Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  "I think we were more surprised they still fit," Grant responded with a wide grin. "Oh, sir, let me introduce you to the men of Alpha Tango.

  Handshakes went around, thenTorrinson turned toward Grant and Adler. "If we've got time, I'd sure like to hear about your exploits since you've, uh, retired."

  Grant lowered his eyes before looking again at his former boss. "I think I can speak for Joe, too, that it hasn't exactly turned out like we expected."

  "So I hear," Torrinson chuckled. "Come on. Let's go sit."

  As they were sitting at the rectangular mahogany table, Grant immediately noticed a large plastic jar filled to the brim with Tootsie Roll Pops. "Still 'hooked' on them, sir?"

  "Just like you and your Snickers candy, Grant." He pointed toward the jar. "Help yourselves, gentlemen. Mrs. Torrinson sees that I have a steady supply."

  Grant asked, "How's shipboard life, sir?"

  Torrinson leaned back against the black leather swivel chair. "Until recently, Grant, I've been enjoying the hell out of it."

  Resting his arms on the table, Grant's expression turned serious. "Sorry about the men you've lost, sir. Have there been any other . . . incidents?"

  "What was the last you heard?"

  "Eight dead, four critical."

  "Those numbers changed, I'm afraid. Counting the petty officer lost over the side, that would make ten dead, three very critical. None of those young men had even reached their 25th birthday."

  "Wait one, sir," Grant said, holding up a hand. "Somebody went over the side?!"

  "Afraid so. We determined he was the dealer. He left a note indicating he didn't have a clue what he was distributing."

  "Damn shame," Adler commented. "What's happened to the men in critical condition, sir?"

  "They're at Subic, Joe. Doctors don't know if those men will recover fully. That drug had an atrocious affect on their brains and organs, I'm afraid. If they survive, they'll be having specific treatment of some type, then probably rehab for a long time."

  "Wicked shit!" Novak quietly mumbled, but not quietly enough.

  "You nailed it," Torrinson said. "Mike, right?"

  "Uh, yes, sir. Sorry, Admiral."

  "No need, Mike. I'm sure you weren't the only one thinking along those same lines."

  Grant rolled his chair back. "Has anyone come up with a reason why? Who the hell would do this?!"

  "We're stumped, Grant. Even D.C. is baffled. No one's claimed responsibility." Another knock at the door. "I asked Captain Conklin to join us, gentlemen. Come!" Everyone stood as Conklin walked in. Torrinson made the introductions. Once the men were seated, Torrinson asked, "What's in the folder, Jim?"

  "Copies of sat images that came in for Captain Stevens." He handed the folder to Grant.

  Grant sorted through the black and whites. "These seem to be newer images of the area NSA found. I think I can spot some differences now, but we'll have to compare them up close with the previous ones." Grant passed the top photo to Torrinson.

  "Is this Burma?"

  "The lower peninsula. After we examined the earlier set, all of us were in agreement that the area circled is at least one facility producing the drug." He passed the remaining images to Adler, then asked, "Is there anything you can tell us about inspections and searches that've been made? Have any sailors come forward, sir?"

  "So far no one has, but Sid Edmunds is the man to talk with, Grant."

  "Edmunds?"

  "NIS."

  "He must be a good man." Grant flashed a grin through perfect white teeth.

  "NIS only hires the best!" Torrinson shot back, pointing a finger at Grant then Adler.

  Time to get serious again. Grant directed his question to Conklin. "Captain, are we to understand that personnel on other ships haven't been affected?"

  "No. Not one. Let me clarify that. We've received reports that pills have been turned in, but no incidents were reported."

  "So, somebody's specifically targeting the carrier."

  "Sure as hell appears that way," Conklin responded.

  Torrinson swiveled his chair. "If I know you two, Grant, Joe, you've already got at least a partial plan in mind."

  "Partial is right, sir." Grant focused on Conklin. "Would it be possible to use your radio room? I'd like to call my contact and see if he has any updates."

  "Not a problem. Anything else?"

  Grant raised his hand, and brought his thumb and index finger close together. "Just one small item. We might need to borrow a chopper, with crew, of course." Out of the corner of his eye, Grant noticed Torrinson smiling. "Nothing's changed, sir."

  Conklin shifted his eyes between the two men, then answered, "That can be done. We can loan you a 'Phrog.'" ("Phrog" was the colloquial name for a Sea Knight.)

  "That'll work," Grant answered with a thumb's up. "Took a ride in one not too long ago."

  Conklin stood, immediately followed by the Team. "I'll make arrangements with CAG. It's good to have you aboard," he said, offering a hand to Grant.

  Once he left, Torrinson asked, "Can you tell me who your contact is at State, Grant?"

  "You won't believe it, but it's Scott Mullins, Tony's brother."

  "Well, I'll be damned!"

  "He's a good man, just like Tony. The Team could've been in serious trouble more than once without his quick response and knowledge." Grant looked around the table at his men. Expressions showed they were eager to get the op underway. "Would it be all right if we got started, sir? I'd like to call Scott."

  Torrinson stood, followed by A.T. "Get going. We'll talk more later."

  As the men headed down the passageway, Grant stopped. "Joe, go on ahead while I have a word with Doc. Something's bothering him."

  "Meet you in the radio room."

  Grant waited for Stalley to catch up. "Have something on your mind?"

  "Just thinking about those sailors."

  "C'mon. Let's get outta the passageway." Once they were inside the ladderwell, Grant picked up the conversation. "Okay. I'm listening."

  Stalley's pained expression was obvious. "Those sailors . . . they were younger than me, boss."

  Grant rested a shoulder against the bulkhead. Standing close to the young corpsman, he spoke quietly. "I know. But this isn't the first time you've seen or knew of young men dying. Why's it bothering you so much, Cal?"

  "I don't know. Maybe because they didn't see it coming. Maybe because they were just trying to do their jobs and thought they found a way to help them do it."

  "And do you think they made the right decision?"

  Stalley shook his head. "Absolutely not."

  "And that decision cost many of them their lives."

  Stalley swiped a hand over the top of his dark blond hair. "Yeah, I know."

  "Listen, Cal, you've saved plenty of men in your young life, including mine. But we both know it doesn't always work out for the best. We all like to think we can save the world. Then reality smacks us over the head.

  "Unfortunately, we didn't have any way to stop these incidents before they did their damage. It'll make us all feel better when we find the bastards who caused it all. Right?"

  "Roger that."

  "Are we good then?" Stalley nodded. "Okay. Go catch up to the guys. Joe and I'll meet you when we finish with Scott."

  "Thanks, boss."

  Chapter 6

  USS Preston

  Radio Room

  1500 Hours

  With headphones hanging around his neck, Grant was prepared to contact Mullins. He balled up a Snickers candy wrapper, tossed it into the trash, then finished off a small carton of milk.

  "Think he's at the office?" Adler asked, as he took another bite of cheeseburger.

  "He should be. If not, he'll have his calls forwarded." Grant slipped the headphones on. He set the frequency, placed the call, then adjusted the mike.

  "Mullins."

  "Hey, Scott!"

  "Grant! Where are you?!"

  "The carrier. We landed around noon.
Listen, do you have any updates for us?"

  "Nothing on your target. I didn't have time to tell you earlier, but NSA and CIA intercepted transmissions coming out of Bangkok, going to Olongapo. It's a town across the harbor from Subic and Cubi Point."

  "Wait one, Scott. Let me put Joe on." Adler put on headphones, then plugged them in. "Okay, Scott."

  "Whoever the individuals were, they discussed the production of a specific pill."

  "Do we know who made the call, or who was on the other end?"

  "The conversation was brief. No names were mentioned, but indicators point to that guerilla group, the PNA."

  "Holy shit!"

  "Thought you'd be thrilled."

  "Is that what we're up against?! Are we . . .?!"

  "No, no. Nothing's definite. You're to proceed with the original mission. I got some additional intel but nobody's sure if it has to do with drugs or your op."

  "We're listening."

  "The 'alphabet' folks went back over transmissions from months ago. Those initial chats between Bangkok and Olongapo went quiet just before Bangkok and Saigon started up."

  "Saigon?! Is somebody suspecting 'Charlie's' involved?!" (During the Vietnam War, "Victor Charlie" was the designation for the Viet Cong, the VC.)

  "Not yet. All I can tell you is those transmissions stopped, too."

  "Damn! How many more 'players' are you gonna throw in the game?!"

  "None for now, but I've got one more update. It isn't much. The image showing the plane is being examined more closely. They're trying to determine its design, plus looking for a tail number."

  "I assume you'll contact us."

  "Affirmative. Any idea when you're departing?"

  "The chopper's due to lift off at 2200. We're figuring a four-hour flight. Are you updating the White House?"

  "As soon as we're through here."

  Grant drew in a deep breath. "Okay, Scott. Keep us posted. Oh, one more favor. Could you contact Matt and Rob at the Navy Lodge? I'd appreciate it if you kept them up to speed on our activities."

  "Will do. Stay safe, guys."

  "Thanks, Scott."

  Grant and Adler took off the headphones. Adler pushed his chair back, rocking it on the two back legs. "The PNA?! Charlie?! Jesus! How the hell would we handle that?!"

  "Don't know, Joe. How do we even prove they're involved in the incidents? They might just be making money off that shit to finance their operation. But right now, it's all speculation, and not our problem. One thing is for sure. Whoever we find at the target isn't gonna be too happy with our form of G2."

  "Sounds like fun. I'm ready!"

  "Joe, do me a favor." Adler nodded. "Talk with EOD's OIC (Officer in Charge). See if we can use the sat uplink in the 'locker' (EOD Locker) when it's time to contact Scott again."

  "Problem?"

  Grant stood and stretched his back. "No . . . just like to have more privacy, and not call attention to us using the radio room too often."

  "Gotcha!" Adler glanced at his watch. "The guys should've finished going through the gear. So, what say we join them? I'll talk with EOD after we eat."

  "You just finished off a double cheeseburger!"

  "And your point is?!"

  *

  Crew's Mess

  "Why the hell is everybody lookin' at us?" James asked, glancing around the mess hall.

  "It might be the two of us," Adler answered, moving his thumb back and forth, indicating him and Grant. "'Lowly' officers."

  "Just ignore them," Grant answered, picking up the last half of sandwich, piled high with roast beef. "Maybe for our next meal Senior Chief Slade would be kind enough to get us an invitation to dine in the Chief's Mess. How 'bout it, Ken?"

  "Absolutely, boss! I'll see that it happens." Known for having the best food on any ship, the Chief's Mess, by tradition, required all personnel, including officers and even the commanding officer, to enter by invitation only.

  "Captain Stevens?"

  Grant swallowed a mouthful of milk. "That'd be me. Can I help you?"

  "I'm Sid Edmunds, NIS."

  Grant wiped his hands with a napkin, then shook Edmunds' hand. "Good to meet you." Introductions went around. "Is it okay to talk here, or would you prefer . . ."

  "No, no. Here's fine." Edmunds slid onto the seat across from Grant and Adler. "I know you've got questions. Fire away."

  "Have you come up with any explanation why just the carrier's being targeted?"

  "Nothing definite, but possibly because it's the biggest target, carrying the most men. Look at the impact it already had. And I don't just mean on the Navy. You know the President released a statement to the press."

  "Yeah. I also know there's a helluva lot riding on our mission to find answers, to have the bastards who did this pay for what they've done." Grant's jaw tightened, the intensity in his brown eyes made it obvious. The hunter-killer instinct had kicked in again.

  "Would you like to hear something interesting about the pills?" Edmunds finally asked, getting the informal meeting started again.

  "Sure. Sure. What'd you find?" Grant asked, continuing to squeeze one fist with the other hand.

  "We were successful in getting men to turn in stashes, and that includes pills from other ships. Most of those men did it because they were scared. How many others dumped theirs, we'll probably never know.

  "All the pills turned in were 6mm, colored red. From what I understand, those were distributed well before this last batch. Now, the pills the, uh, unfortunate men took were also 6mm, but were orange. I had both analyzed. Only the orange ones were the killers."

  Grant processed the information. "That doesn't tell us much. They either came from different factories, or possibly the same factory, right?" Edmunds nodded. "So, all we can hope for is that our intended target has the evidence we need."

  "That's about it."

  Grant thought for a minute. "Isn't it possible that orange ones are still being stashed? Has the word been passed those are the killers?"

  "It's always possible, and word was passed."

  Grant shook his head. "It'd only take one man to come forward. Just one."

  "By the way, we suspect the drugs came in on a COD. The one you arrived on was the first flight since flight ops were cancelled. Captain Conklin contacted Cubi and had it thoroughly searched before takeoff.

  "Now, the kid who committed suicide was a storekeeper, which led us to believe he was the dealer. We've searched his lockers and the hangar bay thoroughly, but haven't come up with any evidence yet."

  "If he was," Grant said, "I'd say he had a decent stash of money. I take it you didn't find any."

  "No. That's another task, following a trail of money. We know his hometown was Coos Bay, Oregon. We'll check banks there and the San Diego area."

  "I remember an incident years back when an embezzler mailed himself money, sending it to a post office box. Possible in this instance?" Grant asked.

  "Very much so. I'll add that to the other possibilities."

  "Last question. Have you interviewed contractors? They've pretty much got the 'run' of the ship."

  "Not yet, but I'm expecting another NIS agent to arrive tomorrow. I've been told another will be going directly to Subic."

  "Well, here's something else to 'throw in the pot.' Joe and I just had a conversation with our contact. NSA intercepted a transmission from Bangkok going to Olongapo, P.I."

  "Why there?"

  "Have you heard of the PNA?"

  "Uh-oh. That's not sounding good."

  "If that doesn't sound good, how about transmissions between Bangkok and Saigon?"

  "Damn!"

  Grant gave a slight wave of his hand. "Can't prove a connection yet."

  "Not much to go on. But that would be a helluva lot of players in this game."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Have you talked with the admiral yet?"

  "He's next on the list, but the mission won't change, unless he knows something we don't."

&
nbsp; Chapter 7

  Tanintharyi Peninsula

  Burma

  Outskirts of Kawthoung

  A narrow waterway, 175 feet at its widest point, meandered southeast through the rainforest of Kawthoung, eventually emptying into the Kra Buri, a river separating Burma from Thailand. The river's source began in the Tenasserim Hills.

  Along the waterway six wooden pole shacks (pile dwellings) stood precariously in the brackish water. Roofs were covered in thatched palm fronds, or thin pieces of tin. Each shack, no more than 120 square feet in size, had two rooms, separated only by hanging screens woven from palm fronds. Hammocks made from burlap or canvas hung from thick bamboo rafters. Bamboo mats lined rough-hewn wooden floors. A one- or two-burner kerosene cooker was used either in the room or on deck. Kerosene fueled glass lanterns. Most furnishings had been disposed of. Access to the decks was by rickety ladders made from thick tree branches and rope.

  Floating six feet below the structures, tied to poles, were three boats, carved-out of tree trunks, each close to seven feet in length. The boats were a common appearance throughout Burma, making transportation of people and goods effortless on all waterways. The likelihood of them attracting attention was remote.

  Once occupied by civilians, the shacks were forcibly taken over by the rebel group STA (Sa Tai Army), and then abandoned when the rebels moved on. STA's objective was to overthrow the Burma Socialist Programme Party, led by General Ne Win who took control of Burma through a coup d'état. Banding together in small groups, the rebels found a way to finance their operation—the production and sale of yaba.

  *

  Wearing rain-soaked dark green field uniforms, now devoid of all identifiable insignias and patches, two armed guards patrolled the hillside, carrying G3 rifles. A G3, developed in the 1950s by Heckler & Koch (H&K), was a selective-fire automatic weapon that used a roller-delayed blowback operating system. The battle rifle had a rate of fire of 500-600 rounds a minute with a 550 yard range.