by A. J Tata
The standard plan for a hasty ambush was first to try to avoid detection. Chuck figured they would use silenced weapons to the fullest extent possible to avoid further detection. His least preferred option was a conventional, loud ambush. For sure, the patrol would be lethally compromised.
Chuck handled his father’s Navy SEAL “hush puppy” with ease, rolling it back in forth in his hand, venting some nervous tension. The Smith and Wesson Model 39 pistol was modified with a noise suppressor. Used by the SEALs in Vietnam to kill sentries and guard dogs, the weapon’s range was limited to 100 meters. But it was quiet.
The back of his throat was dusty. Is it the Abu Sayyaf? They’ve been following us for days. Must be them. How many? Silently, he wished for a water buffalo instead of what he thought was coming.
“Mamanua,” Eddie whispered, looking through the binos. Ramsey gave him a puzzled look. “Here,” he said, leaning over and pointing nearly eighty meters from their position. They were directly in the middle of the ambush cross fire, whoever they were. Moving his pistol to his left hand, Ramsey lifted the binos to his camouflaged face.
“What the—”
“Mamanua,” Eddie whispered again, covering Ramsey’s mouth. Three Mamanua tribal natives were stalking through the rain forest hunting wild pigs or monkeys. They were dark-skinned and wore colorful beaded skirts and necklaces. Each held a spear at shoulder level, ready to release on his prey. The natives were Negritos, black people who had immigrated from Malay to the Philippine Islands centuries ago, the first inhabitants of the archipelago. The Philippine government designated land, primarily rain forests not targeted for clear cutting, in which the tribal groups could operate with impunity. Such jungle woodlands were enclaves in time where progress had made no inroads.
The black tribesmen stalked carefully, one foot over the next, sensing something. Fifty meters. Could his men hold their fire? Ramsey looked at Eddie, who shook his head as if to say, “They are best left alone.” The lead Mamanuan looked through the bushes at him and raised his spear, preparing to hurl it forward. The others watched, lowering their spears.
He rifled the spear into the bush, not twenty meters from Ramsey’s crouched position. Ramsey closed his eyes, fearing that they had gotten one of his men. He heard a high-pitched yelping sound and saw the spear dancing in the tall grass. The natives hurried forward. Ramsey raised his “hush puppy,” prepared to engage. He felt Eddie lay his small, brown hand on his arm, holding him back.
The short black men, skin dry and whitish from the dust and heat, leaned over their prey, a wild boar, and quickly tied its feet together with hemp. They carried the black pig in the opposite direction, slung over their shoulders on a spear. As they were leaving, the lead native stopped, turned his head, stared directly into the bushes at Eddie and Chuck. He saw them, held the eye contact for a brief, knowing moment, then disappeared into the lush jungle.
Chuck lowered his pistol, comprehending that two cultures had just passed in the yellow-white Philippine sun. They had no interest in him, nor he they. Each had stared at the other, seeing a warrior of a different era. They were but mild curiosities to one another, each like a snake, harmless if unprovoked. Chuck saw in the man’s black face a sense of satisfaction and contentment. It was something more than just capturing dinner for his tribesmen. The look was the clear countenance of a simple life. Removed from the trials of government and international concerns, the Negrito seemed content with his lot. The Filipinos and peoples of other developing countries Chuck had served in, countries that had been touched by the prospects of unrealized modernization, seemed angry and hateful toward foreigners and one another.
Deciding he would contemplate the significance of his visual interchange with the Mamanuan tribesman later, he turned to more immediate problems.
CHAPTER 42
Ramsey’s most dominant thought was that in six more hours the helicopters would come. They could survive that long, for sure. He had to maneuver his team to the north of Cateel City, where the beach was wide and uninhabited. All around him, the sheer cliffs either dropped sharply into the water or gave way to beaches. The mountains reminded him of the Na Pali coast off the island of Kauai in Hawaii.
He motioned to his men to get moving with a pump of his clenched fist.
Looking to the east, he saw the ocean. Near the shore, the water was a tropical turquoise shade. Farther out, he could see a coral reef where waves tumbled harmlessly. Beyond the reef, the sea turned a deep, mystic blue. He knew the Philippine Trough was out there, reaching almost thirteen thousand meters into the core of the earth. What a world, he thought. Primitive tribesmen, deep oceans, tropical rain forests. The beach was as white as sugar, much like those in the Florida panhandle.
He looked grimly again at the difficult terrain that lay ahead. He knew that Talbosa’s men were only about an hour behind them. Every time his team moved, the Filipinos seemed to pick up on the scent. Only when they went into hiding did it seem as though they were secure. More than once, they had doubled back on their trail, setting up ambushes but not executing them. They were clearly outnumbered.
He flipped his compass open, aiming it toward the small village nearly six kilometers away and seemingly another atmosphere below.
That’s got to be Cateel!
He snapped his wrist, closing the compass lid, and placed it in its pouch. Another drink of water and he would be ready. He sucked from the canteen, draining it, then stood.
From his vantage, everything was downhill. It was just a matter of how steep. Taking the point on this patrol, unusual for a team leader, he inched his way down the ravine. His footing was tenuous at best as he slipped on the damp deadfall and rocky dirt. The rainy season had not officially begun yet, but enough precipitation had fallen to make the rain forest dense with high timber, wild coffee bushes, rubber plants, and an assortment of other tropical shrubs. Huge leaves from elephant plants slapped him in the face as he let the weight of his ruck force him down. Frequently he would turn his back to protect his face, holding on to plant roots above his head, a tactic he had been taught to avoid in Ranger school. But, thankfully the sadistic Ranger instructors had not yet thought of including a brigade of Abu Sayyaf rebels as a motivational tool in Ranger training.
The tactical satellite radio was another issue that he could not shake from his mind. What was wrong with it? They had checked repeatedly to make sure that they had the proper angle to the satellite. He even had Ralph Jones, the best communications sergeant in the Army, take the service panel off the radio to see if anything looked awry. Nothing did, to him. They had no other radio or batteries to test the radio against. Major Ramsey had never been so frustrated in his life.
He had little time to think of such matters, however, as he reached an impasse. He had led the group nearly all of the way down the ravine. But the last fifty-five meters were comprised of sheer rock cliffs that dropped directly into a swiftly moving mountain stream. The sloping terrain had forced him continuously to the east, off his azimuth, trapping his team on an outcropping of rocks. To double back might lead him into his pursuers. To walk the ledge south would be too dangerous. To climb the rocks to the north would be suicide. There was only one option.
Chuck halted the patrol. They took a knee, each facing outward again, except the last man, who faced to the rear. He whipped out his smokeless tobacco, smacked the can, and placed a wad in his mouth. Time to think. He pulled a forty-five-meter nylon military rope from his rucksack. Benson moved forward as all good assistant patrol leaders do when the patrol halts. He dropped his ruck as well, snatched a similar coiled rope from his pack, and began backward-feeding it to the ground, checking it for frays. Benson passed the word back to his men to begin securing their “Swiss seats” and snap links. Each man carried a four-meter sling rope that he wrapped around his waist and ran through his crotch to form a seat. Placing a ten-centimeter snap link through where the two ropes met near the belt buckle, the soldier had a seat by which he could ra
ppel down a rope.
Chuck found a thick mahogany tree and hugged it, lifting his feet off the ground and leaning back toward the rock cliff. The tree was sturdy, with green leaves and healthy bark. It would suffice as an anchor point. He tied a round turn knot with two half hitches, snugging the hitches tight against the tree. Using only one rope, he placed the other in his pack. Benson grabbed a third rope, which Randy Tuttle had carried, and stuffed it into his pack. If the first rope did not reach all the way down, then Benson could hammer some pitons into the rock facing and make another anchor point. Ramsey knelt and placed two burlap sacks between the rope and the rock ledge to prevent fraying. Benson would go first, Chuck would go last. He gave an extra sling rope to Eddie, who knew how to rappel. Abe was another issue.
Each man was already carrying roughly seventy pounds apiece and could not afford to add another 160 pounds with Abe. Chuck tied the seat around him and gave him a quick class on the techniques, knowing full well that he would falter.
He knew he had no time for real instruction. He acted as rappel master, hooking in all of the soldiers and having Abe watch them lean singly over the cliff with their hands in their backs, braking their movement. As soon as each solider felt comfortable, he would extend his right hand at a forty-five-degree angle from his side, locking the right elbow, while simultaneously pushing off the rock facing. The green berets bounded their way quickly to the bottom of the ravine. The significant stretch factor in the rope allowed each soldier’s weight to land him gently in the waist-deep stream. Releasing the rope would cause it to bounce crazily back to several meters above the water. The soldiers moved slowly down the stream, filling their canteens and conducting reconnaissance, while those remaining atop the cliff provided overwatch from above.
Eddie flew down the rope, showing off the fact that he was a prestigious Filipino Scout Ranger. Admittedly, he was an expert in jungle and mountain warfare techniques, and the team had grown fond of him. One evening, he had killed a wild boar. Before cooking it, he had cut the pig’s throat and drained the blood into a tin canteen cup that most soldiers used for drinking coffee and cleaning their razor; or both. In one of the few lighthearted moments, Eddie had taken the cup to each of the green berets, saying it was a Filipino Ranger tradition to drink pig’s blood with his fellow warriors. What had been a suspicious team initially, readily came to agree that they saw Eddie in a different light. Ramsey and his team were always game for new traditions and delighted in the ceremony. Each man took a mouthful of the blood under Eddie’s watchful eyes. He gave a yellow-toothed smile every time he saw one of his new teammates swallow, then grimace at the realization at what he had just done. When Major Ramsey took his drink, Eddie saw him chewing as he swallowed.
“Ah. Blood clot, major. That means you special,” Eddie said with a huge grin. The team had laughed and rapidly returned to business.
Eddie slid down the rope, jumped into the water, and took up the number eight position in the patrol. Two more of the team bounced down the rock face, and it was Abe’s turn.
“You can do this,” Chuck said with conviction. He knelt before Abe, pulled the rope toward the anchor point, and looped it twice through Abe’s snap link. The extra friction should make him go slower. Chuck placed his gloved hand on the running end of the rope, then slammed it in Abe’s back.
“That stays there until I tell you different.” He then placed Abe in a good position from which to rappel and slowly pushed him over the rock ledge. Abe’s eyes were wide with fear. Leaning back over a fifty-five-meter cliff was as unnerving experience as any non-climber could have. He went to one knee shaking his head with rocks sliding out from under his feet, almost causing him to slide down the rope.
“No. No.” Abe said, looking down. He was ashamed. Ramsey had an idea. He quickly took the second rope out of his ruck and tied it in similar fashion around another tree less than two meters above the first anchor point. He would go down the rope next to Abe, coaching him all the way. Abe was reassured, but still not confident.
He said, “If you do not do this, you will die.” The grim look on Ramsey’s face told Abe that he had better collect the courage to back over the ledge. With his eyes closed, he inched back.
“Look at me,” Ramsey said, already forming an L with his body hanging over the cliff. The rope was taut, scraping bark from the tree as he wiggled his body into position. He leaned and rocked against the rope, giving Abe confidence. Abe slid over the edge, with his knees scraping the face of the cliff. Exasperated, he looked at the brave major. Realizing he was over the cliff, and had not fallen, he smiled weakly. He could do it. Finally, he inched his way down, walking backward. Ramsey led the way. He preferred to rappel quickly, reducing the amount of time on the rope, but understood his primary purpose was to reassure Abe. They reached the bottom, slid into the refreshing mountain stream, and rejoiced that they had made it safely. Abe bowed respectfully to Ramsey, standing waist deep in rushing water. Ramsey inclined his bearded face downward, accepting the compliment.
Standing in the cool water, Ramsey realized there was nothing he could do about the ropes. He would have to leave them as a major clue for the Abu Sayyaf. He just hoped that he and his men would not swing from them anytime soon. On that thought, he motioned to Abe to walk east and join the rear of the patrol, which had already started moving and clearing.
They had all filled their canteens and soaked their overheated bodies in the stream. The stream led to the northeast of Cateel City and eventually gave way to a flat area almost seventy-five meters above sea level with an excellent view of the landing zone for the helicopters. Only two more hours, Chuck thought. Two hours.
CHAPTER 43
Major Ramsey’s men climbed out of the stream and formed a tight perimeter, sensing that they might get out of this situation after all. They drank heavily from their canteens again and again until their urine was clear. They had been in the high mountain region, nearly out of water, and urinating the color of legal paper: a sure sign of dehydration. Their new base camp was in a stand of tall mountain pines. The underbrush was relatively sparse.
Give the old tacsat one more try.
Jones took a knee in the middle of the patrol base beneath some tall pines. Ramsey and Abe watched as he dropped his ruck and flipped a switch on the radio. He popped the radial antenna out of his pocket and spread its arms so that it looked like the skeleton of an umbrella. He set an azimuth on his compass and found the direction to “bird 65,” the satellite they had been told to use. It hovered somewhere between the Philippines and Hawaii. All he needed was to aim the antenna in the proper direction, and the radio should work.
Still nothing. Ramsey looked skyward in frustration to see the hot wind blow through the tall pines. He could hear the peaceful lap of waves on the coral reef some six hundred meters away. His frustration was mounting. Normally he could control himself, but not that day.
Ramsey furrowed his brow, wanting to kick somebody or something, when Abe said, “May I ‘ook?”
His L was silent. Abe moved to one knee and looked at the radio stuffed into the rucksack for carrying purposes.
“Can we take out?” Abe asked Jones, motioning with his hands.
“You get take out at Chinese restaurants, man. You can’t fix that thing—” Jones said, just as frustrated as his commander.
“Let him look,” Ramsey interrupted. Jones pulled the radio out of his ruck, a chore in itself. Laying it on the ground, he said, “Here,” and walked away.
“Have any, uh—” He did not know the word. He was motioning with his hand, turning it left and right.
“Screwdriver? You want a freaking screwdriver so you can rip my shit apart?” Jones said, angrily pulling his flop hat off and slapping his thigh with it. “No way, sir,” he said, looking at the major. Jones was protective of his radio, embarrassed enough that it, and he, had failed them. He would be damned if he was going to let some foreigner play with it.
“Do it, Jonesy,” Rams
ey ordered, spitting into the ground, resting his arms on his ammunition pouches. Begrudgingly, Jones obeyed his commander and handed Abe a jeweler’s screwdriver set.
Abe proceeded to dismantle the radio. He had seen many like it.
“This have line of sight and satellite?” Abe asked, almost impossible to understand.
“Yes, it does,” Ramsey said, walking over to where Abe was seated and had essentially disassembled the radio into several pieces. Worried, he sat in front of Abe and watched. Looking at the circuit board, Abe began nodding. He looked back at the front panel of the radio, which had a variety of switches: the frequency dials, voice and data receivers, satellite offset switch, volume and squelch dials, antenna nodes, and encrypting port. In the bottom left-hand corner of the front panel, he played with the switch that read “off-sat-los.” As he turned the switch back and forth, he watched the transistor gate on the circuit board. Nothing was happening.
“Find problem,” Abe said, flatly.
“What?” Jones screamed, scampering back to where Abe was sitting.
“Show me,” Chuck said, highly interested.
“This switch. Control megahertz. You not get enough megahertz. When I move switch, transistor gate stay on line of sight. Not go to satellite.”
“I’ll be damned,” Jones said. “He’s right. You need twenty-five megs to go satcom, and you only get four megs with the line-of-sight mode. I was on line of sight to keep comms with you guys when you found him,” he said, looking at Ramsey and pointing at Abe. “Then my shit caught the impact when he fell on me that night. I’ll be damned,” Jones said, unsure now how to treat Abe.