His plan was to have the mortar teams lob rounds away from the ammunition dump, drawing the American unit away from the real target. Then he would sweep from the west into the rear of the American position, shooting and killing them all.
Chapter 31
Zachary Garrett walked the company’s defensive positions wearing his night-vision goggles. His men were alert and wide-eyed, having learned of the American ruthlessly shot through the forehead two days ago.
The ammunition was stacked on a pier to the south of the white barracks. The navy ship had been delayed a few days, a major at the embassy told him, even though the ultimate destination of the ammunition was Afghanistan, where combat was raging.
Doesn’t make sense, Zachary thought to himself.
He had stuck with his original plan to use two platoons for perimeter defense and let one platoon “relax” in the barracks every twelve hours. The constant movement was designed to confuse any enemy that might want to target them or the ammunition and had worked so far. He looked at his watch, popped a cracker from an MRE into his mouth, and continued to survey both his position and the defensive array of his company. It was 0415 hours. The sun would soon rise, and he would want to be on full alert when it did so because “that’s when the bad guys always attack,” as the saying went. He furrowed his brow.
Taylor’s platoon was defending the eastern approach to the base. They had developed a good defense in depth that protected the main mounted avenue of approach into their position. The Olongapo gate had a four-lane road going through it that the enemy could use to make a mounted assault. Taylor had positioned his three squads of eleven men throughout the depth of the road as it led to the dock area, and they had constructed an elaborate barrier plan to prevent car bombs and such from splitting their defenses. He was nearly five hundred meters from the command post. Stan Barker’s Third Platoon, “Blue six,” was to the north, covering the route that they had taken from the airfield that first night. His right flank was tied in with Taylor’s left flank, and they had mutually supporting lines of fire. His sector sketch back in the command post (CP) reflected the array. Barker’s men would intercept anyone coming out of the valley along the runway.
He was accepting risk in the west along the waterfront. Zachary felt that Barker’s left flank could accurately observe any movement into that area and reposition to defend against any attack from the docks. Success would depend upon Barker’s initia-tive, something that concerned Zachary.
Zachary had one squad of the reserve platoon guarding the stockpile of ammunition. That foggy morning, Kurtz’s men were in the barracks, most sleeping soundly. Their primary mission was to act as the company reserve, a sort of quick-reaction force. Zachary had them sleep with their boots and uniforms on, so that the only thing they would have to do was grab their weapons, which were in their cots with them, and move to the location he ordered them to. The CP was also in that area, so they could pass the word quickly.
He walked, kicking at the dirt and dried lava that would soon be hot dust in the raging Philippine sun. He had worked on several flex plans in his mind. With no vehicles to move his troops, they would have to run if they were to get into alternate positions to handle other avenues of approach.
Sampaloc Point, a high volcanic rise, guarded the mouth of the bay and dominated the Western terrain just outside the base. Beneath the jagged, cross-compartmentalized feature was a barren flatland that gave way to the hardstand upon which they currently operated.
Zachary had worked on several contingency plans, none of which seemed sufficient. He was yearning for information. He turned and watched the fog tumble off the soundless bay, lifting and separating in the light breeze.
His mind shifted back to the problem at hand. Regardless of the embassy’s insistence that “there is no threat,” he did not want some assassin’s bullet to find any of his soldiers. If he had to attack the place, Zachary thought, he would try to fix the two forward platoons with a base of fire, then descend from the mountains, through the valley by the airstrip, and sweep the built-up area, using the Quonset huts for protection.
He was primarily concerned with his own ammunition situation. Each man had just one thirty round magazine of 5.56mm ammunition. Each squad’s automatic weapon had one box of three hundred rounds, and each M203 grenade launcher had only two high-explosive rounds and five white-phosphorous smoke rounds.
Arriving back at the CP Quonset hut, he stood outside and looked over at the men faithfully protecting the ammunition, not walking a standard to-and-from guard rotation, but from the prone or one knee, observing with night-vision goggles. They were nearly two hundred meters away, but he could see their images burned black in his own goggles.
Zachary sat on his rucksack and removed his goggles. The perimeter was good, but something still gnawed at the back of his mind.
What am I missing? he wondered.
Chapter 32
The three explosions seemed farther off than they really were. The sound came from the east, and Private First Class Teller, a backup radio operator from Kurtz’ platoon, was immediately taking a phone report from Lieutenant Taylor that their positions were taking mortar fire.
“Sir! Captain Garrett! Wake up!” Teller screamed. The rest of the Quonset hut was empty. Lieutenant Kurtz had quietly taken his men to the quick-reaction force position to the western edge of the hut, sort of an “on-deck circle” for the reserve force. There, they waited on one knee to begin a stand-to patrol assigned to them by Captain Garrett. Their route was to take them to the left flank of Barker’s platoon.
The mortars came raining onto Taylor’s position near the front gate about a kilometer away as Kurtz and his men were preparing to begin the patrol.
“What the hell was that?” Zachary said, already waking as Teller shook his shoulder. In no time, Slick was standing near the communications center ready to take over the radio duties.
“Mortars, sir! First Platoon’s taking mortar fire!” Zachary was on his feet, lacing his arms through his outer tactical vest with small-arms protective inserts, or body armor, and grabbing the field phone, cranking its handle. A soldier from First Platoon answered, then put Taylor on the line.
“Sitrep?” Zachary said.
“Sir, we’ve got mortar rounds coming down all around us!”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Negative.”
“See any enemy coming at you?” Zachary hated to use the word “enemy” because he could not define it. What was he expecting Taylor to see? They had received no intelligence from the embassy.
“Nothing, sir. Just sheaths of three mortars coming—”
Zachary heard a solitary loud bang near the hut. The phone line was dead. Either Taylor had been hit or a mortar round had impacted directly on the underground cable, severing it. Hoping for the latter, he reached for the FM radio handset. Looking at Slick, he said, “Call our friend at the embassy and tell him we’re receiving mortar fire.”
Hundreds of thoughts were tumbling through his mind. He needed to sort them and remain calm. It could just be a scare tactic. After all, Taylor said the rounds were not hurting his position.
Another stray landed just to the north of the CP. A spray of dirt, gravel, and shrapnel pinged against the thin steel wall of the hut.
“Net call, over,” he said into the black micro-phone. His three lieutenants responded immediately by acknowledging they were listening.
“This is Bravo six. Red element is receiving mortar fire. I want every man in a foxhole and behind a weapon. Assume a ground assault will follow. Take full defensive measures to protect your men. I’m moving to Red six’s position now, over,” Zachary said. Taylor’s platoon was First Platoon, and their call sign was “red.” Kurtz was second; “white.” Barker was third; “blue.”