It was the only right thing to do. He imagined that there were two brothers back in the United States somewhere who were glad he had called the medevac for the two men.
“You okay, sir?” Slick asked, sensing his com-mander disconnect from the increasingly pressing events.
Zachary turned and looked at the young soldier, patted him on the back, and said, “Let’s kill some bad guys.”
The tanks passed to his front, only six hundred meters away. It was nerve-racking, watching them from such a short distance. Would one of his soldiers screw the plan and fire too soon, or too late? It was a distinct possibility, given the haphazard pace of events.
“They look just like M1s, sir,” Slick said.
“More like the German Leopard 2, Slick. Almost an exact copy,” Zachary said, releasing some nervous tension. He rested his M4 on his dry knee as he lay back against a muddy dike.
He saw the first missile strike the second tank, causing a brief fireball that lit the immediate sur-roundings. Successive missiles scored hits as well, stopping the column so that roughly thirty tanks, two companies, were beyond the rice paddies.
That’s too many, Zachary thought to himself. But he waited. Maybe they could still do it.
Takishi slewed the turret to the right, wishing they would quickly get off the dike that was the road separating two large paddy fields. This place will be good for factories one day, he thought, as his tank finally passed beyond the rice paddies.
He slewed the turret back to the left, enjoying the ride. Okay, where are these guys? He had reports from his logistical units in Cabanatuan that they were under heavy fire from what seemed like a battalion of light infantry. Are you kidding me? A battalion?
“Muriami, let’s go find these people and get to Manila,” Takishi said as Muriami raced the jet engine, slamming Takishi’s ribs into the steel seat back.
The other tank commanders followed suit, glad they were able to move faster, no longer impeded by the sudden drop on either side.
When he noticed some hot black spots burning in his thermal sight, he slewed the turret even with the road to gain perspective, then back again at the rising ground.
There they are!
“Gunner, high explosive, enemy personnel in the woods,” Takishi said, mimicking the precision of a skilled soldier.
The loader slammed one round into the massive breech while the gunner took control and lased to the target. His signal came back quickly, indicating he was a mere four hundred meters away.
“Acquired,” the young sergeant announced with cold acumen. He could have been on a Sunday drive for all he cared.
Takishi said, “Fire when ready,” only to override the gunner when he saw the missiles screaming toward his column of tanks.
The gunner’s shot flew errant, cutting a white hole into the black night, landing almost a mile away without doing any damage.
Zachary watched in disbelief as the first tank continued to roam free on the hardpan. Taylor’s men had fired two volleys of Javelin missiles and three sets of AT4s. He thought he counted fifteen enemy vehicles burning. They burned a brilliant orange hue that quickly mixed with the black smoke of melting rubber.
But that’s only half. Zachary was growing increasingly concerned. He did not want Kurtz to shoot his wad on the thirty or so tanks lined up to his front if Taylor needed the help.
The Japanese tanks that could turn off the road raced for the wooded knoll, offering only frontal shots, the worst kind, for Taylor’s gunners and randomly spitting machine-gun fire into the edge of the forest. It was almost too late for Zachary to have Kurtz’s men do anything about the advance.
Zachary checked and achieved a small measure of reassurance when he saw five tanks burning bumper to bumper at the junction in the road where the rice paddies gave way to hardstand.
No way they’re getting around that.
“Bravo six, this is Red six, we’re taking heavy fire, over!” came Taylor’s nervous voice, almost seeming to squeak in a high pitch. He thought he could hear the bullets whipping past Taylor over the microphone.
“Roger—”
“Break, break,” Barker said, loudly, short-circuiting the commander. “This is Blue six. I’m on your flank now. Engaging. Out.”
Zachary watched as six missiles arched through the sky, and found targets, stopping the tanks in their tracks.
That leaves nine.
Another volley, this time AT4s disabled two more tanks.
Seven.
Zachary watched as some of the tanks stacked on the road tried to turn off and support the attack. They were unsuccessful, mostly dipping over the edge of the concrete road, then rolling into the deep mud, and sticking, unable to move forward or back. One tank turned its tread until it chewed the concrete, made partial purchase in the mud, then flipped, pinning down and ultimately drowning the tank commander, who had opened his hatch to guide the effort.
Some of the other tanks, though, turned their turrets and began to support the attack with small-arms fire and main gun blasts. Finally, his tactical patience had reached its limit.
“White, this is Bravo. Do it.”
“Roger,” Kurtz responded.
Kurtz’s men rose from the swampy bog like Francis Marion’s American Revolution cavalry, water and mud and rice stems streaming and hanging off their bodies. They fired volley after volley of antitank weapons, nearly depleting the company’s entire stock, including the plus up from the ammunition pile at Subic.
The return fire was unexpectedly heavy, splashing into the mud, spraying water in all directions.
There they were again. Those damned heli-copters, firing 30mm chain guns at his men.
Zachary radioed Major Kooseman and asked again about the attack helicopters, “We need support now, sir,” he told him.
“Helos are five minutes out,” Kooseman told him.
Five minutes? This thing’ll be history in five minutes.
Zachary watched as another volley from Barker’s platoon cut the attacking force down to three tanks.
“Bravo, this is Red, we’re out of tank-killing systems, over,” Taylor said, sounding disgusted.
“This is Blue. Likewise,” Barker said, piggy-backing on Taylor’s bad news.
Zachary dropped his hand into his lap after saying, “Roger, continue to fight, attack helicopters on the way.”
He felt the first draft of the cool wind lift a matted hair off his forehead as he heard a helicopter in the background. Could it be? No, it was not. Only the medevac for the two civilians.
A raindrop touched his nose. At first, he thought an enemy round had kicked water into his face, but distinguished the coolness of the liquid and looked skyward. Lifting his goggles from his face, he saw heavy clouds racing across the creeping grayness of the morning like a Yankee clipper cutting through stormy seas. Then he looked at the stack of enemy tanks, some burning, some firing, some cocked crazily over the lip of the road. What a perfect target.
Defenseless tanks were lined up single file on the road with only a few enemy helicopters swarming for protection. The beauty of it was that the Japanese self-propelled artillery was stacked on the road as well. For the moment, they were safe from any indirect fire, but still in great danger from the enemy helicopters bobbing up and down behind the tree line near Fort Magsaysay.
The rain came with an unexpected suddenness. Cool and heavy, the drops felt larger than normal. The wind blew sideways, making the rain feel like tiny darts against Zachary’s face. It felt both hot and cold at the same time. Zachary prayed for the aberration to go away, hoping it was a simple thunderstorm. The wind gusted, spitting cold water in his face out of defiance, reporting that things were only going to get worse.