"Lights in three, four," Slade confirmed.
Adler whispered, "Guard on roof, shack two, smoking."
"Got him," Grant confirmed, before redirecting his scope along the hillside. "There's gotta be somebody on that hill."
"Eyes on one," Stalley reported. "Coming down dirt path toward shacks."
Grant looked overhead. Stars were beginning to break through passing clouds. If it cleared, moonlight could be a problem. They had to hustle. "Everybody back," he whispered. They moved farther back into the forest, then he diverted his eyes to Novak. "Mike, find a spot to set up." Novak gave a quick nod, then started looking for a place that'd give him clear views with the scope -- and a clear field of fire.
Grant continued, "Doc, DJ, take care of the guard on the hill, then recon the area. Will wait for your all clear."
James and Stalley positioned the MP5s behind their back. K-bars were secured in their leg straps. Stalley had his medical bag. They made haste toward the curve in the waterway, adjusted earpieces, then silently waded into the slow-moving, murky water.
Grant turned toward Adler. "Joe, once we're across, we'll take the first three shacks, Frank and Ken the left three. In the meantime, Frank, Ken, do a recon that way," he motioned with a hand, indicating south." The two men took off, quickly disappearing within thick growths of trees and brush.
Fifteen long minutes later, they heard Stalley in their earpieces, "Five-Two and Six-Eight proceeding south. Copy?"
"Copy that," Grant replied. He and Adler stretched out on their bellies, then continued scanning the area north and south of the pole houses. Grant whispered, "Shack two is main target. Antenna." Adler moved his scope briefly, then returned to scanning his area.
Stalley called in again. "Zero-Niner. Five-Two. UF permanently disabled."
"Any UFs near targets?" Grant whispered.
"Wait one." Stalley and James scanned behind the shacks, then roofs. "On roof. Rope bridge connects shacks to lower hill."
"Roger that." Grant moved the scope, trying to find Stalley and James on the hill.
Novak pressed the PTT. "Eyes on UF, walking on deck." The man's sheathed machete swung forward between the posts, as he leaned, then spit into the water. Wiping his mouth, he turned slightly and pounded a fist against the flimsy bamboo siding.
"Oh, Christ!" Grant mumbled, immediately notifying everyone. "Kids on deck!"
Stalley shot a look at James, then responded softly, "Say again!"
"Boys! Eyes on deuce!" Grant took a breath. "Five-Two, Six-Eight. Hold positions." He tapped Adler's shoulder. They crabbed their way backwards. Grant called Slade and Diaz. "Four-One, Three-Six. Return to base."
"Roger," Slade responded, as he and Diaz started hustling.
The five men knelt close together. Adler whispered, "Jesus Christ! What the hell are we gonna do now?"
Grant didn't respond, and turned his back to Adler, as he silently considered the two options: continue the mission as planned, or find a way to prevent collateral damage.
Adler tugged on Grant's arm, questioning in a gruff whisper, "Your not seriously thinking about doin' nothing for those kids?!"
Grant jerked his arm away. "Any suggestions? Anybody?" he asked, with his eyes going from man to man.
Slade looked at the shacks then at Diaz, who gave a quick nod. "Frank and I'll go first; see if we can get them outta there."
Grant shook his head. "And what about more guards, possibly in those shacks? We don't know what the fuck's going on inside. How do you know there aren't more kids?" Silence. He walked away, but he knew Adler was right. He couldn't live with himself if his decision cost the lives of little kids when he could've at least tried something.
"Okay," he said as he turned. "We regroup." He looked through the scope. "Still only see those two." He called Stalley. "Five-Two, can you see inside?"
"Negative."
"Stand by." Rubbing the back of his neck, Grant reviewed the situation. They still didn't know if there were more kids, or more men inside, possibly operating the machines. Was the supplier on site? Nothing was a given. "Listen up. We'll swim across. Once we're under the shacks, Mike, I'll signal you, then you notify Doc and DJ. It'll be up to them to distract those two men." Novak nodded. Grant continued, "Once clear, we'll climb on deck." He looked at Diaz and Slade. "Joe and I'll be on deck the same time as you, but it'll be up to you to get those kids outta there. Drop them over the side if you have to."
He immediately called Stalley and James. "Five-Two, Six-Eight. A.T. crossing in five. Stand by for order to distract UFs. Copy?"
"Copy that. Standing by."
Giving their 'boonie' hats one last tug, the four men crouched low, and waded into the water. Swimming across the waterway using the powerful, and nearly silent breaststroke, with their eyes barely breaking the surface, they focused on the shoreline ahead.
They swam into the slow moving current, then floated close to the bank, finally seeing the curving shoreline. Stroking out of the current, they reached for overhanging vines. Grabbing hold, they drew themselves nearer to shore.
They continued along the shoreline, brushing aside weeds and overhanging vines. The only sounds came from the rainforest and wooden boats, straining against coarse ropes holding them taut. The men drifted closer to the support poles.
Novak reported, "UF still on front deck, near rail." He moved the scope, zeroing in on Grant.
Slade and Diaz floated under the decks, grabbing onto the first ladder, then slowly, silently went from ladder to ladder, taking quick glances overhead. They held onto ladders under shacks five and four, while Grant and Adler were at one and three. They all waited.
The UF standing on the deck leaned slightly over the rail, spitting out another stream of betel quid. The red goo slowly spread across the surface, then drifted away on the current.
Grant looked toward Novak's position and gave him a thumb's up. Novak immediately pressed the PTT. "Five-Two, Six-Eight. Go."
"Roger," Stalley whispered.
He and James had only one way to distract both UFs, while remaining in stealth mode. James was ready to remove his penlight from his chest vest, when he and Stalley heard a shuffling noise at their five o'clock. Slowly getting down on a knee, they turned their heads, focusing the NVGs in the general area.
James tapped Stalley's shoulder. Stalley gave a thumb's up, spotting a UF coming over the top of the hill, about twenty yards away.
James pressed the PTT, barely whispering, "A.T. Stand by."
The men under the shacks looked at one another, shaking their heads. Whatever the delay was, they had to wait.
James held his position. Stalley crouched low and cautiously headed at an angle toward the man, intending to strike from behind. The man kept walking slowly downhill, brushing aside drooping palms leaves. Two short whistles. A signal. A response came from the man on the roof.
With his K-bar in his right hand, Stalley was within striking distance, when the target lost his balance and started sliding. Stalley lunged, landing directly behind the UF. With his left hand clamped over the man's mouth, his right thrust the razor-sharp knife into the side of the neck, into the carotid, then sliced across the jugular. Blood gushed. Stalley applied constant pressure against the mouth, forcing the head back. Within seconds, all movement stopped. It was over.
Stalley looked around, confirming no other UF was in sight, then he cautiously made his way back to James. He quickly wiped his knife on leaves, as James pressed the PTT. "UF down. One on roof."
Below in the water, A.T. waited. One man on the roof and one on the front deck had to be dealt with, and damn quick.
James removed a penlight from his chest vest, and aimed it toward the rear of the shacks, flashing it on and off, without any set pattern.
Novak focused his scope on the roof, reporting, "Roof man on the move." James continued flashing the light, moving the beam in a haphazard motion.
The man jumped, landing on the rear wooden deck with a loud thum
p. He dashed across the rear bridge, shouting in Burmese. The man on the front deck rushed through the shack, heading for the rear, pulling his machete from its sheath. He stopped just short of the rope bridge, letting his eyes dart from place to place, trying to see beyond the darkness. Standing with his legs apart, he swung his machete in quick, small movements. He waited and listened.
Below in the water, Grant looked overhead. He grew more anxious with each passing minute. With all the noise, why the hell hadn't anyone come out to investigate? His thoughts were distracted, as James quietly reported, "Six-Eight and Five-Two have eyes on UFs, hill and bridge." He shut off the penlight, then he and Stalley separated and hustled farther up the hill, distancing themselves from the curious guard.
Leaves and vegetation rustled as the guard searched for the source of the light, continuing to climb farther up the hill.
James was down on a knee with his NVGs in place, taking cover behind a group of low-hanging palm fronds. The man came closer, then turned away, swiveling his head, unable to find the light. As he crept past James, James sprang out. He was behind the man in the blink of an eye, plunging the knife in and down below the brain stem, giving the K-bar a quick twist. Done.
James pressed the PTT. "One down. UF still on bridge."
They couldn't fuck around any longer. The longer they waited, the more could go wrong. Grant took a chance and barely whispered, "Five-Two. Take shot."
Stalley drew his pistol, retightened the silencer, then cautiously crept farther down the hill, until he had an unobstructed view. Getting on one knee, he braced himself against a palm tree, took aim and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Myint's body went rigid. He looked down at his bare chest. Dark red was spreading rapidly, pulsing out. With his hand clamped around his machete, he tumbled over the rope bridge rail. The Team cringed with the sound of his body slamming into the water.
Stalley whispered, "Clear!"
Novak gave the order, "Go! Go!"
The four men hustled up the ladders without hesitating. As they neared the deck, they heard Novak, "Four boys! Eyes on four boys!"
It was too late to stop. The men scrambled over the rail, nearly knocking down the panicked youngsters. Grant and Adler burst through the doors of shacks two and three. Slade and Diaz scooped up the screaming, terrified boys, dropped them into the water, then they busted through the doors of four and five.
Grant and Adler backed out, then immediately checked the first shack. Not a damn soul in sight.
Slade and Diaz came out shaking their heads, but Slade held up a hand and shook a small tin. Pills rattled inside. He stashed it inside his chest vest.
What they heard next made their blood run cold. They immediately focused down river. The sound couldn't have been more distinct -- the thump-thump-thump of rotors—a Huey. The mission went to critical stage.
Chapter 11
A bright spotlight flashed on, guiding the chopper as it flew dead center along the waterway at an altitude of no more than fifty feet.
Grant ordered, "Take cover! "Take cover!"
Still not knowing the chopper's intent, Grant, Adler, Diaz, and Slade couldn't take the chance of hiding in the flimsy structures. But more importantly, the kids could become targets. The men vaulted over the railing, hit the water, then stroked like hell toward the kids who were trying frantically to get away from them.
Each man grabbed a screaming, struggling kid. They had to rely mostly on their powerful kicks to propel themselves back under the shacks in search of any kind of cover.
Stalley and James hustled up the hill, dove for dirt just over the ridge, then crawled until their bodies had some protection within a stand of trees.
Novak grabbed his rifle, and ducked behind a thick ficus tree. Taking a deep breath, he leaned just enough to give himself a clear view using the scope.
The chopper was finally coming into view. It slowly approached, then hovered in front of the shacks. Smoke rising above one shack and lights inside two others gave the impression the places were occupied.
Novak was the only one able to see it clearly. Except for the drab green paint, it was without identifiable markings. He spotted two passengers in the second row of canvas seats. He adjusted the scope. The passenger on the starboard side held what looked like an M16. But something else caught Novak's attention. A grenade launcher attached to the rifle's underside. He notified A.T. "Grenades! Grenades!"
Then with its nose dipping, the chopper regained speed and headed up the waterway. Novak kept it in the crosshairs, when suddenly it banked hard right. "Comin' back! Stay down! Stay down!"
The chopper slowed, then hovered directly in front of and parallel to the shacks. Slowly, the pilot maneuvered the aircraft closer to the opposite bank. The intent to fire became obvious, when the gunner knelt near the starboard side's open cargo bay door, and aimed his weapon.
"Oh Christ!" Novak immediately zeroed in. He fired just as the gunner pulled the trigger. The man's head disintegrated. Blood, brain tissue, bone fragments splattered everywhere. The body tumbled out of the chopper, smacked hard against the water, then disappeared beneath the surface within seconds.
Simultaneously, the shacks exploded in a deafening, blinding white-red-orange ball of fire. The chopper rocked from the sound waves. Minute pieces of debris struck its underbelly. Pieces of wood, bamboo, shards of metal became missiles, shooting in every direction. Destroyed wood, still burning, rained down on the water and hillside. Smoke and a cloud of dirt obliterated the entire bank.
"Goddammit! Fuck!" Novak ducked behind the tree, and pressed the PTT. "Boss! LT! Anybody!" No response. "Holy Christ!" Slowly, he leaned around the tree, then brought his rifle up. He readjusted the scope, and determined how many were still in the chopper. Pilot, co-pilot, and one passenger who was looking out the doorway.
Novak had to make a decision. Take out as many as he could, or bring down the whole freakin' chopper. That wasn't an option. He'd seen choppers go down before. Complete loss of control, killer blades slicing through anything in their path. And if Team A.T. was still alive, they wouldn't stand a chance.
The passenger was an easy shot. He could take him out in the blink of an eye, then the co-pilot. Taking aim, he had one target lined up in the crosshairs, when out of nowhere, someone swung around from behind the port cargo bay door, holding an Uzi.
The trap had been set. Novak walked right in. "Oh, fuck!" He spun around, then ran like hell. A burst of gunfire sprayed the entire river bank and trees, striking the ground, kicking up dirt directly behind him. With his arms stretched out in front, and his hands gripping his rifle, he dove behind the base of a larger ficus tree. A deep grunt escaped from his throat as his body slammed against dirt. Bullets zipped around both sides, striking the tree, snapping off small branches of nearby brush.
The gunfire stopped, but he still heard rotors. He got up into a crouch, then holding his rifle steady, with the barrel pointed straight up, he slowly stood, keeping his back against the tree. He edged closer to the opposite side. Another burst of gunfire sent bullets whizzing past. He waited. So did the gunner. Novak knew the pilot was maneuvering even closer. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the chopper's location and angle, trying to picture the gunner's position.
One chance. He'd have one fuckin' chance. As the gunner fired off another burst, Novak swung out from behind the tree, zeroed in on the man, and fired two rapid rounds. Both direct hits. He ducked behind the tree again. The sound of the chopper's rotors changed, as the pilot pushed the stick forward, sending it down river.
Breathing heavy now, Novak waited until he was certain it was clear, then he walked slowly toward the water, looking through the scope, staying close to the cover of trees and brush. He spotted the UF's body, slipping beneath the water.
It grew quiet again, with only the occasional pops and crackles from burning material. Novak sunk down into a squat, staring unbelieving across the waterway, seeing the destruction, smelling the smoke. A scene passe
d through his mind, a scene from Vietnam, pictures of burning hooches, explosions, burning bodies, fallen teammates.
"Respond A.T.! Anybody!"
The muffled sound made him shake his head. Somebody was calling. He pressed a finger against his earpiece before realizing it was dangling in front of his shirt. Readjusting it, he thought, Screw call signs. He pressed the PTT. "Novak!"
"Mike! It's me and DJ!"
"Doc, any sign of Team?!"
"Negative! Making our way down the hill. Where are you?!"
Novak jumped up and broke into a run. "Going toward bridge!"
"Jesus, Mike! What . . .?!"
"Just keep your eyes open, kid!"
Novak stopped by the only section of bridge remaining in tact. Most of the twenty foot section was underwater being held by rope, preventing it from floating away. He checked the south end of the waterway. Clear. Slinging the rifle strap over his head, he ran into the water, then dove, stroking hard even before completely surfacing.
It was nearly impossible to see any signs of movement on the opposite bank. Pushing aside large and small pieces of wood, weaving in and out of debris, he didn't want to believe the Team may have lost four men.
Pink and purple colors of daylight began to show on the horizon, just enough light allowing Stalley and James to get a clearer view as they half slid, half ran down the side of the hill. Finally reaching the riverbank, they searched frantically, looking in every direction.
Novak propelled himself through the water, constantly bumping into and pushing aside large and small pieces of debris. He suddenly pulled up, seeing what looked like a body almost totally hidden under floating palms and bamboo, snagged on the sharp, jagged remains of a pole. "Christ! No!" He stroked hard, until seeing the man was Burmese. He stopped and swiped water from his face, as he rotated his body, trying to see in all directions.
"There! Over there!" James shouted, pointing up the hill. He and Stalley started running, keeping their eyes focused on what appeared to be bodies.
Novak fought against the pressure of the water, finally reaching the bank. He crawled and clawed his way up the hill.
Silent Vengeance Page 7