Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “So what you’re saying is that we missed it, and we have no idea how long the son of a bitch will last,” Jennings had said. The J-2 looked sheepishly at the deck of the ship and nodded.

  Jennings had not come to fight the Japanese to a draw. He needed a decisive victory, one that he could have if the weather would break. Given the circumstances, his thought processes had shifted to avoiding defeat. Not a good thought. It frustrated him to have an attack-helicopter battalion, two brigades of infantry, and several advanced fighter aircraft chained to the ground by the incessant rain.

  At least the Marines were tightening the noose around Manila. Three combined arms brigades had made excellent progress until they reached the inner-city core, where the Japanese defenses seemed greatest. His operational plan was rapidly to squeeze the Japanese out of Manila, toward the east, then destroy them with air power. Even that had partially failed. The Marines had been unable to unhinge either the Japanese northern or southern flank. The fight had progressed outward, mirroring the “race to the sea” in World War I, in which the French and German trench lines crept to the north as each unit tried to outflank the other.

  The Japanese had the remnants of nearly three divisions hardening positions in the inner city, and a loose cannon near Fort Magsaysay ready to hammer the Marines from the rear. They had grossly underestimated the number of enemy tanks in the Cabanatuan vicinity. Initially, they had told the Ranger regimental commander that a tank company held the area. Then satellite imagery picked up what looked like a small battalion. And later it seemed like a brigade, and the latest reports showed six battalions, two full brigades. Mistakes did happen.

  Jennings scurried over to the map and stared anxiously, wondering what his next move should be and how long it would take the Japanese division at Fort Magsaysay to move to Manila. He felt like a participant in a chess match. The poor weather served to strap his hands to the armrests of his chair, preventing him from moving, while his opponent moved freely about the board. He envisioned a Japanese warlord sliding a queen diagonally across the board and saying “check.” With this rain, all I’ve got is a bunch of pawns out there.

  It was time to take some risks.

  He had to keep the pressure on the city with the Marines; it would be another week before the first tanks from Fort Carson arrived. The light division and the Rangers were well suited for the terrain, but ill prepared for the threat. If he could only do away with the division in the north, then he could throw the light infantry into the city and let them work in on the flanks. But that seemed impossible. How could he best use these lightly equipped forces so that they had the advantage? He tapped his lip with his forefinger, looking at the map.

  Eighty kilometers from Subic Bay to Caba-natuan. Too far to walk. He saw that, from the east shore of Luzon, the water carved a semicircle in toward Cabanatuan, and looked to be less than twenty-five kilometers from Cabanatuan—and only fifteen from Fort Magsaysay.

  He had an idea. If the rain held, it would work. If not, he might have engineered his own defeat. He reached for his radio to call General Zater and tell him about the new plan.

  Zater agreed that it was worth a shot and con-curred with his assessment on its chances. One thing was clear to both men: The Japanese division in the east had to be stopped.

  In his mind, he looked across the table at the sneering imaginary warlord, loosened a bound wrist from the armrest, and reached for what few pieces he had left on the board.

  Now, if only the rain would hold.

  CHAPTER 92

  Zachary moved Kurtz’s platoon out of the rice paddy and sent them back to the wooded knoll near checkpoint three-one. They trudged through the pelting rain, unaware of any change in their condition, having just left the soggy rice paddy. The sky was battleship gray, vomiting rain, with a peripheral darkness that seemed prescient, like a dark circle closing in around them.

  Upon approaching Taylor’s position, he saw five bodies lying on the ground, covered in ponchos.

  “They ours?” Zachary asked Taylor.

  “Yes, sir.” Taylor proceeded to list the name of each soldier and what had happened. Zachary noticed that Taylor talked with a hardened authority, as if something measurable had changed in him that morning.

  One of the enemy tanks had fired multiple high-explosive rounds into Zachary’s position. One soldier had caught a round in the chest, blowing a hole right through him. It impacted in the ground behind him, leaving his body still pretty much intact except for the big hole. Taylor spoke about it like it was routine. There was no edge in his voice, sort of a monotone, objective description, like what one heard on Headline News.

  “About four guys jumped from one tank we hit with an AT4. We killed two, I think, and one ran in your direction. I called you, but you were on battalion net. Slick took the message,” Taylor said. Water dripped in a steady stream from the front lip of his helmet. He held a map, covered in acetate, in his right hand, the water smacking it with steady rhythm like a clock pendulum.

  “Yeah, he told me, but we never saw him. Bastard is probably back there right now pinpointing our position for the next attack.”

  Zachary walked over to Barker’s position and saw three more bodies. They had been cut down during the initial action on the flank. Barker said, somewhat embarrassed, that he thought two of them were friendly-fire casualties. He had maneuvered his squads in a fashion so that they converged on each other in the darkness.

  “It happens,” Zachary said, remembering how the U.S. pilots had killed more than a quarter of the friendly soldiers who died during combat in the Persian Gulf War.

  Kurtz was the lucky one so far. He had only lost Teller, serving as a back-up radio operator to Zach, and that seemed like an eternity ago.

  Zachary huddled with his platoon leaders around a stand of mahogany trees.

  “We’re moving.” The words were painful. Every-one knew they had to, but the logistics of moving in the rain, with dead bodies and demoralized troops, were overwhelming.

  “Have your men get ready. They have an hour. I’ll let battalion know what we’re up to.”

  He walked with Slick over to a secluded spot and knelt in a pool of water, into the thick mud beneath it.

  “Sir, what’re we gonna do?” Slick asked, nerv-ously. Usually, he could wait to eavesdrop on the commander and gain his information that way, but events were rapidly getting out of control.

  Eight dead. Not counting Rock and Teller. Everybody counts. Make that ten dead.

  “We need to move, Slick. As soon as this weather clears, this entire hill’s gonna be a free-fire zone. Arty, mortars, helicopters, tanks, you name it. We stopped them for now. But they’re pissed.”

  The bodies had already made Slick weak and nauseous. He gave the commander the handset and turned his back. Placing his hands on his knees and leaning over, he vomited into the mud. Zachary watched without emotion. It happens.

  He called Kooseman and gave him the word he was moving to the north side of the road and closer to the fort. He would give him an exact grid coordinate of his CP later, when he found a decent location. Kooseman reported they had secured the prison and freed the six thousand captives. His voice sounded as though he had made a mistake by doing so. Instead of setting them free into the countryside, though, he had merely unlocked their cells but kept the gates to the prison locked. Most stayed inside the protective confines of the prison simply to stay out of the rain.

  Zachary told Kooseman that he needed more antitank missiles. He was all out. Kooseman obliged, gathering five Javelin missiles and ten AT4s from each company and sending them forward in a Filipino jeepney, trading the ammo for eight bodies. Zachary appreciated Kooseman’s good sense.

  The casualties gone, and the wounded patched, Zachary had the battalion’s 105mm artillery pieces fire continuous mixtures of smoke and high- explosive rounds into the perimeter of Fort Magsaysay. All of the tanks that could move had backed along the cement road until they were out of sight.


  He hoped no one would see him move. With a grim look of determination, Zachary lifted his arm, palm stretched outward, then brought it forward, saying, “Follow me.”

  They slogged their way across the muddy field.

  Takishi rubbed the towel across the back of his wet hair. He and Muriami had been the only ones to make it back through the rice paddies. Everyone else had died from the American onslaught. An entire tank battalion destroyed. What a waste.

  He looked in the mirror of the command-post latrine as he heard the shelling begin outside. He was frustrated. Mizuzawa had told him that com-manding the division would be easy, that everything would fall into place, that it was all common sense.

  But how could he have been so careless as to wander aimlessly into the American ambush? Next time, he would do better.

  The rain pelted his rubber coat as he walked to the building where the hostages were supposed to have been, then trudged through the mud to a new tank. Muriami had cleaned the inside and put two more radios in it. Takishi’s gear was stashed on the floor of the turret ring. Takishi gave Muriami a thumbs-up. “As soon as the rain stops, we move north to Bongabon, then”—he paused to smile—“on to Manila.”

  CHAPTER 93

  The sun never made an appearance, the rain continuing its onslaught. Zachary had wondered if he might see Noah come floating by sometime soon. A full day of monsoon-force rains. His men waded through knee-deep mud, slipping and falling in the miserable muck. During the move, some forgot their overarching concerns of living through this war and cursed the rain and mud and weight they were carrying on their backs.

  Some even cursed Captain Garrett for making them move. The wooded knoll was a perfectly good position. They had defended well from there.

  By nightfall, they had found a good spot from which to defend. Zachary had purposely taken them on a circuitous route so that any Japanese intel-ligence collectors would have a hard time figuring their intentions. He heard the men swearing but figured it might do them some good to get their minds off the previous battle, so he said nothing.

  When they reached their new defensive position, indistinguishable from any other terrain in the area, he told his men to go to 75 percent security and get some rest. Most tried, but few did.

  Zachary looked into the sheets of water blowing with the wind, almost horizontal. He had led them to the northeast of Fort Magsaysay along a small ridge covered with high grass. The jungle was only three hundred meters to the rear, Fort Magsaysay about one and a half kilometers to the south. He called Kooseman and told him he was in position and gave him the grid.

  Kooseman went ballistic.

  “What the hell are you doing way over there?!” Kooseman screamed.

  “They’re coming this way next,” Zachary said, without hesitation or emotion. He was not going to move, no matter what, and had decided before they moved from their previous site that he was going to ask forgiveness instead of permission, knowing he never would have received the latter.

  “I need you to move back and guard my flank,” Kooseman said. Zachary looked at the handset. Kooseman was a good guy, but he sounded too dry. He was in a building somewhere, Zachary was sure, as was the rest of the battalion, probably.

  “Negative; have McAllister move about six hundred meters north of my old position. That way we’ll be able to catch them in a cross fire,” Zachary countered, unflinching.

  Kooseman paused. Zachary figured he was looking at a map or weighing Zach’s insub-ordination. He didn’t care. He wasn’t moving.

  “Roger,” Kooseman responded.

  Zachary gave the radio handset back to Slick. Looking through his night-vision goggles, Zachary identified what appeared to be an airstrip, less than a mile to the southwest. He saw the faint black outlines of helicopters and had an idea.

  “Think this shit’ll ever stop?” Slick asked his captain, shivering in the dark night.

  Zachary hardly noticed the question. He summoned Kurtz and SSG Quinones, who appeared moments later, faces painted black for the movement. He gave them instructions on his idea and told them to report back once they were prepared. The two men returned within the half-hour and Zach went over the plan again.

  “It’s 0200, let’s go,” he said.

  The four of them moved through second platoon’s leg of the triangular patrol base. Wearing the goggles felt good, keeping their faces dry for a change. Zachary led the men down the ridge, keeping low. Zachary, Kurtz, and Quinones had emptied their rucksacks and loaded them with the company’s supply of C4, detonation cord, and other demolitions equipment.

  They moved silently through the loud rain. Infantry weather. Wading through a small stream, engorged probably to twice its size, Zachary pulled at a root on the far bank, which dislodged, causing him to fall back into the water. Kurtz and Quinones were behind him, lifting him out immediately. Finally clawing their way to the far side, they spied a weak roll of concertina guarding fifteen helicopters parked innocently on the cement runway.

  Zachary designated five aircraft for each man. When they were done, they were to shine their IR flashlights three times in his direction. Slick’s job was to watch for the signals.

  There appeared to be no roving guard. Zachary could make out a small shack at the far end of the runway but could see no one. He low-crawled up to the wire and nudged it with his rifle, just to be sure, then took his wire cutters and snipped the strands of razor-sharp metal, cutting his hands as he did so. The pain was sharp and unnecessary; he should have been more careful.

  The task complete, they slithered like snakes through the obscure opening. Zachary had chosen the five aircraft farthest away. It was the right thing to do. As he crawled on the cement, his body armor and outer tactical vest dug into his skin, and the pools of standing water stung his hands.

  He gauged the aircraft. They looked like sleek, new-model Apaches.

  He slid his rucksack off his shoulders and dug into its dryness, producing a standard M112 block of C4 that they had prerigged with time fuses, blasting caps, and nonelectric firing devices.

  He opened the door to the first helicopter, placing the explosive next to the control panel, leaving the door cracked slightly. He repeated the process for each of the other aircraft, then flashed his IR in Slick’s direction. Slick flashed back that he acknowledged. Kurtz and Quinones did the same, then Slick flashed four times to the captain, indicating they were all ready.

  Zachary knelt next to the helicopter farthest away from where they had entered the airstrip, and closest to the small hut, less than one hundred meters.

  That was why he saw the light come on. A huge spotlight followed, shining in their direction.

  He pulled the first nonelectric firing device, listening for the hissing of burning time fuse. Running from helicopter to helicopter, he did the same. Kurtz and Quinones followed suit. He reached his last aircraft and stooped to pick his rucksack off the wet pavement when he heard a bullet whiz by his ear, like a closing zipper, and ricochet off the helicopter. Looking back over his shoulder, he tripped, severely bruising his elbow.

  The rate of fire increased as they scampered back through the wire. Quinones had gone first, but was screaming and writhing on the ground as if he was hit.

  “Medic! I need a medic!” His body was bouncing wildly on the ground. Zachary approached him, sliding off his goggles and keeping below the enemy fire.

  After his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw a horrible sight. Quinones had apparently slipped as he ran through the wire and fallen. One of the razors from the concertina had snagged him just beneath his left eye and ripped open the socket.

  Blood was everywhere, and Zachary saw the eye, strung to Quinones’s face by a thread of red membrane or muscle, nearly falling out of the socket.

  “Help me, sir,” Quinones whispered, watching the commander out of his remaining eye.

  Zachary pulled out his first-aid dressing and wrapped it around Quinones’s head, securing the eye in place. He di
dn’t know, maybe they had the technology to fix it.

  Kurtz slung Quinones over his shoulder and grabbed the man’s weapon, then went to one knee, saying, “Son of a bitch.”

  Zachary looked at Kurtz, who groaned and stood, blood pouring from his lower right leg. The Japanese soldiers were racing across the airfield, firing their weapons.

  The first explosion knocked about seven of them back. The next blasts happened almost in unison, giving Zachary, Kurtz, and Quinones enough time to melt into the high grass to the east.

  They fled into the jungle, clawing their way up the hills without regard for direction, turning to check for pursuers on occasion.

  “Halt, who goes there,” came the American voice.

  “We’re Americans!” Zachary screamed.

  “Advance forward to be recognized.”

  “Eagle.”

  “Viper.”

  “Welcome to Second Bat. What the hell are you guys doing?” the Ranger said from beneath his patrol cap, the sides of his shaved head glistening in the night.

  Zachary turned and watched the Japanese try to extinguish the fires on the helicopters. It was no use. Every one of them was now destroyed.

  It could make the difference.

  CHAPTER 94

  White House, Washington, DC

  President Davis looked at his friend, Bob Stone, thinking, He’s not himself.

  “What’s the matter, Bob, you seem nervous? You’re not getting weak on me, are you?”

  “No, sir, just a little tired,” Stone said, his voice shaking in the confines of the diminutive situation room. They were waiting for Jim Fleagles, the Secretary of State, and Dave Palmer, the NSA. Sewell was sitting next to the president, staring at Stone, who was looking across the table at President Davis, then Frank Lantini.