Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  "Shit!" Grant said under his breath, before contacting Slade and James. "Four-One, Six-Eight. Hold positions."

  "Roger."

  Adler came alongside Grant. "At least we know one UF's home."

  Grant nodded, but his frustration was obvious. "Four-One. Does UF have 'glasses' or scope?"

  "Negative. Sixteen (M16) only."

  Grant and his men were ready to haul. "Waiting for all clear. Copy?"

  "Copy that."

  Slade kept his eyes on the UF, who finally walked toward the starboard side, then continued toward the bow, looking over the side at the coal black water.

  Slade gave the word: "Go!" Without wasting a second, and with Grant in the lead, they hurried to the building.

  Novak took a position close to the fence, covering everyone's back. The other three men continued to Slade's location.

  Grant whispered, "Still on deck?" Slade nodded. Holding his MP5 close to his chest, Grant leaned slightly, seeing the UF, now walking around the chopper. One guard. But how the hell many were below deck? It didn't matter. They were going in.

  Novak was still on watch near the fence when he heard Grant's voice in his earpiece. He flipped down his NVGs and hustled back to join the Team.

  "Mike, set up where you've got a clear view of the entire barge, maybe a roof. Go."

  Two-storied structures were limited on either side of the alley. As he neared the end, Novak glanced at a roof, then stepped through the doorway. Broken wood, paper, trash, rusted tools, mooring ropes covered the floor. Stairs were toward the back. He stood at the bottom, trying to determine if they were at least semi-safe, when a sound made him swing around. Rats -- scurrying toward a hole in the back wall. He couldn't waste any more time, and started climbing, staying close to the stair supports. The second floor debris was worse than the first, with everything soaked from rain pouring through holes in the roof. But he finally spotted an old wooden gangplank. He braced it against the edge of the roof opening. The angle was steep, so he leaned forward and held onto the wooden sides, as he carefully climbed.

  Once on the roof, he crouched low, and advanced cautiously toward the front, avoiding wet spots that could mean a weakening. Getting down on his belly, he crabbed his way forward, working toward the edge of the flat roof. Laying his rucksack next to him, he raised the NVGs, then looked through the scope. He pressed the PTT. "Seven-Three in position. Target at one o'clock."

  "Copy that," Grant responded. "Advise when clear."

  With Novak assuming responsibility for the barge, Stalley covered their sixes, watching for any unfriendlies that could approach from the west side of the alley.

  On the barge, Carlo Reyes stopped his pacing and paused on the starboard side of the chopper. It wouldn't be much longer and Salazar would relieve him. For the past few hours, Salazar and Mendoza were taking inventory, securing boxes and weaponry, while Mendoza waited for Artadi to call. Perhaps they'd be updated on the new supervisor for the factory. Flores would train him on the day-to-day operation. It shouldn't take long. Once that was completed, Reyes hoped they could begin retracing their voyage back to Saigon, then onto Olongapo, delivering the long-awaited weapons to Artadi. Finally, they'd be home.

  Novak breathed slowly, saying quietly, "C'mon you bastard! Move!" As if on cue, Reyes reappeared, puffing on a cigarette. He walked toward the bow and paused again, blowing smoke rings, obviously bored with his guard duties.

  Novak was ready to give the all clear, when James' voice sounded in everyone's earpiece: "Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. Eyes on three UFs. Approaching from north."

  "Shit!" Grant whispered through clenched teeth, before requesting, "Distance."

  "Seven five yards, closing slowly."

  "Copy that." Grant wanted identification, with a very remote possibility the three could be civilians. The AN/PVS high-powered scope would be the best means for facial recognition. "Seven-Three, put eyes on. Report."

  Novak scooted backwards, then got into a crouch and hurried to the back corner, immediately getting on his belly and crabbing his way close to the edge. Focusing the scope, he slowly moved the rifle until three men came into view. "Eyes on. Stand by."

  "Roger." Grant shook his head. What the hell else would go wrong?

  Novak zeroed in on the UFs. "What the fuck?!" he mouthed. Two had weapons drawn, the third was gagged with hands tied. "Zero-Niner. Confirm deuce with weapons; third is Asian; gagged, tied."

  "Copy that." So much for the possibility of civilians, but . . . a prisoner? More PNA men? "Can you identify?"

  "Stand by." Refocusing the scope, Novak lined up the crosshairs on each face, recognizing one immediately. "Hawk! Eyes on Hawk! Do you copy?"

  Grant's brain kicked in. "'FUBAR'?!"

  "Affirm. Wearing Steelers T-shirt, jeans."

  "Second guy?"

  "Unknown; in camies."

  "Copy that. Six-Eight, do you have eyes on?"

  James reported: "Affirm."

  "Seven-Three, put eyes back on barge."

  "Roger." Novak hustled to the front. Quickly setting up, he aimed the rifle, trying to locate the UF on the barge.

  Adler whispered, "Take no prisoners?"

  Grant clenched his jaw. "I want that sonofabitch Hawk alive." He turned to Stalley. "Join up with DJ. Go." Immediately pressing the PTT, Grant notified James: "Six-Eight. Hold position. Five-Two approaching." Grant motioned for Slade to maintain his position, before notifying everyone: "Roundup. Repeat. Roundup. Zero-Niner, Two-Seven going in." They all knew the plan: take prisoners. Grant and Adler were going aboard the barge.

  Chapter 25

  Holcomb stopped when they were still twenty yards from the group of buildings. He pulled Flores toward him. "Where's the barge?"

  Flores lifted his bound arms, and pointed. "Around that last building, to the right."

  "Is this the only way in?"

  Feeling Banyon's gun pressing against his ribs, Flores responded, "Yes. The other end of the docks is blocked by a fence." He refused to give up details of north-south alleys. Whatever was going to happen, he wouldn't make it easy for these two men. All they had going for them was the element of surprise. And using him as a shield wouldn't get them very far, not with Reyes and Salazar on board.

  Holcomb shoved him forward. "C'mon. We've gotta get closer."

  *

  Stalley and James finally heard shuffling of feet as the UFs came closer. Judging the UFs were within several feet of their position, the two backed into an open doorway, when suddenly, everything went quiet. Slowing down their breathing, they held the MP5s close to their bodies. They listened, and waited.

  Holcomb signaled Banyon to recon the forward area. Clenching his weapon, Banyon moved cautiously, edging closer to the alley. Unhooking a flashlight from his belt, he aimed the light along the buildings, then the ground. Seeing nothing, he continued walking toward the docks.

  James crept further back inside the building. Pressing his PTT, he barely whispered, "Four-One. Six-Eight. UF coming toward you." Slade didn't respond.

  Grant and Adler stayed motionless. If the UF decided to inspect the alley, they'd be up shit creek, unless Slade took care of him first.

  As Banyon approached, he aimed his weapon and light down the alley, noticing the break between buildings on the left. He held the light steady only briefly. Shutting it off, he continued to the corner. Leaning his head slightly, he finally spotted the barge and chopper. Sonofabitch! Seeing a light coming from the wheelhouse door led him to believe men were below deck. He was about to report back to Holcomb when he saw someone carrying a rifle, walking from behind the chopper. That's one, he confirmed silently.

  He kept his eyes searching along the port side of the barge, then toward the wheelhouse. No one else in sight. But he continued looking along the dock, beyond the partially submerged barges. Still nothing. He stepped back, then turned and started walking. He stopped briefly, taking a quick look down the alley. Something at the far end caught his attention and he switche
d on his flashlight. He strained his eyes. A bumper?! A vehicle had to mean other men were still on the barge. He hesitated, deciding whether he should check it out, then he thought otherwise. The objective was the barge. A vehicle was secondary.

  He shut off the light then started hurrying to report his findings to Holcomb. He stopped short, not seeing the two men. Where the hell were they?

  Thinking the two were hiding in the alley, Banyon started to turn, when he heard a gruff whisper behind him. "Drop your weapon, or I'll blow your fuckin' head off."

  Banyon froze. He knew what Flores felt like back at the factory. He dropped his gun.

  "Now the flashlight, then lock your fingers behind your head and start walkin'." Slade gave Banyon a quick, sharp jab with the MP5.

  Once they were at the back of the building, and even though in the shadows, Banyon recognized Holcomb and Flores, on their knees, hands behind their backs, duct tape over their mouths. Two men were standing guard. All Banyon could think was: SEALs!

  "On your knees!" Slade ordered in a gruff whisper. Once Banyon was secured, Slade contacted Grant. "Zero-Niner. Three secured."

  "Roger. Four-One, report here."

  On the barge, below deck, Mendoza sat near the table, with headphones on, holding the microphone for the short wave radio. The call from Artadi in Olongapo came in five minutes earlier.

  Salazar had been preparing to relieve Reyes topside, but instead he sat on the bottom steps, with his M16 across his lap. He listened to Mendoza answering questions, trying to explain his rationale for killing Quibin. Just hearing one side of the conversation was all Salazar needed to determine that Artadi was pissed.

  Mendoza slapped at the radio switch, disconnecting the call. He pulled off the headphones and tossed them on the table.

  "What happened?" Salazar managed to ask.

  Mendoza remained quiet a moment before responding. "Artadi said newspapers and TV broadcasts reported the U.S. President's press release. Our plan to inflict casualties aboard the carrier had succeeded."

  "But that's excellent news, Rodel!" Salazar waited for a more positive reaction, but none came. He finally realized the reason. "So, Nimuel wasn't lying. He did change those ingredients. We . . . "

  Mendoza glared at Salazar through narrowed eyes. "Don't even go there, Bayani! He may have followed my instructions, but Nimuel still went against everything we're about! If I suspected another man was attempting to deceive us, or cheat us, I'd give the same orders!" His tone of voice dropped lower. "Even you, Bayani."

  Salazar knew this to be true. He'd inflicted harsh punishment on two other men because of Mendoza's suspicions. "I carried out your orders, didn't I?! I always have!"

  Mendoza ignored him. "Artadi found someone to replace Nimuel. He's to arrive tomorrow afternoon. I'll leave you in charge to pick him up at the airport, then take him to the factory. It shouldn't take long to train him on the operation."

  "There's more to this, isn't there?"

  "We have orders to sail from here within two days. Artadi wants the equipment and weapons in Olongapo without further delay."

  "Does he have plans to use them soon?"

  Mendoza shoved his chair back and stood. "I wasn't informed." He started walking toward the forward section, with its rows of boxes, when he said over his shoulder, "Go relieve Carlo."

  There's more to this, Salazar thought, as he started up the stairs.

  Slade hustled down the alley, then took his position as pointman. They edged closer to the front of the building, sliding their backs along the wooden structure. Grant hesitated in making his next decision, but then gave the order. "Seven-Three. Take out UF."

  "Roger." Novak centered the crosshairs, adjusted for wind and humidity, took a breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger. A muffled crack. The skull shattered. Fragments of bone became small missiles, inside and outside the skull. Reyes' body tumbled over the edge of the helipad, hitting the main deck with a thud.

  Novak gave the order, "Go!"

  As the three dashed across the road, the wheelhouse door flew open. Salazar came rushing out, immediately spotting the men. He fired off a burst. The men hit the dirt. Novak's bullet struck Salazar low in the chest. As he fell backwards against the wheelhouse, Novak fired again. This time a head shot.

  The three men got up into a kneeling position, aiming their weapons toward the wheelhouse. No one else emerged. They scrambled to their feet and ran up the gangplank. Taking long hurried strides across the deck, they rushed to the wheelhouse. The open doorway was blocked by Salazar's lifeless body. Slade grabbed an arm and dragged him out of the way, trailing blood along the deck.

  It was then Grant noticed blood running out from under Slade's sleeve. He tapped his shoulder and pointed at it. Slade gave him a thumb's up.

  Holding his MP5 stock against his shoulder, and looking down the barrel, Grant stepped into the wheelhouse, aiming his weapon down the stairs. A light still glowed below deck. He spotted a light switch on the bulkhead at the top of the stairs, but decided to hold off before he sent the lower deck into complete darkness.

  They waited and listened. A scuffing noise emanated from the forward section. Nothing specific -- but someone was definitely down there. Then, silence. A weapon could be fired blindly. Or, if he and Adler were right in their assumptions, a grenade would require no aim whatsoever.

  Grant called out, "Your two men are dead! Another is our prisoner! No one's gonna help you! If you've got a weapon, I'd advise you to toss it! Now!"

  Rodel Mendoza tried moving farther back, but heavy boxes blocked his path. His brain attempted to sort through the past few moments. His men were dead?! Who was captured?! Flores! The factory! It'd been discovered! With his .45 in his hand, he aimed at the stairs, toward the voice, while he tried to remember where the grenades were boxed. It'd be impossible to find them. And if he fired, it'd give away his position. Whoever was out there, wouldn't hesitate in returning fire, and he was surrounded by explosives. Was he willing to become a martyr and die for the cause?

  Grant's voice boomed in the silence. "Last chance!" Again, nothing. Grant signaled Adler and Slade before he flipped the light switch, sending the lower deck into darkness. The circumstances were still way too dangerous to head down. Would a bluff work? Grant took a frag grenade from his chest vest. Without pulling the pin, he knelt down, and gave it a shove. The thumping and bouncing sound was enough to get what Grant planned on.

  Mendoza fired blindly, shooting continuously toward each sound. Then, click, click, click. Empty.

  Slade stepped around Grant, ready to take the lead. Looking through an eerie greenish glow of his NVGs, he cautiously and silently went down the steps, staying close to the bulkhead. Easing himself down another step, he slowly turned his head until he was able to see the forward area. Aiming his weapon, his eyes searched along rows of stacked boxes. He spotted someone close to the starboard side dropping down, before disappearing behind a large box. He motioned to Grant, indicating the direction. He quietly went to the next step, finally able to see the forward area. "Eyes on," he whispered to Grant.

  Grant ordered: "Toss that empty weapon, then slowly walk to the middle of the room, with hands behind your head!" Mendoza followed the orders given, but still unbelieving of the situation he now found himself in.

  Grant and Adler came rushing down the stairs. Slade was already behind Mendoza. He shoved him with a foot, knocking him face first on the deck, grabbed his wrists, and immediately wrapped paracord around them. He yanked him up onto his knees.

  Grant contacted the Team: "Barge secured. Seven-Three, hold position. Six-Eight, Five-Two, bring prisoners here."

  Adler cautiously went to inspect the forward area. Boxes were marked as containing medical supplies, ammo, grenades, spare parts. Behind stacked boxes were RPG launchers, rockets, M16s, Uzis. Everything to start their own small war, he thought disgustedly. He started checking all boxes, looking for anything that could mean pills were inside, but decided it was a waste of t
ime.

  Slade stood over Mendoza. Grant lifted a chair by the top rail, then slammed it on the deck. "Get him up!" Slade jerked up the startled man, then forced him on the seat. Grant noticed a heavier flow of blood running down Slade's hand. He looked at him, and pointed to his arm. "Have that checked." Slade hesitated. "Go!"

  Grant stood directly in front of Mendoza, as Adler posted himself next to Grant. Purposely not putting on the light, Grant and Adler continued using the NVGs, making themselves look more menacing. "Now, who the fuck are you?!" Mendoza remained silent, refusing to look up. Already running out of patience, Grant put a foot against the chair seat and gave it a sudden, violent shove. The force knocked Mendoza ass over end. Grant stood over him. "Maybe seeing what's left of your two men will get your goddamn tongue wagging." Mendoza's jaw locked from the anger building inside him. Grant continued, "But I'm afraid you won't be seeing Seaman Garcia again, even after we get you back to the ship." The statement got Mendoza's attention. "That's right. He's dead too. His bullet-ridden body's tucked neatly inside a black body bag, hanging from a hook inside the carrier's freezer." Some bullshit there, but what the hell! Grant thought.

  They heard Stalley in their earpieces: "Zero-Niner. Five-Two. Have name of our capture. Flores. Repeat. Flores. Leader on barge. Rodel Mendoza. Copy?"

  "Copy that." Grant squatted next to Mendoza, saying in a low tone of voice, "You know, it doesn't really matter whether you answer or not. Your friend, Flores, has been squealing like a pig to our friends." He grabbed Mendoza's arm and yanked him up, squeezing it hard enough to make him wince. Adler reset the chair, in time for Grant to force Mendoza onto the seat. "Now, Rodel Mendoza, I have one more question for you, and I'd advise you to answer. Who the fuck's your contact in Subic?!"

  As shocked as he was over the news of his own men, Mendoza remained defiant. Grant leaned close to his ear. "Believe me when I tell you, that we will get an answer from you. Our interrogation tactics can be . . . Well, let's just leave it at that." Still nothing. "Have it your way." Grabbing Mendoza by the throat, he forced him up, then shoved him toward Adler.