Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant, Adler, Diaz, and Slade were sprawled out midway up the bank, on their bellies, covered in silt, burned and jagged pieces of wood, palm fronds. Patches of blood had spread across their water-soaked camies.

  "Are they alive?!" Novak asked nervously as he was running.

  "Don't know!" Stalley responded loudly, as he and James frantically slung away debris. They finally saw signs of movement in Adler.

  Novak rushed to him, helping him sit up. "LT! You all right?!"

  Adler looked up at him through squinted eyes, as he wiped mud and blood from his face. "Yeah, think so, but my ears are still ringing." He pressed his hands against his ears, as he swiveled his head slowly, spotting Grant, Diaz and Slade still on the ground. He crawled closer to Grant.

  Stalley was checking Grant's pulse, when he heard him moan. "Boss is comin' around!" He spun around and knelt next to Diaz, while he shouted at James, "DJ! Check Ken!"

  "C'mon, Skipper!" Adler said, shaking Grant's shoulder. Grant rolled over on his back. Splotches of mud covered his face. Blood oozed from cuts. Slowly opening his eyes, he had a tough time trying to focus. Finally, he saw the familiar face leaning over him. "Joe. You okay?"

  "Pretty much."

  "The other guys?"

  "Doc's checking 'em."

  Grant held a hand toward Adler, who grabbed it and pulled him up. "Where're those kids?!" Grant asked, as he wiped blood trickling from a cut above his eye.

  Adler looked over Grant's shoulder. "There they are." Almost unseen were the four boys, huddling together farther up the hill, trembling with fear. "Guess they crawled out from under us when it got quiet. What are we gonna do with them?"

  "We don't have much choice. We've gotta take them back to the ship."

  Grant's eyes went to each of his men, settling on Diaz, who Stalley was kneeling next to with his medical bag open. "Doc," Grant called quietly. Stalley stood, then walked closer. "What's the prognosis?"

  "Think Frank might have some internal bleeding," he indicated by pointing under his left ribcage. "Might be his spleen."

  "Oh, Christ!" Grant looked toward Diaz, who was in obvious pain. "What can you do for him?"

  "I'll start an IV, then monitor his blood pressure. He's refused pain meds, but that may not last."

  Grant rubbed mud from the crystal of his submariner. "The chopper's due at 0730. He's not gonna be able to make that trek, is he?"

  "Best if he doesn't."

  Grant patted Stalley's shoulder. "Okay, Doc. Listen, that was a helluva job you and DJ did on the hill. Good work."

  "Thanks, boss." He immediately returned to his injured teammate.

  Grant motioned for Novak, Slade and James. "You all okay?"

  "Yeah. We're all good, boss," Novak answered for the three.

  "Okay, Mike. You and Ken bring our gear across. We should have enough time to check it." The two men ran toward the waterway. Grant turned to James. "DJ, like I told Doc, helluva job on the hill."

  "Sure, boss. You might talk with Mike. Think he may have had longest eyes on that chopper."

  Grant shot a quick look across the waterway, seeing Novak and Slade, hustling out of the water, and onto the opposite bank. "I will, DJ. Thanks."

  "What can I do now?"

  Grant put a hand on his shoulder, leading him away from Diaz. "Listen, Frank's not doing so good. That chopper's due at the LZ in forty minutes."

  "You want me to meet it?"

  Grant nodded, as he reached into his chest vest, then handed James the map. "Take this, and get one of the radios. The chopper's call sign is 'Foxtrot 5-5.' You're gonna have to hustle, DJ."

  "That's my middle name!" Securing the map inside his vest, James readjusted the small compass attached to his watchband, before picking up his MP5. He started running toward the water.

  Grant called out, "Watch yourself!" James waved a hand high above his head.

  Grant reached for his canteen and shook it. "You got any extra water for those kids, Joe? Think I've got enough until the chopper gets here." He looked toward the waterway. "Can't take a chance using the iodine, with the shit that could be floating in that."

  Adler unhooked his canteen. "I can do it."

  "Okay. Let's go. We'll check on Frank first."

  If the chopper returned for a second look, the only secure place was over the hill. But for now, the kids were safely out of the way, where they could still be watched.

  Twenty minutes later, Novak and Slade had finished hauling gear across the waterway. Gear was checked and rechecked.

  Stalley went from man to man, quickly and efficiently cleaning, bandaging or using butterfly closures on wounds. Then, he turned his full attention to Diaz. As the rest of the men took defensive positions, waiting for extraction, Novak filled them in on the chopper's attack -- and his return of fire.

  Chapter 12

  0720 Hours

  About 200 yards from where the shacks once stood, a creek branched off, flowing southeast, the same creek as the drugs were transported on. Fifty yards down the narrow waterway, a wooden boat was tied to a fully matured bamboo stem (culm).

  Sonny Holcomb had stayed out of sight for over an hour. There was always a possibility the chopper would return. While choppers weren't the norm for Burma in its ongoing struggle for control of the government, gunfire and explosions were, as the regular army battled rebels.

  What was it that made him decide to visit the prostitute, Kyi, last night? He'd been with her co-worker only three days ago. That should have satisfied him. But if he'd returned a half hour sooner, or never gone in the first place, he might now be dead.

  He tried to sort out reasons for what happened, tried to understand. Whether or not there was still danger, he had to go investigate.

  Drawing the revolver from its holster, he began walking cautiously through the forest, while he thought back to when he was maneuvering his boat along the creek earlier that morning.

  He'd heard the sound of a chopper, immediately followed by a horrific explosion. Not long after, the distinct sound of a machine gun. He'd hastily rowed to shore, then pulled the boat under some brush. There he remained until it grew quiet. When he thought it was clear, he cautiously headed toward a secure location, well within the forest, just in case the chopper returned.

  But that was earlier. This was now. He knelt down behind some brush, staring in disbelief. The shacks were gone. Boats were gone. Bridge destroyed. Broken, jagged pieces of support poles stuck out of the water. The force of the explosion had hurled debris across the waterway, now scattered up and down the shoreline. Everything -- gone, all blown to fucking hell.

  Suddenly, something caught his attention. Movement. The guards? Myint? Straining his eyes, he spotted several men, none he expected to see, all dressed in camies. And who else? Kids? They could only be the ones who worked for Myint! Something wasn't adding up.

  A familiar noise made him duck for cover. Another chopper! Was it the same one? Was someone returning to confirm everything had been destroyed, or looking for survivors? But the men across the waterway seemed to be waiting for this one, signaling as it flew closer.

  Coming from the north, it swooped down, then hovered. On the fuselage was the word "Navy" and a "Star and Bar" symbol, used on all U.S. military aircraft: horizontal red stripe, centered on a white horizontal baron either side of a white star, outlined with a blue border.

  "A fuckin' Navy chopper!" he mumbled, swiping a hand over the top of his head. "Navy chopper." The men now being rescued were probably on the hunt for him. His brow furrowed. But why the hell would they hunt for him over some pills? And how did they find the shacks? "Only two possibilities," he grunted. NSA or CIA had been listening. He looked overhead. "Satellites." Somewhere along the line he'd fucked up, and had gotten careless.

  He continued watching as the pilot maneuvered his aircraft, descending slowly until it was no more than 10 to 15 feet above the water, then he brought it closer to the shoreline. Holcomb's eyes never left the entire proces
s as men and boys were hoisted into the cargo bay. Then, it was over. The chopper's nose dipped as the pilot pushed the stick forward. Within less than two minutes, Holcomb found himself completely alone.

  Heading back to the boat, his newest concern was who the fuck was in the other chopper, the one that destroyed his operation? Who was out to kill him? There was no way in hell his supplier would turn against him, not with the money he was making. Then again, anything was possible. Yet, where the hell would Quibin get a chopper?

  Names and faces flashed through his mind. He eliminated some, questioned others. Banyon? "Not possible!" Banyon had a good thing going, and without all the responsibility. His only job was to see that the drugs got to their destinations.

  He untied the boat, shoved it into the creek, then climbed in. With a slow-moving current, he only had to use the paddle as a rudder, giving him more time to unravel his thoughts. But thinking only added to his confusion and anger. He'd lost years of work and years of income within less than an hour. Slapping the paddle hard against the water, he spit out with rage, "Fuck!" His comfortable way of life had suddenly turned to shit.

  Fifteen minutes later he maneuvered the boat parallel to a hundred foot pier, made from rough cut planks. Grabbing hold of splintered board, he pulled the boat closer, tying it off at its bow then stern.

  Hoisting himself onto the pier, he hesitated briefly, as he cast his eyes toward the forest. He had his work cut out for him. It might take time and miles, but he'd eventually resolve all his questions.

  He started walking toward the village, and glanced at his watch, wondering if Banyon made the delivery in Dawei. With the short wave probably at the bottom of the waterway, he lost the means to make contact, so he'd just have to wait. He wondered if he could convince the former Army sergeant to join him in the hunt. But with what was at stake, neither of them would have a choice, especially if they wanted to ensure they weren't the ones being hunted.

  Startup of drug production would have to wait, but somehow -- somewhere -- it would restart. Yaba had become their lifeblood.

  Chapter 13

  The Mouth of the Chao Phraya River

  Bangkok

  0915 Hours

  Flying low, coming from the south, a Huey approached the string of barges. Bayani Salazar guided the chopper closer, then hovered over the end barge, slowly easing the skids onto the reinforced raised deck. Running from the wheelhouse, Reyes picked up a hook attached to a wire cable, then ducked low as he secured it to the chopper. Salazar and Flores prepared for shutdown.

  With his Uzi strap on his shoulder, Reyes went to the cargo bay door, stunned by what he saw. Blood splatters were on the deck, along both port and starboard sides, on the overhead, and canvas seats. His eyes finally focused on Mendoza, who had blood and brain tissue on his clothes. Not seeing Mercado or Bolivar, Reyes didn't have to ask questions.

  Sitting in the middle section of the canvas seats behind the cockpit, Mendoza finally released his seat belt, but he couldn't stop from staring at the interior of the cabin. Two of his men . . . dead, their bodies somewhere at the bottom of the waterway.

  Finally realizing how quiet it was, he looked up, seeing the three men watching him. Salazar asked, "Should we clean the . . ."

  "Not now. Just lock it down. I want to call Artadi."

  Salazar questioned, "What about Paolo? Can you contact him?"

  "No. He has all the information he needs, and knows what must be done." He looked over his shoulder as he stood by the cargo bay doorway. "No more wasting time."

  During the flight back to the barge, the three men discussed everything they saw, everything that happened. The biggest question: Who was the gunman? His shooting ability was true perfection.

  When Quibin was interrogated, he never mentioned any such person. There was only his buyer, an American who went by the name of "Hawk." Could that have been him? But how did he know they were coming? Unless it was pure chance he was not in the shacks. Thinking back, the three men never saw anybody, only lights inside. Quibin said the few times he'd made a delivery, there were guards, and a few young boys. But today, no one was there, except the gunman.

  Mendoza worried. If that gunman was the American, he might try to inflict revenge, maybe by destroying the Bangkok facility. Or would he try to hunt them down?

  "Reynaldo, you to go to the facility, protect the operation. You'll have to remain there until we can find a replacement for Quibin. How much ammo do you have?"

  "My gun's loaded, and we've got more stored below deck."

  "Take extra, and grab one of the Uzis. Bayani, drive him in the Land Rover. Make sure everything is running smoothly, then you come back."

  Chapter 14

  USS Preston

  1145 Hours

  Four-foot swells rolled across the Indian Ocean, as the carrier cut through them effortlessly, creating its own waves along port and starboard sides, leaving a trail of green-white foam behind its stern.

  Waiting for the arrival of the Sea Knight, sailors stood near the island with a stretcher and two piles of blankets. A doctor and nurses were standing by in sickbay.

  Watching from Vulture's Row, Conklin, Torrinson, Justine waited impatiently. The message received from the chopper co-pilot left everyone with more questions. If one of Grant's team had an injury requiring surgery, the mission must have "gone south" in a drastic way.

  "There it is!" XO Justine pointed. "Nine o'clock."

  Torrinson put a hand to his forehead, attempting to block light from the late morning sun, as its brilliant rays reflected off the ocean. He had many moments since being aboard the carrier when flight ops unraveled the nerves, especially night ops. But waiting for Grant, Joe and Team A.T. brought back memories of NIS missions. Stevens and Adler never failed to complete their missions no matter who they confronted, no matter where it took them, no matter how hard the fight. An indiscernible smile crossed his face, as he ran a hand along the side of his head, touching gray hairs he attributed to those two men. But the smile was brief.

  A sound of rotors grew more distinct. With its speed decreasing and nose slightly raised, the chopper slowly approached the carrier. Keeping his eyes on the yellow shirted flight director, Gore maneuvered the chopper onto the angle deck. The moment its wheels touched, wheel chocks were slid into place, tie-downs secured.

  Three officers were no longer watching from Vulture's Row, but hurrying down the ladderwell leading to the flight deck. Screwing down their caps, they stepped onto the flight deck, staying close to the island, as they watched four men from the first medical responders unit running up the ramp, carrying a stretcher into the cargo bay.

  "Were any transmissions received indicating a change in the injured man's condition?" Torrinson asked, without taking his eyes off the chopper.

  "No, sir," XO Justine answered.

  Within no time, Diaz was on the stretcher, then being hustled toward the superstructure.

  The three officers kept their eyes on the stretcher until it disappeared inside the island. Hearing a sound of boots on the ramp again, they turned seeing the six men of A.T. surrounding the four boys who had blankets wrapped around them.

  "How the hell did those kids survive . . . everything?" Conklin questioned, with a slight shake of his head.

  Torrinson redirected his eyes to the men of A.T. as they walked across the flight deck. Each man was bruised and battered. Clothes were mud-caked, torn, and bloodied; blood seeped through bandages on faces, hands. While their eyes showed frustration and anger, it was the fierce determination Torrinson recognized, having seen that look many times in the past. He already knew these men would be going back out, in pursuit of those who seriously injured one of their own, and with premeditation, killed or destroyed the lives of young sailors aboard the Preston.

  Grant stopped in front of him. "Admiral."

  Torrinson placed a hand on his shoulder, while letting his eyes go from man to man. "Come on. You all need to get to sickbay. We'll talk later."
>
  *

  A decision had been made. The order given. The Preston was turned into the wind. Flight ops were finally underway. For the past two and a half hours, and every 45 seconds, one of four catapults sent an aircraft hurtling down the flight deck, launching it in 2.5 seconds. F-14 Tomcats, A-6 Intruders, AE-6B Prowlers. Rescue choppers had been in the air before the first plane launched.

  Within Flag Country space, located a level below the launch shuttle of Cat 1, the sounds and vibrations of aircraft launches were extraordinary, deafening. The three men within the room somehow managed to ignore the disturbance.

  Torrinson sat on the front of his desk, sipping on a cup of warm, black coffee, waiting for Captain Conklin, anxious for the meeting to begin.

  Sitting on a black leather couch on the opposite side of the room, Grant and Adler also waited, wearing their service khakis. New sets of camies, bought from the ship's store, hung in their stateroom.

  "There're some donuts and pastries on the credenza," Torrinson said, looking specifically at Adler.

  "No thanks, sir," Adler responded with a slight shake of his head.

  "Well, that's gotta be a first! Joe Adler refusing food?!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Listen, you've both gotta be relieved Frank came through surgery without complications. Grant, didn't Doc Palmer say he'd make a full recovery, even without his spleen?"

  Grant swirled the black coffee around in the cup, then looked at Torrinson. "He did, sir, but I don't know if Frank will be rejoining the Team."

  "Oh, come on, Grant. You haven't even talked with him."

  "You're right. But he was injured on another mission. That's when he decided he needed to spend more time with his son -- until he learned about the training facility. I know it was a tough call for him, but he wanted to stay with us. To tell you the truth, his decision surprised the hell out of me.