Talbosa reorganized his men, warning them to prepare for an ambush. The enemy was near. He had one company in the lead, walking softly but not without noise. The remaining two companies followed him down the path, which widened as the rain forest gave way to grass.
Talbosa followed a young fighter not a day over fifteen. As they walked in the sweltering morning heat, he recalled his earlier days with the movement. He yearned for the day when the children of the Philippines could lay down their weapons and pick up schoolbooks to learn. He had read hundreds of books during his lifetime: the Koran, the Bible, Weber, Marx, Rousseau, Jefferson, Mao Zedong, Sun Tzu, and many others hoping to understand the world beyond. He knew there were points of view other than his. He also knew that the Philippines would never prosper so long as the imperialistic powers maintained control of the country. They had to achieve their independence through whatever form of government. In the early nineties, the Islamic movement seemed to gain traction, providing an opening. Abu Sayyaf had splintered from the bungling New People’s Army, and Talbosa had seen an opportunity.
Like the Muslims in the Balkans, Talbosa had chosen to adopt a practical, almost Clausewitzian approach to warfare, meaning it was simply a furtherance of political endeavors. Talbosa’s fight was not for Bin Laden, but for his people, a means to an end.
Walking down the path in his sweat-stained khaki-brown uniform, Talbosa wiped the moisture from his dark forehead. So much hatred and violence. So many children dying. We can be free. We can have a better life.
Chapter 45
“Any station, this is Bushmaster six, over,” Major Ramsey said into the black microphone. He waited and still got no response. He had been trying for over fifteen minutes to contact either the embassy or his group in Okinawa. He was sure the radio was working. Where could they be? He had Jones check the encrypting codes. The frequencies were correct, and he was using the proper call signs. In the past, he had been able to reach Okinawa, but today was getting no response.
“Which bird are we using, Jonesy?”
“Bird sixty-five,” Jones responded, looking at the sky as if he could read a bumper number on the satellite.
“How about bird sixty-four, can we try that?” Ramsey asked.
“We can try anything once,” Jones said, picking up the small antenna dish and aiming its skeletal frame to the southeast toward New Guinea. “If we get anybody, it won’t be our headquarters. Bird sixty-four can’t reach Okinawa. Something about the horizon. It might be able to redirect our signal to another satellite, but I don’t know how we could do that.” Satellite 64 covered the Indonesia, Australia, and New Zealand area, lying somewhat low on the horizon. Its farthest reach north without retransmission was the Philippines. In a southerly direction it transmitted to the Antarctic teams that were stationed there doing ecological work.
“Well, I just want to get our message to some-body who speaks English, so they can relay it to some authority in our government. Japanese making tanks in the Philippines would make a stir somewhere, I’m sure,” Ramsey said.
Jones chuckled. “Yeah, especially the Philippines. Okay. Try it now.”
“Any station this net, this is Bushmaster six, over.” He paused. Nothing.
“Any station this net, this is Bushmaster six, over.” Again nothing. He knew he was using secure voice communications and unless people had the same nonlinear, algorithmic encrypting variable set in their radio’s microprocessor, they would not be able to hear him. The variables were randomly configured and contained in small, handheld devices that interfaced with the communications equipment. In essence, they disguised and protected an otherwise-naked transmission that would normally be free for intercept from anyone using the same frequency bandwidth. The satellite radio had a port on the front panel where Jones had “re-keyed” the tacsat. He was sure that no one in New Guinea or Australia had their variable.
“Bushmaster six, this is Bravo six romeo, over,” a voice responded. Ramsey scrambled to his knees, grabbing the handset. Jones pumped his fist next to his ribs in silent hope that it was someone who could help them.
“This is Bushmaster six, who are you and what is your location?”
“Stand by. Authenticate Alpha Mike, over.” That was a good sign, Ramsey thought, as Jones spooled up his digital encryption device. The two letters A and M had a corresponding response that only someone using the handheld encryption device could locate. They had to be Americans.
“I authenticate Romeo, break,” Ramsey said as Jones had indicated, “authenticate Foxtrot Lima, over.” It was customary to authenticate in both directions of the conversation so that each party could be reasonably assured that they were speaking with an authorized user. A brief pause ensued. Ramsey was hopeful, though. Finally, wherever these guys are, I’m giving them the scoop. He could unload his burden. He had felt a bit like the Navy lieutenant commander that had seen the radar images of the Japanese fleet bearing down on Hawaii from the north on that dreadful day in December 1941. He had the answer, but could get it to nobody. The answer to what, he was unsure.
“I authenticate Sierra, over.”
“This is Bushmaster six. What is your unit and location?” Ramsey asked, doubtful that the young RTO would give him the information.
“Look at the bravo designator in your encrypting device.” Jones was listening and promptly scrolled through his digital display and found the letter B, which for that day indicated a company from the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. Whoever these guys are, he thought, their radio guys go by the book. That’s good. I’m in touch with a squared-away unit.
Jones showed him the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division codes that Major Hewit of the embassy had placed in their encryption device. “We’re talking to Hawaii?” Jones asked incredulously. “If we can talk to them, we can reach Okinawa, can’t we.” Ramsey thought for a moment, rubbing what was now becoming a beard on his chin. He held a camouflaged mechanical pencil in one hand. Think, Chuck, think.
“No. These guys are that ammo detail at Subic. Remember my bud, Zach Garrett, that I men-tioned?” Ramsey said. He remembered walking out of the embassy before their mission to Mindanao and seeing a calendar that showed one company arriving to guard some ammo that was being transferred to another ship. The manifest had listed Captain Zach Garrett as the leader.
“Okay, I’ve got your unit, and I think I know your location. I am friendly. Look at Bushmaster in your device. That’s me. I need to talk to your com-mander. I have some important information, over,” Chuck said.
The voice came back. “Wait, over.”
Ramsey waited among the tall trees and elephant grass. The stream that had been their path was fifty meters to his south. He could see his men, one about every fifty meters, in a circular perimeter, constantly vigilant, but very tired. Their worn senses were not as keen. He could feel the anticipation of the helicopters surge through him, washing away the dikes of caution that normally prevented emotions from interfering with the mission at hand. They had been peaking for four days. Constantly on the run, never a restful moment. It was the time, the body was saying. It had to be immediately. I can’t go much farther without rest and sleep and good food.
Waiting for the response. Waiting. Special Forces soldiers were always waiting for support from someone else who probably did not understand their precarious situation.