W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps VII - Behind the Lines

He put the Springfield sling on his arm, carefully examined his stock of nine cartridges, and loaded into the rifle the five that had the best chance of firing.

The sound of the Japanese truck engines began to be heard just a minute later, far sooner than the ten minutes Everly had predicted. McCoy worked the Springfield's bolt and made sure the safety was off.

The driver of the first truck that appeared was hunched over the wheel, resting both arms on it. The soldier beside him seemed to be sleeping.

McCoy found a sight picture, the front blade of his sight on the Japanese's nose. He took a deep breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger.

The Springfield slammed into his shoulder. Without thinking about it, McCoy chambered another round.

The Japanese driver seemed to jerk erect, then slumped farther over the wheel. The truck continued down the road, not slowing at all. McCoy's front sight found the other, now wide-awake, Japanese, and he squeezed off another round.

Nothing.

Furiously, he chambered a third cartridge and searched for a sight picture. He found one, but just as his finger tightened on the trigger, the head of the second Japanese jerked violently to the side.

Lieutenant Alvarez had also found a suitable sight picture.

McCoy moved his eyes to the second truck. The driver had slammed on the brakes and seemed to be trying to push the steering wheel away from him. McCoy found his nose with his front blade sight and squeezed off a round. The Springfield slammed reassuringly against his shoulder. When he found the Japanese again, he immediately lost that sight picture as the truck veered off the road and slammed into a large tree. McCoy searched for the front-seat pas-senger, and again, as he tightened his finger on the trigger, his target seemed to explode.

Lieutenant Alvarez, McCoy thought approvingly, knows how to shoot.

And then he became aware of many gunshots.

He tore off the Springfield sling and picked up the carbine, chambering a round as he did so.

He heard movement behind him, and turned to see Macklin coming out of the jungle, holding the carbine as a hunter holds a shotgun. He moved past McCoy as if he didn't see him.

McCoy's attention was diverted by a crunching sound, and he looked to-ward the sound. The first truck had driven off the road and into a tree.

The engine stalled.

McCoy jumped to his feet and ran down the road toward it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chambers Lewis start after him.

They reached the truck at about the same time. Both Japanese were beyond question dead. They rested their carbines against the fender and, with what seemed like an extraordinary amount of effort, pulled both bodies from the truck.

McCoy crawled behind the wheel, put the transmission in neutral, and cranked the engine. After a moment's hesitation, it caught. He and Chambers grinned at one another.

McCoy backed the truck onto the road. Apparently, it was undamaged. He got from behind the wheel and looked back up the road.

Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC, was moving among the bodies on the road, shooting each one in the head with his carbine.

[NINE]

Site Sugar

Davao Oriental Province

Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines

0001 Hours 6 February 1943

With some difficulty, Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC, read the luminous hands on his wristwatch. The hour and minute hands pointed at midnight; the second hand clicked past thirty-five seconds.

"Columbus, Columbus, this is Coffin, Coffin," the radio hissed.

"Right on schedule," Captain Macklin whispered.

McCoy ignored him. "Read you five by five, Coffin, go ahead," he said to his microphone. He stood up and shined a flashlight out to sea, two long flashes and then two short ones.

"We have your light," the radio hissed. "What are surf conditions?"

"Your boats can land."

"Give us five, I say again, five, minutes and another light."

"Acknowledge," McCoy said, then let the microphone drop to the length of its cord and looked at his watch.

"Right on schedule," Macklin repeated.

"Right on schedule," McCoy parroted. "Tell the people with the civilians to get them ready to move. Bring them up here in groups of six."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Macklin said.

A moment later, it occurred to him that he did not have to say "Aye, aye, Sir," to McCoy. Despite the peculiar command conditions of this mission, he still outranked him.

But it was not really a cause for concern. This mission was just about over, and it had gone very well. In no time at all, he would be aboard the Sunfish, and that would be the official end of the mission.

He wondered what the OSS would do with him now. At the very least, he reasoned, he would be returned to Washington for a debriefing on Fertig and his guerrillas. Considering all he had gone through, a decoration seemed at least possible, and maybe even probable. The only problem was that no one was around to recommend him for one; McCoy certainly wouldn't do it.

But on the other hand, if they decorated Lieutenant Lewis, which seemed probable, and didn't give him one, questions would be asked.

Even that didn't really matter. A decoration would be nice, but what he knew he would be getting for sure would be a remark on his service record that he had been on Operation Windmill, a top-level, top-secret mission behind enemy lines. And that would effectively put behind him, once and for all, that unfortunate and unfair efficiency report of Banning's.

Even McCoy could not fault his performance of duty on this mission. He had, after all, personally killed eight of the enemy. That was a fact. McCoy couldn't change that fact. Lewis wouldn't stand for that.

The most logical thing to do with him, what he would do himself if he were the officer making the decision, would be to assign him to the Country Club, where he would be of inarguable use in training others for missions of this type. There is nothing like experience. And men are inspired by teachers who have personally done what they are being trained to do.

Eight minutes later, he was back on the beach, accompanied by six of the nine females who would be taken aboard the Sunfish. That was the law of the sea, women and children first. First the women, which would take three boats, and then the other civilians and the wounded. And then they would be paddled out to the Sunfish. And that would be the end of it.

"I've got six women with me, McCoy," Macklin said. "The rest will be coming in ten-minute increments."

McCoy pointed out to sea. It took Macklin a moment to find them, but he saw, just barely, what looked like half a dozen rubber boats making their way to the beach.

"Six at once? I'll go back and tell them to send the evacuees up more quickly."

"What I want you to do is stand here and flash the light, just flash it twice, once every thirty seconds," McCoy ordered. "I'll go back and have the evacu-ees brought up here."

Five minutes later, the first of the boats reached the surf. The others were a short distance behind. Now there was a light flashing, two short flashes, from the Sunfish, obviously to guide the rubber boats on their return.

A man wearing dyed-black utilities came wading through the surf. He walked up to Macklin.

"Welcome to Mindanao," Macklin said.

"Who are you?"

"Captain Robert Macklin, USMC, on detail to the OSS."

The man offered his hand.

"Major Al Fredericks, Macklin. I'm the OSS team chief."

"How do you do, Sir?"

"Where's Captain McCoy?"

"With the evacuees, Sir. I have six on the beach, ready for evacuation."

McCoy appeared.

"I'm McCoy," he said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Fredericks. I'm the OSS team chief."

"I'll see you before I leave," McCoy said, shaking his hand. "Right now the priority is to get the evacuees aboard."