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hesitating Rapp replied, “That I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” asked the ship’s captain.
“Won’t,” conceded Rapp, “but that doesn’t matter. It’s the next part that you’re going to be most interested in. Have either of you met General Moro?”
Forester shook his head while Jackson said, “Several times.”
“What’d you think of him?”
Jackson seemed to consider the question carefully and then said, “I think he had a real hard-on for me and my boys. A big chip on his shoulder.”
“Yeah,” Rapp agreed. “Like maybe he didn’t like Americans running around on his little island?”
“That and the fact that he was always trying to prove that his boys were better than us.”
Rapp sensed some potentially important information here. “Were they?”
Jackson laughed. “No way.”
Rapp hoped the answer was based on more than bravado and unit pride. “Be more specific. How’d they shoot? How were they in the jungle? What was their discipline like?”
“They were extremely disciplined. Moro was a real sadist in that regard. They were in great shape. They could handle the long marches, with the big packs and not a one of them would piss and moan. I was a little disappointed in their shooting, but they don’t fire anywhere near the amount of rounds as we do on the Teams.”
This was important information. “How were they in the jungle? Were they good trackers?”
“It’s funny you ask that,” said Jackson, frowning. “They were great trackers. They’d pick up shit in the jungle before every single guy in my platoon with the exception of maybe one.”
“Why’s that funny?”
“Well, if they were such good trackers, why was it that they could never pick up the Andersons’ trail? A couple times we strolled into camps that had been hastily vacated, and I’d urge Moro’s men to press on, but there was always some excuse why we had to stay put. They’d sit on the radio for an hour waiting for orders while scouts fanned out looking for a trail.”
“Did you ever try to pursue on your own?”
Jackson shot a sideways look at Forester. “Hell, yeah. Moro threw a real shit fit. He actually climbed into a chopper and came out to where we were. He reamed me in front of my men and his. Then he got ahold of my CO back in Guam and reamed him out too. I ended up with a letter of instruction in my file, and now they won’t let me off the ship.”
Rapp smiled. “Well, Lieutenant, I think I might be able to get that letter removed from your file.”
“Huh?” asked a confused Jackson.
“Just remind me when this is all over, and I’ll make sure the letter of instruction is purged … . In fact, I’ll make sure it’s replaced with a commendation.” Rapp could tell Jackson wasn’t following. “Your instincts were right, Lieutenant. General Moro was a traitor.”
“Traitor?”
“That’s right.”
“I noticed,” started Captain Forester, “that you used the past tense in regard to the general’s status. Is that by accident or intentional?”
This is where things got tricky. The problem was not in acknowledging Moro’s death. It would be public soon enough. The difficulty lay in who killed him and how they knew he was a traitor. Rapp decided to tell only part of the truth. “General Moro has been accepting bribes from Abu Sayyaf.” Rapp left out the information about China. “As you pointed out, Lieutenant, he has no love for Americans.”
“So Abu Sayyaf was paying him not to pursue them?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why that little—”
Forester interrupted the junior officer’s cuss. “Did General Moro have anything to do with the ambush that was sprung on our men the other night?”
“I’m afraid so.”
