He did a quick map resection to verify his location. While the GPS was usually accurate, he occasionally backed up its data with his own calculations. He liked the technology, but trusted his mental processes more.
He figured azimuths to three known points that he could identify on the map, a mountain peak, a road intersection, and a radio tower. He was surprised to see the radio tower, but was glad it was there. He then converted the azimuths to back azimuths by subtracting or adding 180 degrees. Then he drew a line from each point on the map along the back azimuths. The point at which the three lines intersected was his team’s location. He had them positioned on an eleven-hundred-meter mountain that separated the towns of Compostela and Cateel. That was good news. A beach near Cateel Bay was where the Filipinos were to pick up his team in three days.
“We should’ve gone back sooner,” Ramsey said to SFC Jones.
“Shit, Major, we’ve been on the go since last night. That’s an L-shaped ambush waiting to happen. You done right, keeping the rest of the team safe,” Jones responded.
“He saved my life. He hooked me up and threw me over the ramp.”
“Go easy on yourself, sir,” Jones said. “You’d have done the same for him. Plus, I ain’t convinced he’s dead.” Jones’s last statement trailed off in an unconvincing manner. They all knew.
“Lonnie had to pull me away from the wreckage last night. I didn’t want to leave, but there were so many of those bastards crawling all over both planes. Our move time had come and gone, and Lonnie kept telling me we had to leave, that maybe we’d link up with Peterson later. I kept expecting to find him beneath a parachute lean-to chowing on an MRE or something.”
“Stop it, sir. It’s not your fault. You’ve done a hell of a job keeping us alive.”
It was true. Six times they had come within less than one hundred meters of detection, remaining motionless, practically breathless, as the Abu Sayyaf forces quickly padded by in their ragged brown and green uniforms.
In the darkness, Ramsey and Lonnie White, the medic, had finally circled back toward the drop zone. They found the area teeming with Abu Sayyaf, making undetected access to either airplane impossible. He and White had fought their way back through the steep, rocky jungle, their return trip more painful as they carried the extra weight of Peterson’s loss squarely on their shoulders. Sometimes clutching to shallow roots was the only thing that prevented them from dropping to certain death 550 meters below.
Though glad to have Ramsey and White back in the fold, the team was solemn when they saw two, not three, men re-enter the patrol base.
Ramsey stuffed his map back in his rucksack, hearing Benson approach from the north as he led his patrol back into the base camp.
Sergeant First Class Benson knelt next to Ramsey, squatting in the high, misty jungle, listening to the eerie animal sounds of monkeys and macaws high in the trees. They had found a seemingly secure spot about five kilometers from where they had started. In all they had walked nearly ten kilometers, doubling back on their own trail on the bet that the Abu Sayyaf would not cover the same ground twice. So far, they had been correct.
“Sir, we’ve got some weird shit for you,” Benson said, sweat streaming down his green-and-black-painted face.
“Surprise me. I need some interesting news,” Ramsey said, pulling out a tin of smokeless tobacco and stuffing a good wad into his cheek. His face was stark and unshaven. He pulled his flop hat off and scratched his oily brown hair.
“We found a fence and just beyond that, a path. It’s well-groomed, with gravel laid between two-by-fours. There are signs along it with Chinese writing on them. We didn’t take any. Didn’t want to raise eyebrows. As it was, we saw some enemy, we think, about a hundred meters and decided to break contact from the recon site. But, sir, it looked like a friggin’ jogging path.”
“Was the enemy you saw Abu Sayyaf?” Ramsey asked.
“They did have on darker green uniforms than most others we’ve seen, but I’m certain they were Asian. Like I said, we had to bug out,” Benson said, checking a green notepad in his blackened hand.
“Tell me more about the signs.”
“There’s not much more to tell, other than they had little pictures on them, like a stick figure running. Beneath one of them was a sawdust pit about three meters by three meters. You know, the kind we used for hand-to-hand combat in Ranger school.”
“Yeah. How far is it?”
“That’s the scary part. It’s only a few kilometers to the northeast, near Cateel. We saw some old mine shafts in the area. I know they mine a lot of copper and ore around here.”
“Chinese writing and mine shafts. Mmmm. Philippine government doesn’t allow much foreign mining. Maybe the local dialect is Chinese. Who knows.” Ramsey shrugged.
“If nothing else, maybe we can do some PT,” Benson said, referring to the track.
Ramsey looked at Benson, and they both shared a silent laugh. Ramsey said, “Yeah, right.” It felt good to smile.
Chuck spit into the ground, plucking scattered chunks of tobacco away from his lip.
“It’s 1300 now. You think it would be safe to head down there and check it out this early?” Ramsey asked, thinking of the thick scrub that he and Lonnie White had fought through and how much easier it might be in the daylight.
Benson nodded.
They put their rucks on, and Ramsey placed White in charge of the team, while he and Benson went on the reconnaissance mission. He had decided to take the young Filipino Ranger with them. Benson quietly objected, but Ramsey insisted that he might be able to provide some insight into the nature of the signs. He had proven useful in finding his way around and had indeed walked point on two of the extended patrols the team had performed.
The issue settled the three men began hacking their way through the jungle in search of the gravel path
Abe had completed preparing his transition briefing for the new production team and now anticipated a peaceful run on the path in the wild jungle. To Abe, transitioning from the state of the art factory to the path was like stepping into a time machine. One minute he was the classic Japanese manufacturer, the next he was an orange-clad aborigine dashing through the rain forest.
In less than 72 hours, he would board Takishi’s Shin Meiwa and fly north to see his family for the first time in over six months. His happy mind pinged with positive thoughts of reunion. He continued to carry a picture of his wife and two little girls in the breast pocket of his white smock. He wanted to go for one last jog before he ventured home.
The contrast of his seeming captivity in the plant and the freedom of the running path made him feel like a wild mustang running across the great American plains. He had visited America often and appreciated the culture, having developed a special affinity for Western movies. His latest poem alluded to the American West.