Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  "I'm . . . Grant, hold on. Got a call on the 'special' line."

  Grant rocked back in the chair. "He's got a call comin' in."

  "Hope it's something for us," Adler said.

  Several minutes later, Mullins restarted the conversation. "Grant! One of NSA's listening posts intercepted a transmission from Bangkok going to Olongapo. Timeframe was after that chopper attacked."

  "You've got my attention."

  "The parties were speaking a mix of Tagalog and English."

  "Anything of importance?"

  "To keep it short and simple . . . those were the bastards, Grant."

  "And you know this because . . .?!"

  "Someone mentioned two dead aboard the chopper."

  "Holy shit! It's gotta be the PNA, Scott!"

  "Thought that'd get you! Listen, just keep your fingers crossed they'll be able to triangulate that damn location."

  "We just need GPS coordinates, Scott. In the meantime, I'll update the admiral."

  "Talk at ya!" End of call.

  Grant removed his headphones, and laid them on the desk. The men patiently waited. Adler finally got up and stood in front of him. "Well?! Are you gonna keep it to yourself?!"

  "The conversation going from Bangkok to Olongapo mentioned two dead on the chopper."

  "It was those bastards!" Novak blurted out.

  "When do we leave, boss?!" Slade asked.

  Grant remained quiet, as Adler looked at him quizzically. "You don't seem too excited. Problem?"

  "I'm just fast-forwarding to the op, Joe." He was about to stand, when two of the sat images got his attention. He arranged them side by side. "Why the hell didn't we see this?"

  "What are you looking at?" Adler asked, as the men looked over Grant's shoulder.

  Grant pointed to one of the images. "We've been fixed on that airfield, but look to the east, by the river."

  "Shit! A town!" Slade blurted out.

  "Right, Ken," Grant answered. "Suggestions?"

  Novak pounded a fist against his palm. "How 'bout we pay it a visit, boss?!"

  "You read my mind, Mike, but even if a satellite picks up that plane after the last flyover, it doesn't mean it's still there. We'll have two potential targets. Two countries, Thailand and Burma. Will one be more important than the other? We can't split the Team."

  Adler held up a hand. "Do I get a vote?" Grant nodded. "We hit the Bangkok location. Run a G2. Take no prisoners."

  "A vengeance mission?"

  "Damn straight! Silent and deadly! It's what we do!"

  Grant looked at him through narrowed eyes. Adler was usually being facetious with these types of comments, but not this time. As he looked at each of his men, he could see it in their eyes. They were pissed. They wanted revenge for Diaz. They wanted revenge for young men they never knew personally.

  Adler shook a finger at Grant. "Listen, we've pretty much pinpointed the PNA as being the bad guys. There's no way in hell those aren't the bastards. Think about this. None of the pills from the shacks indicated they . . ."

  "Were the killers," Grant finished the sentence. "But somehow Bangkok and 'FUBAR' have gotta be connected, Joe."

  Grant leaned back and linked his fingers behind his head, staring at Adler, but seeing right through him, as his brain processed the data. "With those shacks destroyed, that sonofabitch probably moved on anyway." Grant rocked the chair back and forth. "Looks like we'll have to depend on locating and identifying that goddamn plane." He snatched the sat copies off the desk, then stood. "C'mon. Let's see if we can borrow a 'Phrog' again."

  An EOD petty officer was standing outside the door. Grant stopped. "Petty Officer, tell Lieutenant Ormond we said 'thanks' and we'll contact him later."

  "Yes, sir, be happy to." He dogged down the heavy door, glancing at the six men hustling across the deck.

  Chapter 16

  Outskirts of Kawthoung

  Burma

  1040 Hours

  Sonny Holcomb wandered around the village, waiting for Banyon. Villagers spoke to him, but they didn't ask any questions. It was known he controlled whatever activity went on in the pole houses along the waterway. And that was the direction where the explosions and gunfire had erupted. Citizens of Burma never interfered with, or exhibited any curiosity when it came to possible military or rebel action. Threats of prison or even death kept the innocent at bay. Life in this small village continued as usual.

  He walked to the end of the pier, sucking on a bottle of warm, flat, Mandalay beer. He scanned an overcast sky, listening for the sound of an engine, waiting for any sign of the plane. For the first time in a long time, his nerves were getting the best of him.

  Winds started picking up, bringing with them ominous-looking clouds. If the weather held true, they could expect another downpour, with no telling how long it would last.

  "C'mon, Mitch! Where the hell are you?!"

  Holcomb's plan was to investigate the grounds where his operation once stood, see if anything was salvageable, then fly to Bangkok, arriving well before dark. The factory operated only during daytime hours, when traffic was at its peak, when normal everyday sounds of the city could drown out motors of the pill-making machines.

  He looked toward the sky again. Still no sign of the plane. Between the incessant heat, humidity, and his nerves, his clothes were already soaked. He gulped down the final mouthful of beer, and looked overhead. "Dammit!" He couldn't wait any longer. He sat on the side of the pier, ready to get in the boat, when he heard the engine. "It's about fuckin' time," he grumbled, spotting the plane as it came through the clouds. It was circling from the west, and had, more than likely, passed over the destruction.

  Tossing the empty brown-colored bottle into the water, he took off jogging toward the airstrip. Banyon wouldn't have a clue where to find him -- and would probably think he was dead.

  Banyon was hurriedly going through his checklist, still uncertain whether to head for the village, or investigate the destruction. He kept telling himself it wasn't possible. Not only the loss of the shacks, but the possibility that Holcomb was dead. How could he have escaped?!

  He put his pen on the clipboard, and diverted his thoughts. With all the contacts he and Holcomb had made, it should be easy to find a new "employer." Especially since he'd have the plane!

  He started having more confidence in his future, until he looked up and saw Holcomb running toward him. He dropped the clipboard between the seats, then flung open the door. "What the fuck happened, Sonny?! What happened to the shacks?! I flew over . . .!"

  "C'mon! I'll tell you on the way!"

  With Banyon in the lead, following his usual path, the two men kept up a steady, hurried pace, brushing aside, and climbing over anything blocking their way. The first sound of rain, beating against the forest canopy, made them pick up their pace. Torrential rains could cause creeks to overflow, wiping out anything in their path. And going back to the plane could not only become a hazardous undertaking, but there'd be no way in hell they could fly to Bangkok.

  Nearly out of breath, they finally reached the clearing. Banyon came to a complete standstill. "Holy shit! Do you honestly expect to find anything?!" He looked for the bridge. "And how are we supposed to get across?!" Holcomb was already wading into the water.

  "Fuck!" Banyon didn't bother wading in, instead he ran full bore into the water.

  Anything that was able to float was long gone, except for palms, small pieces of bamboo, remnants of the shacks that had become lodged in a small cove.

  Crawling out of the water, Holcomb immediately started searching, even though he knew it was hopeless. He motioned toward the hill. "See if you can find anything up there." Rain started falling heavier, but Holcomb would persist in his search.

  Spotting what looked like clothes, he ran to the cove, waded in, and pushed aside garbage, reaching for a pair of jeans hooked on a log. That was it. He dragged the water-soaked pants behind him. They had some damage, but considering . . .

  A
crack of a gunshot made him spin around and drop to a knee. He drew his weapon and waited, finally seeing Banyon all but sliding down the hillside.

  "What the hell were you shooting at?!"

  Banyon crammed his revolver into the holster. "A goddamn badger was sniffing around one of the bodies."

  "Guards?"

  "Yeah. Natives. But whoever killed them sure knew what the hell they were doing. One bled out. His jugular must've been sliced in half. The other guy was done in by a knife rammed in the back of his neck." Banyon reached around Holcomb and pressed a finger against the base of his skull. "Right about here."

  The deaths mattered little to Holcomb. "I take it you didn't find anything else?"

  "Just pieces of 'shit' that aren't gonna help you." Banyon tilted his head sideways in thought. "Sonny, those Navy boys you saw."

  "What about 'em?"

  "Have you ever heard of those SpecOps dudes, the SEALs?"

  Holcomb swiped a hand over his wet head, letting the idea roll around in his brain. "If they were, something else is goin' on, Mitch. Something more than just fucking 'energy' pills."

  The skies opened up. Rain fell fast and furious, making it nearly impossible to see. "C'mon! Let's get the hell outta here before we can't."

  Chapter 17

  USS Preston

  Wardroom One

  Gallery Deck - Forward

  Under Cats 1 and 2

  Wardroom One was considered to be the "Dirty Shirt" Wardroom, belonging specifically to the air wing. A dress code wasn't enforced. Flight suits, 'dirty' khakis, coveralls were permitted. While the ship was at sea, food was available around the clock.

  Lieutenant Gore and Lieutenant(j.g.) Feith, the "Phrog" pilots, invited Grant and Adler to meet them in the wardroom. Standing around a table, close to a bulkhead, the four men looked at the sat images spread out in front of them. But every 45 seconds or so, their conversation was interrupted, as one of the Cats "shot" another jet off the flight deck. Tables, cups, dishes, everything clanged, rattled, or shook with each successive launch.

  Grant moved his finger along the previous route they flew. "The LZ was about here, and this was where you extracted us."

  "And your new LZ, sir?" Gore inquired.

  Grant tapped his finger on the image. "This airstrip."

  "Looks easy enough, but you don't think so, do you?"

  "I'm more concerned about this village. We don't know where our UFs are hiding. Hate to give them too much warning that we're coming."

  "Are you certain they're even in that village?" Feith asked, pointing to the image.

  "No, but we're almost certain that's the plane they've been using. The second 'but' is it may not be there."

  Gore rubbed the back of his neck. "There sure are a helluva lot of unknowns, sir."

  "Tell me about it." Grant looked again at the image. "Maybe our LZ should be here, across from where our extraction point was. The trek through the forest to the airstrip looks to be about a quarter mile or so. That should give you, and us, some extra cover."

  "Your decision, sir. We'll take you anywhere you want."

  The phone rang. Feith answered, then said, "Wait one." He looked at Grant. "Sir, there's an 'eyes only' message for you."

  "Have it delivered here."

  Feith nodded, relayed the request, then hung up. "On its way, sir."

  "Guess it's our friend," Adler said.

  "Hope it's something we can use, Joe."

  "He hasn't let us down yet."

  A few minutes later a sealed manila envelope was delivered to the wardroom. Grant slid his finger under the flap and took out the paper. "The coordinates for the Bangkok location." He looked at Gore. "We might be 'scratching' that LZ, Lieutenant. This might be our new target. You wanna write these coordinates down?" Gore took out a small notepad and ballpoint pen from a pocket of his flight suit, and started writing as Grant said, "13°54'97" N, 100°59'87" E."

  "And that's leading us where?" Adler asked, trying to get a better view of the message.

  "One of the techs was able to pinpoint those numbers to docks near the mouth of the Chao Phraya River. According to this, it empties into the Bay of Bangkok. Our contact is faxing a new sat image with the exact target."

  Grant pushed the paper towards Adler, who examined the message more closely. "They think it might be a barge?"

  "We should know more soon enough." Grant turned to Gore. "Lieutenant, I don't think this op will be getting underway until dark. Can't give you a definite time right now. All I can tell you is to stand by. When the fax comes in, I'll discuss our plans with Admiral Torrinson and Captain Conklin, then update you."

  "Whenever you're ready, sir. We'll see that the chopper is fueled and 'froggy.' Uh, no pun intended."

  Grant smiled, and extended a hand toward Gore, then Feith. "Oh, is there any possibility you can get me a map of that area?"

  Gore responded, "We'll see that you get it asap, sir."

  The two men started to leave when Grant called, "Lieutenant Gore! Have someone locate Sid Edmunds for me. He's the NIS Agent aboard. We'll wait here for his call."

  "Very well, sir." Gore and Feith left.

  "What've you got in mind?" Adler asked, handing the paper back to Grant.

  "We'll have to look at the new sat image, but there's only two ways for insertion: fast-rope or water. Joe, do me a favor. I'm gonna wait here for that fax. Get with the guys. Have them prep."

  "Draegers if it's by water?"

  "Have those ready, and snorkels. The map should give us some idea on the distance the chopper can take us into that bay." He noticed Adler eyeing the food, and lightly punched his shoulder. "We'll eat when you come back."

  Grant pulled a chair closer, then sat down. He looked over Mullins' notes, but he was anxious for the fax to arrive. He glanced at his submariner, realizing there was plenty of time to prepare for the op, but like Gore said, there were a helluva lot of unknowns. And now the Team was down to six men. That's the way they'd have to finish this op, with six.

  Propping his elbows on the table, he rested his forehead against his fists. He thought about his talk with Diaz who decided to move back to New York, and be with his son. While he wouldn't be called on for missions, Grant offered him a place at the training facility, whenever he was ready.

  When they got back to Virginia, he and Adler would make a few calls. Three men from the original list said they'd be ready to join. All good men, Grant thought. Maybe it was time to consider expanding the Team. Once the training facility was up and running, somewhere down the road they'd have some "fresh blood" to choose from, adding one or two more squads.

  Twenty minutes later, Adler came back carrying a manila envelope. "I met the 'delivery boy' outside."

  Grant took the envelope, and removed two papers. "Scott's note. Looks like the 'Cookie Factory' (NSA) has finally tracked that plane's flights. Two refueling's in Brunei, and two in Subic."

  Adler pulled out a chair. "Somebody took a round trip vacation."

  "Yeah, Joe, plus the agent in Subic managed to locate the owner of the fuel trucks. Guess the Skymaster stuck in his mind. Look at this."

  "Tail number 5007!"

  "Bingo! But . . ."

  "Why the hell do you always throw in a 'but'?!"

  "Because we've gotta hope that sonofabitch broadcasts again." He laid the paper upside down then looked at the sat image with the barge circled, and a black arrow drawn halfway through the circle. "Holy shit! Joe! Look!"

  "Not possible!"

  "Ohhh, yes it is! The Huey!"

  "So they've been using the barge as a helipad. No checking in with a control tower."

  "Pretty smart."

  "And freakin' shrewd!"

  Grant gathered the papers, then shoved his chair back, but Adler grabbed his arm. "No telling when we'll get another chance. Let's eat!"

  Just then Gore walked in. "Captain Stevens, here's the map you requested, sir."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant." Grant laid it on
the table and unfolded it.

  "Mr. Edmunds was located in Supply, sir. He should be calling you soon. By the way, radar shows there's a storm rolling in. It'll probably hit us in an hour or so."

  "Any estimate how long it'll last?"

  "Well, sir, if it's anything like the typical weather we've been experiencing, it'll rain like hell most of the afternoon. I can find out more details, if you'd like."

  "Not necessary. We don't have plans to leave anytime soon. Listen, we were going to grab a bite. You're welcome to join us."

  "Thanks for the offer, sir, but Rich and I've got some work to do with the storm coming in. Captain's cancelled flight ops, so flight deck crew is gonna be busy with all the 'birds' coming back."

  Grant gave a nod. "Very well. Thanks again." He folded the papers, tucked them in his back waistband, then started walking toward the buffet. "Let's eat."

  "It's about damn time!" Adler stated, sliding his chair back.

  While they ate, Grant and Adler examined map details. "Joe, look at this area," Grant said tapping the map. "It looks to be about two klicks from the docks." While Adler looked closer, Grant picked up the sat image. "Most of the area near the bay appears to be vegetation, but I'm not sure what this is, just inland. Cloud coverage distorted the view."

  Adler took the image. "Could be farms or wetlands." He laid the paper down. "Looks similar to the LZ on our Shanghai op."

  "Rice paddies. They're rice paddies. It might be better to do a fast-rope there than a helocast into the bay. We'd have a helluva lot more cover, with probably easier access to the docks."

  "And we'd be dry," Adler chuckled.

  "That too."

  "We could have more time to do a recon of that whole area, and the barge."

  "That's what I'm thinking, Joe." Grant picked up the sat image showing the Huey. "But we've also gotta consider the 'Phrog' and where the crew can hide while we go 'play.'"

  Adler pointed to a spot on the map. "This looks like a good-size island. Ko Sichang. Looks to be about 15-20 miles from the docks."