"We'll have Lieutenant Gore do some research and see if there's a clearing where they can hide."
Adler rocked his chair back. "That's a helluva lot closer than the island off Sweden the pilots used on our last op."
The lounge's wall phone rang, and Grant went to answer.
While waiting for Grant to finish the phone conversation, Adler readjusted the map, then ran a finger along the coastline, figuring distance more accurately.
"Okay, Joe," Grant said, lifting his cap from a chair. "Sid's waiting for me before he interviews a few more men in the mail room. You want to come with me, or start updating the guys? I'm gonna try to meet with the admiral after Sid."
"I'll meet with the guys. We decided fast-rope, right?"
"Affirmative."
"I'll have them organize gear. You join us when you're through." Adler handed him the sat images and map.
"You take the map," Grant said. "The 'floor' is open for discussion."
Chapter 18
With a senior officer approaching them, sailors stepped aside as Grant made his way along narrow passageways, and down ladders. He finally realized how quiet it had become topside. No launches. No traps. Flight ops had ended. He pictured the flight deck crew hustling around the deck, ensuring all aircraft was secured.
Stepping through the last door, he spotted Edmunds, leaning against the bulkhead, flipping through pages of a small spiral-bound notebook.
"Hey, Sid."
"Captain Stevens."
The two shook hands. "Please, call me 'Grant.'"
"Okay, Grant."
"Has your other agent had any luck?"
"Not yet. He's working on the other half of the list. At last contact, he was heading to the engine room. Plus, he's trying to do quick inspections, looking for boxes of pills."
"You think it's an impossible task, Sid?"
Edmunds shrugged his shoulders. "It won't be easy." He pointed to the rolled up paper Grant was holding. "You have any news?"
"Why don't we head to your next stop? We can talk on the way?"
*
They finally reached the passageway leading to the mail room. "Who's scheduled for an interview here, Sid?"
Edmunds ran a finger down the page. "A Petty Officer Jerome, Seaman Garcia, and Seaman Zajak should be on duty." Edmunds lowered his voice. "Unless you're still thinking we need to pay special attention to the Filipinos."
"I'm not profiling anyone, Sid. My gut's just telling me it's someone on board who could've had a, uh, special relationship with the PNA, and that could only happen if one lived in-country. I don't think that group welcomes outsiders."
"Any proof?"
"Hell, no!" Grant answered, giving Edmunds' shoulder a light slap.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to interview the three."
"Up to you." Grant extended an arm, pointing toward their destination. "Your lead."
A petty officer was standing behind a counter, replenishing stamps and envelopes inside two drawers. Farther back in the room, two men were sorting through orange-colored canvas bags filled with letters and small packages. A row of larger boxes was lined up along a bulkhead.
Grant hung back, closer to the door, while Edmunds walked in and went to the counter. "Petty Officer Jerome, I have some questions for you." He looked toward two men. "Can you tell me if Seaman Zajak and Seaman Garcia are here?"
"Yes, sir, that's them," Jerome pointed.
"I'll be questioning them too. Come with me."
After finishing with Jerome, then Zajak, Edmunds called, "Seaman Paolo Garcia."
"Yes, sir?" Garcia brushed a hand over his short, dark brown hair.
Edmunds unhooked his gold NIS badge from his belt for the third time, and held it up. "Special Agent Edmunds, NIS. Would you mind coming into the passageway with me? I just have a few questions." Edmunds immediately noticed an expression change on Garcia's face. Worry? Surprise?
As Garcia came from behind the counter, Edmunds hooked his badge on his belt. As he did, he saw Garcia's eyes drop to his holstered weapon, a Ruger .357 Magnum SP101, a five shot revolver with a 4" barrel.
Grant tucked the papers into his back waistband, while trying not to draw attention to himself. He slowly backed out of the room, and stood next to the bulkhead.
Edmunds pointed toward a corner of the passageway, indicating for Garcia to walk ahead. Grant remained where he was, just out of earshot of the conversation, but staying on alert.
After ten minutes, Edmunds allowed Garcia to return to the mail room. Garcia nodded to Grant as he passed. "Sir."
Edmunds motioned for Grant to follow him. Once they were down the passageway, Edmunds said in a low tone, "I might be jumping to conclusions here, Grant, but I think he's our man." Two sailors stepped aside for them as they passed.
Edmunds and Grant walked through a doorway. Ahead was a ladder. They stopped in the space behind it, and checking that no one was around, Edmunds picked up the conversation. "You know, usually when I show up, the person I'm ready to question asks 'What's this about?' Not so with Garcia. I asked him if he knew Petty Officer Jacob Ahrens."
"He admitted he did?!" Grant asked with surprise.
"No. That's what sent up a second red flag. His posturing showed me he was nervous. He hesitated, then merely shook his head. So, I figured, what the hell, I'll go right for the bonus question. I asked if he ever heard of the group PNA. Again, he shook his head."
"He's from the Philippines and never heard of it."
"Right."
"Well, Sid, where do you go from here?"
Edmunds glanced at his watch. "He'll be coming off duty in a couple of minutes. I'll try to follow him. In all likelihood he'll head for his rack. What he does from there, we'll just have to wait and see."
"Of course, you'll request permission to search his space," Grant added, facetiously.
"Of course!"
Grant offered his hand. "Okay, Sid. I'm off to talk with the admiral and Captain Conklin. Keep me posted. Good luck."
"You too!"
As Grant walked through the hangar bay, he noticed the hangar bay doors, huge slabs of metal, were sealed tight. Storm must be right over us, he thought.
He wove his way around planes, helicopters, maintenance vehicles, and crew, as he headed for the WTD and ladderwell leading up to the island. But he paused briefly, looking in the direction of the aft hangar bay and engine shop, where a few years ago, a single bullet came close to ending his life. Same ship. Different circumstances. Get movin', Stevens.
*
Bridge
The Preston's flight deck was hardly visible from the bridge, as heavy rain fell from a darkened sky, beating against the forward windows. Helm, lee helm, everyone on duty continued assigned tasks. All officers who were on the bridge stood near Conklin.
Conklin heard hurried footsteps. He turned seeing Grant approaching, and motioned him onto the bridge. "Captain Stevens."
Grant removed his cap and tucked it under his left arm. He nodded toward the other officers before approaching Conklin. "If you've got time, I'd like to discuss the upcoming op with you and the admiral. Is he in his sea cabin?"
"He is. Follow me." Conklin looked toward OOD Braebern. "You've got the bridge, Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir."
Another voice announced, "Captain's off the bridge."
A first class petty officer security guard (master at arms) stood outside Torrinson's sea cabin. "Sirs."
Torrinson was sitting behind his desk, when there was a knock at his door. "Come."
The guard opened the door, allowing Grant and Conklin to enter the room. He immediately closed the door.
"Jim, Grant," Torrinson said as he stood then came from behind the desk.
Grant took the papers from his waistband. "Admiral, this is the latest info I received from my contact."
"Let's take a look." Torrinson motioned toward the table. "Am I to assume you and your men have come up with some kind of plan?"
"
Yes, sir. I'll meet with them when we're through here, and then finalize. Joe and I already met with the chopper crew, so they've got an idea on where we're going." He spread out the sat images. "I'm hoping my contact can get me a few more answers before departure, but we should be ready to leave somewhere around 2200." He looked toward Conklin. "Will there be a problem with that timeframe?"
"Negative. Sounds okay," Conklin answered. "I'm planning resumption of flight ops at 2400, as long as the weather holds."
"Let's hope it does. We need to move out soon. I hate to give those bastards any more time than they've already had. But I guess if we can't fly out, that Huey will be socked in too." Grant gave Torrinson a sly look. "You wouldn't happen to have a sub hiding nearby, would you, sir?"
"There's one . . . but you can't have it," Torrinson laughed.
"Can't blame a guy for trying."
As the three men were about to sit, there was a loud, sharp rapping at the door, startling everyone. Torrinson responded, "Come!"
As soon as it opened, OOD Braebern came in, announcing, "Excuse me, Admiral, but the captain's needed on the bridge asap, sir!"
Chapter 19
Conklin rushed from the cabin, hurrying toward the bridge. A security guard quickly closed the door, then posted himself directly in front of it.
Grant and Torrinson waited. They finally heard Conklin's voice over the 1MC: "Security Alert! Security Alert! Away the Security Alert team! Away the Back-up Alert force! All hands not involved in Security Alert stand fast!"
Throughout the ship, security guards ran to their assigned posts, with hands on holstered weapons, shouting as they ran, "Make a hole! Make a hole!" Crew immediately backed out of the way, giving the men plenty of space. They all obeyed the command to stand fast. Faces showed concern. Mumblings were heard, questioning the alert. If the carrier was being threatened, and was in imminent danger, General Quarters would've been sounded, one of the most dreaded sounds aboard any ship. Everyone would've been running to assigned battle stations.
Usually every security alert over the 1MC gave a reason for the alert -- but not this time, making the alert that more mysterious.
The crew waited to hear an explanation over the 1MC. And finally, 20 minutes later, after discussions with his officers on the bridge: "This is the Captain. There's been a serious incident on board, but the ship is not in danger. For the time being all I can tell you is the situation is under control. I repeat . . . the situation is under control. I realize there will be talk and speculation, but I will give you full details as soon as possible. Return to your duties. Security team and those crewmen in crew's quarters, stand fast. All other security forces can stand down." Conklin hung up the 1MC, then turned to the OOD. "I'm going to report to the admiral. You've got the bridge."
With arms folded across his chest, Torrinson paced back and forth in front of his desk. Grant stood nearby. "Don't have a good feeling, sir," Grant said, as the two men waited.
"I know, Grant." A knock at the door. Torrinson responded, "Come!"
Conklin entered with Torrinson immediately asking, "What the hell happened, Jim?!"
"Agent Edmunds reported an incident, sir. I only had a brief discussion with him, but it had to do with Seaman Garcia." Conklin looked at Grant.
"Oh, Jesus! I talked with Sid before coming here. He was gonna follow Garcia. Is he all right?!"
"He had a near miss, but he's okay."
"Go on, Jim," Torrinson said, as he pulled a chair away from the table then sat down.
"Agent Edmunds did follow Garcia to crew's quarters as he planned. Apparently, Seaman Garcia was acting suspiciously. Again, I don't have details, but when Agent Edmunds confronted him, and asked to inspect his lockers, Garcia pulled a gun."
"Holy shit!" Grant said under his breath.
"I can't answer how he got it or where it was hidden. Those are questions for Agent Edmunds."
Torrinson quietly asked, "Anyone injured?!"
"Two crewmen before Edmunds got off a shot, sir. Garcia died on the way to sickbay."
"Will the two men be okay?"
"They'll be in sickbay for a few days. They were very lucky, sir."
The sound of Torrinson's voice expressed obvious relief. "We were lucky again, but does anyone believe we have to worry about another incident like this? Could there be another sympathizer on board?"
"Guess we'll have to wait for Sid's report, Admiral," Grant replied, "but he didn't give me that impression." Grant relayed his conversation with Edmunds, ending with, "I don't know how many more individuals he had to interview after Garcia, but I'd say Garcia's actions pretty much sealed his guilt." He pounded his palm with a fist. "Dammit! Now we won't get any answers!"
A moment of silence, as the three men worried. Torrinson rolled his chair closer to the table. "Have a seat, gentlemen."
Conklin pulled out a chair, but Grant remained standing. "Thanks, sir, but too much pent up energy and frustration right now." He shook his head, and said through clenched teeth, "We've gotta put a stop to this."
"Okay, Grant, talk to us," Torrinson said.
Walking slowly toward the two officers, Grant questioned Conklin. "Captain, do you have any additional information on Garcia, especially anything that could help with our op?"
"Negative. All I can tell you is that he'd been on the Preston for almost two years. I was informed that he was a good sailor, and performed his duties without question."
"Apparently, he performed those duties for more than just this ship," Grant commented with sarcasm.
"It would appear so," Conklin replied. "As a side note, and as you are probably aware, since he wasn't a U.S. citizen, he wasn't allowed to have any type of secret clearance, but he should've gone through a standard background check. I don't know how the hell he slipped through the cracks."
Torrinson rested his arms on the table. "Why the hell would he go off the 'deep end' that way, when the PNA, as we suspect, had already found a way to attack our men?"
While rubbing the back of his neck, Grant responded, "Well, sir, I'm not sure how fanatical that group is, but those could've been his orders."
"You mean, when cornered, don't be taken alive?" Conklin asked. Grant merely nodded.
"Jim, I guess Sid will be calling NIS soon. Did he say when you'll have his report?" Torrinson inquired.
"Within a couple of hours."
"I'll wait for that report before I contact Vice Admiral Gamble. Is there anything else we need to discuss about this?"
"That's all I have for now," Conklin answered.
"Do you have time to listen to Grant's plan, or do you need to return to the bridge?"
"I've got a few minutes."
"Okay. Grant, talk to us."
Chapter 20
Burma
2000 Hours
Surging rainwater, flowing down the hillside, left pools of muddy water and small debris in every small depression along the airstrip. Creek water overflowed onto the northern embankment, washing away soft-packed dirt. Twenty feet of the airfield had been reclaimed by Mother Nature.
Banyon and Holcomb ran across the airfield, then settled into the plane. While Banyon went through the checklist, Holcomb drew his weapon from its holster, and thumbed the cylinder release latch. The cylinder swung out to the side. Six rounds. That was it. All his ammo was either scattered along the hillside or in the water, along with everything else he owned. "Do you have extra ammo? This is it for me."
"Mine's in the ammo box behind you. I know a place in Bangkok where you can get resupplied. It's cheap."
Holcomb spun the cylinder as he asked, "You're with me on this all the way, aren't you, Mitch?"
"How the hell couldn't I be, Sonny? What happened affected me too, ya know?"
"Yeah, but when I find whoever destroyed my operation, I'm gonna . . ."
"Hey! Why the hell are you doubting me?!"
"Look, forget it." He flicked his hand to the side, snapping the cylinder back in place.
&n
bsp; Hearing the noise, Banyon commented, "I don't know where you plan on using that, but that bitchin' gun is gonna make one helluva bitchin' noise."
"Don't worry. All this'll do is scare the shit out of whoever. I've got other plans that'll be much more fun than using this 'baby.' I learned a lot from seeing retaliation 'hits' during my DEA days."
"Couldn't be as fuckin' bad as the VC," Banyon responded, as he flipped on navigation lights.
Because of the rough condition of the airfield, and the possibility of debris hitting the forward propeller, Banyon set the flaps at one-third, then set the trim while he pressed the brakes. Pushing the rear engine throttle forward for initial acceleration, he released the brakes. Tires splashed through ground water as the Skymaster picked up speed. As soon as the nose gear cleared the ground, he applied full throttle to the front engine.
Circling around, he set the plane on a northerly heading, flying over the interior of Burma before crossing into Thailand.
*
A small civilian airport within the Photharam District,-was located approximately 55 miles west of Bangkok. Pilots had no choice but to fly by IFR (Instrument Flight Rules), using instruments in the cockpit and navigating by electronic signals. The main reason Photharam was used by smaller aircraft had to do with customs. None. Officials pulled out years earlier.
Banyon contacted the control tower, requesting permission to land. He circled the airfield, and came in from the northeast, landing on Runway 21.
As he started going through the final checklist for shutdown, Holcomb adjusted his holster. "Slight change of plans, Mitch. By the time we get to the city, the factory will be closed. We'll go to Quibin's shack instead. He's the one who's gotta have answers." He pushed open the door. "I'll meet you at the car."
While this wasn't the first time Banyon had flown Holcomb to Photharam, it would be the first time he'd been "invited" into Bangkok. Whether that meant Holcomb had more trust in him was yet to be seen.
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