Silent Vengeance

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 switched 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 time.

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.

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!"