Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

All choppers were in the air as flight operations continued, except for a Sea Knight parked on the angle deck. Wheel chocks were in place, with tie downs fastened securely to the deck. The cargo bay was devoid of gear and passengers. Four prisoners had been turned over to the master-at-arms. Four men now locked in the brig.

  Team A.T. had cleaned weapons, equipment, and organized gear in rucksacks. Everything was stacked in the V.I.P. stateroom. All they had left to do was wait for launch time, most likely before noon. A Greyhound would be their transportation, taking them back to Cubi Point, a brief stopover before heading back to the States.

  After quick showers, they were feeling human again. "Okay, guys," Grant said, "why don't you grab a bite while Joe and I contact Scott. We've got another meeting with the admiral at ten hundred."

  "Will you be in the radio room, boss?" Novak asked, pulling a white skivvy shirt over his head.

  "Negative. EOD locker. Lieutenant Ormond gave us the okay. With flight ops underway, most of the team will be up on deck."

  "How 'bout some coffee, boss, LT? One of us can deliver it to the locker."

  "Sure could use some, Mike. I tell you what. Joe, go with them. I heard your stomach making some very familiar rumblings. Hungry, huh?"

  "Does a bear shit in the woods?!"

  "Get outta here! Meet me in the locker. And bring coffee!"

  *

  EOD Locker

  0910 Hours

  "Scott!"

  "Hey, Grant! Everybody okay?"

  "Yeah. We're all good, buddy. Oh, before I forget. Would you contact Matt and Rob and tell them we're launching at approximately noon, before foul weather sets in."

  "Will do. So, what've you got to report? I'm all ears!"

  "I take it nothing's filtered down from my debriefing with the admiral and Sid."

  "Not yet."

  "Okay. Well, here it is." For the next twenty minutes Grant described the entire mission, bringing Mullins up to speed on all details, all names of those involved in the selling of the drug, the men responsible for deaths aboard the carrier.

  "Jesus, Grant!"

  "Yeah. Sid searched Garcia's rack, stowage bin and locker. Apparently, when Cruz, the PNA's contact in Subic, received the shipment from Bangkok, he repacked the tins in a cardboard box, hiding them in between a stack of new clothes. Then he simply addressed it to Seaman Garcia."

  "Who worked as a postal clerk."

  "Exactly."

  "But wasn't that a helluva big box?"

  "No. Aside from the bulky clothes, those pills were in small tins. We figured the intention wasn't to distribute to a wide audience, but just enough to make an impact, and get our attention."

  "Sounds reasonable. But what about the kid who was thought to commit suicide? How'd he figure in?"

  Grant turned, hearing the heavy door being opened. "Scott, hold on. Joe just got here, bringing me some good old fashioned Navy java!"

  Adler put something wrapped in wax paper in front of Grant. "Egg sandwich," he said, as he picked up the headphones.

  Grant rolled the chair farther away from the desk, before taking a sip of the hot brew from a standard, white Navy cup.

  "Okay, Scott. Joe's hooked up now. To answer your question, we think the kid in Supply was completely innocent. Unfortunately for him, he never examined the contents of those tins before he sold them."

  "He just assumed he sold the killers," Mullins added.

  "Had to be the case, Scott. With those being red, he might've questioned the change of color when he started distributing them, but apparently he jumped before the announcement was made.

  "Sid's positive Ahrens didn't have a clue that Garcia was distributing, let alone what he was distributing, but that's a question that might go unanswered, considering both main parties are dead."

  "You think the remaining PNA characters knew?"

  "Possibly, but it'll be up to NIS to drag the intel from them."

  "What about the distribution on board? How'd they do it?"

  "Sid interviewed a couple of sailors who finally came forward filling in the blanks for the process. When someone wanted to buy, Ahrens would set a time and place. We don't know about Garcia's operation, considering those kids are dead, and the others may never be able to answer.

  "And as far as how those pills got on board, that's another task for NIS. They'll have to find Phillips for positive answers, but delivery could've happened the same way as Garcia's, by mail."

  "Hawk couldn't give you an answer?"

  "Once the pills were in Phillips' hands, distribution was up to him."

  "Tell him about the money envelope," Adler interjected.

  "Oh, right. Sid was determined to find evidence of a money trail. He went so far as to have mail bags searched that were ready to leave on a COD, specifically looking for Ahrens' return FPO address, or anything going to Coos Bay, Oregon, his hometown. Surprisingly, he found one addressed to a post office box in Coos Bay. Inside were five money orders, all made out to his dad."

  "What happens to those?"

  "Guess they're evidence."

  "So the kid lost all the way around."

  "Like I said about Hawk, he was caught up in a very unfortunate situation."

  "You've gotta feel for his parents."

  "Yeah. Isn't that what usually happens? The ones left behind suffer the longest, and end up with the most questions."

  Mullins questioned, "Think you'll have more answers before leaving the ship?"

  "When we finish here we're to meet with the admiral and Sid again, but I doubt there'll be updates. I have a feeling you'll probably get all the details before we land in Virginia."

  "I guess you'll wait a day before you come here to fill in your AAR."

  "That's the plan. We've gotta get the contractors out to the property post haste." Grant drank more coffee, before saying, "Now I've got a question for you, Scott."

  "Fire away."

  "Have you heard any scuttlebutt on what the White House plans on doing, that is, will the Philippine government be contacted and informed the PNA was responsible?"

  "Haven't heard anything yet."

  "Guess it's too soon. But if anyone wants additional proof, besides our report, Mike took pictures of the barge, it's contents, and the prisoners, who were all neatly tied up."

  "I'll pass that along."

  Grant glanced at his watch. "Time to go, Scott. Unless anything urgent pops up, we'll contact you when we're back home."

  "Okay, guys. Congrats on a job well done! Safe trip."

  *

  USS Preston

  Flag Country

  Admiral's Office

  The meeting was brief. Sid Edmunds reported that the NIS agent who was working with him on the carrier, had been sent to Subic, lending support to the agent already there. Both men would have the responsibility to track and locate Jess Phillips and Avelino Cruz.

  Edmunds had his doubts that neither man would still be in the Subic Bay area. But he was more confident in capturing Phillips, than Cruz. Considering Cruz's job had been completed, it was more than likely he had hightailed it back to Olongapo or any of the PNA's locations.

  Whether or not the findings were reported to the Philippine president, all hinged on President Carr's decision.

  Edmunds rolled his chair back. "Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I've gotta contact D.C. again."

  The four men stood. Grant reached across the table, offering a hand. "Sid, it was a pleasure working with you."

  "You too, Grant. I guess things go more smoothly when all parties have the same mindset, right?"

  "I hear ya, Sid! Maybe when you get back to D.C. we can hook up for a cold one."

  "Sounds good to me!" Edmunds reached for Joe's hand. "Good to meet you, Joe."

  "Take care, Sid."

  Edmunds nodded to Torrinson. "Admiral, I'll report back when I've finished my conversation with NIS." He left.

  Once the door closed, Grant reached for a folded paper inside his shi
rt pocket. "Sir, I'd like to discuss this with you."

  Torrinson looked over the written information. "What are these?"

  "They're locations where Artadi has residences."

  "May I ask how you obtained them?"

  "Uh . . . a gentleman aboard the chopper volunteered the information, sir."

  "Ahh. I see," Torrinson smiled. "Is the information accurate?"

  "I'm certain it is."

  "You're thinking Artadi moves around trying to avoid detection?"

  "That's the most likely explanation. Sir, we don't know whether President Carr will decide to bring the Philippine government in on the PNA's aggressive actions against us." He pointed to the paper. "But if he decides to take executive action, I thought those addresses should be considered top secret. You're the only one, besides the Team, who has seen them, sir."

  "You didn't mention this to Scott Mullins?"

  "No, sir. But I will, when we're at his office filling out our AAR."

  "All right, Grant. I'll take it under advisement." Torrinson put the paper in his shirt pocket. "Well, you two, I don't need to tell you what a pleasure it's been. And you were right, Grant. Nothing's changed," he smiled broadly.

  Grant tilted his head toward Adler. "I'll let Joe tell you what he thinks, sir."

  "It was déjàvu all over again, all over again, sir!"

  "And now that you're back in uniform, why don't you consider staying?"

  "I can't speak for Joe, but . . ."

  "Sure you can!" Adler piped up. "You do it all the time!"

  "As I was saying, sir, we'll have to respectfully decline. We've got a helluva lot going on at the training facility."

  "I'm sorry I made you put that on hold, Grant. But I'm extremely grateful that you, Joe and your men accepted the mission."

  "No way would we have refused, sir."

  Torrinson put his hands on his hips, then lowered his voice. "You know, all I have to do is put in a request to the President and ask him to revoke that temporary status."

  Grant's mouth curved up slightly. "Yes, sir, we're well aware you could. The question is . . . will you?"

  "You know damn well I won't!"

  "But here's a proposition for you, sir. If and when you decide to retire, we could use your expertise at Eagle 8."

  Adler chimed in, "Wouldn't you just love seeing the look on new squids' faces when you were introduced?! I sure as hell would!"

  "It's a tempting offer, gentlemen, but I don't think I'm . . ."

  "Ready for civilian life?"

  "That's about it, Grant. Although, things could change, as you both well know."

  "We do. But maybe consider coming for a visit. It's not Silver Strand, but we're grateful to our benefactors for giving us the chance to make it happen."

  "They must be remarkable men." Torrinson glanced at his watch. "Well, launch time's coming up. I'd like to thank your whole team. Where're you meeting them?"

  "On the flight deck near the island. Our gear's already been loaded."

  "I imagine your man, Frank, was disappointed he wouldn't be traveling with the whole Team."

  "He was. Doc Palmer thought it was too soon after surgery for him to experience the stress from a Cat launch."

  "Understandable." Torrinson reached for his cap on the desk. "Thank you again, gentlemen, for accepting and completing the mission. It's been a pleasure having you aboard."

  Grant offered his hand, which Torrinson grasped firmly. "I guess I don't have to tell you, sir, that we'd be willing to offer our assistance to you anytime, anywhere, no matter what the circumstances."

  "As much as I'd welcome the opportunity to work with both of you again, Grant, let's just hope it won't be necessary."

  "I agree, but keep the invite to Eagle 8 in mind."

  Torrinson reached for Adler's hand. "Joe, thank you."

  "A pleasure, sir."

  Torrinson centered his cap squarely on his head. "Well, what say we go meet those men of yours."

  Fifteen minutes before scheduled launch, the Greyhound taxied to Cat 1, with its wings unfolding, preparing for flight. JBDs (jet blast deflectors) rose out of the flight deck. Final exterior inspections were made. The aircraft's launch bar and holdback bar were secured.

  After a series of complex and coordinated procedures, completed mostly by hand signals, the Greyhound went to full power. The pilot released the brakes, then snapped a quick salute to the Cat officer. Within seconds of an F-15 being launched from Cat 2, the Greyhound blasted down the flight deck.

  Chapter 28

  Castillejos, Philippines

  September 28

  0200

  Sixteen miles, 30 minutes northwest of Olongapo, the town of Castillejos was established by Tagalog families who migrated from Bataan province.

  Approximately three miles east of the town, 50 acres of land had been owned by generations of the Lodrido family. A corrugated tin roof covered the simple but typical home made from planks, boards, bamboo and straw, all from the surrounding area, and redesigned by each generation. Sheltered beneath large spreading crowns of mimosa and mahogany trees, the two-tiered structure blended into the hillside, becoming nearly impossible to see from a distance. But it, along with the property, had fallen into disrepair. Dead grass, weeds, brush and vines blanketed the land.

  A one lane dirt road wove its way from the farmlands to the crest of the hill. Only telltale signs of tire tracks on flattened dead grass and leaves indicated there was a road beneath. The road stopped in front of a shed near the house, wide enough to accommodate two Model CJ-5 Jeeps. Both were covered in dust. Wheels and wheel wells had thick coatings of mud.

  The evening temperature was a mild 79°, with a light breeze. All that broke the silence was a constant growl from a single cylinder generator next to the house.

  Three guards, with M16s, patrolled the grounds, following no particular paths, weaving their way in and out of trees. Even with their eyes accustomed to the dark, the blackness surrounding them seemed almost impenetrable. Flashlights hooked to their belts had rarely been used.

  Inside, Danilo Artadi sat on a handmade bamboo chair, with his feet resting on a wooden crate. He hadn't had a decent night sleep in days. A few dead sailors aboard the American carrier was the only satisfaction he got after all the work, all the planning. He didn't have the weapons or equipment. All the money spent from the PNA's funds had been wasted.

  From reading reports coming out of Bangkok, his men were probably dead. A violent explosion along the docks destroyed barges and buildings. The officials had no explanation for parts of a helicopter found around the wreckage and in the water. Not enough was left to find a registration number. For Artadi, though, knowing what had been stored on the barge, the destruction wasn't surprising.

  He reached overhead and shut off the dim light from a pole lamp. Getting up, he slowly walked toward a front window. As he stood there, he thought about his last conversation with Mendoza. How could they have been so wrong about Quibin? Was it possible he'd also tampered with the group's records for the Philippines? Had Quibin syphoned money from taxes collected? Artadi's stomach churned. So much had gone wrong.

  Then there was Cruz. He may have completed his work as their contact in Subic, but he'd disobeyed instructions by returning to Olongapo, and possibly leaving a trail for authorities to follow. Fool! Rodrigo and Efren saw to it that his body would never be found.

  A sudden movement outside made him back away from the window, before he realized it was Rodrigo, one of his guards. That moment of distraction diverted his thoughts to the American, the one they suspected of killing the two men on the helicopter. Was he responsible for the barge too?!

  The more he thought, the more agitated he became. This place was too isolated for him to work out issues that kept crowding his mind. He had to find more answers. And when he did, he would take action. He had to return to Olongapo.

  He shoved aside a length of canvas hanging from the open doorway. "Rodrigo!" He stood in th
e doorway. "Rodrigo! Where the hell are you?!" The guard had walked past the window not two minutes earlier. No response. No footsteps. Not a sound. "Dammit!" He stepped outside, looking toward the shed. Putting a hand on his holstered weapon, he started walking to where the Jeeps were parked. As he walked, he called, "Rodrigo!" Silence. Already in a foul mood, he swung around and headed to the opposite side of the house. His men were known to occasionally "disappear" to grab a smoke, or refresh their betel quid.

  "Luis! Arturo!" What the hell was happening?! He spun around. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Drawing his weapon, he bolted back to the side of the house. Sweat formed across his brow, as his eyes searched the darkness. There wasn't anything to see.

  The keys for the Jeeps! He had to get back inside! Sliding his back along the wood siding, he eased himself around the corner, squeezing the gun handle tighter. The only sound came from the generator, and he silently cursed it. Shuffling his feet side to side, he slowly moved toward the doorway. He was ready to make a run for it.

  His brain never had time to register the muffled clap. A bullet slammed into his upper chest. His legs immediately buckled. His body crumbled in a heap on the dirt path. With his spinal cord severed, he felt no pain. All feeling was gone. He lost control of bodily functions. His breathing became labored. He started slipping in and out of consciousness from lack of oxygen. His eyelids fluttered as he tried forcing them open.

  A shadowy figure appeared out of the darkness. Someone was standing over him now. All he could see were boots. Black boots. They were the last things he saw before a bullet pierced his temple.

  Chapter 29

  Arlington National Cemetery

  Virginia

  September 30 - Noon

  Two black Chevy SUVs pulled into the visitors' parking lot. Team Alpha Tango had remained quiet almost the entire trip. Earlier that morning they learned that two of the young sailors who died aboard the carrier had been buried here. A.T. would add them to the many they'd visit this day, paying respects to fallen comrades, men they knew, and those they had never met.