They traveled south for two hours, the trucks’ headlights finding only green tropical forest, brown streams, and an unending line of steep hills and surely mountains beyond. The last sign of civilization they passed was a village called San Mariel, just a junction of huts, their tires thumping on old cobbled road. They turned down a side road and the softer roll of the tires meant it was all dirt. Then Lett and the former commando were out standing guard with the other two vets. They were still in the Cagayan Valley, but the clarity of the sounds reminded Lett that this area was even more remote. He could hear an occasional wild animal rustle through bushes yards away. One palm frond brushed another—and another, and another—up the hill above. Water ran low and rough nearby, swishing around rocks.

Two hours later, they were still there. Sporadic flashlight beams and a spotlight that was eventually brought out showed a high bank near a river, set back about ten yards, where a tall mango tree stood. Beyond its trunk, at the base of a hill, other men had erected a standard Army wall tent, normally a billet for five to ten men. But this was no billet. Lett and the other three were posted outside in case anyone approached. But no one would approach this place. Who would know how to get here? A native jungle mountain man, maybe, loin cloth and all.

Lansdale arrived by motorcycle, riding in the sidecar. Driving the bike was the Japanese man with dents in his head—and knobby scarred knuckles from fighting, Lett now saw as he stood close, while the man steered the bike to a stop at the pointing beam of a flashlight. The Japanese goon was clearly working with the team, Lett noticed, providing them with info, pointing out this and that. Lett and the commando had been told to meet them, escort them up. Up close, the Japanese also had a blocky jaw, pockmarked cheeks, thick lips, and dark eyes Lett didn’t want to look at any longer than he did a dark well. Lansdale was back to wearing khaki without insignia. He wore a holstered pistol now, too, and had a spring in his stoop of a step and a sparkle in his eye that Lett knew all too well. He knew it from wild ones up on the line who couldn’t get enough of a firefight and the blood that came with it. He always imagined that those types ended up in a psych ward, if not the electric chair. But here this one was, his beaming mug now making Lett shudder more than the Japanese man’s brute face.

When Lansdale headed for the tent, he didn’t acknowledge Lett except to bark, “Top secret is top secret, and don’t you men forget it,” in passing.

And, now, finally, Lett truly had that bad feeling.