed an operational victory to counter the weight of the tactical defeat. If Takishi could spring free, then the Americans would have to react to the threat that he posed.

  Mizuzawa was desperate, so he had told Takishi if he was not successful, the ship was going into harbor. Takishi had protested mildly, but he knew there was nothing he could do. With Mizuzawa, you either signed up for the entire plan or took a hike. He had been opposed to the idea of the ship, but Mizuzawa had overruled him, saying it was necessary.

  “This time, we must make it,” Takishi said to Muriami, as they splashed along the muddy road. The tank tread bogged down briefly, then got a grip, gaining purchase on firmer turf. Takishi looked ahead and saw that the road was strewn with chunks of asphalt. Without a decent surface, the road would be impassable.

  After an hour of tough slogging, Takishi slewed his turret 180 degrees and ordered Muriami to stop the tank. The going had been slow anyway, and a brief halt would not make a big difference one way or the other.

  Frustrated, he watched the American missiles chew into his artillery, then he saw about thirty men come charging downhill toward the pieces that were still firing. They set up shoulder-launched weapons and fired, setting the remainder of the artillery ablaze.

  All he had left was direct-fire capability. He pressed the toggle switch on his CVC helmet and ordered the right-flank infantry battalion com-mander to dismount and destroy, once and for all, the pesky light infantry.

  Whether it was for glory or because of pure frustration, Takishi lifted his M4, a prize among all of his troops, and stepped out of the relative protection of the tank turret. He jogged into the fray behind hundreds of his infantry and saw a man running down the hill with a radio handset in his ear and a black coil stretching to another soldier, who was trying to keep up.

  Charlie Watts was going solo!

  Standing, Zachary predicted that the right-flank battalion would turn on his position. It did.

  Soon, a 25mm chain gun was chewing the soggy ground to his front. Barker’s platoon, having just destroyed the remainder of the artillery, was suddenly stranded by the advancing vehicles.

  Like army ants, Japanese infantry came pouring from the backs of the fighting vehicles, firing their American weapons at American soldiers.

  With horror, Zachary watched as ten vehicles started driving at Barker’s platoon of thirty men, caught in the open like a herd of mustangs surrounded by cowboys. Some of the troops had time to move, but many did not. The twenty-ton armored weapons crushed them, some pivoting atop the bodies.

  Zachary saw Barker crouched low, firing his M4 at an oncoming tank, his bullets ricocheting wildly off its rolled steel. The tank impaled him on its front deck, as the tank commander leaned over the turret and emptied a full magazine of submachine-gun ammu-nition into Barker’s body, leaving it glued to the tank by streaming blood. Zachary saw Barker’s head bouncing crazily as the tank stopped, then backed, forcing Barker’s body to slide onto the ground. It pivot-steered to gain the proper angle, finally chewing the wet turf, then Barker, mixing the mud with the blood and bones of the young lieutenant.

  “I need artillery, air, and helicopters here now!” Zachary screamed into the battalion net.

  “Hold on, Zach,” came McAllister’s voice, “I’m almost there.”

  McAllister’s voice comforted him briefly, then the wave of charging infantrymen flushed the thought from his mind. Must be three hundred.

  His remaining two platoons, positioned along the open ridge, began firing. The squad’s automatic weapons sang through the morning air, thrumming lightly in contrast to the Japanese 7.62mm machine guns, which made loud, cracking sounds.

  “Fix bayonets,” Zachary said calmly into the company radio.

  Some did, most already had.

  The two lines of soldiers merged, one indistinguishable from the other. Zachary saw Slick’s eyes grow wide with fear as he fumbled with his bayonet.

  Too late. A small Japanese soldier drove the butt of his weapon into Slick’s helmet, knocking him back. Zachary took his pistol and fired it almost point-blank at the man’s face, leaving a mangled mass in its path, like a plate of spaghetti.

  Zachary stuffed the pistol in his belt and lifted his M4, firing it at the many targets. The scene reminded him of a Civil War painting he’d seen at Gettysburg, the Union and Confederate lines locked together in combat, brother against brother.

  These were no brothers, though. He knew about brothers. The thought sent a hot, violent rage surging through his body.

  He stood, let out a low, guttural moan, then screamed wildly and waded into the fray, flailing his weapon back and forth, stabbing some with the bayonet, shooting others who were far enough away. Small Japanese men, clad in dark olive uniforms, mouths contorted, were screaming words foreign to Zachary. As he parried bayonet thrusts, he had a sense that he was one of seven—a man named Stanard who had fought so valiantly in a little battle near the Blue Ridge called New Market nearly 140 years ago. Stanard and his six VMI classmates had died as cadets, battling the Union invasion of their beloved Virginia countryside, and the Blue Ridge folks had named a small town after him.

  He felt close to Stanard as a knife pierced his left shoulder from behind. He turned and saw the blackened face of a Japanese officer as the knife made a cracking sound cutting through his clavicle.

  Zachary pulled the pistol from his holster with his right hand, dropping the empty M4, and bored a hole through his attacker’s neck, bright red blood spraying in all directions.

  He pulled the knife from his shoulder in time to thrust it into another enemy soldier coming at him with a bayonet. The forward momentum of the small man knocked Zachary onto his back as he slid fifteen feet through the mud, coming to rest at the feet of two men fighting.

  He saw Kurtz wildly swinging his rifle, crushing a man’s temple. Zachary stood and wheeled around as he pointed his pistol in Slick’s face, pulling the trigger, but moving the barrel to the side just in time.

  Slick grabbed the commander and pulled him from the mêlée.

  The sound of gunfire and screaming men filled the air. It was a horrible noise, the decibels of death, rising into the fresh, cool morning.

  “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 be
neath 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.