Ambush sts-15

by Keith Douglass

  “Check out all these second-story windows and see what else we can find,” Murdock told the rest of his squad.

  He motioned to Domingo. “Glad you’re aboard. Those two rebels with guns up might have nailed me before I could get to them. Thanks.”

  Domingo grinned. “I haven’t had this much fun for six years. Damn, I forgot the surge of emotion that comes in combat. We still need to get to Lebak, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That sedan might be our best bet. I could take it, a driver, and another gunner and get to that town in an hour or so, depending on this dirt road along the coast over there.”

  “Go check it out, Domingo. Take Franklin for your driver. You hear that, Franklin? Go check out the sedan at the front of the place.”

  “Will do, Skipper.”

  Murdock and the rest of Alpha looked out the windows, but could spot no more rebels. Murdock went down to the hostages.

  He got their attention, then talked to the Englishman. “How many of these people speak or understand English?”

  “Half. We have interpreters for the others.”

  “Listen up, people. We’re with the United States Navy and we’re here to get you back into circulation. We hope to have helicopters here before dark and take you back to Davao. There you will able to get air transport.”

  Half the people cheered; the others were told of the news and they wept and then cheered.

  “We’re not sure how long it will be. We’re driving a car to the nearest town, where one of our men will contact the Philippine Air Force and they will be sending helicopters here. Once loaded up, it’s only a forty-five-minute flight to Davao.”

  He waited until all the translations were made. Then he looked at them again.

  “Any questions?”

  “Did some of the rebels outside die?” one woman asked.

  “Yes,” Murdock said, and looked around. There were no more questions.

  “Have you been fed enough lately?” Murdock asked.

  There were a chorus of boos and nos.

  “I’ll have some men look over the kitchen and see what we can serve you.” He turned and used the Motorola. “Mahanani, Howard, and Jaybird. You guys are on KP. See what kind of a meal you can get up for these people out of the supplies. Must be some here. Do it now.”

  “Sedan looks workable,” Franklin said on the net. “Low on gas, but we siphoned all that was in the jeep and found a five-gallon can in the shed. Should be plenty.”

  “Good. General, your ears on?”

  “Yes, sir, Commander.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to move out. Sooner the better. You have your shooter and driver?”

  “Roger that, Commander. If Canzoneri wants to take a ride.”

  “I’m running for the sedan, Skipper,” Canzoneri said.

  “Take one of the Bull Pups and a sniper rifle. Get the right tools, men.”

  Juan called on the radio. “Murdock, you better come over to the rebel quarters. Our rebel doesn’t want to talk.”

  Murdock told the hostages they were free to roam around the grounds, but to stay close. “There could still be some rebel snipers around.” Most of the hostages elected to stay inside.

  The Englishman Murdock had first talked to came up. “Sir,” said Philpot, “I was with the 82nd Grenadiers for forty years. Done a bit of bash-and-shoot myself. Like to come with you if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s an interrogation, Mr. Philpot. Might be better if you stayed here.”

  “That’s Colonel Philpot, Commander. You must be at least a commander for the Navy to give you this role. I can pay my way with action if it comes to that.”

  Murdock nodded, and led the way out the front of the barracks to the rebel quarters. It was now one large room. Some walls had been taken out. A dozen bunks were at one side, and on the other a table and chairs. A rebel guard, bare to the waist and tied by arms and legs, sat in one of the sturdy chairs.

  “Commander, we’re loaded and ready to travel,” Domingo said on the net. “One tire’s a little low on air, but that should be no problem. We’ll hope to get to town in an hour or an hour and a half. I’ll make the calls and set up the flights and should be back here by the time the choppers arrive. How many hostages?”

  “Thirty-one. One chopper could do it. Two would be better. We won’t be going back. They took the rest of the hostages somewhere. We’re trying to find out where. You should go back to Davao with the hostages.”

  “We’ll see about that, Commander, when the time comes. We’re moving. Take care.”

  Murdock looked back at the rebel prisoner. He was young, eighteen, maybe a year more. Juan slapped him with his open palm using a full swing. The man’s head jolted to one side and came back slowly.

  Juan spoke in Filipino, and the man in the chair scowled but said nothing. Juan saw Murdock come in, and walked over.

  “Sir, this isn’t going to be pretty. I’m sure it isn’t in your SEAL book on how to treat prisoners. Might be better if you were outside.”

  “Carry on, Juan. SEALs seldom take prisoners; we never leave them alive. Do what you have to. We need to know where those other hostages are.”

  Juan went back to the prisoner and asked him another question. When the man refused to talk, Juan took a knife and made a slice down the man’s cheek. Blood flowed down the cut and dripped on his legs. With the cut, the man bellowed in pain. Juan ignored him and asked the same question again. This time the sharp point of the knife hovered a quarter of an inch from the young man’s right eye.

  “I say, now, that could produce some results,” Philpot said.

  The rebel Filipino tried to draw back from the point. Juan moved it with him, momentarily grazing the eye but not damaging it.

  The man jabbered off four sentences.

  Juan countered with another question.

  The rebel closed his eyes.

  Juan moved the knife and sliced down his other cheek. Another bellow of pain.

  When the rebel opened his eyes again, he saw the blade even closer to his right eye, the point small and deadly.

  He talked again, and this time he relaxed. Tears seeped from his eyes and his voice went strangely hoarse.

  Juan let the knife down and turned.

  “He says they left early this morning before daylight. They herded about twenty people into the big truck and drove away. The best he knows is that they would go back nearer to Lebak. He heard something about an Eagle’s Nest. He said the lieutenant in charge here told the men he would be going to the Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Where is that?”

  “He said he didn’t know. Somewhere high. Somewhere on the ridges over the sea.”

  “Is he lying?”

  “I don’t think so, but he’s still holding back. I need to persuade him more.”

  “I’ve heard that cutting off fingers is counterproductive,” Murdock said.

  “I’ve heard that too.” Juan grinned. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”

  “Find out how far down or up the coast the Eagle’s Nest is. That would be helpful. I’m going to check the kitchen. KP crew, how are you doing?”

  The Motorola talked back. “Not a hell of a lot here to work with,” Jaybird said. “No beans, no flour, no potatoes. How can I make a dinner without potatoes?”

  Mahanani came on. “Hey, Skipper. We’ve got a whole truckload of fruit here. We can make a good fruit salad. Then there are some other staples. Lots of bread and cans of tuna. Yeah, tuna fish sandwiches. Lots of coffee. We’ll find something else. Take about half an hour. Where do these people eat?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll find out. Mr. Philpot. Where have you folks been eating your meals?”

  “Tables in the hostage room,” he said. “Nothing fancy. The women set them up the first day we were here.”

  Murdock relayed the message to the kitchen.

  “Ed, see if you can find any more gasoline. We might be able to use that jeep down there. C
heck it out.”

  “Can do, Skipper.”

  Murdock grabbed Fernandez and they toured the whole complex again, looking for any hidden rebels, and anything that might help them find the missing hostages. They found DeWitt with two five-gallon cans of gasoline. He poured one can into the jeep fuel tank and the rig started. Somebody had tuned the engine.

  “Can haul five men and a driver on here,” DeWitt said.

  “Take it on a test run,” Murdock said. “Go down the road here to the beach and see if you can figure from the big truck tire marks in the dirt which way the rig turned. Help us know which way they went.”

  DeWitt drove, and Jefferson went along as shotgun as they gunned the vintage rig down the narrow road toward the beach five miles away.

  Murdock checked the kitchen in the big house. Mahanani had just mixed up the tuna fish, and Murdock tested the first sandwich. “Needs minced onion, pickle relish, and chopped almonds,” Murdock said.

  “Sure, Skipper, and throw in the champagne and baked Alaska for dessert.”

  Murdock finished the angle-cut sandwich and nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. You can make my sandwiches anytime, Mahanani.”

  Outside, Murdock tried to raise the general on the Motorola. Either he was too far already, or the hills cut down on the signal. Now all they could do was wait. Transport. They were dead in the water without any air transport.

  19

  Beach Road

  To Lebak, Mindanao

  Guns Franklin tooled the old Toyota along the dirt and gravel road down the mountain, taking it easy, stopping for a washout halfway down where mountain-caught water must have come roaring down after a hard rain. He eased the front wheels into the foot-deep gully on the road, gunned them up the far side, and let the rear wheels come across slowly. Once past that, there were three more miles to the beach road. It ran along the surf and had been blacktopped once, but didn’t look like it had been resurfaced for ten years.

  “Not much traffic out this way, so they don’t bother fixing the road,” Domingo said.

  There was no traffic at all. An occasional shack of boards and woven panels showed on the beach side at the end of dirt trails off the road. They saw no people.

  After five miles the road was a little better, and that let Franklin gun the eight-year-old Toyota up to thirty miles an hour. They had just come down a short hill to a wash that was a hundred yards wide, and had started up the slope on the other side, when something cracked the windshield and slanted off into the brush and trees at the side of the road.

  “Incoming,” General Domingo barked. “From the left. Stop and bail out the right-hand-side doors.”

  Canzoneri, in the backseat, had his window open and the muzzle of the Bull Pup pushed out toward the mountain. When the round hit the car he automatically pumped three three-round bursts into the trees on the other side of the road. Then he bailed out and dove into the shallow ditch on the beach side of the road with the car between him and the shooters.

  A dozen more rounds slammed into the Toyota, and the three men ducked as low as they could go.

  “Sounds like two or three of them,” Franklin said. He held his sniper rifle in his hands and jacked a shell into the chamber.

  General Domingo took over as if he was shot at every day.

  “Franklin, you worm down the ditch past the rig and see if you can get a sighting on the shooters. Canzoneri and I’ll go up the other way. Everyone have a radio?”

  He saw their nods. “Let’s move. If you get a target, fire away.”

  Franklin crawled, toes and elbows, with his head down and the Colt 4A1 across his forearms. He went twenty feet, then pulled his floppy green hat low and eased up so he could peer over the roadway at the jungle growth.

  The best spot for an ambush was a splash of trees about a hundred yards off the road with some rocky places in front. It would make cover for a dozen gunmen. He watched that area, and a minute later saw a glint of sunlight off metal. Franklin concentrated on the spot and saw a flash again. He lifted the Colt up and fired three three-round bursts into the greenery where he’d seen the flashes. At once he dropped down. The dirt over his head splattered on him as half a dozen rounds came back at him. He crawled ten feet on down the ditch, which became a little deeper, and waited.

  From up the road he heard gunfire, and then the sound of a 20mm round going off. He darted up for a look, and came right back down. Shrapnel still flew in the same copse of trees he had fired at. There was no return fire. They waited ten minutes.

  “Think we nailed all of them?” Franklin asked on the net.

  “If we didn’t we scared them to death,” Canzoneri said. “I’m going up and take a look,” Domingo said.

  “No,” Franklin barked. “Pardon me, General, but I’m senior SEAL here and I’m in command. Right here I outrank you. I’m moving back up to your position in a series of short runs. If there’s anybody there, they will try for me. If they do, put another twenty in the spot they fire from. You ready?”

  “Ready,” Domingo said.

  Franklin had never had a death wish. This was about as fucking close to it as he had come. His call. He sucked it up, surged out of the ditch, and ran toward the Toyota ten yards and dove into the sandy ditch.

  No shots. He did another dash and was behind the Toyota. He opened the door and looked inside. It didn’t look hit too bad. If the engine was okay and the tires didn’t get flattened…

  He made another dash, twenty yards this time, and saw the other two in the ditch. He dove into the dirt just behind them.

  “So far, so good,” Franklin said.

  “Yeah, you got to play hero,” Canzoneri said. “Now my turn. See that old log right over there? Like they had to bulldoze it aside to put down the road? I’m going over there. Put some cover fire into the trees for me. Then, from there I go to that brushy patch, and should have cover the rest of the way to that bunch of ambush trees. Ready?”

  The other two nodded. “Oh, General,” Canzoneri said, “use the 5.56 on that slammer you have. I don’t want to get caught in a shrapnel bath up there.” Then he darted across the road as the two men fired into the trees. Canzoneri slid feet-first behind the three-foot-thick log like a quarterback trying to avoid being tackled. He came up and peered over the log. Nothing came from the spot of trees.

  He made two more dashes, then used the Motorola and called off the covering fire. He was in the right bunch of trees a moment later, and found three dead bodies. One with a small round through the forehead, the other two cut up by shrapnel from the twenties.

  “All down and out here, three of them. I’ll bring their AK-47’s and a pair of sub guns. Nothing else of value. No radio so nobody knows we’re coming.”

  “I’m checking the Toyota,” Franklin said. “Hope to hell they didn’t shoot up the engine or the gas tank.”

  Five minutes later, Franklin reported the rig was ready to travel. “One round cut a spark plug wire in half, but I pasted it back together again, good as new. We moving on down the road, or what?”

  “Faster we get to Lebak, the quicker we get the hostages out of here,” Domingo said. He grinned. “Just a suggestion.”

  “Let’s motor,” Canzoneri said.

  They rolled along at over thirty miles per hour now, and the passing lush green of the island reminded Canzoneri of Hawaii. They saw two dirt roads leading off the blacktop going up toward the mountains, but didn’t see any houses or buildings up that way.

  “Why is this area so undeveloped, isolated?” Franklin asked.

  “We have lots of undeveloped areas,” Domingo said. “The loggers haven’t got into this area yet. It might be a federal preserve of some kind, I’m not sure. I didn’t realize there were so few people on this side of the island.”

  “Well, we just passed the ten-mile mark from where we hit the main road,” Franklin said. “All is A-okay so far.”

  “Makes me nervous when you say that,” Canzoneri said. “Why were the rebels back there
on an outpost and why did they fire at us before they could possibly know who we were?”

  “Orders,” Franklin said. “They were told no one would be driving the Toyota down this road. If anyone did, shoot them.”

  “So, hotshot, are there any more surprises up this road. Like a block, or a tank, or some more shooters?”

  “Probably,” Domingo said. “We better keep a sharp eye.”

  Another mile down the track and right along the surf, they came around a corner and found a two-foot-thick log stretched across the road. There was no room on either end to drive around it, even by going into the shallow ditch. They stopped fifty yards away and studied it. Plenty of cover around for snipers. Was it an active block, or just a delaying tactic without any shooters involved?

  “Ease up on it,” Canzoneri said.

  The Toyota crawled forward, all three men evaluating everything they could see of the brush, vines, trees, and jungle that came down almost to the road on the mountainside.

  “Could be booby-trapped,” Franklin said. He put on the emergency brake, shifted into neutral, and opened the car door. No shots came. He checked both sides of the log where it lay on the tarmac, and shrugged. He ran back, jumped in the Toyota, and backed up, then came at the left end of the log.

  “Bumper height,” he said. “See the crown on the road? If I can push it enough to get it to roll, this end will keep rolling down and right off the side of the road without moving the other end more than two or three feet.”

  The car spun its wheels a moment when the bumper touched the log. The other two men got out and pushed as the Toyota’s bumper shoved ahead with all the horsepower the little car had.

  The log rocked, then rocked again. Both men pushed from the side near the end, and on the third try, the big log rolled over and then the top end rolled faster, and soon it was off the road and in the ditch.

  “Yeah, let’s chogie,” Franklin shouted.

  They drove along the scenic roadway with the crashing surf on one side and the emerald green on the other for four miles before they came up a slight grade and saw a roadblock ahead. It was more than a quarter of a mile away, but Franklin knew what it was.