Abe felt the first bullet crush his kneecap. The second burned a hole in his hamstring, cracking his femur. Some bounced off the cage, leaving hot sparks in their place.
The hand reached in and pulled him away from the cage as a series of bullets bounced off its metal frame, some catching the reinforced belly of the helicopter, others digging their way into Abe’s spine.
Chuck grabbed one of Abe’s arms and helped pull him into the aircraft, which banked away with the basket dangling below.
The rebel saw a green beret lying on the ground, thrust his bayonet into it, then plucked it from the blade and placed it on his head.
He had won.
Chuck looked at Abe’s fading eyes. The man was dying, he was sure. Abe looked at him and grabbed his hand, rolling toward him as the helicopter banked over the ocean.
Pressing the picture of his family into Chuck’s palm, he said, “Please call them and tell them I love them.” He spoke with unusual clarity, his accent completely absent.
He had wanted to quote Chuck a poem to tell them, but those thoughts had been washed into the drainage pit of his mind, rushing along the gutter, finding the sewer hole and joining the morass of other peaceful, comforting notions. He had recognized his transformation from peace-loving executive to warrior-come-lately and made a mental note to write a series of poems about the gradual but persistent change in his nature. It was almost genetic, instinctual. Without cause or celebration, he did what he had to do, and he did it well. His actions were not propped by allegiance to any flag or ideals, only to the people he had toiled with for the past two weeks. His captors turned benefactors had taken him into the fold, and he had accepted them as well. The dynamics were rich with potential for beautiful prose and poetry.
But his poems were a thing of the past, and so was Abe.
Chuck watched Abe’s eyes flutter, as he felt the hand close in on his, pressing the picture deeper into his palm. “Thank you, my friend.”
Ramsey turned his head and his eyes caught the sight of five body bags stacked in the helicopter. Each had a name written in black marker on green tape.
He stared at one bag and the name written in bold letters: Peterson. Ron Peterson, where it all began.
Ramsey turned away and looked through the open door of the helicopter. His sullen gaze fixed on nothing in particular as a vivid image of Camille, his beautiful daughter, reappeared in his mind; her soft brown hair lying against her shoulders; her smooth round face grinning at him, then frowning, saying, “Come home, Daddy, I miss you. Love you, Daddy, no matter where you are.”
He looked at Abe and passed out.
Abe died as the helicopter blew past Cateel Bay and raced to the north, where the hospital ship was waiting.
Chapter 90
Prime Minister Mizuzawa had boarded the Shin Meiwa aircraft, flown to the site where the oil tankers were originally located, saw nothing, then landed in the mouth of the Pasig River near the Presidential Palace, using the raging storm as his cover. The pilot had balked at Mizuzawa’s insistence, but gladly agreed when a Japanese “New Nambu” .38-caliber revolver was pressed against his temple. The sheering winds pushed the aircraft down, then seemingly backward, releasing its force and allowing the plane to speed forward, almost tripping over itself.
If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.
Dressed in combat fatigues, the prime minister made his way through the streets of Manila, raging with block-to-block, street-to-street, and building-to-building fighting. The entire affair was confusing. He saw M1 tanks shoot at each other, mistakenly. Filipino civilians still roamed the less chaotic streets as if times were normal. Japanese soldiers were holding the Americans back from taking the Presidential Palace and the critical financial district as well.
Mizuzawa entered the grounds of the palace practically unchallenged. The guard was huddled against the fence in a soaked poncho, the rain pelting against the porous fabric. Mizuzawa yanked his revolver from his holster, pulled back the hammer, leveled it alongside the temple of the shivering guard, then lifted it and fired a round. The blast might have made the young soldier permanently deaf in one ear, but it woke him up.
We have become too weak. It occurred to him as he strode into the palace that he was talking about himself. I should have killed him.
Several soldiers converged on Mizuzawa, recognizing him immediately. One summoned General Nugama, who came hustling down the steps, buckling his pants. His hair was disheveled, and the buttons to his uniform top were open. Mizuzawa could not determine if the man had been sleeping or screwing a Filipino whore.
“The spoils of war are not ours, yet, Nugama,” Mizuzawa said, deciding on the latter.
“Yes, sir. Merely catching up on my sleep,” Nugama said, looking virile in his old age.
Mizuzawa caught a glimpse of a beautiful Eurasian woman peering around the banister from atop the stairs. We are getting weak.
They walked into the operations center, where several soldiers sat before radios, television screens, and computers. All the men were wearing headsets and talking. A huge map of the Philippines hung on the wall, with red and blue markings on it indicating the location of friendly and enemy forces.
“Where is Takishi?” Mizuzawa asked Nugama.
“Sir, he is in Cabanatuan. He started moving with his division, and was stopped by”—he hated to say it—“by an infantry battalion.”
“What! Fools. I didn’t give him command of that division just so he could piss it away. I wanted him to be victorious. To know the smell of blood and death so that one day he could take my place as prime minister and understand necessary sacrifice.” It was true. Mizuzawa wanted Takishi to return to Japan as a conquering hero. It was just another step in the mentoring process; but like all of the other steps, the mentor can only get the pupil the job. He can’t ensure that he succeeds, but he could try.
“Yes, sir,” Nugama said, unsure of what to say. He knew of the special relationship between Takishi and Mizuzawa. It was no secret. But Mizuzawa had never made a public declaration of it.
“How bad is it?”
“He’s only lost a battalion, but all the aircraft are grounded, and he’s got two brigades stuck on the road, trapped by rice paddies. He’s still got two infantry battalions able to move, but they’re fighting the Rangers in the jungles. Those Rangers didn’t know what hit them,” he said, trying his best to report some good news.
“What else is happening?” Mizuzawa asked, walking over to the map.
“We’ve got four divisions on the ground. Two are at about 50 percent, but holding well in the city. We had enough time to establish a decent defensive perimeter. One division was holding Subic, but I moved it over here,” he said, pointing at the northern outskirts of Manila, “to flank the enemy Marines. They got caught in a pretty heavy cross fire from enemy air, then their reserve got destroyed by some light infantry to the west of Subic.
“Our intelligence was not very good,” he said humbly, looking at the floor.
“So we’ve got three divisions at 50 percent or less, and Takishi’s almost full strength,” Mizuzawa said, wondering. “Where’s the ship?”
Nugama paused for a moment, then it registered.
“Yes, sir. The ship is halfway between Hawaii and Los Angeles. As you know, the ship was not like the others. Its top deck looks like any other Toyota merchant ship with new cars on top. But the hull is very different. Admiral Sazaku is piloting the ship. He is very trustworthy. He will perform either mission we ask of him,” Nugama said.