“We will hold in position for now,” Garrett said.
Captain Garrett conducted a communications check with all of his platoons. The only real casualty was Sergeant Cartwright with the gash in his leg. The soldier in Quinones’s squad had merely burned his face firing left-handed from behind an I-beam on the pier. The M4 was designed for right-handed shooters with the casing ejector port on the right side of the weapon. A white-hot metal casing had flown from the port, smacking the soldier in the face and searing his neck as it came to rest beneath the collar of his body armor. In the excitement of the moment, he had thought he was hit. Zachary was thankful and had personally inspected that soldier as well.
He had told his platoons to conduct ammunition redistribution and accountability of personnel. No one was missing, but Kurtz’s platoon was critically short on ammunition. Zachary had Taylor send a squad with some of his platoon’s ammunition to the tire stack, where he gave it to Sergeant First Class McDonell, Kurtz’s platoon sergeant. McDonell then rapidly redistributed the ammunition. All of the platoons held their positions and watched into the surreal green world of the night-vision goggles.
The embassy had radioed with some good news and some bad news. The good news was that the medical evacuation helicopter was on its way to pick up Sergeant Cartwright. The bad news was that the attack on Subic was just a small part of an island-wide Abu Sayyaf attempt to seize power. They had a doctor in the embassy who could examine Cartwright, but they believed that they were in imminent danger of being attacked. Zach told Fraley simply to get the helicopter to him ASAP, that he had a man dying. He knew he had leverage over the colonel and used the man’s guilt to force a decision that a day ago he would not have made.
He spoke briefly with Slick and told him to continue to monitor the SCAMP radio. Calling on Barker’s platoon, he asked them to establish a land-ing zone using red VS-17 panels to signify that the landing was an emergency. The helicopter could not get between the maze of dormant electrical wires that hung above Taylor’s platoon. Cartwright’s squad members constructed a field-expedient litter using a poncho and two-by-fours to carry him to a secure position behind Barker’s lines. Near Cartwright’s position, Barker’s men were establishing the landing zone. Zachary had asked all of the platoon leaders to leave their platoon sergeants in charge and meet him at the tire pile immediately for a quick intelligence update and review of the action.
The sun had risen far enough above the horizon across the island of Luzon to scatter the darkness, casting a gray shade. When Kurtz took off his goggles, he could see dark humps lying on the hardstand about two hundred meters from the tire pile, where first and second squads had executed a perfect L-shaped ambush. Some of the bodies were moving, some were crying out in anguish, yelping as much in their mortal pain as they were bemoan-ing their complete defeat. The thick smell of spent powder hung in the air like a fog, waiting for the sun to burn it, and the memories of a horrible night, away.
Zachary walked toward the ammunition pile, faithfully guarded by Quinones’s squad, then looked over the bulkhead down onto the pier, where he saw Quinones and his men still oriented to the west, ever vigilant. The darkened lumps of bodies were scattered along the pier, across its width.
Zachary returned to the tire pile, the de facto command post, with ever-growing numbers of soldiers gathering there. Some of the headquarters troops, who had remained in the barracks to monitor radios and react to emergencies, came out, looking in amazement at their company’s baptism of fire. The platoon leaders had arrived, kneeling next to each other, comparing notes. As Zachary approached, he made it a point to look at Taylor’s eyes to see what was there. They all stood as the commander and the tethered Teller approached. Taylor returned Zach’s gaze with the reassurance that he had the mettle for this business and the understanding that he had matured immensely in the last hour.
Taylor was the tallest of the lieutenants, but Kurtz’s sheer breadth made him seem larger. Barker was a rather short and slight officer, but large in heart. He performed well, Zachary thought. He did not overreact and secured the flank. Barker’s red hair and boyish looks stood in stark contrast to Kurtz’s partially unshaven face and Taylor’s ruggedness. The three lieutenants stood next to each other, waiting for the commander.
“Take a knee guys,” Zachary said. The lieu-tenants obeyed, forming a semicircle around the captain, who was still standing. First Sergeant Washington scattered the onlookers, telling them to assist their platoon sergeants in detainee control and collection of enemy dead. Zachary began to talk, saying he wanted to gather them and very quickly determine what adjustments they needed to make in case of another attack. The first thing he could think of was that they needed to break into the ammu-nition dump because he was certain they were nearly out of everything.
Teller, Slick’s backup on the radio, looked up at the UH-60 helicopter, its rotor blades beating against the sky like drumsticks. The noise caused everyone except Kurtz to look skyward at the Black Hawk helicopter with the big red cross painted on its side. It was the medevac for Cartwright. Kurtz, however, was consumed in his own thoughts, staring blankly at the ammunition stockpile near the water.
Always shoot the two men nearest the radio, Ayala said to himself. His hand was bleeding profusely despite the white dirt caking inside his palm. His black hair hung in strands over his forehead. He had taken his bandanna and wrapped it around his wounded hand so that he could begin to eliminate the Americans, one by one.
Ayala low-crawled along the barracks building adjacent to the command post and edged his scarred face around the corner. It was just light enough for him to see the ammunition pile about fifty meters to his left and a grouping of Americans kneeling around some old tires. He heard the helicopter fly overhead and used the cover of its roar as an opportunity to extract the Shansi from his backpack. He attached the shoulder stock and fed one ten-round clip into the box magazine. He saw them looking up at the black helicopter and decided the movement could wait no longer. He painfully clutched his pistol, seated it in his shoulder, and began to rise. Moving first to a crouch, then to a low duckwalk, he began walking faster and faster in their direction, completely undetected.
His men had performed beautifully, Kurtz was thinking to himself, fixated in a blank stare in the direction of the ammunition pile. The noise from the helicopter would soon subside and they would get on with business. He was just glad that none of his men had to take that ride. In his periphery, he noticed one of the troops seemed to be walking toward them as the curtain of night gave way to a blue-gray shade. It was still not completely light, and—the platoons are continuing the mission — and why does he not have a helmet — and why is he starting to run at us with a rifle in his hand?! The thoughts tumbled through his mind with increasing momentum, each successive notion unable to completely express itself before the next came barging forward. His first instinct was to grab the commander.
Get the radio first. He was only thirty meters away. Ayala stopped, as he saw one of the men begin to rise. His world moved in slow motion. He aimed the front inverted V and V-notched tangent rear sites at the American with the radio. He squeezed the trigger and actually saw the large .45 caliber bullet fly from the barrel, striking him in the back of the neck, causing his head to jerk violently backward and his arms to outstretch as if to break his fall. The second round bored through the radio, scattering shrapnel in all directions.