Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “Can you fix it?” Ramsey asked.

  “Maybe,” Abe said. He would need a thin piece of wire, some solder, and something that would burn hot.

  “Where’s McGyver when you need him,” Jones said, referring to the TV hero who always knew what chemicals he needed to get the perfect reaction.

  Ramsey collected a small propane tank from Sid Bullings, a medic. He used it to heat his instruments. Jones carried both wire and solder in his communications-repair kit. Abe worked on the radio for about thirty minutes. The propane tank made him sweat profusely. The noonday sun baked him and the rest of the team. The potential good news spread around the team, and all were hopeful.

  “I solder into satcom position only,” Abe said. “No way to fix for both.”

  “That’s fine,” Chuck said, anxious to give it a try. Abe pieced the radio together with skill. No small bits were left when he was finished, as had not been the case when he put his daughter’s new bicycle together before he left for Mindanao.

  Yes, Abe thought, if he could only see his daughters again. He absently patted the photograph that he had transferred from his white smock to his orange running suit, then to his first Army uniform. With quiet aplomb he stood, holding his hands out toward the radio, then softly patting his thighs and walking to where he could see the ocean, framed by two coconut trees. He pulled the picture of his family, which showed his wife in the middle and his girls on either side, out of his pocket. He no longer cared about his Ph.D. in engineering or his tremen-dous success as an auto executive or the fact that he had been handpicked to lead a government production team in the Philippines. He would gladly trade all of that for the freedom to go home. Somehow. Some way. There must be a way. He held the picture at eye level, the clear waters of Cateel Bay framing it. A hot, salty wind blew at his hair and stung a cut on his face. He licked his chapped lips and tasted a salty tear that had strolled along his cheek. He was surrounded, but lonely. The only thing that mattered to him was getting back to his family. He did not care how.

  “We’re getting a signal,” Jones said, excitedly. He had reloaded the encryption variable, turned on the power, aimed the antenna, and seen the red light indicate that he was reaching the satellite.

  Chuck picked up the black microphone. Looking at his watch, he saw there was only one hour until the helicopters were to arrive. He hoped they would be there.

  CHAPTER 44

  Commander Talbosa moved to the front of the column. They had followed the rugged trail blazed by the enemy. He still figured them to be the elite Filipino Scout Rangers. They were certainly the best that he had ever dealt with.

  He inspected the two ropes, which dropped over a steep cliff into the Cateel River. He knew the area very well. The Japanese manufacturing plant was nearby, and his men had patrolled the entire area during the rapid construction of the facility. Additionally, he was to link up with Takishi in less than a day in Cateel Bay to fly to Manila and assume control of the entire operation. As it stood, his handheld satellite com-munications had been sufficient to monitor activities that his years of preparation and rehearsal had allowed to occur with precision. There were other insurgent groups, such as the New People’s Army (NPA), that were vying for control, and Talbosa chose to ally with Takishi, keep a low profile, then emerge as the conquering leader with Takishi’s backing.

  Still, a part of him simply loved the hunt, and so here he was.

  He was close. He could smell them. One chewed tobacco, he knew. At several vacant base camps he’d found bits of smokeless tobacco, decidedly not a Filipino habit. Some Filipinos use smokeless tobacco, but it was more of a—yes—an American habit.

  Talbosa thought, kneeling next to the ropes.

  Could it be? Good, new ropes. A fresh tin of good smokeless tobacco. Could it be Americans? Could it be Garrett?

  Takishi had told him to kill Matt Garrett, but he had seen no indication of the man. Perhaps he was so good that he was never seen. Maybe there was an American or Australian advisor with the Scout Rangers. The sight of blood some fifty meters behind the ropes confused him. Had one of the Rangers been hurt? Was it food they had killed? He was unable to decide.

  There were only two places they could have been going, either to the beach or to the top of the mountain. The terrain to the north was much too severe, and he knew they were tired. He had kept them on the run. They would not have rappelled down the ropes if they wanted to go up the mountains. They had followed the stream east, toward the beach.

  “Come, men. There is an easy way,” he said. He had one of his men untie the ropes and coil them. The cause needed all of the material it could get. Doubling back and breaking bush for nearly two hundred meters, Talbosa led his men to a path that followed the spine of a ridge down into Cateel City. “We will move along the ridge and find them on either side, waiting for something. They came here with a purpose.”

  Pulling off his bush hat, he ran a long-fingered hand through his sweating, greasy hair. Talbosa was tall for a Filipino, nearly six feet. He was a strong man with a probing intellect. In another country, perhaps he would have been a doctor or college professor. But this was his destiny. His people needed him. Three hundred men followed single file as they walked the southern spine of the ridge that led toward Cateel City. Mostly animals used the path to wander down from the rain forest and gain access to the river below.

  Talbosa stopped and looked upon the ocean. He was nearly 750 meters above sea level and five kilometers away from the city. Looking skyward, he caught the image of a Philippine eagle silhouetted by the sun, wings spread, casting a large X onto the trail. In its talons, the eagle had a dead monkey it had just captured. Talbosa smiled, watching the “monkey eater” flap, then soar, heading for its nest. To his left was the huge ravine that Ramsey’s team had rappelled. To his right was a dense rain forest. As the trees thinned, the elephant grass took over.

  Talbosa reorganized his men, warning them to prepare for an ambush. The enemy was near. He had one company in the lead, walking softly but not without noise. The remaining two companies followed him down the path, which widened as the rain forest gave way to grass.

  Talbosa followed a young fighter not a day over fifteen. As they walked in the sweltering morning heat, he recalled his earlier days with the movement. He yearned for the day when the children of the Philippines could lay down their weapons and pick up schoolbooks to learn. He had read hundreds of books during his lifetime: the Koran, the Bible, Weber, Marx, Rousseau, Jefferson, Mao Zedong, Sun Tzu, and many others hoping to understand the world beyond. He knew there were points of view other than his. He also knew that the Philippines would never prosper so long as the imperialistic powers maintained control of the country. They had to achieve their independence through whatever form of government. In the early nineties, the Islamic movement seemed to gain traction, providing an opening. Abu Sayyaf had splintered from the bungling New People’s Army, and Talbosa had seen an opportunity.

  Like the Muslims in the Balkans, Talbosa had chosen to adopt a practical, almost Clausewitzian approach to warfare, meaning it was simply a furtherance of political endeavors. Talbosa’s fight was not for Bin Laden, but for his people, a means to an end.

  Walking down the path in his sweat-stained khaki-brown uniform, Talbosa wiped the moisture from his dark forehead. So much hatred and violence. So many children dying. We can be free. We can have a better life.

  CHAPTER 45

  “Any station, this is Bushmaster six, over,” Major Ramsey said into the black microphone. He waited and still got no response. He had been trying for over fifteen minutes to contact either the embassy or his group in Okinawa. He was sure the radio was working. Where could they be? He had Jones check the encrypting codes. The frequencies were correct, and he was using the proper call signs. In the past, he had been able to reach Okinawa, but today was getting no response.

  “Which bird are we using, Jonesy?”

  “Bird sixty-five,” Jones responded, looking
at the sky as if he could read a bumper number on the satellite.

  “How about bird sixty-four, can we try that?” Ramsey asked.

  “We can try anything once,” Jones said, picking up the small antenna dish and aiming its skeletal frame to the southeast toward New Guinea. “If we get anybody, it won’t be our headquarters. Bird sixty-four can’t reach Okinawa. Something about the horizon. It might be able to redirect our signal to another satellite, but I don’t know how we could do that.” Satellite 64 covered the Indonesia, Australia, and New Zealand area, lying somewhat low on the horizon. Its farthest reach north without retransmission was the Philippines. In a southerly direction it transmitted to the Antarctic teams that were stationed there doing ecological work.

  “Well, I just want to get our message to some-body who speaks English, so they can relay it to some authority in our government. Japanese making tanks in the Philippines would make a stir somewhere, I’m sure,” Ramsey said.

  Jones chuckled. “Yeah, especially the Philippines. Okay. Try it now.”

  “Any station this net, this is Bushmaster six, over.” He paused. Nothing.

  “Any station this net, this is Bushmaster six, over.” Again nothing. He knew he was using secure voice communications and unless people had the same nonlinear, algorithmic encrypting variable set in their radio’s microprocessor, they would not be able to hear him. The variables were randomly configured and contained in small, handheld devices that interfaced with the communications equipment. In essence, they disguised and protected an otherwise-naked transmission that would normally be free for intercept from anyone using the same frequency bandwidth. The satellite radio had a port on the front panel where Jones had “re-keyed” the tacsat. He was sure that no one in New Guinea or Australia had their variable.

  “Bushmaster six, this is Bravo six romeo, over,” a voice responded. Ramsey scrambled to his knees, grabbing the handset. Jones pumped his fist next to his ribs in silent hope that it was someone who could help them.

  “This is Bushmaster six, who are you and what is your location?”

  “Stand by. Authenticate Alpha Mike, over.” That was a good sign, Ramsey thought, as Jones spooled up his digital encryption device. The two letters A and M had a corresponding response that only someone using the handheld encryption device could locate. They had to be Americans.

  “I authenticate Romeo, break,” Ramsey said as Jones had indicated, “authenticate Foxtrot Lima, over.” It was customary to authenticate in both directions of the conversation so that each party could be reasonably assured that they were speaking with an authorized user. A brief pause ensued. Ramsey was hopeful, though. Finally, wherever these guys are, I’m giving them the scoop. He could unload his burden. He had felt a bit like the Navy lieutenant commander that had seen the radar images of the Japanese fleet bearing down on Hawaii from the north on that dreadful day in December 1941. He had the answer, but could get it to nobody. The answer to what, he was unsure.

  “I authenticate Sierra, over.”

  “This is Bushmaster six. What is your unit and location?” Ramsey asked, doubtful that the young RTO would give him the information.

  “Look at the bravo designator in your encrypting device.” Jones was listening and promptly scrolled through his digital display and found the letter B, which for that day indicated a company from the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. Whoever these guys are, he thought, their radio guys go by the book. That’s good. I’m in touch with a squared-away unit.

  Jones showed him the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division codes that Major Hewit of the embassy had placed in their encryption device. “We’re talking to Hawaii?” Jones asked incredulously. “If we can talk to them, we can reach Okinawa, can’t we.” Ramsey thought for a moment, rubbing what was now becoming a beard on his chin. He held a camouflaged mechanical pencil in one hand. Think, Chuck, think.

  “No. These guys are that ammo detail at Subic. Remember my bud, Zach Garrett, that I men-tioned?” Ramsey said. He remembered walking out of the embassy before their mission to Mindanao and seeing a calendar that showed one company arriving to guard some ammo that was being transferred to another ship. The manifest had listed Captain Zach Garrett as the leader.

  “Okay, I’ve got your unit, and I think I know your location. I am friendly. Look at Bushmaster in your device. That’s me. I need to talk to your com-mander. I have some important information, over,” Chuck said.

  The voice came back. “Wait, over.”

  Ramsey waited among the tall trees and elephant grass. The stream that had been their path was fifty meters to his south. He could see his men, one about every fifty meters, in a circular perimeter, constantly vigilant, but very tired. Their worn senses were not as keen. He could feel the anticipation of the helicopters surge through him, washing away the dikes of caution that normally prevented emotions from interfering with the mission at hand. They had been peaking for four days. Constantly on the run, never a restful moment. It was the time, the body was saying. It had to be immediately. I can’t go much farther without rest and sleep and good food.

  Waiting for the response. Waiting. Special Forces soldiers were always waiting for support from someone else who probably did not understand their precarious situation.

  “Bushmaster six, this is Bravo six, over.”

  The voice was crisp with authority and impa-tience … and familiar.

  “This is Bushmaster six,” Ramsey blurted, anxious. “Listen, we know each other. You are the unit that came here for ammo detail. You don’t have to answer, but you know who I am, classmate. We are on another island and are supposed to have helicopters pick us up in about twenty minutes. But we lost contact with everybody because of a radio glitch and now we can’t seem to get anybody but you. I have some important information. Prepare to copy, over,” Ramsey said, rapidly.

  “This is Bravo six. You’re right about who we are. I know the voice, but give me a minute. Anyway, you’re not going to get anybody else on the radio. The Abu Sayyaf launched a major attack today. I’ve already had my XO and another soldier killed in action. The Abu Sayyaf took the embassy, and they looked like they had the Presidential Palace when we flew over it. We’re stranded ourselves. I’ve got some embassy pukes and a colonel in my base camp. We’ve called back to our headquarters. They’re working on the situation. Plus, I doubt you’ll get any helicopters. The enemy is everywhere. Send your message, over,” said Captain Garrett, trying to narrow down his list of West Point classmates who might be leading troops in the Philippines.

  Simply put, he had been shocked by the loss of Rockingham and had no time for any bullshit. He wanted to kill every last insurgent son of a bitch. He had his men put camouflage paint on their faces and hands, and told them that they were leaving Garrett’s Gulch to move into the jungles above Subic. He had read about the Marines in Beirut, and his position was very similar. Low ground, surrounded by high ground on three sides. Too vulnerable. Something inside of him took over, something dark and dangerous. He would not rest until the loss of his soldiers had been avenged.

  Ramsey leaned back on the heels of his green and black jungle boots and tried to comprehend what his classmate had just told him. Two dead. That makes three American soldiers killed in the Philippines in the past week. What the hell is going on? The war is in the Middle East, Afghanistan and probably soon to be Iraq. No helicopters. He momentarily forgot his message and asked, “Do you have any trans-portation?”

  “Roger. We’ve got one Black Hawk with a quarter tank of fuel. I doubt he can reach you, over.”

  “I know he can’t. Can you get fuel from anywhere?” Ramsey knew the Black Hawk to have a range of over 950 kilometers. Their position was roughly 725 kilometers from Subic Bay. The helicopter could pick them up, but not make it all the way back without refueling somewhere.

  “We’ll try. What’s your location?”

  “Mindanao. We’re near a place called Cateel City. If he can just fly above the shore north of Cateel City, w
e’ll guide him to our location.”

  “I’ll talk to the pilot and see what he says. Christ, what are you doing in Mindanao?” Zachary asked.

  “Zach, this is Chuck,” Ramsey said, hesitating before he played the card and violated operational security over the radio.

  The first bullet hit Jones in the right shoulder, knocking him back against a tall pine. The second pierced his neck, spraying red blood onto the bark. He stood for a second, wide-eyed, then said in his Boston accent, “Bastards.” His back sliding down the tree, he died.

  Ramsey saw Jones get hit before he heard the gunshot. Soon his team was returning fire. They had been surprised, totally. The enemy fire was coming from across the ravine. Ramsey’s battle-hardened mind went into gear immediately. At least they have to cross the river to maneuver against me. That may save us.

  Then he remembered. The message. I’ve got to get the message to Bravo six—Zachary Garrett. He knew he was carrying the glass slipper. These rebels would not have been hot on his trail if the Japanese man had not been right about what he had said.

  A bullet blew the bark off the tree next to his head, spraying chips of wood into his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he crouched low and made the decision that he had to be alive to send the message, and he needed radio equipment as well. He picked up the radio and antenna, and moved behind a tree. The enemy was obviously trying to knock out his communications equipment as the concentration of fire seemed greatest near him. But then again, it always seemed that way in a firefight. He grabbed his ruck and stuffed the radio and antenna inside. He had eaten all of his chow and had plenty of room for the comms equipment. Another bullet stuck in the wood next to his ear. They seemed to be everywhere.

  He could see Benson and Eddie returning fire with vigor. Abe lay frozen next to him. The other men had coalesced into groups that could conduct independent fire and maneuver.