Zachary looked into the sheets of water blowing with the wind, almost horizontal. He had led them to the northeast of Fort Magsaysay along a small ridge covered with high grass. The jungle was only three hundred meters to the rear, Fort Magsaysay about one and a half kilometers to the south. He called Kooseman and told him he was in position and gave him the grid.
Kooseman went ballistic.
“What the hell are you doing way over there?!” Kooseman screamed.
“They’re coming this way next,” Zachary said, without hesitation or emotion. He was not going to move, no matter what, and had decided before they moved from their previous site that he was going to ask forgiveness instead of permission, knowing he never would have received the latter.
“I need you to move back and guard my flank,” Kooseman said. Zachary looked at the handset. Kooseman was a good guy, but he sounded too dry. He was in a building somewhere, Zachary was sure, as was the rest of the battalion, probably.
“Negative; have McAllister move about six hundred meters north of my old position. That way we’ll be able to catch them in a cross fire,” Zachary countered, unflinching.
Kooseman paused. Zachary figured he was looking at a map or weighing Zach’s insub-ordination. He didn’t care. He wasn’t moving.
“Roger,” Kooseman responded.
Zachary gave the radio handset back to Slick. Looking through his night-vision goggles, Zachary identified what appeared to be an airstrip, less than a mile to the southwest. He saw the faint black outlines of helicopters and had an idea.
“Think this shit’ll ever stop?” Slick asked his captain, shivering in the dark night.
Zachary hardly noticed the question. He summoned Kurtz and SSG Quinones, who appeared moments later, faces painted black for the movement. He gave them instructions on his idea and told them to report back once they were prepared. The two men returned within the half-hour and Zach went over the plan again.
“It’s 0200, let’s go,” he said.
The four of them moved through second platoon’s leg of the triangular patrol base. Wearing the goggles felt good, keeping their faces dry for a change. Zachary led the men down the ridge, keeping low. Zachary, Kurtz, and Quinones had emptied their rucksacks and loaded them with the company’s supply of C4, detonation cord, and other demolitions equipment.
They moved silently through the loud rain. Infantry weather. Wading through a small stream, engorged probably to twice its size, Zachary pulled at a root on the far bank, which dislodged, causing him to fall back into the water. Kurtz and Quinones were behind him, lifting him out immediately. Finally clawing their way to the far side, they spied a weak roll of concertina guarding fifteen helicopters parked innocently on the cement runway.
Zachary designated five aircraft for each man. When they were done, they were to shine their IR flashlights three times in his direction. Slick’s job was to watch for the signals.
There appeared to be no roving guard. Zachary could make out a small shack at the far end of the runway but could see no one. He low-crawled up to the wire and nudged it with his rifle, just to be sure, then took his wire cutters and snipped the strands of razor-sharp metal, cutting his hands as he did so. The pain was sharp and unnecessary; he should have been more careful.
The task complete, they slithered like snakes through the obscure opening. Zachary had chosen the five aircraft farthest away. It was the right thing to do. As he crawled on the cement, his body armor and outer tactical vest dug into his skin, and the pools of standing water stung his hands.
He gauged the aircraft. They looked like sleek, new-model Apaches.
He slid his rucksack off his shoulders and dug into its dryness, producing a standard M112 block of C4 that they had prerigged with time fuses, blasting caps, and nonelectric firing devices.
He opened the door to the first helicopter, placing the explosive next to the control panel, leaving the door cracked slightly. He repeated the process for each of the other aircraft, then flashed his IR in Slick’s direction. Slick flashed back that he acknowledged. Kurtz and Quinones did the same, then Slick flashed four times to the captain, indicating they were all ready.
Zachary knelt next to the helicopter farthest away from where they had entered the airstrip, and closest to the small hut, less than one hundred meters.
That was why he saw the light come on. A huge spotlight followed, shining in their direction.
He pulled the first nonelectric firing device, listening for the hissing of burning time fuse. Running from helicopter to helicopter, he did the same. Kurtz and Quinones followed suit. He reached his last aircraft and stooped to pick his rucksack off the wet pavement when he heard a bullet whiz by his ear, like a closing zipper, and ricochet off the helicopter. Looking back over his shoulder, he tripped, severely bruising his elbow.
The rate of fire increased as they scampered back through the wire. Quinones had gone first, but was screaming and writhing on the ground as if he was hit.
“Medic! I need a medic!” His body was bouncing wildly on the ground. Zachary approached him, sliding off his goggles and keeping below the enemy fire.
After his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw a horrible sight. Quinones had apparently slipped as he ran through the wire and fallen. One of the razors from the concertina had snagged him just beneath his left eye and ripped open the socket.
Blood was everywhere, and Zachary saw the eye, strung to Quinones’s face by a thread of red membrane or muscle, nearly falling out of the socket.
“Help me, sir,” Quinones whispered, watching the commander out of his remaining eye.
Zachary pulled out his first-aid dressing and wrapped it around Quinones’s head, securing the eye in place. He didn’t know, maybe they had the technology to fix it.
Kurtz slung Quinones over his shoulder and grabbed the man’s weapon, then went to one knee, saying, “Son of a bitch.”
Zachary looked at Kurtz, who groaned and stood, blood pouring from his lower right leg. The Japanese soldiers were racing across the airfield, firing their weapons.
The first explosion knocked about seven of them back. The next blasts happened almost in unison, giving Zachary, Kurtz, and Quinones enough time to melt into the high grass to the east.
They fled into the jungle, clawing their way up the hills without regard for direction, turning to check for pursuers on occasion.
“Halt, who goes there,” came the American voice.
“We’re Americans!” Zachary screamed.
“Advance forward to be recognized.”
“Eagle.”
“Viper.”
“Welcome to Second Bat. What the hell are you guys doing?” the Ranger said from beneath his patrol cap, the sides of his shaved head glistening in the night.
Zachary turned and watched the Japanese try to extinguish the fires on the helicopters. It was no use. Every one of them was now destroyed.
It could make the difference.
Chapter 94
President Davis looked at his friend, Bob Stone, thinking, He’s not himself.
“What’s the matter, Bob, you seem nervous? You’re not getting weak on me, are you?”
“No, sir, just a little tired,” Stone said, his voice shaking in the confines of the diminutive situation room. They were waiting for Jim Fleagles, the Secretary of State, and Dave Palmer, the NSA. Sewell was sitting next to the president, staring at Stone, who was looking across the table at President Davis, then Frank Lantini.
In reality, Stone had received a phone call from a female police officer saying she wanted to ask him some questions. He nervously inquired, “About what?” only for her to tell him, “We will discuss that later.” They made an appointment for the following afternoon.