Silent Vengeance

Chapter 20

Surging rainwater, flowing down the hillside, left pools of muddy water and small debris in every small depression along the airstrip. Creek water overflowed onto the northern embankment, washing away soft-packed dirt. Twenty feet of the airfield had been reclaimed by Mother Nature.

Banyon and Holcomb ran across the airfield, then settled into the plane. While Banyon went through the checklist, Holcomb drew his weapon from its holster, and thumbed the cylinder release latch. The cylinder swung out to the side. Six rounds. That was it. All his ammo was either scattered along the hillside or in the water, along with everything else he owned. "Do you have extra ammo? This is it for me."

"Mine's in the ammo box behind you. I know a place in Bangkok where you can get resupplied. It's cheap."

Holcomb spun the cylinder as he asked, "You're with me on this all the way, aren't you, Mitch?"

"How the hell couldn't I be, Sonny? What happened affected me too, ya know?"

"Yeah, but when I find whoever destroyed my operation, I'm gonna … "

"Hey! Why the hell are you doubting me?!"

"Look, forget it." He flicked his hand to the side, snapping the cylinder back in place.

Hearing the noise, Banyon commented, "I don't know where you plan on using that, but that bitchin' gun is gonna make one helluva bitchin' noise."

"Don't worry. All this'll do is scare the shit out of whoever. I've got other plans that'll be much more fun than using this 'baby.' I learned a lot from seeing retaliation 'hits' during my DEA days."

"Couldn't be as fuckin' bad as the VC," Banyon responded, as he flipped on navigation lights.

Because of the rough condition of the airfield, and the possibility of debris hitting the forward propeller, Banyon set the flaps at one-third, then set the trim while he pressed the brakes. Pushing the rear engine throttle forward for initial acceleration, he released the brakes. Tires splashed through ground water as the Skymaster picked up speed. As soon as the nose gear cleared the ground, he applied full throttle to the front engine.

Circling around, he set the plane on a northerly heading, flying over the interior of Burma before crossing into Thailand.

A small civilian airport within the Photharam District, — was located approximately 55 miles west of Bangkok. Pilots had no choice but to fly by IFR (Instrument Flight Rules), using instruments in the cockpit and navigating by electronic signals. The main reason Photharam was used by smaller aircraft had to do with customs. None. Officials pulled out years earlier.

Banyon contacted the control tower, requesting permission to land. He circled the airfield, and came in from the northeast, landing on Runway 21.

As he started going through the final checklist for shutdown, Holcomb adjusted his holster. "Slight change of plans, Mitch. By the time we get to the city, the factory will be closed. We'll go to Quibin's shack instead. He's the one who's gotta have answers." He pushed open the door. "I'll meet you at the car."

While this wasn't the first time Banyon had flown Holcomb to Photharam, it would be the first time he'd been "invited" into Bangkok. Whether that meant Holcomb had more trust in him was yet to be seen.

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.