Grant angrily pulled the .45 out of its holster and twisted the silencer, ensuring it was screwed tight on the barrel. What he was picturing was Kwan’s neck in his hands. “Gotta go with backup plan, Joe. Have to try and contact Scott after we check Bridge House.”
“And how the hell do you propose we do that?” Adler asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m working on that. But I’m betting there’s some type of communication device inside. Whoever’s been holding our guys in there, has to be reporting to higher ups by some means.”
“And if our guys aren’t there?” Adler asked with some hesitancy.
Grant lowered his head briefly. “They’ve gotta be there, Joe.”
“Yeah, Skipper. You’re right. They’ve gotta be.”
Grant continued with his thought process. “If Kwan doesn’t show, we’ll be on our own finding our way to the river. You found a route, didn’t you, Joe?”
“The best one I could find. It may not be the shortest route, but it looks like there are enough places for us to stay under cover,” Adler answered. He stepped directly in front of Grant, looking into intense brown eyes. “But if I know you, we’ll be searching for the tiniest shred of evidence that’ll put us back on their trail. Am I right?”
“Like I told Scott. . .we’re not leaving without them.”
Each of the men standing near him immediately gave a thumb’s up, with Diaz saying, “Fuckin’ A!”
James said quietly what they all appeared to be thinking, “We’re with you, Boss!”
“I didn’t have any doubt, guys,” Grant responded with a smile. He motioned toward the stairway. “Let’s go.”
Slade took the lead as they headed down to the first floor. Stopping at the closed door, he pushed the PTT, notifying Novak. “A.T. exiting.”
Novak pressed a finger against his earpiece and responded, “Roger.” He checked his watch, took one last drink of water, then hooked the canteen on his belt. He got as comfortable as possible on the wood floor. His rucksack was by his side, still open if he had to load a fresh clip. Otherwise, he was ready to haul ass when Grant gave the word.
Under normal circumstances, if there was a designated target, Novak would have a spotter, someone who’d assist in calling wind direction and speed, movement of the target, and other variables. Tonight Novak would be working alone. His role was to observe the area, to advise his teammates of approaching danger. He would keep an eye out for any TOO (target of opportunity), anyone who could be a possible threat.
Slade opened the door, then stepped into the alleyway, looking both ways. “Clear.”
Then in single file, with NVGs resting on top of their heads, and weapons drawn, the Team followed him down the alley, keeping close to the building. Silently heading toward the main road, they stepped over and around holes and depressions that overflowed with rainwater.
Nearing the road, Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. He edged closer to the corner then leaned just enough, enabling him to look up and down the road.
Grant wanted further confirmation they were good to go. “Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“Affirm we are clear.”
“Clear.”
“Roger. Out.”
After one more look, Slade and James took off. Crouching low, they headed across the road in the direction of the alley, one block away from Bridge House.
Novak observed the two just before they disappeared into the darkness of the alley, then he quickly turned his attention away. “Hold it!” For a brief moment he thought he saw something or someone moving in the shadows. Refocusing the scope, he looked again. He had his index finger poised just to the side of the trigger. Nothing. He exhaled a quick breath, then reported, “Clear.”
Grant, Adler, Diaz and Stalley had just taken a couple of steps, when a sound behind Stalley made him spin around. With split second reaction time, he pulled his finger away from the trigger. “‘Lion,’” he whispered.
“Hold positions,” Grant said softly, as he walked back to where Kwan was standing. He lowered his .45, but kept it in front of him, holding it with both hands. Staring at Kwan dead-on, he said, “Behind me.” Grant turned and went forward, with Kwan close off his six.
“Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“‘Lion’ arrived. Are we clear?” Grant asked Novak.
Novak immediately responded, “Clear.”
Grant, Kwan, and Adler hustled across the road, joining up with Slade and James.
While they waited for Diaz and Stalley, Grant turned toward Kwan and pointed to his own .45. Kwan reached behind his back and pulled out a Norinco T-54 semi-automatic pistol. It had a short recoil, locked breech, and was single action. The weapon was used by the Chinese military. But this particular one was CIA issued.
Grant gave a thumb’s up then turned his attention to the street, seeing the last two men running toward him.
*
Staying in the shadow of a building across from their target, the seven men quietly made their way closer to the road.
Grant motioned for Slade and James to head across the street. Stalley backed up against the wall, holding his .45 close, keeping himself on full alert, protecting everyone’s six.
Grant pressed his earpiece, finally hearing James, “Zero-Niner, Six-Eight.”
“Go ahead, Six-Eight.”
“Door locked.”
“Copy that. Two-Seven approaching your six. Out.”
Grant nodded toward Adler, who took one more look for guards, then ran across the street. “Nimble Fingers” Adler would once again work his magic with a lock.
*
Adler pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner, Two-Seven.”
“Go ahead, Two-Seven.”
“Good to go.”
“Copy that. Approaching your six. Out.”
Once everyone was in place, Adler slowly pulled the door open, stopping often, trying to hear any sounds from inside. Nothing but silence. They all lowered their NVGs.
With the door fully open now, and staying close, one behind the other, Slade then James cautiously stepped in. They turned their heads, aiming their NVGs, focusing their eyes on the floor and walls of the narrow entryway. Straight ahead was a stairwell leading down. To the left was a wide staircase leading up to a first floor landing and into total darkness.
“Clear,” Slade whispered, as the two men continued walking forward.
With Grant in the lead, the other men came in with weapons at the ready. Adler closed the door.
Grant stepped forward, looking down into what was apparently a basement. A repulsive, acrid odor drifted into his nostrils. “Phew,” he uttered quietly, shaking his head. Then, he silently thought, Oh, Christ! A terrible feeling shot through him.
There were too many floors above to be checked in the short amount of time they had. If there were prisoners, they’d most likely be in the basement. Interrogators or guards sure as hell wouldn’t want to stay down there, he thought disgustedly.
He turned toward Slade, whispering, “Check one floor. Report back.” Slade nodded and headed upstairs. Grant wanted Novak to hear the conversation that he was sending Diaz and James outside.
“Seven-Three, Zero-Niner.”
“Go ahead, Zero-Niner.”
“Six-Eight and Three-Six, recon outside.” As he said it, he motioned to the two men, who nodded and left quietly.
“You copy, Seven-Three?”
“Copy that.”
“Zero-Niner, out.”
Adler jerked on Kwan’s jacket and pointed behind Grant, indicating for him to take up that position. Grant motioned for Stalley to take the lead. Cautiously, the four men took one step at a time, stopping to listen for anything.
Only halfway down the stairs, Stalley held up a fist. A faint noise caught his attention. He looked back at Grant, who pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed to Stalley. Stalley nodded.
While Stalley made a search, Grant worried. The smell was worse the closer they got to where they assumed the cells were located.
Within seconds, Stalley reported, “One foreign badly injured.”
Grant sucked in a deep breath, then led Adler and Kwan into the basement. Stalley was standing outside an open doorway. “Two rooms, unchecked,” he said, as he pointed to two doors, then he went to the man and knelt by him.
Grant looked at the emaciated man in the cell. He wore a Chinese Army uniform. Two pockets on the jacket indicated he was an enlisted rank. Blood soaked his jacket and had pooled on the floor under and around him.
He’d been left here to die, Grant thought, before he asked Stalley, “How’s he doing?”
The corpsman’s medical bag was laying next to him, already open. He’d opened the man’s jacket, exposing a blood-covered chest. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Wound was made from some kinda sharp instrument. But I don’t think it was a knife.” Stalley put a stethoscope around his neck, commenting, “Have my doubts he’ll last much longer.”
“See what you can do to make him comfortable,” Grant said. “Look for ID.” Stalley nodded, then removed a syringe and bottle of morphine from his bag.
Adler had positioned himself near one of the closed doors. The smell coming from the opening at the bottom made him squeeze his nose as he breathed in through his mouth.
He looked at Grant, who already had a hand on the latch. They had to get it over with.
They pressed down on the latches. The doors weren’t locked. That meant either the cell was empty, or. . .
Swinging the doors open, they stood just outside the nearly pitch black rooms, moving their heads as they looked through the NVGs. Nothing. Nobody. Empty.
Grant felt his blood beginning to boil, but something was telling him to continue looking around the room. Maybe the men weren’t here, but there sure as hell was something.
He backed out of the room. He raised his NVGs, resting them on top of his head, then he withdrew his penlight from his utility vest. He signaled Adler, who acknowledged, then pulled out his own penlight.
Standing in the middle of the room, Grant aimed the narrow beam of light at the closest corner to his left. He walked forward slowly, while he moved the penlight back and forth, trying to cover every square inch of the cell. Nearing the back, he stopped, as he aimed the light into the left corner.
“Oh, Christ,” he mumbled quietly. Three letters, smeared but legible. In feces was printed: USN. He backed out of the room.
Adler stepped next to him, whispering, “USN?!”
Grant nodded, then spun around. He grabbed Kwan by the jacket collar and dragged him into the room, shoving him forward. He switched on the penlight.
Kwan lost his balance, and fell on his knees. Grant aimed the light directly in front of him. Kwan’s eyes focused on the letters, and he scrambled backwards, jumping to his feet.
Grant reached for Kwan’s jacket then flung him against the wall. He shoved a forearm across Kwan’s throat, then getting close to his face, Grant said in a low, deep voice, “You knew we were coming! You knew why! I told you what I’d do if. . .” Suddenly, he heard Diaz in his earpiece.
“Zero-Niner, Three-Six.”
“Go ahead, Three-Six.”
“Found deuce. Foreign. Dead.”
Grant immediately released Kwan from his grasp. “Roger. Report back. Out.
Leaving Kwan in the cell, Grant joined Adler by the bottom of the stairs. Both of them stared at one another, shaking their heads. This op was turning into one big “clusterfuck.”
Diaz and James came into the building, immediately meeting Grant and Adler at the bottom of the stairs.
Diaz whispered, “Two Chinese, army-types. Looked like broken necks. Found them at opposite ends of the building, down side alleys. No IDs. Weapons were missing.”
Diaz had a sullen expression as he said, “I’m sorry, Boss, but we found these, too.” He reached into his chest vest.
Grant lifted one of two submariner watches Diaz was holding. The crystal face had some scuff marks, but the time was still accurate.
Adler laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder and said quietly, “Doesn’t mean anything, Skipper. They still could be okay.”
Grant handed the watch back to Diaz. “Hang on to them.” Diaz nodded and slipped both watches back into his vest.
“Both of you go help Ken search upstairs,” Grant said, getting a quick nod from both men. They hustled up the stairs.
The two men hadn’t been gone thirty seconds when Grant heard Slade, “Zero-Niner, Four-One.”
“Go ahead, Four-One.”
“Found deuce. Foreign. Dead.”
Grant could only think, What the fuck’s going on! “Roger. Coming up.” Grant pointed to Kwan. “Stay here! C’mon, Joe!”
They took the stairs two at a time, rushing up both flights. Diaz and James came around the corner, meeting up with them.
Slade was standing at the far end of the hallway. “This was the last room I had to check at this end.” He tilted his head toward an open doorway.
Grant entered the room first. “What the. . .?”
On the floor were two Chinese men, both wearing drab green army uniforms. By the look of the room, and condition of the bodies, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that a violent struggle had taken place.
What was left of two wooden chairs were at opposite sides of the room. The backs were splintered and legs were broken. A wooden table was snapped in half, probably when a body or bodies landed on it.
One of the dead men was just beyond the doorway, stretched out on his back. Four pockets in his jacket indicated he was an officer. There was bruising on his face, above his temples. Blood had dried near a corner of his mouth. The back of his hands and knuckles had deep bruising, as if he tried to defend himself.
The other man was on the opposite side of the twelve by twelve room. He was laying face down, with one arm under his torso, the other outstretched to the side, obviously broken. Patches of dried blood were on the back of his head.
Adler knelt next to him. “This guy had his neck broken, Skipper, among other things,” he said lifting the dangling arm. “I’m seeing a pattern here.”
Grant squatted next to the body by the door, looking closely at the throat. “Somebody used the chain of a nunchaku across his throat; crushed his windpipe, suffocated him. These men were in a martial arts duel to the death, Joe.” (Nunchaku is a weapon consisting of two sticks connected with a short chain or rope.)
Adler knew Grant was right in his assumption, since he held a black belt in karate himself.
Slade leaned toward Grant, then pointed. “Boss. Look over there, under that section of table.”
Grant stood then walked closer to the overturned piece of table. He ducked down. “Shit!” Underneath was a field radio, a short wave transceiver, the Comm 251A, completely demolished.
“Just can’t catch a break, Skipper. Now what?”
Grant pressed the PTT. “Five-Two. Need you up here.”
“On my way.” Stalley hurried upstairs, seeing Grant standing at the end of the hallway.
“Doc, take a look at those men,” Grant said indicating with a thumb over his shoulder. “Gimme a rough guesstimate on how long they’ve been dead.”
Stalley was using a cloth to wipe blood off his hands as he looked into the room. “Shit! What the hell happened here?!” He didn’t expect an answer.
He knelt close to the body by the door, making an examination. Sitting back on his heels, he looked up at Grant. “Really rough estimate, and because they’re still in rigor, I’d say no less than six, no more than twelve hours. Because of the heat, I might be off on those figures.”
“Okay, Doc. How’s the patient?”
“Don’t think he’s got much time left.”
“Did you find any identification?”
“Negative.”
“Do what you can for him.” Stalley nodded then left.
Grant tried to make sense of the situation. The two Chinese were killed sometime before dark. The “perpetrators” were able to eliminate two guards, then these two. But why leave the man downstairs. . .and alive? And who took the SEALs?
Adler saw the look on Grant’s face and knew the “wheels were spinning.” He walked closer. “Talk to me, Skipper.”
Slade, Diaz and James positioned themselves at intervals along the length of the hallway, with James standing watch at the top of the stairs.
Grant rested his back against the wall. “Nothing but questions, Joe. Whoever did this, was it because of the SEALs? Was it somebody who’d been assigned here with these guys and then went rogue?”
Adler stepped closer. “You don’t actually believe that a ChiCom would do that, I mean, go rogue. Do you?”
“I might just be reaching here.”
Seeing the setting of Grant’s jaw, Adler asked quietly, “What about Kwan? Do we need to worry about him?”
Grant shook his head. “I think he’s someone who’d never thought he’d be involved in this kind of op. That sonofabitch hasn’t done anything right so far. He should’ve known to post himself outside this building as soon as he knew we were coming. ‘Making deliveries’ my ass!”
Adler offered a suggestion. “Somebody higher up in the ChiCom chain of command had to know about our guys being brought here. Maybe they’ve been trying to make contact with these guys, and without that radio. . . Think we need to haul ass?”
Grant’s insides were twisting tighter than a mooring line. He nodded, then took a few paces down the hallway, walking with his head down, thinking, Were they looking for the SEALs specifically? Or were they looking for something of more ‘value’? Suddenly, he broke into a jog, heading toward the stairs. “C’mon. I’ve gotta get to that guy in the cell. Ken, DJ, watch the back alley. Contact Mike. Frank, stay by the door.”
Grant and Adler hurried to the cell, pushing Kwan out of the way. Stepping close to Stalley, Grant asked, “Get anything?”
“Sorry, sir. I don’t think he understands me. I don’t know enough of the dialect.”
Adler didn’t hesitate and pulled Kwan into the room. Grant wanted an answer to the most important question. “Ask him where they took our men.”
Shanghai Mission Page 7