*
USS Preston
Flight Deck
2200 Hours
Ocean swells were three feet, with sea surface temperature nearly 78°, but the last of the on-again-off-again rain finally subsided, along with 12 knot winds. Stars broke through passing clouds.
The announcement was made. Flight operations would resume at 2400. At 2200 the carrier went to darkened ship conditions. All interior lights went to red. Brown-shirt plane captains were at their planes, checking fluid levels, preparing cockpits, readying planes for flight. All other flight deck crew members began their duties. Elevator motors whined, as aircraft were brought up to the flight deck.
The men of Alpha Tango stood inside the ladderwell of the island, just beyond the WTD. Dressed entirely in black, with watch caps tucked into waistbands, they quietly discussed the op, waiting for word to board the chopper. Ten minutes earlier, it had been towed from the "Hummer Hole" near the island, to the angle deck.
Insertion plans for the op changed, thanks to Lieutenant Gore's research. He determined there were two areas along the coast where the chopper could land, both less than two klicks of target. No fast-rope on this op.
Hearing footsteps and voices overhead, the men of A.T. turned, seeing Torrinson and Conklin at the top of the ladder.
"Gentlemen," Torrinson said, as he started down.
"Admiral," Grant and Adler responded.
Rucksacks and weapons, barely visible under the red lights, caught Torrinson's attention. "You know, Grant, Joe, all the time we worked at NIS, this is the first time I've actually seen you in your 'traveling clothes' with your bags packed."
As Grant was about to respond, the WTD opened, and crew chief Milton poked his head in. "Excuse me, sirs." He nodded toward Grant. "We're ready whenever you are, sir."
"Be right there," Grant responded. The men hoisted their rucksacks onto their shoulders, then picked up the MP5s. Grant and Adler stepped aside, as the rest of A.T. headed for the door, nodding to Torrinson and Conklin.
Torrinson extended a hand to each man. "Good luck."
A blast of wind met them as they stepped onto the flight deck. The "Phrog" was on the angle deck, with two Seahawks lined up in front of it. Pilots were going through their preflight checklist, getting ready to depart before the first aircraft launched, preparing for any possible search and rescue.
Torrinson turned to Grant and Adler, extending a hand, shaking theirs with a firm grip. "Safe trip, you two."
"Thanks, sir," Grant responded. "See you when we get back."
As they walked through the WTD, Torrinson called, "Godspeed!" Grant responded with a thumb's up.
Milton stood at the bottom of the ramp, adjusting the helmet's wire mike as he notified the cockpit the last two passengers were boarding.
As Grant and Adler stepped onto the ramp, Grant told Milton he'd like a word with Gore. Leaving his gear on a seat, he went to the cockpit, walking past the petty officer positioning the link belt for the .50 cal machine gun.
Gore leaned over the armrest. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"Just wanted to firm up the change we made to the op." After a brief discussion, Grant came back through the cabin, and picked up the helmet Milton left for him.
"We good?" Adler asked.
Grant nodded. He looked at each of his men. Their facial expressions showed him they were ready -- both physically and mentally.
He was about to put on the helmet when Milton came toward him. "Sir, an 'eyes only' message came in for you. It'll be here shortly."
Grant walked halfway down the ramp, and saw a sailor hustling across the deck with a manila envelope.
"Captain Stevens!"
Grant reached for the envelope, but asked, "No ID required?"
"No, sir." He pointed over his shoulder.
Grant saw Torrinson standing just inside the WTD. He snapped him a quick two-finger salute. "Okay, Petty Officer. Thanks." As he went to his seat, he glanced toward the cockpit, seeing Gore and Feith looking toward him. He twirled two fingers overhead. Ready for departure.
Receiving an all clear from the flight director, Gore began takeoff procedures. The chopper lifted off, making a slow bank to port. All navigation lights were on for the present time. Cockpit lights were dimmed, with small red lights lining the deck of the cargo bay.
Before putting on the helmet, Grant opened the envelope. The Team leaned closer to the narrow aisle, waiting for a report. Taking a penlight from his chest vest, Grant shined the beam on the paper. "More info from Scott. Looks like a transmission was picked up from that Skymaster. The pilot requested permission to land at Photharam." He took a map from his chest vest. "Joe, see if you can find the location."
"We still won't know where the dude went, boss," James commented, "but guess we've gotta examine every angle, every possible lead."
Adler directed the penlight's beam in a circle around Bangkok, moving it farther away from the city as he searched. "Here it is. Looks to be about 50-60 miles west of Bangkok." Grant kept his eyes focused on the map. Adler recognized the look he'd seen so many times over the years. "You think he's figured out who destroyed his operation?"
"Yeah. Our targets. He's trying to track them down. Except, he's one step ahead of us."
"He knows where the goddamn factory is," Adler stated.
"Roger that, Joe."
"We'll find out where it is when we run our G2 on whoever's at the barge, boss," James said, pounding his knees with his fists.
Stalley added, "We'll find it for Frank and those sailors." The men all nodded in agreement.
"I hear ya, guys," Grant finally responded, before reading the rest of Mullins' note. "Jesus! They identified 'Hawk'!"
"Are you shittin' me?!" Adler leaned closer, reading the note. "DEA?!"
"Was DEA. He left the agency a few years ago. His name's 'Sonny Holcomb.'" Grant read the intel to the men, ending with, "Guess this photo was from his ID." He handed the paper to Slade. "Everybody take a good look."
"All this intel means squat, though, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, Joe. Right now we've just gotta concentrate on that barge." He put the message in his chest vest, and glanced at his submariner before putting on the helmet. "We've got another three hours of flying. Try and get some rest." Welcome words for the men of A.T.
Chapter 21
Aboard the "Phrog"
Grant looked toward Milton, hearing his voice inside the helmet. "Sir, we're approaching the coast of Burma. Lieutenant Gore's gonna start flying NOE for about another 30 miles. I'll inform you when we're over the Gulf."
"Roger."
After previously reviewing sat images and maps, it was decided to fly the current route. Most of southern Burma and Thailand was forested or only had small villages interspersed across the countrysides.
Keeping the same speed, Gore adjusted the altitude and began flying NOE, barreling across the countryside, avoiding treetops, power lines, hills. Rice stalks swirled violently as the chopper tore across the fields.
The men of A.T. took the "rocking and rolling" all in stride, keeping their eyes closed, either asleep, or just mentally preparing for the mission.
Grant glanced at his watch. They were ahead of schedule. There should be plenty of time to do a thorough recon around the target. They hadn't gleaned much from examining maps and sat images. Were there guards around the docks? The UFs had to have at least one of their own standing watch. Even though Novak said only three were left aboard the Huey after the attack on the shacks, that didn't mean there weren't reserves hiding in Bangkok or aboard the barge.
The barge. Apart from it being a helipad, was it being used for any other purpose? Grant bumped a shoulder against Adler. "Joe!" Adler removed the earplug. "Joe, remember the intercepted calls from Saigon?" Adler nodded. "Didn't Mike say he saw an M16 on the chopper?"
"Don't forget the Uzi."
"Yeah, but where'd they get that shit? Where'd they get the barge? And the Huey?!"
The two friends were on the same wavelength again, as Adler said, "You're thinking Nam's black market, and knowing you, you're thinking weapons are stowed on the barge, weapons and ammo they brought from Nam."
"Am I crazy?"
"No more than me!"
The chopper banked to port just as Milton announced, "Over water! Heading north!"
"Copy that!" Grant acknowledged.
Reaching the Gulf of Thailand, Gore adjusted direction and headed north, continuing to fly low. Where the Bay of Bangkok met the gulf, the distance between Thailand's East and West Coasts was over 60 miles, plenty of space to remain undetected. Then, at the entrance to the bay, Gore would fly on a northwesterly heading until they were over land, when he'd change course again, heading east to the LZ.
Grant nudged Adler, then pointed to Slade. Sound asleep. Grant kicked his foot.
Slade's eyes popped open. "Huh?! Are we there, boss?!"
Grant announced, "Time for final gear check!" His eyes went from man to man, watching as last minute inspections were made, confirming all gear was in order, weapons ready. Shades of green and black camouflage paint streaked their faces. Watch caps were pulled low, before NVGs were put in place.
Grant's thoughts returned to the barge. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. What the hell would they be up against if his assumptions about additional men and weaponry were correct? Would they have a chance to run a G2 on anyone?
Not realizing his men were watching him, he continued deep in thought. They knew his brain was working overtime. The slight upward curve to the right side of his mouth told them he'd resolved at least one of his issues, but it had to be a helluva big one. They'd learn what it was soon enough. Grant adjusted the wire mike then asked Milton to relay a message to Gore and Feith.
Chapter 22
Near the Chao Phraya River
Bangkok
2315 Hours
Smells of raw fish, fried fish, fish stew permeated the entire area. Along the waterfront of the Chao Phraya River, fish markets thrived.
One-story shanties lined the road leading to the river, some with nothing more than pieces of material or canvas covering roofs, or doorways. White cloth bags, filled with rice and grain, were piled alongside entryways. Scooters and tuk tuks (three-wheeled transport vehicles) were parked haphazardly along the lane.
Holcomb parked three blocks from the river. Banyon squinted, unable to see much along the darkened street. "How'd you find this guy's place? Did you follow him?"
Holcomb pulled the key from the ignition. "Yeah. After our first meeting, I followed him to the factory, then here. Let's go."
They walked quickly but cautiously, trying to keep themselves in shadows, but heads still turned as the two walked through the rundown district.
Walking past the shanties, Holcomb led the way onto a dirt path, heading closer to the waterfront. Taking a quick look behind them, seeing they weren't being followed, they continued on. He pointed to a small, one-story, Thai-style house, erected over a slab of concrete. The twin-sloped roof was covered in faded red sheets of corrugated tin. The only access was through the front door. Two windows were near the door, one on either side.
Not seeing any lights, Banyon whispered, "What if he isn't here?"
"Then we'll wait. He'll show eventually."
With their weapons drawn, the two crouched low, heading toward the door.
Holcomb took up a position next to the door, while Banyon leaned near a front window, trying to see inside. "Can't see anything; too dark."
As Banyon started to reach for his flashlight, Holcomb whispered, "Let's get it over with." He was ready to grab the door knob, when the hinges squeaked. The door opened a few inches. He unhooked a flashlight from his belt, gave Banyon a nod, then he led the way into the pitch black room.
Before Holcomb even turned on the flashlight, they knew something was very wrong. A foul, pungent odor permeated the enclosed space.
Banyon closed the door, as Holcomb moved the beam slowly around the room.
"Holy fuck!" Banyon spat out in a gruff whisper. "Is that Quibin?!"
"It was."
"Jesus! I haven't seen anything like that since the VC raided the Ka Do village. He's gotta have a couple hundred slashes."
Drug supplier Quibin, tied to a chair, naked, blindfolded, gagged, tortured -- extremely dead.
Holcomb noticed that whatever little furnishings there were, nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was disturbed, nothing to indicate there'd been a struggle or fight.
As he started backing away from the body, he directed the flashlight beam down at the floor. Dried splotches and small pools of dried blood were under and around the chair. Smeared shoe prints led to the door.
Holcomb analyzed the prints, noticing different heel impressions. "More than one person did this, and I'd say he's been dead for more than a day."
"You don't think it was those Navy guys, do you?"
"It had to be whoever was in that first chopper, the ones who blew up my operation."
"C'mon," Banyon whispered, backing up. "Let's get the hell outta here."
Sooner or later -- probably sooner -- Quibin's body would be found. It would take authorities a long time to find out where he worked. But the men at the factory would soon learn of Quibin's demise, if they hadn't already -- and more than likely from the men who killed him. Their terror tactics would prevent anyone from coming forward with information. There was always a possibility none of those men would ever return to the factory from fear alone.
*
Holcomb drove the 1970, four-door, blue Daihatsu toward downtown. Banyon rolled down the window, taking deep breaths. "Shit! I still can't get that fuckin' smell outta my nose." He finally noticed they weren't headed toward the airport. "Where the hell are you goin'?"
"We're gonna stay a couple of days and hang out near the factory. Somebody's gotta show."
"You got any 'dough'?"
"Yeah, plus I've got my money spread around in local banks. We can stay at a flophouse near the river. It's cheap. But first thing in the morning, I need to buy ammo."
During the drive, Holcomb had more questions, very unsettling questions. Why would someone kill Quibin? He'd been running the operation for as long as Holcomb could remember -- a successful operation at that. Was someone trying to take over? Another Thai organization? Army rebels? Even if that were the case, why torture him? Why kill him?
When Holcomb decided to get into the yaba drug business, he put the word out during visits to bars and to prostitutes that he had cash and was prepared to buy large quantities. He was contacted with instructions on where to meet the supplier, Quibin. Holcomb didn't know anything about the man's personal life. He was in his early forties, unmarried, nationality was unknown, but he suspected Filipino. What did surprise Holcomb was Quibin's mastery with numbers.
Both men would remain wary of one another, but Holcomb paid with cash, and Quibin never failed to have the order ready as scheduled.
Holcomb shifted uncomfortably in the seat, as an unsettling thought struck him. His operation was destroyed because Quibin "ratted" on him, which only meant one thing: Quibin didn't own the business but was making money on the side.
The chopper. The unknown chopper kept fucking up his thoughts. Who owned it? Who wanted him dead? That was the biggest question of all: Who?
Banyon interrupted his thoughts. "Hey! Let's grab a bite. Maybe it'll help get this rotten smell outta my nose."
Silom Road, located east of the Chao Phraya River, was in the sub-district of Bank Rak. Different height office and apartment buildings lined both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Motorcycles and scooters "buzzed" up and down the road, swerving in an out of traffic, avoiding tuk tuks. During the daytime, fruit and vegetable markets were crammed together along alleyways. Colored umbrellas, on both sides of Silom Road, covered portable food stands serving Tai fast-food. Many varied aromas mingled in the air, some pleasant, most not.
Holcomb parked
down a side street, then they walked back to Silom Road. "Look," Banyon pointed, "there's a Mexican joint." Without waiting for Holcomb, he ran across the street, darting in and out of cars, scooters, tuk tuks.
Holcomb finally made it across. As he neared the outdoor eatery, he started past a small newspaper and magazine stand. Several copies of the Bangkok Post were stacked neatly. (In 1946 an American and a Thai founded the Bangkok Post. The American, Alexander McDonald, was a former World War II agent for the OSS, the precursor to the CIA.) Alongside the papers was a pile of the magazine, Buddhist Land.
Two words in the newspaper headline brought Holcomb to a dead stop: "Deaths" and "Carrier." He fumbled for some change in his pocket, flipped them on the counter, then snatched the paper.
"Sonny!" Banyon called, standing near a small cafe table. Perturbed from not getting an answer, he took long, hurried strides back to Holcomb. "What's goin' on?!" Still no response. He looked over Holcomb's shoulder, finally seeing the newspaper. "What?! What's that say?!" He reached for the paper, but Holcomb swung around, unable to stop reading, trying to digest the words.
Holcomb's hands shook. "Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!"
Banyon grabbed the paper. "What the fuck?! It can't be!"
Completely overwhelmed, Holcomb walked away, with words swirling in his mind: Dead sailors! Drug killed them! Somebody was targeting a U.S. aircraft carrier! He stopped abruptly, then steadied himself against a storefront. He remained quiet, unaware of constant, noisy traffic, and pedestrians rushing past him.
Banyon stood in front of him, trying to keep his voice low, holding the paper toward him. "That's why those dudes showed up! But how could they think it was you?!"
Holcomb slowly shook his head. "I. .don't . .know."
"Maybe you should talk with your Subic guy. He might have some answers."
Silent Vengeance Page 12