Silent Vengeance

Chapter 14

Four-foot swells rolled across the Indian Ocean, as the carrier cut through them effortlessly, creating its own waves along port and starboard sides, leaving a trail of green-white foam behind its stern.

Waiting for the arrival of the Sea Knight, sailors stood near the island with a stretcher and two piles of blankets. A doctor and nurses were standing by in sickbay.

Watching from Vulture's Row, Conklin, Torrinson, Justine waited impatiently. The message received from the chopper co-pilot left everyone with more questions. If one of Grant's team had an injury requiring surgery, the mission must have "gone south" in a drastic way.

"There it is!" XO Justine pointed. "Nine o'clock."

Torrinson put a hand to his forehead, attempting to block light from the late morning sun, as its brilliant rays reflected off the ocean. He had many moments since being aboard the carrier when flight ops unraveled the nerves, especially night ops. But waiting for Grant, Joe and Team A.T. brought back memories of NIS missions. Stevens and Adler never failed to complete their missions no matter who they confronted, no matter where it took them, no matter how hard the fight. An indiscernible smile crossed his face, as he ran a hand along the side of his head, touching gray hairs he attributed to those two men. But the smile was brief.

A sound of rotors grew more distinct. With its speed decreasing and nose slightly raised, the chopper slowly approached the carrier. Keeping his eyes on the yellow shirted flight director, Gore maneuvered the chopper onto the angle deck. The moment its wheels touched, wheel chocks were slid into place, tie-downs secured.

Three officers were no longer watching from Vulture's Row, but hurrying down the ladderwell leading to the flight deck. Screwing down their caps, they stepped onto the flight deck, staying close to the island, as they watched four men from the first medical responders unit running up the ramp, carrying a stretcher into the cargo bay.

"Were any transmissions received indicating a change in the injured man's condition?" Torrinson asked, without taking his eyes off the chopper.

"No, sir," XO Justine answered.

Within no time, Diaz was on the stretcher, then being hustled toward the superstructure.

The three officers kept their eyes on the stretcher until it disappeared inside the island. Hearing a sound of boots on the ramp again, they turned seeing the six men of A.T. surrounding the four boys who had blankets wrapped around them.

"How the hell did those kids survive … everything?" Conklin questioned, with a slight shake of his head.

Torrinson redirected his eyes to the men of A.T. as they walked across the flight deck. Each man was bruised and battered. Clothes were mud-caked, torn, and bloodied; blood seeped through bandages on faces, hands. While their eyes showed frustration and anger, it was the fierce determination Torrinson recognized, having seen that look many times in the past. He already knew these men would be going back out, in pursuit of those who seriously injured one of their own, and with premeditation, killed or destroyed the lives of young sailors aboard the Preston.

Grant stopped in front of him. "Admiral."

Torrinson placed a hand on his shoulder, while letting his eyes go from man to man. "Come on. You all need to get to sickbay. We'll talk later."

A decision had been made. The order given. The Preston was turned into the wind. Flight ops were finally underway. For the past two and a half hours, and every 45 seconds, one of four catapults sent an aircraft hurtling down the flight deck, launching it in 2.5 seconds. F-14 Tomcats, A-6 Intruders, AE-6B Prowlers. Rescue choppers had been in the air before the first plane launched.

Within Flag Country space, located a level below the launch shuttle of Cat 1, the sounds and vibrations of aircraft launches were extraordinary, deafening. The three men within the room somehow managed to ignore the disturbance.

Torrinson sat on the front of his desk, sipping on a cup of warm, black coffee, waiting for Captain Conklin, anxious for the meeting to begin.

Sitting on a black leather couch on the opposite side of the room, Grant and Adler also waited, wearing their service khakis. New sets of camies, bought from the ship's store, hung in their stateroom.

"There're some donuts and pastries on the credenza," Torrinson said, looking specifically at Adler.

"No thanks, sir," Adler responded with a slight shake of his head.

"Well, that's gotta be a first! Joe Adler refusing food?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Listen, you've both gotta be relieved Frank came through surgery without complications. Grant, didn't Doc Palmer say he'd make a full recovery, even without his spleen?"

Grant swirled the black coffee around in the cup, then looked at Torrinson. "He did, sir, but I don't know if Frank will be rejoining the Team."

"Oh, come on, Grant. You haven't even talked with him."

"You're right. But he was injured on another mission. That's when he decided he needed to spend more time with his son — until he learned about the training facility. I know it was a tough call for him, but he wanted to stay with us. To tell you the truth, his decision surprised the hell out of me.

"My main concern now is that he'll be more susceptible to infections. Doc Palmer probably told you the same thing, sir, and well, that could become a problem — for him and us. The Team has to depend on everyone." Grant ran a hand across his face. "It might be best. His kid needs him."

"You planning to have a discussion with him?"

"I have to." Grant put the coffee cup on a side table, then abruptly stood, unable to stay still any longer, wanting to get the mission underway. Hooking his thumbs in his back pockets, with his eyes downcast, he started pacing.

Torrinson put an arm out, blocking his path. "Grant."

"Yes, sir?"

The locking of the square jaw, grinding of teeth, were a sight Torrinson was very familiar with. "You know you've got to wait for more information before you even think about going back out there." A knock at the door. "Come!"

Conklin rushed in. "Sorry, Admiral."

"Problem resolved, Jim?"

"Yes, sir."

"And none too soon. I thought Grant was about to explode."

Conklin looked at Grant, then Adler. "Before we get started, Admiral, there are two things I'd like to report. Doc Palmer said the only injuries the kids suffered were bumps, superficial cuts, and bruises. They're somewhat undernourished, and for now all he can do is give them vitamins and get some food and milk into them. The nurses outfitted them in the smallest size pants and T-shirts they could find.

"We contacted Family Services in Subic Bay for advice, since there's no way to tell where their families are, or even if they're alive. As soon as arrangements are finalized, we'll fly them to Subic by either chopper or the next COD."

"All right, Jim. What's the second thing?"

"One of Captain Stevens' men turned in a tin containing pills. They were red in color, not orange, but were analyzed anyway." He looked toward Grant. "I hate to tell you, but those didn't have the ingredients that our men ingested."

Grant went rigid, pounding a fist against his thigh. "Goddammit! The whole mission was useless?! A waste?!"

Silence in the room, until Conklin asked, "Did you find anything else?"

Grant didn't immediately respond, as the mission flashed through his mind, until he heard Torrinson's voice. "Grant!"

"Sir?"

"Jim asked … "

"Oh, right. Sorry. Ken said he saw a pill-making machine, and in the back of the room was a stash of ingredients. That was another reason the places exploded so violently. Chemicals. As far as evidence, well, just about everything was either blown all to hell, or went to the bottom of the river." Then, a thought came to mind, and he commented, "Just because those killer pills weren't in that tin doesn't mean they weren't produced there earlier, right?"

Conklin nodded. "Possibly."

"Maybe the red ones were for distribution among the local population. He couldn't take the chance of having locals dying."

Adler added, "His business would go right down the shit-strainer."

"Right, Joe."

Conklin tapped a finger against his mouth. "So you think the bad ones had already been shipped to Subic?"

"Like you said, it's possible, but unless we find the bastard, or get his connection in Subic, I can't see us proving it."

"Captain Conklin, did anyone question the kids?" Adler asked. "I mean, they must've heard names mentioned."

"They were quite traumatized, and justifiably so. Getting anything from them was a struggle, especially since it was determined they were originally from some out of the way villages up north. We had one of our stewards try to communicate with them but he only got two names: Myint and Hawk. We assume the 'Hawk' was a code name. Those poor kids experienced a lot of trauma in their young lives."

"They were treated like slaves," Grant said quietly.

Torrinson turned his attention again to Grant. "Okay, Grant. Start from the beginning."

"Well, sir, the mission was going just as planned." Grant sat down, then continued outlining the op, right up until the unknown chopper attacked. "Bad luck, sir, it was freakin' bad luck, and bad timing." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs, rubbing his hands together. "The bastards in that chopper couldn't have known we were there. They were on the hunt … just like us."

"Any idea why or who, Grant?" Torrinson asked.

Grant shook his head. "It could be like any other drug operation, sir. Things go bad. Somebody gets ripped off. Somebody wants revenge."

"What about the supplier? Think he was there?"

Grant leaned back. "The guys my men 'took out' were definitely guards. Another guy on deck was Burmese, just like the others, but I don't think he was our guy. Anybody wielding the size of machete he had was possibly someone who handled the kids, and saw to it that production stayed on schedule.

"I did get a quick glimpse of a baseball cap and a pack of Tiparillos in our target shack but didn't have time to grab either one. They had to be the supplier's. He missed his appointment with us, but unlike us, he had one helluva lucky day."

"What about the chopper? Any identifiable markings?" Torrinson inquired.

"We all recognized the sound. It was definitely a Huey, but Mike was the only one who had the longest 'eyes on.' No markings." Grant went quiet.

"As a side note, sir," Adler began, "Mike said he managed to get off a round. He blasted the gunner. The bastard may have pulled the trigger but his brains … Well, you know, sir."

"Understood, Joe."

"Mike also took out the guy with the Uzi. According to him, there were only three others left in that chopper — the pilot, co-pilot and a passenger."

"Anything recognizable about those men, Joe?"

"Don't think that was brought up, sir. I'll check with Mike."

Grant focused his eyes on Conklin. "Captain, I assume no messages have been received for us regarding this op?"

Conklin shook his head. "Nothing. Do you need to use the radio room?"

"Thanks, but don't think so. Lieutenant Ormond gave us permission to use their equipment."

"Very well."

Torrinson swallowed a last mouthful of coffee. "What do you have in mind, Grant?"

"Well, sir, I'm sure CIA and NSA still have their 'eyes and ears' focused on this part of the world. My thought is they may have picked up something from the unknown chopper. And second, the aircraft that was in the sat image near the shacks had to have flown from and to someplace else. It had to refuel."

"Was it at the airfield?"

Grant shook his head. "Don't know. We didn't have time for a recon. If a satellite made a pass just prior, maybe that question could be answered. Now that we've got the name 'Hawk' as an identifier, maybe the techs can review past transmissions. My contact can add that to his list."

"As an update," Torrinson said, "Sid and his search team haven't found any more drugs on board. Now, whether that means the ship is 'clean' is yet to be seen, but I highly doubt it."

Grant commented, "I know Sid's been working his ass off, but there are a million hiding places on board. Small packs of tins could be scattered all over the place. It might be an impossible task, sir. I guess no one's come forward reporting where or how they bought the pills?"

Conklin replied, "We believe once that young man went overboard, and word spread about his death, users and possibly other dealers decided to 'clam up.' As you probably know, snitches don't go over real well aboard ship. Thankfully, there haven't been any more incidents."

"I assume NIS will continue questioning?" Grant asked, looking at Torrinson.

"That's the plan."

"And still no other ships have been affected?"

"No."

Conklin started pushing his chair back. "Admiral, if we're done here, I'd like to get back to the bridge."

"Sure, Jim. Go ahead."

Grant and Adler stood, shook hands with Conklin, then he left.

Torrinson folded his arms across his chest, as he stood in front of both men. A look on Grant's face meant the "wheels" were spinning. "Okay, Grant. Out with it."

"Well, sir, two things. The first has to do with those shacks. Joe and I are speculating an American was running the operation. We don't think his contact in Subic was Asian. He had to be another Westerner."

"And this is leading where?"

"Except for being popular in Southeast Asia, that drug came out of nowhere. There's the possibility you've had users on board from the first day you pulled into Subic.

"Petty Officer Ahrens could've been out on the town with some buddies, gotten shit-faced, and mouthed off about long hours aboard ship. He was overheard. Sales began."

Torrinson rubbed his chin in thought. "Then why didn't the killer pills start taking their toll at that time?"

"That's the second thing, sir. We've gotta go back to those transmissions intercepted earlier from the PNA. We might have to consider there's someone on board who's working for, or is a sympathizer of the group."

"You're serious?!" Grant nodded. "Just tell me how the hell you came up with the idea. Was it something from your past life as an intelligence officer for you to reach such a conclusion?"

"Probably," Grant smiled. "We think a person or persons already had a contact in Subic. Plans were completed ahead of time, so further communication wouldn't be necessary. He or they would go about daily shipboard life as usual."

"And?"

"Captain Conklin mentioned that one of the stewards tried translating for those kids."

Torrinson lowered his head as he let the idea roll around, then he looked up. "Are you specifically saying it might be one of the Filipinos?"

"We are, sir."

"So, you're intimating there's more than one contact in Subic?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this one of your 'grasping at straws' things?"

"Sounds that way, doesn't it?"

"I shouldn't be surprised," Torrinson replied with a slight shake of his head.

Grant continued, "You've got Filipinos on board who are not just stewards, but enlisted as well. Are any of them storekeepers or mail clerks?"

"I'm sure there are, but as soon as we're through here, I'll make inquiries to find out specifics. You've both certainly offered up a helluva lot to consider. Now, I almost hate to ask, but is there anything else?"

"Not at this time," Grant laughed.

"Very well. Now, confirm for me that you're both feeling okay, and you're prepared to continue this mission."

"We are, sir," the two men answered simultaneously.

"And your men?"

"They are," Grant answered.

"I don't know why I even bothered asking. All right, gentlemen. You're dismissed. Now get the hell out of here."

The two men snapped to attention, and saluted. "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" Without another word, they turned smartly, and left.

Torrinson smiled to himself, "You're right, Grant. Nothing's changed."

Real Admiral John Torrinson went behind his desk, and stood there quietly, looking toward the door. It was the first time since he'd been aboard the carrier that he actually missed his other life — Chief of NIS.