“I’m with the j.g. on this one,” Vinnie Van Dyke said. “Hell, the top brass must have brought us in. The local brass doesn’t like getting stepped on, so he shits all over us and we get pulled out and it ain’t no skin off his chin.”
“Fuck ’em all,” Franklin said. “Hell, if they don’t want us here, I’d just as soon be back in Coronado cruising for some hot redhead who is just crazy to get laid.”
There were a few huzzahs and shouts.
Murdock chuckled. “Hey, Franklin may have the right idea, but for now we’re stuck here, so we do what we can. Say Lam gets a hot prospect for us, a big camp or even where the hostages are. How do we go to Colonel Alvarez and tell him we want six choppers to go in and bring out the hostages? He’s gonna say where and how do you know, and then we have to confess that we don’t much believe in his intel and we think he’s a traitor to his country and he should fuck off.”
“Then he whips up his .45 and shoots the Skipper, and we shoot him and his aide, and we have our own war right here on base,” Canzoneri said.
“We might have to come up with something soon if Lam snoops out a new target for us, say by tomorrow night. They can’t have much for us tonight. First they’ll have to figure out where to go and look. My guess would be on upstream on the same river.”
“How can we go around the colonel?” Sadler asked.
“There may be a way,” Murdock said. “Stroh is working on that right now. The only obvious way is to outrank him. Get a local general to take over the hostage problem so he can authorize choppers for attacks and eventual hostage rescues.”
By 2350 most of the SEALs were out of their bunks, or waiting around the SATCOM, which Bradford had turned on to receive. Midnight came and passed. Nothing happened. They looked at the SATCOM set, and somebody yelled at Bradford to check his dish setting for the satellite. He did, and the set gave him a small beep that it was ready.
By a quarter after they had heard nothing from the radio. Half the men went back to bed. At a quarter to one, Murdock motioned to Bradford to turn off the set.
“They must be moving, or running out of a problem, or maybe just trying to get in position tonight to monitor something tomorrow,” Murdock said. “Get some sleep.”
The rest of them went back to their double-tier bunks. Murdock lay there not able to sleep. Why hadn’t they called in? He told Lam to call every night at midnight. Maybe he didn’t think he needed to call tonight. Yah, maybe. Still, Murdock couldn’t put down a feeling of unease at the situation. Were Lam and Lieutenant Ejercito alive and well, or had they been caught, tortured, and then executed by the Muslim rebels?
9
A half hour after the chopper took off, Lam and Juan Ejercito lay in the brush watching the rebel Muslims pick up the pieces of the attack on the two buildings. They had left the duffel hidden and hiked back up to check out the blasted rebels.
“We really kicked the shit out of them,” Lam said.
The Filipino lieutenant grinned. He had told Lam to call him Juan, it would be easier. “We did. Those twenty-millimeters are astounding.”
They had counted twelve different men working around the building. The two motorcycles were totaled. They wouldn’t even be good for parts.
“Motorcycles are the elite transportation in here where there are no real roads,” Juan said. “Only the top men own them. Which means we may have wiped out some top brass in there.”
“Hope so. Are we through here, or what?”
“Thinking of grabbing one of the survivors and doing some gentle questioning.”
“Great idea. You see anybody with stripes on his green sleeves?”
“I don’t think they use any rank. Just leaders and followers. If you don’t know who is who, you don’t belong in the group and get yourself shot dead.”
“Tough outfit. We wait until dark to snatch one?” Lam asked.
“Best. Then we can take him into the brush, question him, and he won’t be missed until morning. By then we’ll be halfway to their new GHQ, or whatever location we get out of our friend.”
The rebels carried bodies out of the building.
“Laying them out in a row,” Lam said. “Must be going to have a mass Muslim funeral.”
“Never saw one,” Juan said.
They counted as the bodies came to the line. Juan saw the last one. “Twenty-eight,” he said. “That will put a big hole in their ranks. Three hours to dark, five or six until I can snatch a live one. Let’s take a sleep period. Can you wake up on demand?”
“Not usually.”
“I can. Back into the jungle a ways, and watch for snakes. They move around this time of day.”
At 2200, Juan roused Lam. “Time, Lam. We’ll move up about where we were before, but closer. You’ll cover me with the MP-5, but fire only if I’m in big trouble and can’t get out by myself. That means at least four of the bastards pointing guns at me. I’ll go in with my pistol and knife. Should be enough. No combat vest.”
Lam watched the soldier slip through the woods to the cleared area, then come upright and walk toward the old headquarters as if he belonged there. Two men passed him without a glance. It was dark enough that his uniform nearly matched that of the rebels. Here they all had green shirts and pants. There were few lights in the village. Candles and kerosene lamps, Lam guessed. None showed in the burned-out building, only one in the other structure.
Juan headed for it. He was only a dozen yards away when a man came out and hurried toward him. Juan said something and the man stopped. He motioned and as he did, Juan put the five-inch blade of his fighting knife into the man’s side so the point gouged in a quarter of an inch. Juan put his arm around the man’s shoulders, and they walked quickly toward the brush and the jungle.
Two minutes later they were in the cover and Juan had put a gag around the man’s mouth. They hiked farther into the jungle, past a swampy area and to a slight rise. Lam figured they were a mile from the village.
The prisoner looked young. Lam had given up trying to figure these men’s ages. He could have been sixteen, but was probably in his late twenties. Lam guessed he was five-five and maybe 120 pounds. A lightweight.
They were in a small rocky clearing. Juan jerked the gag off the man and spoke pleasantly to him a moment in Filipino. Then, with no warning, Juan slugged him hard on his jaw and knocked him down.
“Get up,” Juan roared.
The man struggled to his feet feeling his jaw.
“Now we get serious. How many rebels were killed today?”
“Six.”
Juan hit him with a jab that splattered his nose and brought a froth of blood that ran down and dripped off his chin. He staggered backward but kept his feet.
“How many?” Juan asked again.
“Twenty-eight.”
“That’s better. What’s your name?”
“Piang Miguel.”
“We make a deal, Piang. From now on you tell me the absolute truth and I won’t hit you. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Who rode the motorcycles, your leaders?”
“Yes.”
“Were they both killed?”
“Both, yes.”
“How many rebels were here before the attack?”
“About forty-five and some women rebels.”
“Where did your leaders go to report to their superiors?”
“Down the river almost to the coast. Near the town of Lebak, but inland about ten miles.”
“Is that where your leader stays?”
“Sometimes. He moves around a lot. He thinks the government is trying to kill him.”