Matt stopped, crouched, and fired one round into the soldier’s forehead, thirty meters away. The enemy soldier — and they now knew them to be enemy — stood still, as if there were something he could do about his mortal wound, then fell back-ward to the ground, dead.
As they passed the dead man, Matt saw that his face was covered in blood. He stooped and stole the man’s weapon on the fly, never breaking stride.
Matt felt a hot, stinging sensation in his lower right leg, like a snakebite. He looked down and saw that his trousers were shredded along his right calf. Other bullets punched into the ground around him. Only a graze.
They crested the rise and entered the wooded area, then hurriedly followed the trail, winding through the trees as if they were racing down a ski slalom.
“Go back to the equipment, I’ll meet you there,” Matt said. Barefoot nodded and continued to run, starting to tire from the weight. Matt pulled off the path and circled back. He quickly checked his weapon. He did not know what it was, but figured if he pulled the trigger, it would shoot.
The path to Zachary is through these bastards, Matt thought as he waited.
Chapter 85
They darted into a clearing, then pulled away like a ride at the local carnival. Zachary peered out of the open door, the wind beating the back of his head, and saw at least thirty other UH-60 Black Hawks performing similar maneuvers into the false insertion area.
Two minutes out, Zachary thought. He looked at his watch, then cut a gaze at Slick, who gave him a thumbs-up. The trusty RTO. In many respects, there was no better friend to a commander. Confidant, friend, lackey, supporter, idea man, humorist, the RTO was always there, always ready, always prepared. Slick was typical, with his wry sense of humor and devastating ability to make the commander laugh when he least expected it. It was tough humping the thirty pounds of radio gear and living with the commander. Often it took a special breed.
Zachary carried the company net radio in his own rucksack. He saw no need to suck another soldier away from the platoons when he was stronger than most in the company. Slick would monitor Major Kooseman and the other company commanders on battalion net, and Zachary would maneuver the company through the platoon leaders on the company net. The platoon leaders would then maneuver their squads on platoon nets.
Oh shit. Orange tracers rocketed skyward at the helicopters as they came in for a hot landing between Cabanatuan and Fort Magsaysay. The helicopters banked hard and low, pushing the envelope trying to gain cover. They touched down for a brief moment behind a large wooded knoll, discharged their pas-sengers, then pulled away, turning toward the west to make another lift.
They would make it back in time before the first heavy storm of the wet season.
Zachary took a knee and watched the beauty of the battalion air assault. In training, they had never had the opportunity to perform entire battalion lifts, and the sight of the helicopters pulling away like a swarm of wasps impressed him. He watched and listened to the battalion radio net as McAllister’s company took the lead for the assault into Caba-natuan.
McAllister’s voice gave him comfort again. He was among friends. No longer was his company isolated, the world surrounding them.
“Let’s move to checkpoint three-one, over,” he said into his company net.
Taylor, Kurtz, and Barker acknowledged. Zachary and his platoon leaders gathered their men, formed into a series of wedges, and headed toward the wooded knoll.
Matt had decided to use the pistol first, waited until the lead soldier was less than thirty meters away, then pulled the trigger. He needed to buy Sturgeon and Barefoot some time, and this was the best way.
As he watched the man drop like a shot quail, he grabbed the submachine gun and fired into the confused mass. The weapon jumped wildly in his hands, but he was hitting his targets. He saw three others fall to the ground.
As he started receiving fire, he pulled back into the forest, ran across the trail, then doubled back to gain the flank.
It worked. The Japanese soldiers, under new direction, charged headlong into the woods where Matt had originally entered. As they melted into the sparse forest, Matt held the Kogyo tightly and sighted into the backs of the Japanese.
This is for Rathburn and Sturgeon, you bastards!
He was far more effective that time, killing at least fifteen soldiers who had bunched in their confusion. They turned on him, coming at him like a Rebel charge through the Devil’s Den at Gettys-burg. The enemy soldiers were screaming and firing weapons, the orange tracers blowing through the leaves, cracking branches, and temporarily painting the night sky like some wicked airbrush.
He swallowed dry spit as he felt the hammer fall on an empty chamber. He saw the barrel steaming and smoking directly in front of him when he realized he had fired all of the ammunition. There was nothing left for him to do except to move back through the woods with judicious use of his pistol.
He scurried along the reverse slope of the hill, hot lead chasing him only a step behind. He heard the helicopters come and go and assumed that they were surrounded.
A twig dug deep into his cheek, just beneath his eye, and snapped. His head turned and as he looked back toward his front, he tumbled over a large root, snapping his ankle as he fell.
In no time, three enemy soldiers were upon him, frothing at the mouth like rabid pit bulls ready to complete the kill. He shot one through the lower abdomen, actually hitting the man’s testicles, then fired a shot into the face of the man to his left.
The bayonet came arching downward, piercing his abdomen. The Asian man smiled, and with the bayonet in Matt’s abdomen, pulled the trigger of his M16 rifle.
Matt heard the deafening blast and felt the initial pain, then his world began to waft back and forth in his mind as if on a pendulum. First he saw the leering Japanese soldier, delighting in the kill, then he heard the faint sound of helicopters chopping behind him. Then he thought of Sturgeon and Barefoot, and seconds later he saw Rathburn. The pendulum swung toward Meredith’s face, then back again to the farm and his family. Then something about the Rolling Stones, but only briefly. Then the farm, rolling hills, the Blue Ridge, Karen, father, mother, Zachary. Yes, Zachary. My best friend. Fishing in the stream together. Catching trout. Then Meredith, blond hair, soft skin, sitting by the pool, telling secrets, connecting.
Then Zachary’s voice.
Then nothing.
“Bravo six, this is White six,” Kurtz said into the company radio net.
“Send it,” Zachary said, recognizing the voice.
“We’ve got enemy contact to our left flank. Say again. Gunfire you hear is enemy contact, over.”
“Roger. I want you to move to the west, through the woods, and try to develop the situation. I’ll maneuver the other elements after you make contact.”
“Roger.”
Kurtz took a deep breath, sucked in the acrid smell of gunpowder, and told his squad leaders to move in the direction of the weapons fire. There it was again. That confident, almost cocky feeling of invincibility. Come get me, you sons of bitches! He spit a large wad of chaw onto the ground and tucked behind his first squad leader, ready to control the action. His chinstrap grated against his stubble beard. He carried his M4 rifle by the pistol grip at the ready with one arm, holding the platoon radio handset in his other hand. Or I’m gonna come get you!
“Contact,” came Quinones’s voice over the platoon net, followed by a brief exchange of fire. The word sent a thrill up Kurtz’s spine.