Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant contacted James. "Six-Eight, report below deck."

  They heard the pounding of feet, as James ran across the deck and into the wheelhouse. As soon as he stepped onto the bottom deck, Adler shoved Mendoza past him, and up the stairs.

  Grant stood by the table. "DJ, plans changed for our extraction. You have the 'Phrog's' frequency, right?"

  "Sure, boss."

  "Okay. Make contact and request extraction from here. Tell them to expect four additional passengers." Grant handed James the GPS. "Confirm these coordinates with Lieutenant Gore."

  "I'm on it."

  "And confirm our radio frequency. Extraction is asap, DJ." Grant took the steps two at a time, then stopped inside the wheelhouse, motioning for Adler. "Joe, DJ's contacting Lieutenant Gore, requesting extraction from here asap."

  "You want me to go do my EOD thing below?"

  "Yeah. Light up the freakin' sky, Joe!" Adler's smile was brief as he started down the steps. Grant contacted Novak: "Seven-Three. Chopper contacted. Maintain watch until ride shows. Copy?"

  "Copy."

  Walking out on deck, Grant stepped over the streaks of smeared blood. He went toward the prisoners who were on their knees next to the Huey. Associating the Steelers' T-shirt with Holcomb, he stopped, then squatted in front of him. "Hawk, you're one sonofabitch!" Holcomb shook his head rapidly, unable to speak because of the duct tape. "You have something to say?" Holcomb nodded. Grant ripped off the tape.

  Holcomb winced, then ran his tongue across his lips. "I didn't do what you think I did!"

  "And what the hell could that be?!"

  "I had nothing to do with those sailors dying!"

  Grant pointed to Mendoza. "You know who that is?"

  Holcomb's eyes narrowed. "If that's Mendoza, then he ran the factory in Bangkok. He's the one who killed those sailors!"

  "You know that as fact?" Grant asked with arched eyebrow.

  "We found his factory. We saw the pills -- orange ones. Mine were red. Does that mean anything to you?!"

  A whole new ballgame, Grant thought. "Then I guess you figured it out seeing the chopper, that he's also the one who took down your little operation. Does that put another burr up your butt?"

  Grant looked over his shoulder, seeing James coming on deck, who gave him a thumb's up. As Grant stood, he looked at Holcomb. "You'll have plenty of time to give me your bullshit story, 'cause you're coming with us to the place where those kids died. The USS Preston."

  Holcomb lowered his head, not believing his whole world turned to shit -- again -- and probably forever. These men were the ones he saw at his former factory. SEALs. How the two managed to sneak up on him and Flores earlier left him astounded. They'd been as silent as ghosts.

  Grant turned to Banyon, and snapped a finger against his forehead. "And you, you shit. I assume you're the infamous pilot of the Skymaster. Have you got a name?" Banyon lowered his head. His troubles were mounting. It was only a matter of time before he'd be officially labeled a deserter.

  Before getting any response from Banyon, Grant finally heard a sound they were waiting for. He rushed inside the wheelhouse, shouting, "Chopper's comin'!" Adler ran up the stairs. "Everything set?"

  "Good to go!" Adler opened his hand, revealing a small black box the size of a pack of cigarettes. The remote had a preset frequency, with a green button for safety, and a red for armed. A toggle switch was on the side for transmitting the signal. "I'll take care of the Huey." He ran to the opposite side of the chopper, preparing to set the explosives.

  Novak came running up the gangplank, stopping near Grant. "What can I do?"

  "Take pictures of below deck, then this main deck. Time's short." Novak took off. A couple minutes later, he took pictures of the prisoners, then headed across the road, taking a couple of the barge.

  Grant pulled out a flare from his chest vest as he ran to the road leading away from the docks where the ground was more level, and allowed greater clearance from buildings and barge. He lit the flare, waving it back and forth overhead.

  The prisoners remained on their knees, surrounded by James, Stalley, and Slade. Finally, the familiar sound increased, getting everyone's attention. The "Phrog" approached, coming in low. Rotor wash began kicking up clouds of dust. Sprays of water washed over the barge and men. Gore maneuvered the chopper slowly, bringing the nose up slightly, as it went to hover stage.

  Grant ducked low, then ran toward the gangplank. Motioning with his arm, he shouted, "Let's go! Let's go!" With the ramp already lowered, as soon as the wheels touched earth, four Team members and their prisoners were aboard within moments.

  Grant was halfway up the gangplank, when Alder came running from behind the chopper. "Let's get the hell outta here!"

  Crew chief Milton stood on the ramp, finally seeing Grant and Adler racing toward the chopper.

  Grant stopped near him. "Keep ramp lowered, okay?" Milton gave a thumb's up. Grant immediately hurried through the cargo bay to the cockpit. "Lieutenant! I've requested the ramp remain open. Once we're over water, we're gonna set off explosives aboard the barge."

  "Okay, sir! Ready for takeoff?!"

  Grant looked back at his men and prisoners. "All secured! Go!"

  The chopper lifted off, going from hover to forward flight, simultaneously banking hard to starboard. The lights of Bangkok came into view, a brilliant glow surrounded by total blackness.

  Grant balanced himself as he walked through the cargo bay, heading toward the ramp. He met up with Adler. They held onto an overhead bar, one above each side of the cargo bay. "You make the decision when to let it rip!"

  "With pleasure!" Adler replied, holding up the remote.

  Grant immediately went to Mendoza, unfastened the seat belt, jerked him up by the arm, then led him toward the ramp. "Get ready to say bye-bye to your supplies and transportation!" The Team remained seated, but leaned toward the aisle, preparing for the "fireworks" display.

  Adler stayed focused on the barge. When the chopper was at a safe distance, he pressed the red button to arm the device, then he flipped the toggle switch.

  A sudden blinding white flash. Milliseconds later an orange and red ball of fire erupted, blowing out the barge's main deck, starboard and port sides. The wheelhouse blew away from the deck, landing on the barge moored behind the stern. The forward section of the old wooden barge, still above water, disappeared in the fire.

  The explosives around the Huey blew it apart. Rotor blades snapped, shooting off in different directions, smashing into the buildings opposite the dock, and spinning across the water's surface. Suddenly, ammo, grenades, rockets caused secondary explosions, adding to the mayhem. Fire rained down on what remained of the wooden structures not already destroyed by the blast itself. Black smoke rose high above the docks.

  The sound heard inside the chopper was thunderous. Slade and James pumped their fists in the air. "Hooyah!"

  Holding onto Mendoza's arm, Grant shouted above the noise, "Show's over! Now I want the name of your contact in Subic!"

  "Go to hell!"

  "I probably will, but I guarantee you're gonna get there ahead of me!"

  Unseen by Mendoza, Adler fastened a safety line around Grant's waist, with the other end secured to the bulkhead. Team A.T. looked on, anticipating the upcoming G2 would be noteworthy. Maybe more impressive than the explosion.

  Crew chief Milton backed up against the starboard bulkhead. He spoke softly into his wire mike, keeping the crew informed.

  The expressions on the three seated prisoners changed dramatically. They immediately realized there was a strong possibility they might not make it to the carrier. Their fears were reinforced when Adler released Flores' seat belt, yanked him up by his shirt, then leaned close to the terrified man's face, as he pointed to the ramp. "Pay attention! You might be next!"

  Grant hooked his fingers through the back of Mendoza's holster belt, then pushed him farther out to the middle of the ramp. Wind swirled around them. The chopper vibrated. Grant
spread his legs apart, trying to maintain his balance. He yanked Mendoza closer, forcing him to look over the side of the ramp. "We're doin' about 140 knots, at 100 feet!" Mendoza struggled, trying to get into the cargo bay, but Grant held him fast. "I'm positive your friend, Flores, will give me the answer after seeing you disappear into space! One little shove and you're on your way to hell!"

  With his arms still tied behind his back, Mendoza had no leverage, no balance. Trying to make it more difficult for Grant to control him, he started collapsing. Grant jerked him up, giving him another shove, this time stopping him less than two feet from the ramp's end.

  Milton's eyes went wide. "Holy shit!" he whispered.

  The chopper's nose pitched up. Mendoza started falling forward. "No-o-o-o!"

  Grant jerked him back. As Mendoza started to fall, Grant let loose of the belt. Mendoza landed hard on the ramp and rolled sideways. His legs dangled over the side as he tried desperately to push himself back.

  For an instant, Grant pictured in his mind the young sailors, dead because of this bastard. It'd be easy to accidentally assist him in going over the side. But instead, he knelt down, and grabbed a handful of Mendoza's thick, windblown hair, pulling on it as he demanded, "Gimme the goddamn name or I fuckin' promise you, you're a dead man!"

  Mendoza blurted out, "Avelino Cruz!" Details would follow.

  Grant blew out a long breath. "Now, your boss, Artadi. Does he go by any other names?" Mendoza shook his head. "You know all his hiding places?"

  "Yes!"

  "I'll bring you back to the cargo bay if you'll give us those specific locations. If not, well, I can question Flores. You'll no longer be needed."

  "All right!"

  Grant looked toward the crew chief and twirled two fingers. A motor whined as the ramp started closing. Getting hold of Mendoza's shirt, Grant dragged him into the safety of the cargo bay. Slade came down the aisle, lifted Mendoza, and dropped him on a seat.

  Grant asked, "How's the arm?"

  "Butterflies and battle dressing did the trick."

  "Good."

  "Haven't lost your touch," Adler said, as he sat down. "And just so ya know, Flores gave up the same name of 'Cruz.'"

  Grant nodded as he pulled off his watch cap, and tucked it under his belt. He reached into his chest vest, removed a small pad and a pen, then gave it to Mendoza. "Write." As Mendoza started writing, Grant sat next to Adler. "Did Hawk hear that name mentioned?"

  "Don't know. I didn't see any immediate reaction."

  "So, there might be two contacts that'll have to be dealt with. Looks like a more thorough G2 is called for. Do me a favor, Joe." He looked down the aisle, toward the ramp. "While I go have a word with the crew, move Hawk to the end of the row. We can have a one-on-one there. And you may as well make them more comfortable for a while. Tie their hands in front."

  "Done."

  Grant stopped by Milton, who had returned to his post near the open window, with his NVGs focused on the area off the starboard side. "Petty Officer, any chance to get an extra helmet? I'd like to question one of my prisoners."

  "Sure, sir."

  "Just give it to Lieutenant Adler while I go to the cockpit." Grant stood just behind the two seats. "Lieutenant Feith, Lieutenant Gore, I just wanted to say thanks for the excellent job you did."

  Gore answered, "Our pleasure, sir. We always enjoy these missions! They keep us boned up on our flying skills!"

  "Well, you did one helluva job for us!" Grant leaned forward, getting a better view out the windshield. Nothing but blackness. No land, no ships, no other aircraft in sight. "Where are we?"

  "Southern part of the Gulf of Thailand, sir."

  "We gonna fly NOE again?"

  "Yes, sir. Coming up shortly," Gore answered, pointing toward a one o'clock position.

  "Listen, as soon as you can, notify Captain Conklin that we're bringing four detainees, so the master-at-arms will be ready."

  Feith responded, "Will do, sir."

  Gore began adjusting the chopper's direction, turning more southwest.

  "I'll let you do your thing," Grant said, as he headed back to the Team. "NOE coming up! Lock in place!"

  Chapter 26

  Aboard the "Phrog"

  Grant picked up his helmet, then walked down the aisle, sat across from Holcomb, and clicked his seat belt in place. He adjusted the helmet, then wire mike. "Can you hear me?" Holcomb nodded. "Who's your friend over there?" Grant pointed with his index finger.

  "Mitch Banyon."

  "And your Subic contact?"

  "Phillips. Jess Phillips."

  "Did you ever hear the name 'Avelino Cruz'?"

  "No."

  Grant unhooked his canteen. "Here. Sorry, but it's just H2O." Holcomb accepted the offer and took a long swallow.

  "Talk to me," Grant said.

  "What the fuck do you want me to say?!"

  "I know you worked for the DEA before this. Why the hell did you give it up?"

  Holcomb wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, then handed the canteen to Grant. He started talking, repeating everything he revealed to Banyon, and everything he'd said to himself not so long ago. He finally went quiet.

  Grant leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. Keeping his eyes on Holcomb's face, he tried to understand how one misjudgment could ruin a person's life. Pills. Energy pills. He believed Holcomb was innocent of the deaths, and was just someone caught up in an unfortunate situation. But selling any drugs would still guarantee he'd be in a world of shit.

  "Listen, NIS has an agent in Subic. You have an address for this 'Phillips' to make it easier to find him?"

  "No. The only times we met was at a bar not far from the main gate. Deliveries were always pre-scheduled for date, time and place. He paid with cash."

  "Did this bar have a name?"

  "'The Old Grog.'"

  "Let me get this straight. Out of the blue, you meet this guy, and you're already discussing selling drugs -- and to sailors?" Holcomb didn't respond. "Was he ex-military or still in?" Again no response. Grant flopped back against the bulkhead, never letting his eyes leave Holcomb, watching for any reaction, waiting for a response. Nothing. Then, Grant sat up straight, and practically spit the words out: "You knew him from the Agency?!" Silence. "Answer me, goddammit!"

  "Yes! We both had enough bureaucratic bullshit! But we did meet only by chance in Subic. I told him my plans. We agreed to meet again after I had my facility set up, and when production was underway."

  "And look where the bureaucratic bullshit got you!" Again, no response. "There'll be a helluva lot more questions once we're aboard the carrier."

  Grant started to stand, when Holcomb stopped him. "Wait!"

  "I'm listening."

  "I wanna know that fuckin' factory was destroyed."

  "Revenge?"

  "Why the hell not?!"

  "I can't help you with that, but when you make your statement to NIS, give an address or details on how to find the place." Grant realized he was leaving Holcomb with the impression the U.S. would handle it, but destruction of the factory would be up to the Thai government. He also considered the possibility President Carr might decide to avoid the entire issue, especially after Thai waterfront property was destroyed by a group of unknown individuals who were just passing through!

  He decided to add something else for Holcomb to "chew" on. "You know, maybe you weren't responsible for those deaths or the irreversible damage done to some of those kids. But I want you to think about this. The kid who was selling your pills -- the red ones -- thought he was at fault, so much so that he committed suicide. He jumped overboard."

  Holcomb's face drained of all color. "No. No."

  "You have anything else to say before I leave you contemplating what you've done?" Nothing. Grant held out his hand. "Gimme the helmet."

  The rocking and rolling finally ended, and the chopper banked to port. Continuing on a south southwest heading over the Andaman Sea, they retraced their previous ro
ute. Navigation lights were turned on. Gore adjusted the altitude, taking the chopper higher but staying at top speed.

  Feith contacted the refueling aircraft. He received coordinates and scheduled a time for meeting up with the C-130, somewhere over the Indian Ocean.

  Grant paused in front of his men. "Everybody okay?" All replied with a thumb's up, except for Slade, who was already asleep.

  "Let's talk," he said to Adler, handing him the helmet.

  Adler adjusted the wire mike. "Ready."

  "First tell me if any more intel came out of those three."

  "Negative. You wanna have a one-on-one with any of them?"

  "Think we'll just let them contemplate their current situation."

  "What'd you find out from Hawk?" Grant relayed the news. "Holy shit! But guess we've gotta consider the possibility the DEA guy's already hauled ass."

  "Yeah, I know. It's more than likely he saw or read news reports on the incidents. And we still don't know how they got those drugs aboard ship."

  "You gonna update your last message to the ship?" Adler asked, reaching for his canteen.

  "Negative. Don't want to broadcast any more details over the airwaves."

  "What?! You think somebody might be listening?" Adler laughed.

  "Not a doubt in my military mind, Joe!"

  "We're gonna have beaucoups to report once we're back on board."

  "We can give Scott a quick and dirty, then fill out our AAR (After Action Report) at his office. The admiral and Sid will make their own reports to D.C." Grant bumped a fist against Adler's knee. "In the meantime, my friend -- end of transmission." He swiveled the mike up.

  Chapter 27

  USS Preston

  0900 Hours

  Day 3

  A brilliant sun cast glaring reflections off a calm Indian Ocean. But on the horizon, clouds were forming. Forecast was as usual: heavy rain expected by early afternoon.