Countdown: H Hour (29 page)

PART V:

H HOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Dear Lord, please don’t let me fuck up.

—Alan Shepherd (attributed)

Caban Island, Pilas Group, Basilan Province,

Republic of the Philippines

Whether by God’s grace, Murphy’s finger, or the Emperor Mong’s celestial command, the second camming device held. Graft wasn’t sure that had happened until the taut rope and his own momentum slammed him—
hard
—into the rock face.

He hung there, limp and gasping, for long minutes while he tried to convince himself that a) he was still alive and b) this was a good thing. The second proposition, given the sundry pains and the near impossibility of drawing a breath, was the harder of the two.

“You all right, Graft?” asked Semmerlin. He’d seen the fall through his goggles and
just
managed to belay the rope before Graft had built up enough momentum to rip another cam from the wall.

Finally, convinced of the former and willing to accept the latter, even if only arguendo, Graft got one hand on the rope, righted himself, and began to reconquer the ground lost.

“Yeah . . . and thanks. I owe ya a beer.”

“Cheap bastard.”

Only once did he pause on the way up, and that was when a couple of passing pebbles suggested that his little misfortune might have attracted some unwanted attention. Even if he hadn’t sensed the pebbles’ passage, the softly spoken words, in Lox’s voice, in his ear—“They’re
right
above you, Graft”—would have stopped his ascent.

The Moros were really—like Zulus, Sikhs, and Gurkhas—among the world’s naturally good soldiers. They needed intelligent leadership, of course, and perhaps a bit more than most, since some of their personal and cultural values were highly inconsistent with either mission accomplishment or personal survival. Among other things to their credit was responsibility for the U.S. Army dumping its inadequate .38 caliber pistols in favor of the much more reliably man-stopping .45. Having to use, as a matter of sheer survival, such a large bore pistol to deal with such tiny people said a great deal about Moro morale, guts, and enthusiasm, even if all three were often enhanced with drugs. Moreover, as often happens with a respectable enemy, many in U.S. forces during the Philippine Insurrection and the later Moro Rebellion thought a lot more highly of enemy Moros—and, frankly, liked them better—than they did Christian Filipinos, even when the latter had signed up on the Imperial side. Much the same thing was to happen again, six decades later and rather far to the northwest, in Vietnam. It was a fluke of, at least, American military psychology and didn’t really say anything too very bad about either Christian Filipinos or Vietnamese of the former Army of the Republic of Vietnam.

In any case, one constant meme running through the U.S. Army for over a century, which meme transferred nicely to M Day, Incorporated, was, “Respect the abilities of the mean little bastards.”

Graft froze in place. This wasn’t easy as he had the fingers of one hand tentatively clutching a tiny ledge above him. Pain started small in those fingers, but spread across his hand, down his arm, to his shoulder, and to the muscles of his chest.

Damn the Insurrectos
, he thought, as the agony spread. From above there came a faint sound of conversation. Slowly, and as carefully and quietly as possible, he removed his .45 from the shoulder rig in which it rested. That didn’t help his overstrained other arm a bit, of course.

Cousins Mukdum and Baguinda were just two of Janail’s three hundred and change followers on the island, exclusive of the mostly enslaved women who cooked, did laundry, and warmed some of the Datus’ beds at night. Datu was, in this case, a title conferred on his officers by Janail, and had little relationship to the idea of noble birth that the word normally conveyed. Their only badges of office were the kris—the local term for the swords was “kalis”—Janail had bought for them at a market.

Neither foremost nor least among Janail’s followers, it was just luck of the draw that had them standing watch over the long stretch of cliff that night. Mostly, they’d looked out over the sea, seeing little but the occasional brightly lit superstructure of a passing freighter, usually off at a considerable distance. The freighters had once been fair game, easy and profitable. Now there were few and those all armed.

Occasionally, they walked the length of the cliff, more for form’s sake than in any expectation anyone would try to climb it. Mostly, they interspersed their patrol with long sits at one end or another, just chatting.

And then they heard, oh,
faintly
, mostly covered by the surf, an odd sound—a sort of whirring—followed by a nearly as faint a thump. That got them up off their butts, walking cautiously along the cliff’s edge toward the sound.

“They’re
right
above you, Graft,” whispered the ear piece. “I mean
right
above you. Don’t answer; that’s how close they are. Two of them. One’s staying a little shy of the cliff, if you’re wondering. The other one would probably see you, if he had some night vision capability.”

Graft didn’t need that, except for the knowledge of the one that was hidden from view. It was the knowledge of that hidden one that kept him from firing at the one he could see, and probably screwing up everything in the process.

Instead he waited, one arm slowly turning to a kind of stone with outraged nerves running through it, the other pointed upward, aiming the silenced pistol at the stranger standing above him.

Baguinda laughed, calling back to Mukdum, “There’s nothing there. Must have been a bird, or maybe a high wave. Maybe even a snake. Loose rock? I dunno.”

“Well, come on then,” the other replied. “I still need you to explain to me why we’re not supposed to bury unwanted baby girls alive. Yes, yes, I understand that we’re not. I just want you to explain Allah’s reasoning, if you can.”

“Sure, sure,” replied Baguinda. “Be right there. Just give me a minute.” With that, he undid his organization issued trousers, pulled out his penis, and took a long leak over the cliff.

This is just . . . wrong . . . on so many levels
, thought Graft, as his goggles, neck, and shoulders were liberally sprinkled with foul, nasty, human urine.
I’m
so
going to make you pay for that, motherfucker.

He still kept the same position, as steadily as humanly, or even inhumanly, possible. The goggles weren’t worth a lot, at the moment, since tiny droplets were scattered on the lenses. Then the ship sent, “They’ve moved off, Graft, maybe a hundred and fifty meters to your right. You can go ahead now.”

This close, Graft had to be absolutely positive that his camming device was secure and that he had a quick and solid way over the lip of the cliff. Yes, the RPV showed that the two guards were still off to the right, and just possibly asleep, though, with the Moros, that was not something to count on. But this had the potential to be disastrously noisy. As bad, he was about to go into the area that the moon
did
illuminate.

No second chances . . . no chance for mistakes. Do it by the fucking numbers, Graft.

Step
one, he thought,
seat the camming device.
He did this, in a small crevice about six feet below the lip, then applied as much strength as he could to pulling it out. It held.
So far, so good.

Step two, make a loop of rope.
This wasn’t a big deal. He did it, using teeth and one hand.

Step three, double the loop . . . step four, attach a carabiner . . . five...get the carabiner in the camming device . . . six . . . foot in the loop . . . goddamit quit wriggling, rope. Okay, got that.

Steps seven through one hundred and eight: get the pistol ready and
breathe.
Crap, twenty years ago I wouldn’t have needed the breather . . . .and my arms wouldn’t have noticed the strain. Now? Shit, I’ve gotten too old. Step one hundred and nine, clean the lenses . . .

With the loop set at a height that would lift Graft’s waist to the cliff’s lip, he pushed down with his leg. His pistol was in, close to his chest, as first head, then neck and shoulders, then his upper torso arose above that rocky edge. His goggled eyes snapped left, ahead, right, even as the pistol snapped out to follow his line of sight.
Yeah, so Lox said the RPV shows them not here
?
So
?
Who really trusts technology, anyway
?

“Congratulations,” whispered Lox. “How’s it feel to go ‘where no man has gone before’? Now I suggest to you that you kill those two.”

Graft didn’t answer. He just thought,
Well, duh.

Leaning forward, Graft laid his upper torso on the ground and began to wriggle forward towards a likely tree. At the tree he stopped, reluctantly laid his pistol on the ground, looped the rope around one leg, and began undoing the rope coil about his waist. Once it was free, he ran it around the tree and tied it off, just enough to keep it from coming loose. Then he retrieved his pistol. He felt a
lot
better with that in hand.

To Semmerlin he whispered, “Don’t come up yet. The rope’s not fully set and I have to get the guards.”

“Roger. Waiting. Let me know.”

“You can hook up the bundle.”

“Doing it.”

Unseen, Graft nodded. Rising to a crouch, he began to follow the cliff to his right, as a distance from it of perhaps a dozen feet. “How far are they from the cliff’s edge?” he asked Lox.

“Right up on it.”

Good.

Graft walked forward slowly and carefully, setting his feet down, outer edge first, then rolling them inward to smother any sound they might make. After traveling about a hundred meters that way, he heard the voices of the two Moros. As far as he could tell, they sounded like the ones he’d heard before. Graft moved forward until he was on line with a line drawn roughly perpendicular to the cliff, and running between the Moros. He’d gradually changed the orientation of his body as he moved, to keep the pistol pointed in their direction.

The .45 had been left, from the beginning, cocked and locked, with only the grip safety to ensure against a premature discharge. That, too, was deactivated by Graft’s grip. He changed his grip from one-handed to two. With the pistol thrust out ahead of him, he slowly crept closer to the unsuspecting Moros.

At a distance of about twenty feet, Graft stopped and lifted the goggles from his face. They were good for many things, but aiming at a close target wasn’t among them. His pistol didn’t have a laser aiming device; like a lot of special operations types, Graft didn’t really trust anything that required batteries, and used those that did require them very sparingly, radios and night vision scopes and goggles being about the limit of his tolerance.

No matter, even through the trees overhead, the moon gave enough light to silhouette his targets.

Which one first? One had his rifle across his lap. The other’s on the ground at his feet. Lap loses.

Graft fired twice,
pffft
. . . recover . . .
pffft.
The slide made more sound than the firing did. His target pitched forward onto his face.

The other Moro began to bend and turn. Again, Graft fired:
pffft . . . pffft.
That Moro, too, went down.

Now was not the time for subtlety. Bounding forward, Graft placed the muzzle of his .45 almost against the head of his first target and fired again. Brains splattered, some of the mass onto Graft’s boots. Turning, he repeated the action with his second target. Again this was called, “overkill,” or “making sure.”

There were any number of human rights and international law lawyers and judges who would have claimed that Graft had just committed a war crime, since his targets were clearly
hors de combat
at the time of his fifth and sixth shots. Graft, however, was of a more practical and far less intellectual school.
Just making sure.

“They’re down,” he said into the mike. He slowly pulled back the slide, ejecting one shell and loading the last one from that magazine, then took a spare magazine from a pouch and clicked it home.
Seven and one
, he thought, automatically. He then started rolling the bodies to the cliff. One after the other, down they went, with not a sound to be heard by anyone not actually on the beach. Certainly Graft didn’t hear the bodies as the rocks below ruined them even further.

“Wait a few minutes, Semmerlin, while I go back and secure the rope properly. You can go ahead and mark the landing point for the next wave with a couple of IRs.”

“Roger, doing it.”

“
Bland?
”

“We copied.”

MV
Richard Bland,
Sulu Sea

“Ahead slow,” commanded Pearson. The ship shuddered as it began to lose way.

“Lower the loading platform.” The crane whined slightly as it first picked up, then swung over the side, the floating platform used to load the Zodiac boats. The boats were already loaded and lashed down to the platform, while the men of A Company clustered by the nets nearest where the platform would be set down.

One of the naval crew guided the crane by intercom, right until the platform softly splashed into the water. Then, at a signal, the operatives of A Company, under Warrington—Welch being stuck on the ship—began to scramble over. The first men at the bottom of the nets automatically began unlashing them and pushing them to the edge of the platform. Once all were down, they formed up to either side of the Zodiacs, picked up the boats, and walked forward into the salt. When the boats were fully in, the troops scrambled up from the water, over the gunwales, in an orgy of knees and elbows. The first men successfully aboard reached out to grab and pull in those who were still struggling.

Finally, where finally meant a mere couple of minutes, the boats were loaded and the men in their preassigned position. At command, the electric motors—large and fairly powerful, but very quiet—were started. Warrington, in the lead boat, gave the command, “Move out.” Three boats, forming into a line, began to undulate through the choppy sea to the western—and now unguarded—side of the island.