Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  The Pave Low circled back, and Ramsey briefly saw it through the top layer of the thick triple-canopy jungle. There was a small window of sky above him. He angled the metal tube in his hand toward the opening and slapped it hard on the bottom, bruising his weak palm.

  The star cluster rocketed skyward, making it through to the small hole, then bursting green and sparkling back into the jungle nearly two hundred meters away.

  The Pave Low reacted and tightened its search arc to about a hundred-meter area.

  He pulled another star cluster from his ruck, his last, and repeated the procedure. Benson, White, Tuttle, and Abe all watched with hopeful eyes.

  Ramsey turned on his strobe, holding it high in the sky, hoping that somehow it might help. The Pave Low passed the opening once, then circled back, tilting and trying to draw a bead on them.

  The pilot hovered the aircraft over the opening as a steel cage called a jungle penetrator began to push its way toward them from seventy-five meters above the ground. Lowered by a hydraulic cable, the penetrator turned and twisted as it floated toward them.

  Ramsey looked skyward, thankful, but still not convinced they were free. The adrenaline began to rush, though, giving him the strength to reach up and grab the metal basket. He felt a mild shock from the kinetic energy created by the massive torque of the whipping blades and transmitted along the steel cable.

  Tuttle was first to go. He had been wounded in the leg and needed better medical attention than White could give him with his limited supplies.

  The basket came down again, and White was next to take the ride.

  Chuck’s hopes began to grow, like a blooming flower in the spring, betting against the inevitable final frost of a winter not complete. Two of his men were safe aboard an Air Force helicopter. Its blades beat loudly above the jungle, which was why they did not hear the first salvo of AK-47 weapons fired their way.

  A bright red spot suddenly appeared in Benson’s forehead, then grew rapidly as the blood gushed outward like a fountain. Benson kicked back, eyes open, and fell against the dangling basket, knocking it crazily to the side.

  Abe crouched low and immediately returned fire.

  “Get in cage,” he told Ramsey, who looked briefly at Abe and took him up on his offer. He pulled Benson’s limp body onto his lap as he climbed into the basket, charging his M4, and began to fire as he ascended into the heights of the jungle.

  Beneath him he could see Abe shooting and moving. Rolling from tree to tree, firing. He watched as Abe pulled out his bayonet and snapped it onto the front end of the rifle. Two Abu Sayyaf charged Abe with bayonets fixed as well. He felt the cage break through a tree branch, hanging momentarily on the stub, then kicking free.

  Abe parried the first slash by holding his rifle above his head, then kicking at the attacker with his foot, pushing him away. The second man ran into the powerful thrust of Abe’s lunging bayonet, skewering himself beyond the flash suppressor. Abe pulled the trigger, exploding the man backward into a tree, freeing his weapon to fight the dead man’s partner.

  Is this what it has come down to, two against four? Ramsey thought as he felt the cage strike metal. A large hand opened the top, and a voice said, “You’re safe now, sir.” Hands grabbed Benson’s body, then him, pulling them into the aircraft.

  “Send it back down,” Ramsey said, weakly.

  The crew chief lowered the basket as Ramsey peered over the ledge, much like Ron Peterson had done when he had saved his life. So much has happened.

  He watched the basket twist and turn its way through the jungle.

  Abe cocked his right arm and straightened it, stroking the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, only to have him lower his head. His arm flew wildly against the vacant air, pulling his shoulder out of socket. Like a hot knife against his skin, he felt his right arm dangling loosely at his side.

  He reached for the basket with his left arm, pulling it toward him, sliding his body into the seat.

  The bayonet poked at him, glancing off the metal basket, making a spark, then finding purchase in his rib cage. He felt a rib crack, the pain sharp and pointed, like a razor in the eye. Perversely, it balanced the throbbing sensation of the separated shoulder on his other side. He kicked at the raging rebel, violently flailing his bayonet at the man lifting into the sky.

  The rebel stopped, smiled, and looked down at his weapon, realizing Abe had no more ammunition. Then he watched the man slowly ascend toward the helicopter.

  The young rebel lifted his rifle bringing it to port arms, and like an executioner, measured his next move, leveling the sight on the swinging basket.

  Ramsey lowered his weapon and sighted the rebel. Then Abe. Then the rebel. The penetrator was oscillating, preventing Ramsey from getting a good shot.

  “Pull this thing up! Pull up!” Ramsey yelled to the crew chief.

  “We’ll lose him, sir. We’ve got to get him higher!” the crew chief screamed back.

  Abe looked down with fear as the basket pulled him away. On the ground, an instinct had taken charge, making him a warrior, but now as he lifted through the fog of war, sensing he was moving closer to perhaps his safety, the fear crept back into his mind. Suddenly, he had something to lose. Before, he felt as if he had already lost it. He pulled the picture of his wife and family from the breast pocket of his borrowed uniform. They were smiling at him from a photographer’s studio in Tokyo.

  The rebel looked away, then sighted again. The wooden stock of his Chinese rifle was covered with mud and dirt, but he was sure it would work again.

  He pulled the trigger as the basket reached the bottom of the helicopter, firing one shot, then another, then stopping, flipping the selector switch to automatic, then emptying his magazine into the cage like a magician sticking swords into a basket. He was sure that one of the bullets would find its target.

  Abe felt the first bullet crush his kneecap. The second burned a hole in his hamstring, cracking his femur. Some bounced off the cage, leaving hot sparks in their place.

  The hand reached in and pulled him away from the cage as a series of bullets bounced off its metal frame, some catching the reinforced belly of the helicopter, others digging their way into Abe’s spine.

  Chuck grabbed one of Abe’s arms and helped pull him into the aircraft, which banked away with the basket dangling below.

  The rebel saw a green beret lying on the ground, thrust his bayonet into it, then plucked it from the blade and placed it on his head.

  He had won.

  Chuck looked at Abe’s fading eyes. The man was dying, he was sure. Abe looked at him and grabbed his hand, rolling toward him as the helicopter banked over the ocean.

  Pressing the picture of his family into Chuck’s palm, he said, “Please call them and tell them I love them.” He spoke with unusual clarity, his accent completely absent.

  He had wanted to quote Chuck a poem to tell them, but those thoughts had been washed into the drainage pit of his mind, rushing along the gutter, finding the sewer hole and joining the morass of other peaceful, comforting notions. He had recognized his transformation from peace-loving executive to warrior-come-lately and made a mental note to write a series of poems about the gradual but persistent change in his nature. It was almost genetic, instinctual. Without cause or celebration, he did what he had to do, and he did it well. His actions were not propped by allegiance to any flag or ideals, only to the people he had toiled with for the past two weeks. His captors turned benefactors had taken him into the fold, and he had accepted them as well. The dynamics were rich with potential for beautiful prose and poetry.

  But his poems were a thing of the past, and so was Abe.

  Chuck watched Abe’s eyes flutter, as he felt the hand close in on his, pressing the picture deeper into his palm. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Ramsey turned his head and his eyes caught the sight of five body bags stacked in the helicopter. Each had a name written in black marker on green tape.

  He stared at one
bag and the name written in bold letters: Peterson. Ron Peterson, where it all began.

  Ramsey turned away and looked through the open door of the helicopter. His sullen gaze fixed on nothing in particular as a vivid image of Camille, his beautiful daughter, reappeared in his mind; her soft brown hair lying against her shoulders; her smooth round face grinning at him, then frowning, saying, “Come home, Daddy, I miss you. Love you, Daddy, no matter where you are.”

  He looked at Abe and passed out.

  Abe died as the helicopter blew past Cateel Bay and raced to the north, where the hospital ship was waiting.

  CHAPTER 90

  Island of Luzon, Philippines

  Prime Minister Mizuzawa had boarded the Shin Meiwa aircraft, flown to the site where the oil tankers were originally located, saw nothing, then landed in the mouth of the Pasig River near the Presidential Palace, using the raging storm as his cover. The pilot had balked at Mizuzawa’s insistence, but gladly agreed when a Japanese “New Nambu” .38-caliber revolver was pressed against his temple. The sheering winds pushed the aircraft down, then seemingly backward, releasing its force and allowing the plane to speed forward, almost tripping over itself.

  If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

  Dressed in combat fatigues, the prime minister made his way through the streets of Manila, raging with block-to-block, street-to-street, and building-to-building fighting. The entire affair was confusing. He saw M1 tanks shoot at each other, mistakenly. Filipino civilians still roamed the less chaotic streets as if times were normal. Japanese soldiers were holding the Americans back from taking the Presidential Palace and the critical financial district as well.

  Mizuzawa entered the grounds of the palace practically unchallenged. The guard was huddled against the fence in a soaked poncho, the rain pelting against the porous fabric. Mizuzawa yanked his revolver from his holster, pulled back the hammer, leveled it alongside the temple of the shivering guard, then lifted it and fired a round. The blast might have made the young soldier permanently deaf in one ear, but it woke him up.

  We have become too weak. It occurred to him as he strode into the palace that he was talking about himself. I should have killed him.

  Several soldiers converged on Mizuzawa, recognizing him immediately. One summoned General Nugama, who came hustling down the steps, buckling his pants. His hair was disheveled, and the buttons to his uniform top were open. Mizuzawa could not determine if the man had been sleeping or screwing a Filipino whore.

  “The spoils of war are not ours, yet, Nugama,” Mizuzawa said, deciding on the latter.

  “Yes, sir. Merely catching up on my sleep,” Nugama said, looking virile in his old age.

  Mizuzawa caught a glimpse of a beautiful Eurasian woman peering around the banister from atop the stairs. We are getting weak.

  They walked into the operations center, where several soldiers sat before radios, television screens, and computers. All the men were wearing headsets and talking. A huge map of the Philippines hung on the wall, with red and blue markings on it indicating the location of friendly and enemy forces.

  “Where is Takishi?” Mizuzawa asked Nugama.

  “Sir, he is in Cabanatuan. He started moving with his division, and was stopped by”—he hated to say it—“by an infantry battalion.”

  “What! Fools. I didn’t give him command of that division just so he could piss it away. I wanted him to be victorious. To know the smell of blood and death so that one day he could take my place as prime minister and understand necessary sacrifice.” It was true. Mizuzawa wanted Takishi to return to Japan as a conquering hero. It was just another step in the mentoring process; but like all of the other steps, the mentor can only get the pupil the job. He can’t ensure that he succeeds, but he could try.

  “Yes, sir,” Nugama said, unsure of what to say. He knew of the special relationship between Takishi and Mizuzawa. It was no secret. But Mizuzawa had never made a public declaration of it.

  “How bad is it?”

  “He’s only lost a battalion, but all the aircraft are grounded, and he’s got two brigades stuck on the road, trapped by rice paddies. He’s still got two infantry battalions able to move, but they’re fighting the Rangers in the jungles. Those Rangers didn’t know what hit them,” he said, trying his best to report some good news.

  “What else is happening?” Mizuzawa asked, walking over to the map.

  “We’ve got four divisions on the ground. Two are at about 50 percent, but holding well in the city. We had enough time to establish a decent defensive perimeter. One division was holding Subic, but I moved it over here,” he said, pointing at the northern outskirts of Manila, “to flank the enemy Marines. They got caught in a pretty heavy cross fire from enemy air, then their reserve got destroyed by some light infantry to the west of Subic.

  “Our intelligence was not very good,” he said humbly, looking at the floor.

  “So we’ve got three divisions at 50 percent or less, and Takishi’s almost full strength,” Mizuzawa said, wondering. “Where’s the ship?”

  Nugama paused for a moment, then it registered.

  “Yes, sir. The ship is halfway between Hawaii and Los Angeles. As you know, the ship was not like the others. Its top deck looks like any other Toyota merchant ship with new cars on top. But the hull is very different. Admiral Sazaku is piloting the ship. He is very trustworthy. He will perform either mission we ask of him,” Nugama said.

  “Good. This thing is still a potential win. Two of our divisions against two of his. He has more aircraft, but we have more tanks and soldiers on the ground,” Mizuzawa said, studying the map. He walked over to a larger-scale map of the Pacific, and traced his finger to a point midway between the Big Island of Hawaii and the big city of Los Angeles. He ran his fingernail across the map, making an indentation, then scratched an X on Los Angeles. He popped the city with his finger and turned to Nugama.

  “I want you in the field, General, where you can command your soldiers, not in here sleeping with women, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nugama replied.

  “Perhaps if you had been out there, our position would not be so precarious,” Mizuzawa scolded.

  A young private walked up to Nugama and handed him a sheet of paper, which he read aloud. “Latest spot report has Takishi back with the main body of his division. He’s lost nearly sixty tanks. The road to Cabanatuan is blocked, and the rain is still coming down too hard for the Xs to fly,” he said, referring to the AH-X attack helicopters.

  Mizuzawa walked back to the map and pondered. Initially, his strategy had been to take the Philippines through political surprise. They had achieved that, but something had gone wrong. Talbosa had defected, or so he thought. Then he pulled the brilliant move with the ambassador’s speech to the United Nations, effectively handcuffing the Amer-icans. There was no way they could legitimately react. Then, something else had gone wrong. Somehow, a lousy journalist had captured the death march on film. But still, he figured international opinion was split evenly between believing he had the right to restore the government of the Philippines and siding with the American response. The simple fact that they had gotten that far was a great achievement, but still far short of his goals.

  Still, he needed to adjust his strategy. His presence in the operations center was a bad sign in its own right. His goals remained to reassert Japanese military power in the region. Could he do that if he lost the fight? Maybe, maybe not. The conventional fight on the ground could go either way. Japanese soldiers had softened over the past fifty years. They had rarely trained and were not used to the rigors of combat.

  Mizuzawa felt the palace shudder once, then a second time.

  “Can they reach us down here?” he said to Nugama.

  “No, sir. We are safely deep,” Nugama said.

  “Okay. Let’s hold with what we’ve got in Manila,” he said, pointing at the map. “We’ll focus our efforts on getting Takishi’s division out of Cabanatuan. If
he can break free, we pull back, deeper in the city, sucking the Americans in with us. Then Takishi comes from the north, slamming into the enemy rear.”

  Mizuzawa had moved from the strategic plan to operational art in a matter of seconds. It was all a mind game. Technology and soldiers were impor-tant, but the only thing that could truly tip the balance was a superior mind. Why else would theorists such as Sun Tzu and Clausewitz still be relevant today?

  He needed something to maneuver with, though, and he hoped his good friend Takishi would come through in the clutch.

  CHAPTER 91

  Admiral Jennings walked back from the railing of his command ship, which was positioned just off Sampaloc Point near Subic Bay. The spot reports from the pilots on the airstrip were saying it was still too rough to fly. Just to be sure, hoping he could override their judgment, he had walked into the beating rain, only to be slapped in the face by a sheet of water.

  General Zater had two brigades on the ground that he could not maneuver anywhere. Jennings sat back in his leather chair in the operations cell and shook his head again at his perceived lack of faith in light infantry.

  Tanks were stacked on the road, waiting for the kill ... or to move on the flank of the Marines. The thought made Jennings bolt upright, his wet uniform cold against his skin. That had to be the Japanese plan. Suck the Marines deep into Manila, then slam the door shut with an operational reserve from the rear. How could they have missed it? How could his J-2 and billions of dollars’ worth of satellites have missed a huge armored force stuffed into the jungle less than eighty kilometers from Manila? Those tanks would not be impeded by the rain, as were his aircraft, nor the light infantrymen. He pounded his fist into the table, cursing the light fighters.

  What had been a window of opportunity for his forces had become an opening for the Japanese to drive straight through to Manila with what was beginning to look like an armored division. If only the weather would clear. The rain, his J-2 intelligence officer had told him, was a Philippine phenomenon called “phantom monsoon.” They appeared from nowhere and endured either for a short period of time, or for days. Yeah right.