The American looked like he wanted to argue, but instead just nodded and tapped his compatriot on the shoulder, speaking in too-rapid English with a horrible accent Miguel couldn’t follow. Miguel turned to his countryman. “What’s your name?” he said in Spanish.
“Pablo,” the man said, eyes wide as saucers. Miguel automatically assumed the man wouldn’t make it out alive, and felt bad for thinking it immediately after.
“Cover the left flank. If it moves, fire. We can’t let them get on top of the ridge on either side of the road, you hear me?”
Pablo nodded and brought his weapon to bear once more, while Miguel took stock. They had two extra rifle cartridges between them. He hoped the Chinese were merely scouts, rather than a vanguard of a larger assault. Otherwise, they would all die.
The Americans started firing to the right, and Miguel saw one man fall — and two others scurry between the trees. He turned, waited patiently, and within the space of ten seconds, found his targets. Hearing Pablo fire, he turned back to his left, finding another target and another victim.
“Damn, son, you’re a fine shot,” the American with the radio said. “How’d you do that?”
“Suerte. Luck,” Miguel said, hunkering down again. “Watch. Careful.”
Ahead, more shots were fired. There were a couple other clusters of still-living U.N. troops ahead, but the shots grew less frequent. Miguel imagined they were being winnowed down. This wasn’t some kind of scouting mission; this was an assault. The Reds were going around Old Baldy to strike at their underbelly — and Miguel was nestled right in that underbelly.
“What the hell?” the other American said in wonder. The man was staring forward, not toward the right flank where he should have been. Miguel turned and dropped two more Chinese where the American had been slacking.
“American! You watch right!” he yelled in English, but the man kept staring forward. Miguel followed his gaze, and then saw why.
An entire squad of Chinese were walking up the road, out in the open, about seventy-five yards ahead. They were alert and ready, but just walking. No cover. Nothing. A stroll down the street.
“Tu funeral,” Miguel muttered, bringing his rifle up and focusing on the point man of the group, a very serious-looking Chinese man with a baby face. Miguel fired.
The Chinese waved a hand. The shot… missed.
“Qué es esto?” Miguel breathed. He took another shot. Another miss.
The radioman also opened fire, squeezing off three shots. All misses.
Then Miguel saw chips of bark and tree flying away off either side of the road. Ricochets.
Miguel’s mind raced, and he quickly came to an impossible conclusion. If he was somehow lucky enough to land every shot, it stood to reason that someone else might be lucky enough to cause them to miss.
From up ahead, he heard a man yell “Down!” in English, and saw another American lob a grenade at the oncoming Chinese. The enemy point man lazily moved his hand toward the grenade while it was still ten yards out — and it changed course in mid-flight, heading right back to the ditch it had been thrown from.
Miguel ducked just in time. Dirt and pebbles rained down on them as the grenade exploded. The debris was sticky, but he didn’t have time to think about that too much, because his problems in that moment were so much bigger.
“Run!” the American radioman screamed. He and his compatriot took off quickly down the road. Miguel didn’t even have time to call out to them before they were shot in the back and fell. Miguel rose up with his rifle and fired again, this time landing a shot against one of the Chinese in the rear of the squad. His second shot whistled past his ear before he hit the deck again — had he not moved ever so slightly after firing, he’d be dead.
Pablo turned to him, tears in his eyes. “What do we do?”
Miguel weighed his options. Retreat, whether straight back or up the hills on either side, would get them killed quickly. They needed a distraction.
Suddenly, he heard a jeep motor coming up from behind them. Their reinforcements. But they didn’t know what they were up against. All those bullets ricocheting around…. Miguel looked around for the radio, but the now dead American had taken it with him.
“Don’t come!” he yelled, turning behind him. “Retreat! Retreat!”
The jeep rounded the corner and was greeted with a steady staccato of Chinese rifle fire. They were all going to die.
But a blinding white light and a massive explosion suddenly filled the air.
“The Air Force!” Miguel shouted, grabbing Pablo by the shirt. “Move!”
They immediately started running back down the road to the jeep, which had stopped. There were three men inside — two Americans, one of them a black man, and what looked to be a Korean. “Go! Go! We go now!” Miguel yelled. The white American stood up and motioned them to hurry, while the Korean…
Another blinding white light and explosion sent Miguel and Pablo to the dirt. For a moment, Miguel could’ve sworn the light had come from the jeep itself. From the Korean man. But it had to be a trick of the light or something. So he got up and kept moving.
Pablo was right there with him — until the Chinese started firing again. Miguel’s countryman went down without a sound. Miguel kept running.
A third flash and explosion silenced the rifle fire, and several strong hands lifted Miguel into the back of the jeep. “Others,” Miguel panted. “There are others. Friendlies.”
“Go!” the white man yelled.
Miguel struggled to sit up. “No! Others! Reinforcements!”
The black man sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Ain’t no reinforcements. We gotta go.” He then closed his eyes a moment. “He’s fine, Danny.”
The jeep tore back down the road at high speed, the futile pops of Chinese fire fading in the distance. “Why? Why do that?”
The white man — an officer from the leaf on his collar — turned back to face Miguel and, to his surprise, responded in Spanish. “I’m sorry, soldier. But we had to get you out of there. You’re more important than you realize.”
Miguel took several long seconds to process this, then ventured a guess. “Because I have good aim?”
“How good?” the officer asked.
“I never miss. Ever.”
“Yes. Probably that.”
“Except there was a man back there, I couldn’t hit him. He sent my shots flying back at me,” Miguel said. “He stopped a grenade in mid-air and sent it back to the American who threw it.”
The officer frowned. “Let’s get you back. You have a lot to tell us.”
FIELD REPORT
AGENCY: Central Intelligence Agency
PROJECT: MAJESTIC-12
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET-MAJIC EYES-ONLY
TO: POTUS, DCI Dulles, GEN Vandenberg USAF, DR Bronk MJ-12
FROM: CMDR Wallace USN
DATE: 25 Mar 1953
Agents Hooks, Yamato and I have successfully recovered the new Variant previously uncovered by Subject-1 on the Korean peninsula. He is PFC Miguel Padilla of the Colombian Battalion, 31st Regiment, 7th Division, and was successfully extracted from Hill 266 as the Chinese entered the area in force. No Variants suffered injuries during the extraction.
Padilla (DOB 2/17/30) is a native of Bogota, Colombia, and a Colombian national. At this time, he has elected to continue service to his Battalion, which remains under U.S. Army command. MG Smith, CINC 7th Division, has agreed to my request that PFC Padilla be placed on temporary detached duty under my command for the duration, though may follow up with GEN Vandenberg as to the particulars.