Ambush

11

Murdock and the rest of the SEALs slouched around their quarters. Everyone knew about the general coming in and that they had a target. If they could find it, and if Lam and Juan didn’t get themselves shot full of holes before daylight.

Bradford tried the SATCOM call every half hour until midnight; then Murdock told him they would try in the morning.

“Get some sleep,” Murdock said. “We still have a mission tomorrow afternoon until we hear differently. My gut feeling is that the two of them will come through the attack.”

Stroh lifted his brows. “Did they say upstream or downstream from the second village you hit before?”

Murdock frowned, rubbed his face with his hand, and shook his head. “They didn’t say. But with two thousand people, it would have to be downstream. Up there in the boonies where we were, there was nothing to support a population that size.”

“So how far down?”

“We need a good detailed map of the area. Wonder if the colonel has any.”

“You mean the general. We don’t know if he came in tonight or not, but at least we stopped the damn Colonel Alvarez. I bet he was in for some big cash money.”

“Damn, I wish those guys would call in.”

“Leave the SATCOM on all night. You’ve got plenty of battery.”

“True, and replacements. Let me find Bradford and the set. I’ll baby-sit the thing.”

“Do we know where the leader of this rebel bunch has his headquarters?” Stroh asked.

“Not a clue. I don’t even know his name.”

“That I can give you. He’s Muhammad Al Hillah. He took a Muslim name and wants to be a hero to his people.”

“How many Muslims in Mindanao?”

“Nobody knows for sure. Some say four million, some say less than two million. It’s a huge place.”

“So this Al Hillah has a big pool to draw from.”

“Most of them were fanatics until a couple of years ago when the big peace treaty came. So now Al Hillah has only to work with the true dissidents and rebels who have broken away from the old Separatist Islamic Liberation Front. Complicated, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Give me a good old-fashioned firefight any day.” Murdock yawned and looked over at Stroh. “You going to stay up all night and help me watch the radio? They could call at any time.”

“Oh, hell, no. I’ve got to get my beauty rest. I’ve got some major’s digs while he’s on leave. You take care.” Don waved and hurried out the door.

Murdock took the SATCOM from Bradford and set it up near his bunk, where the antenna could reach through a window and nail the satellite. He let it beep once, then turned it to receive and stretched out on his bunk. If Lam called, he would hear the voice and be on it like a fly on sticky paper.

Muhammad Al Hillah sat in his house on the cliffs high above the west coast town of Lebak. It was one of his hideaways where no one could bother him, or even find him. He came here to think, to plan, to make love, and to meditate. He was due to travel over the mountains to the training center at Bunga, a good source for many of his recruits. He stood and stretched to his full five feet eleven. He was sturdy at 190 pounds, and had not gone to fat as many of his fellow Moro fighters had done since the peace treaty in 1996. He had carried on the fight even when most of the others had signed the paper and accepted the benevolence of the central government. Now many of them were regretting it.

He scratched his arm and rubbed his nose. He should be doing something. His skin was lighter than that of many Filipinos, and he had a broad face, deep-set eyes, and a prominent nose. At thirty-eight he was already losing his hair, and his forehead had increased by almost an inch in the past five years. His father had been bald at fifty.

Muhammad worked on a bunch of grapes, and checked a large wall map he’d stolen from the Army. He had it tacked to the wall. It had colored pushpins in it showing each of his camps and strong points, his training camp, and where most of his equipment and materials were hidden.

He should be in the training camp at Bunga. His captain in charge sometimes went overboard in his realistic training. In the long run it would make better soldiers for him. It was a hard trip to Bunga. He and his bodyguard would have to go by motorcycle in a few days. On the trails it would take them most of two days. What he needed was a helicopter.

Muhammad smiled at the thought. He could just see himself in a small Bell chopper lifting off from a clearing and soaring over the trees and mountains, setting down at one camp after the other. He could coordinate his work quicker and better. He shook his head. But where would he keep it and how would he service and maintain it? He knew that helicopters took five times as much maintenance and service as a regular airplane. He had no mechanics who knew helicopters. Sadly, even stealing one from the Army was not a viable plan.

So, what was next? The hostage operation was moving along. So far he had ransomed out eight of the men and women from three different countries for eight hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Already he had a victory. He had heard by radio that the U.S. had sent a crack fighting unit into Davao. They had hit one of his camps well above Bunga. Twenty-eight dead. He hadn’t suffered a loss like that since they began the campaign three years ago.

He paused a moment thinking about it. What was the best way to discourage them? The U.S. public went crazy over casualties in a mini-war. Yes. He would inflict six or eight casualties on them the next time they tried to hit one of his camps. The U.S. press would hear about it, and the public pressure would force the President to call the fighting group home. He didn’t know what elite group they were. It didn’t matter. With the new weapons he had after the three-million-dollar gift from Osama bin Laden, he could stand up against any fighting force. They would be surprised by the larger-caliber guns he had.

He looked out over his mountain stronghold. Misty today. On a clear day he could see six miles to the sea. This was a beautiful spot — but more importantly, it was safe and secure and known only to a handful of his most trusted lieutenants. The troops assigned here never left. They were his permanent elite bodyguard unit.

He looked across the room at a girl who lounged on a round bed. “I’m thirsty,” he said. The girl stood at once, smiled, and hurried out the door. Muhammad nodded. She was a pleasant girl who gave him no trouble. She was topless as usual, and that pleased Muhammad. He glanced at his desk and the list of projects to get done today.

One item on his list was not to his liking, but had to be done to insure discipline. A recruit, not much more than seventeen, had decided he didn’t like the rebel life after all and had deserted. He had been tracked down, captured, and brought to the stronghold by a roundabout means by a trusted lieutenant. The boy must be dealt with.

Teta brought in the insulated cup filled with his favorite chilled wine. He thanked her, reached out, and stroked her breasts, so young they still had a slight upthrust. Then he waved her away. He took the cup with him as he left the office and went outside. Three of his best soldiers stood at attention next to a rock wall. Directly in front of them knelt the deserter.

Muhammad didn’t waste time. He marched to the deserter, lifted his chin, and stared into his eyes.

“You deserted the holy Muslim troops. You have shamed yourself and your family. For this you must pay.”

The youth looked at Muhammad and nodded. Muhammad went behind him, drew the .45 pistol from his holster, and fired one shot into the back of the deserter’s head. The youth slammed forward, his arms flying out to the sides as his face scraped in the grass of the yard.

“Send him back to his family for a traditional burial,” the rebel leader said. Then he went back into his office. The wine in his cup was almost gone. He needed some more.

Lam had nearly finished the radio call to Murdock when the first shot slammed past him and hit a tree. He signed off, grabbed the antenna and radio, and bolted out of there.

“Incoming,” he bellowed at Juan, who had slid behind a tree when he heard the first shot. He turned his MP-5 and sprayed the whole clip at the direction the fire flashes came from. He jerked out the empty and pushed in a new clip.

“Move to the rear, I’ll cover you,” Juan yelled. “Go now.” He fired again at the single flashes from below and to the right. He had no idea how the patrol had found them. They had only single-shot rifles. That was good. Maybe a squad in training. He fired spaced shots now, three here, then another three. It kept the attackers’ heads down.

“I’ll cover you now,” Lam shouted from forty feet to the side of the hill. As soon as the shots came from Lam, Juan grabbed his combat vest and small pack and surged toward Lam. It was across the face of the hill and not that hard moving. He felt something sting his leg, but kept going. A graze maybe. A few seconds later he dove behind a fallen log and out of the line of fire.

“Where did they come from?” Lam asked.

“You’re the ears,” Juan said. “First I heard them was that first shot somebody fired too soon. They knew where we were; they should have closed in and cut us to pieces before we knew they were there.”

“Thanks for green troops,” Lam said. “We better keep moving along the hill. If we don’t fire, they won’t know where we are. The growth is too thick here for them to spot us.”

They ran along the hill, then climbed higher and went along the side of the slope again. Lam figured they were a mile from the first attack and he called a halt.

He held up his hand and listened. Shook his head. “Nobody back there. Hasn’t been for the last half mile. They gave up on us. Green as grass in-training troops.”

“So what should we do now?” Juan asked.

“Get back in touch with Murdock. Lay out a sked for tomorrow on the town. I’d bet he’s left his set on to receive. I didn’t tell him where to come.”

Lam checked their back trail, listened intently again, then set up the dish antenna so it would pick up the satellite. He closed his eyes and listened again.

“Nobody out there for a mile at least.” He turned on the set and made the call.

“Yes, Scout, sounded like you were attacked.”

“We were, Home Plate. Some green troops in training, we figured. They should have riddled us like a pair of sat-down ducks. We were lucky. I didn’t tell you where this camp is. Figured you’d want to know. It’s about twenty-five miles below the one we hit where we had the good firefight.”

“Twenty-five miles downstream. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Our LZ will be which side of it?”

“Upstream three to four miles on the west bank. Can’t really go downstream because the valley flattens out into farmland.”

“Roger that. Same time. We have the place. You guys dig a hole somewhere and wait for us. Don’t get fancy and try to do anything by yourselves.”

“We’ll go find an LZ and stay put. I can see a long nap before bedtime.”

“Do it and we’ll talk to you just before we take off at 1900. Home Plate, out.”

“Right, Home Plate. See you there.”

Lam folded up the dish antenna and packed it with the SATCOM. “Nothing like modern communications,” Lam said. “Let’s get out of here and find a good LZ three or four miles upstream from the town.”

They found it about 0100. It was maybe five miles from the town, Juan figured, but a great spot. Here a small piece of farmland had been carved out along a tributary that came into the main stream. There was an open space of two or three acres on this side of the river that had been recovered from the encroaching jungles. Now it was dry, but there was a two-foot dike all around the field like in a terrace. Only here there was but one level. It could be flooded from a short canal from upstream. Part of the field was still green. The area nearest the river was harvested, and Lam guessed rice had been the crop.

They moved back away from the LZ to the first lift of a ridgeline, and found a level spot just in back of the top. They could stretch out there and sleep and still get to the ridgeline in seconds to check out the trail along the river and the farmed field.

They relaxed.

“Should we stand guard?” Juan asked.

“Oh, yeah. Take your pick, 0100 to 0300 or 0300 to 0600.”

“Hey, I’ll take the first shift. You get some sleep. Don’t worry, I won’t go to sleep. I value my Filipino hide too much for that. They could have a night patrol out roaming around. If I hear them or see them, we’ll be fine.”

Lam hesitated. Now to 0300 was the most dangerous time for night patrols. He lifted his brows. The guy was an officer in the Army. He should know what he was doing. No complaints so far. Lam changed his mind in a flash.

“Hell, no, Juan. I want the first shift, worst time for nighttime raiders. I can hear them better than you can. You get some sleep. I’ll wake you up at 0300.”

“Either way. Yeah, I am a bit tired.” He lay down and propped his head on his pack, and was sleeping by the time Lam found his OP on the ridgeline.

Nothing happened for an hour and a half. Just after 0230 Lam heard movement in the growth below. He hated how the jungle ate up the sounds, but enough noise was there. He tried to count the men, but he couldn’t. The moon was out halfway and gave some light in the heavy growth.

Then a man ran across an open space two hundred yards away. The motion caught Lam’s eye. He put his binoculars on the spot. At night the glasses magnified the image, and also magnified the light. Not as good as NVGs, but they helped. He saw the next man go across. All had new-looking uniforms. They had field packs and rifles, canteens, but no blanket rolls or shelter halves. A patrol.

Lam watched them for another fifteen minutes as they worked their way slowly closer to the ridge where he crouched. If they came too close, he’d have to wake Juan and haul ass. He watched them through the glasses. The lead man looked tired. He kept moving across the face of the slope instead of going up it. Somebody would yell at him and he’d go up a step, and then to the left again.

Lam’s finger gently caressed the MP-5’s trigger. He could nail all six of them right there in the opening and nobody would hear a shot. They were too far from the camp and the jungle muffled the sound like a blanket. He moved the sights to the first man. Three-shot bursts from one to the other, right down the line. The fools were no more than two or three feet apart. Bad soldiering.

He eased his finger off the trigger.

No. Not his mission. They would pay, but it would be later tomorrow night when the whole SEAL platoon was there and they were taking down selected targets like bowling pins.

Yes, wait.

Then moments later a new leader took over, and he moved straight up the slope. When he crossed it he would be only a dozen feet from where Lam lay. Lam pulled the MP-5 down so the muzzle aimed at the men. Seventy-five yards away. How long could he wait? He blotted sweat off his forehead. He should wake up Juan.