“Sir, we’ve got some enemy bearing down on Quinones’s men on the pier. I’ve got him with one fire team ready to open up any second. I’m gonna send the other five-man team into their flank about two hundred meters up to keep them from getting in behind second squad.”
“Need First or Third Platoons to do anything?” Zachary asked, unable to envision a mission for either of them worth risking the integrity of the company position.
“Not right now, sir. We’ve got it,” Kurtz said confidently, spitting some chaw over his knee. He looked through his goggles in the direction of the pier about three hundred meters away. It had all come together for him. It was easier than Ranger school or any field-training exercise. Sure, the training had prepared him, but this was something inside of him, something tangible that he could connect with. He knew exactly what to do, like playing a game and being the only one who knew the rules.
“Contact!” Quinones’s voice blurted into the radio, as Taylor and Kurtz heard two audible clicking noises and shortly thereafter two successive explosions. Quinones had let them get within a hundred meters, then opened fire with two high-explosive grenades from the M203 grenade launchers, followed by the squad automatic weapon, which raked the expanse of the pier.
Chapter 36
Ayala had never seen anything like it. A withering cross fire had decimated his force heading directly toward the white buildings. Luckily, at the last moment he had joined the smaller group moving along the pier.
It seemed clear sailing, as they less than quietly padded along wooden ties next to the choppy bay. His plan had worked, though, as the Americans were so fixated on his larger force that they had neglected the obscure pier. Looking to his south, he saw Subic Bay, a mixing bowl of windswept water perhaps reflective of the murderous activities ashore. To his left was a five-and-a-half-meter iron retaining wall supported by I-beams that abutted the pier. The top of the wall was even with the ground. He was looking at the outline of the ammunition stockpile, above his eye level about two hundred meters away when an explosion propelled him into the water, momentarily knocking him unconscious.
The Abu Sayyaf charge continued along the pier into a hail of bullets that cut them down three and four at a time. Tracers screamed at them like lighted arrows, too often finding their targets. The muzzle flashes came from behind the I-beams along the retaining wall, the bullets ripping open the attackers’ flesh. There was no place for them to hide, as they were advancing along a bowling alley into a curtain of steel. Their determination was solid, though, like that of a weary marathoner nearing the finish line but about to collapse. The Americans had whittled the advance down to four wounded insurgents, refusing to surrender, yet unable to see the six-member team that had selectively and completely destroyed their flanking effort. The moaning and dead rebel bodies lay strewn over a one-hundred-meter swath along the pier.
Suddenly the night carried nothing but the reverberating echo of gunshots and the howling of dying men.
Ayala floated beneath the surface of the water, then bobbed back up, coughing and wheezing for air. His rifle had dropped like a rock into the deep expanse of the bay. It was all he could do to stay afloat, as he was a non-swimmer, fighting against the saturated weight of his clothes and backpack. Flailing his arms, reaching for anything that would support his weight, he found purchase beneath the pier on a long pipe that carried water to several points along the dock. Grasping the five-centimeter-wide tubing, he rested. After catching his breath, he listened to the diminishing battle above. From his position, it had a distant quality, the sound dampened by the wood and steel pier above him. He could see through the slats in the wood, catching a glimpse of an American tracer etching an orange trail in strobelike fashion as it flew above the pier. He lifted one hand to the strap of his backpack, which met his touch with the reassuring knowledge of his Shansi tucked securely inside. Then he pressed on, shuffling hand over hand along the water pipe, his buoyancy in the water making the process remark-ably easy.
The shooting ceased, distant echoes galloping through the low valleys to the west and north. His plan had not failed, however, as he was still alive and could take the Americans himself. He had thirty-two rounds of ammunition. He vowed to kill that many with his pistol. The rest would surrender, he was sure. He struggled beneath the pier, observed by huge rats pecking and scratching along the concrete to his left. He had seen them before. For a child growing up in the slums of Olongapo, rats were like pets.
The waterline was about a meter below the level of the pier, yet the depth was seven meters directly beneath him. Hand over hand he shuffled along, making progress until he could hear the voices of Americans talking quietly. Perspiration beginning to bead on his forehead, he slowed so that his wake was an unnoticeable ripple, passing the voices above him. Making his way to the end of the pier, he located a steel cable hanging from the concrete wall that marked the end of the dock. Grabbing it, he pulled himself out of the water and was dismayed at his own weight and that of his drenched clothing once the water was no longer supporting him. He momentarily lost his grip, then tightened his fist around the cable, grabbing into some frayed wires that dug deeply into the bone of his right hand. He wanted to scream, but refused. His pain would go away; the suffering of his people at the hands of the Americans would not. He bit his lower lip with force, causing streams of warm, red blood to trickle down his chin and drop into the water like drips from a leaking faucet.
Pushing on, he laid an arm on the pier, his hand pulsing with pain. Putting pressure against his elbow, he flung his right leg on the pier and rolled onto the level surface. Quickly, he looked and saw a ladder that led to ground level and his eventual victory over the Americans.
Chapter 37
The entire engagement had taken only twenty minutes since the first mortars landed. At 0520 hours, it would be another twenty minutes until the sun provided enough daylight for them to assess accurately what they had accomplished. What would have been a beautiful sunrise amidst the pleasant music of the adjacent jungle was transformed into a barbaric scene of death, accompanied by the howls of wounded men.
“Red three, status?”
“This is red three. We’re counting bodies right now. We do need a medic. Say again, we do need a medic!”
“Roger, he’s on the way with a two-man security team,” Kurtz said, motioning to his platoon medic and two members of the fire team that Quinones had sent to Kurtz’s location.
“We’ve got all our personnel, but one has been hit in the neck. Say again, one hit in the neck! Currently holding position with four EPWs. We are low on ammo, but are redistributing right now.”
“Roger. Good job. I’m sending your other three men to pick up those EPWs now. Continue to consolidate and redistribute,” Kurtz said. Captain Garrett and Mike Kurtz sat, mentally exhausted, leaning against the pile of tires. Their exhaustion was paradoxical. As the battle progressed, each leader realized that control of the fight tended to decentralize to the lower level. Zachary had initially felt foolish, running back and forth between positions, but he reminded himself that he had to be at the critical point of the battle.
He had managed to change positions as needed. Plus, it was his plan that had earned what seemed like a victory for his company. Zachary knew in his heart that it was the hard training that had allowed them to survive this first battle. Both he and Kurtz had watched, as tracers bounced wildly over the bay like some macabre fireworks display. He watched Kurtz, wide-eyed and alert, like a wildcat, waiting for the next intruder into his den.