by Tom Kratman
“That guy who went down between the ship and the LCM?” the latter asked.
“Must be. I’ve got the two platoons I brought in waiting for the LCM down by the beach. Moore’s platoon is still on the line, along with your Third Team. How do you want us to handle disengagement?”
Warrington had been thinking about that quite a bit over the last hour. “One thing I don’t want is the Elands sliding into a bunch of packed troopers in the LCM’s well deck.”
“Right; they have to pull out first. I figured that much.”
“I can have Third Team sprint for the Zodiacs still on the shore. Can Moore extend his line to cover their sector?”
“He’s already doing it,” Stocker answered.
“Good . . . wait a sec.” Warrington called his third team and told them, “As soon as the line dogs replace you, get the hell on the Zodiacs and head for the ship.”
“Wilco.”
Turning back to Stocker, Warrington continued, “All right. Once Simon has the Elands and the bulk of your company loaded, tell Moore to run like the wind for the LCM. I’ll stay here, along with Balbahadur—”
“We’ll stay here.”
Chuckling, Warrington agreed, “Fair enough. You and I and the Gurkha will stay here, just watching and, if needed, firing until the LCM takes off. Then I’ll call in one of Slepnyov’s gunships to pick us up while the other one patrols the perimeter.”
“Wish to hell,” Stocker said, “that we’d thought to bring some claymores along for Moore’s people to set on trip wires.”
“Can’t think of everything. But you’re right. I wish we had, too.”
Uncle Korfa hadn’t known, hadn’t even suspected, there were mines placed out until, entering a wreck of a building with some of his personal guard, one of the guards had knelt by a window and promptly had his knee blasted into ruin. It was fortunate, in a way, that it was so dark. Korfa wasn’t sure how the rest would have taken the sight of mangled flesh, pulverized bone, and squirting blood. He’d had the man carried away to what passed for a doctor for his gang.
Well, to be fair, none of that would bother them ordinarily. But that, coupled with the knowledge that the ground itself has become untrustworthy? That would . . . do something to them, and not anything too very good.
Taking one knee himself, albeit very carefully, he took from a pocket and flicked into life his cigarette lighter. Sure enough there was a small, odd little butterflylike device a couple of feet away. Bending lower still, he examined it closely. That small? Can’t be too powerful. We can clear them safely, I think.
“Go find some branches,” he ordered, “some brooms, anything we use to sweep the ground ahead of us. And hurry! The medicines and the hostages are likely gone, but if we move quickly we may be able to grab some new hostages and trade for what we need.”
He, more than the other gang leaders—there really wasn’t a better word to describe them—also had a better idea of what had gone on the last few hours. It wasn’t entirely accurate, of course, but it was close.
Some westerners—based on the bagpipes, I’d have to say “Brits”—objected to Adam’s grabbing a ship full of aid workers. They landed a force—there’s probably a cruiser or something as big, right off shore—and rescued them. Or—and this is possible, too—the hostages were the price of getting Adam, his family, and the few men still loyal to him, out of here.
But things went slower than they anticipated, so we had time to engage them closely. They had to land more force maybe than they’d planned on. That force is going to take time to get off the shore. And they’ll be going out in dribs and drabs. That will be our chance, if any time will be.
“Elands to the landing craft; go!” Stocker ordered over the radio. The armored car chiefs acknowledged the order. Even if they hadn’t, Stocker could still have heard the previously idling engines purr into high gear. In mere seconds, both of them appeared, bounding over the dunes, racing for the LCM.
Both stopped about fifty meters shy of the landing craft. For a half a minute or so they maneuvered to line themselves up, one behind the other, in a straight line to the bow. Both rotated their guns to the rear, one over the left rear fender, the other over the right. Then, gunning his engine, the first driver made a high speed dash. He hit the ramp, then bounced up, still going forward. The bounce ended about halfway down the well deck. Again, the thing bounced, though not as high or as far. By the time it touched down again, the wheels were spinning in reverse. This did no noticeable good; the front of the thing smashed into the forward bulkhead of the engine room, almost knocking Kirkpatrick from his feet. The second Eland followed, not quite as fast. No matter; it smashed into the first one.
“We on,” the section leader for the armored cars reported. “We beat up and bruised, but we on. Tying de bitches down, now.”
“Mortars, expend all remaining ammunition on targets three, four, and seven.” Those were major avenues leading into the beach area.
“Shot, over.”
“Simon, start loading second platoon on the LCM.”
“Wilco,” answered the exec.
“Rounds complete,” announced the mortar chief.
“Mortars out of action; report to the exec for boarding.”
“Wilco.”
At the same time, Stocker saw the Third Team, from way over on the right, more or less duck walking across the sand in a ragged line. When they reached the first series of dunes they stood up, albeit still somewhat bent over, and began to sprint to where they’d staked down the Zodiacs.
“Slep? Warrington.”
“Here, Captain.”
In truth, neither of the helicopters was quite “here.” Both were snaking back and forth about a quarter of a mile out to sea.
“This is going to be touchy, Slep. In about eight minutes, or maybe a cunt hair less, the line dogs are going to bug out for the LCM. That’s going to leave me, Stocker, and Balbahadur on the beach. I want one gunship, your choice, to go all medieval on what used to be the perimeter. Expend all ammo. Kill anything that moves. Then. Come. Get. Us. We’ll make ourselves very obvious. We’ll be the guys running for the beach like the devil’s on our tails. Two tall skinny white dudes and a little bit of a Gurkha with some pipes under his arm.
“After the one bird expends its ammo, I want the second one to cover our retreat. Once we’re airborne, get the fuck out of Dodge and head for the ship.”
“You gots it. My wing man will do first run. I cover after.”
“I’ll tell you when to start.”
From the ship’s bridge Pearson piped in. “Tracy, if you want I can have the CH-750’s rearmed and airborne in that time.”
“No, Skipper,” Warrington sent back. “Strike them down or there’ll never be room for the gunships. Or, if there will, we’ll still be taking a risk we don’t need to take.”
“Your call.”
“Warrington? Cagle.”
“Go ahead, Gary.”
“Is there any chance we can have the gunships sink the aid ship?”
“What?” Warrington asked, incredulously. If there was anything he’d have expected from the medico, it wasn’t destroying valuable medical supplies and equipment. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Over the radio, damn procedures, Cagle sighed. “No . . . I’m not. Those supplies are going to kill more people fighting over them than they could possibly save. Sink the ship, if we can.”
It took a long pause before Warrington answered. “No. I understand your position. But I’m not going to destroy medical supplies and equipment. If they want to fight over it, that’s their problem.”
“Okay. But I wish you would.”
“They’re all in, except for Moore’s platoon, Captain,” Simon reported. “They’re hanging off the barrels of the Elands and breathing by the numbers but they’re all aboard. With enough space for Moore.”
“Very good, Simon,” Stocker said. “Break, break. Sergeant Moore?”
“Moore,
sir.”
“Expend all ammunition and then hit the road, Sergeant. Now is not the time for good order and discipline. Do the move as quietly as possible; use the fire to cover the bulk of it, but fucking move!”
Suddenly the entire perimeter lit up as by a thousand strobe lights as Moore’s platoon fired, bursts and full automatic, mostly. Within two or three minutes, every round from half the platoon was gone. Within an equal space of time, which time was used by the previously firing teams to bug out without being noticed, the rest had fired off everything they had, to include the rockets for the Vampires.
“Going now, sir.”
“Simon?”
“Here, sir.”
“As soon as Moore’s boys get there and are all accounted for, you join them and get out of here. Don’t wait for an order.”
“What about you, the piper, and Warrington, sir?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Hmmm . . . maybe not. We’re leaving like gentlemen, on the last bird out.”
“Yes, sir.”
It had been fairly slow going, but eventually Uncle Korfa’s boys had beaten a safe path through the mines. It would have been quicker, perhaps, except that about twenty meters into the presumed obstacle, the enemy—Must be Brits—opened fire at a fantastic rate, as if they were going to attack again. It took Korfa and his close underlings several minutes to get the frightened men back to their mine clearing duty, once the fire stopped.
But, after the delay, by the time they had a route through the mines, the LCM had raised ramp and was wallowing out, low in the water, leaving Warrington, Stocker, and Balbahadur alone.
“This is what we call a classic shitty feeling,” Warrington said. Each of the three, he, Stocker, and Balbahadur, were on one knee. That latter was still playing his pipes, rifle slung across his back. The former two had their rifles aimed inland, sweeping left to right for some sign of a closing enemy.
Stocker was thinking almost exactly the same thing. Instead of voicing that sentiment, though, he said, “At least we’ve still got the gunships with us.”
“Yeah . . . speaking of which . . . ” Warrington keyed his radio and said, “Slep, Warrington. Whichever one of you is going to pick us up, have the other go ahead and clear the perimeter.”
“Roger.”
Both gunships had been hovering out to sea, their rotors a distant whopwhopwhop. In mere seconds, that distant sound had gotten quite close. The helicopter passed about four hundred meters to the right rear of the small stay-behind party then, guiding on the small infrared chemlights that dotted the erstwhile perimeter, it began to pound.
“Amazing,” Stocker said, in awe, “just how much firepower one of those things can bring to bear when it wants to.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
Korfa and his men, now through the mines, heard the chopper coming as plainly as had the three on the beach. Korfa physically pointed the point man at a building, ordering, “Quick! Take shelter in it.”
The gunship’s weapons man smiled at the distinct silhouettes of a dozen men, shining clearly in his thermal even through the mud brick wall. He muttered something in Russian that could have been approximately translated as, “Dumb fucks.”
From his panel, the gunner initially selected his preferred weapon for something like this, an antitank guided missile, or ATGM. The AT-9 Ataka, with its more than fifteen pound warhead, was really overkill. “But there’s no kill like an overkill.” He’d have used the AT-9, but, since the target was so close, less than the missile’s arming range, he changed his selection to one of the pods of unguided rockets.
Then he pressed the firing button.
From Korfa’s perspective, the first rocket flew too high, impacting a building some distance to the west. The second, however, hit one corner of the mud brick building, blowing that corner both off and in, and sending two of his men flying. The next one hit inside the roofless house, blowing the wall outward, killing three men outright, and blowing in the eardrums of the remainder. The fourth hit the wall by which Korfa had stood for shelter. After that, he didn’t know anything at all.
Heads down, and staying far, far from the tail rotor, the stay behind party sprinted for the invitingly opened hatch. Balbahadur tried to get his captain to go first, but Stocker and Warrington were having none of that. They picked up the Gurkha bodily and tossed him in.
Next, Warrington thumped Stocker hard and pointed. Shrugging, Stocker climbed through the hatch, stepping on Balbahadur’s feet as he scrambled for the tiny chair. Warrington launched himself inward, though he stopped short as his load-bearing vest caught on the hatch’s bottom edge. No matter, Balbahadur and Stocker leaned over, caught his arms, and physically pulled him through.
Warrington cursed the whole time; the edge of that hatch was kinda sharp, you motherfuckers.
Lastly, ignoring the pained scrapings on his lower abdomen, thighs, knees and shins, Warrington thumbed his radio one final time for the evening.
“Get us the fuck out of here.”
PART III:
Republic of
the Philippines,
and at sea
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Our age is witnessing the ultimate climax,
the cashing-in on a long process of destruction,
at the end of the road laid out by Kant.
—Ayn Rand,
“The Cashing-In: The Student ‘Rebellion’ ”
Safe House Bravo, South Green Heights Village,
Muntinlupa City, Manila Metro Area, Republic of the Philippines
It was rare for the local police to respond so quickly to a kidnapping. It wasn’t a lot after midnight when the first squad car showed up. This was not because of indifference on the part of the police. Rather, a kidnapping tended to be a very quiet affair because of the local gangs’ usual MO: a Mickey Finn or force majeure, followed by a quiet disappearance.
In this case the gunshots, in a neighborhood that never expected to hear any, had caused a call to the local police station.
There hadn’t been all that much for the police to glean at the site. There was a body, very dead, on the floor. There were no passports or wallets, nothing to ID the corpse, and no cell phones. There was no landline and, given that they had no idea about what the cell phone numbers, if any, had been, no leads there. There were additional bloodstains, but no bodies to go with those. No weapons, though there were a fair number of expended shell casings.
Supposedly, from what the neighbors said, there had been an SUV. Where it was now was anyone’s guess; it certainly wasn’t in the carport. The neighbors also reported that the place had been occupied by what they thought looked like Kanos, who spoke English—and a huge percentage of Filipinos could speak that, while the rest would at least recognize it when they heard it—with a single local girl as a domestic. They thought there had been at least three Kanos, and maybe as many as eight.
The local domestics thought it a little odd that the Kanos’ girl avoided them like the plague. Also odd was that she looked less Filipina than she did an amalgam of pretty much everybody who’d ever passed through the islands, and was much larger than most.
Beyond that trivia, there just wasn’t a lot to work with.
“Work with me here, Malone,” said Lox, in exasperation, over the cell phone. He was hunched over a map displayed on his laptop, while Sergeant Ferd Franceschi drove.
The news of the hit—as far as Malone knew it had been a hit, rather than a kidnapping—had hit the other safe house like a ton of bricks. Terry’s first thought was that it had been the work of the Harrikat. But . . .
“No way, Terry,” Lox had said, back at Alpha. “They don’t even know we exist. No . . . this is something else.”
“I’m trying,” Malone insisted, much more loudly than one would expect of someone in his predicament. This was because of some music, singing actually, coming from a nearby building. “But I don’t know what street I’m on, and, if they’re out looking for me, if I come out from t
hese bushes I’m not going to be hard to notice with my white chest and bare feet.”
“What’s that music behind you?” Lox asked.
“I dunno. It’s in Tagalog, though the tune seems familiar.”
“Okay, shut up and hold your cell’s microphone toward it.”
Lox listened carefully for several minutes, then looked down at his map again. Despite the circumstances, he laughed. “I’m pretty sure I know where you are, Malone. We’ll be there is about twenty minutes.”
Lox and Franceschi both had their pistols out—and the latter had a Sterling submachine gun tucked in by his right leg—when their car came to a stop. Lox reached back—Oh, my fucking back; I’m sooo getting too old for this shit—and unlatched the rear door, pushing it open. For lack of a better method at hand, that would do as a near recognition signal.
“I just saw a door open,” said Malone.
“That’s us. Sprint!”
Half naked, barefoot, pistol in one hand and cell phone in the other, Malone burst out of the bushes in which he’d taken cover and ran for all he was worth across the neat grass of—as it turned out—the Muntinlupa Church of Christ. He didn’t so much take a seat in the car as dove in, head first, before twisting to get his hand on the door’s handle. He really didn’t need to; as soon as Ferd felt the car shudder, he gunned the engine, the forward momentum swinging the open door back and shut.
“Back to base, Ferd,” Lox ordered.
Safe House Alpha, Hagonoy, Bulacan, Luzon,
Republic of the Philippines
“Who did it?” Welch demanded.