Salazar pointed at two of the men. "Carlo. Mindo. You two stand watch outside. Reynaldo, Crisanto, come with me."
Taking a notebook from the briefcase, Mendoza scanned a report for the last several months. The production supervisor at the factory, Nimuel Quibin, had been a member of the PNA since its inception in 1969. For the last eight years he'd been in control of the PNA's collection of revolutionary taxes from businesses within the provinces where the group operated. The principle reason Mendoza selected him to run the operation in Bangkok was his remarkable skill with numbers.
Those skills didn't prevent Mendoza from worrying about the accuracy of records kept, but was merely all the more reason to be vigilant. Once his men brought back the latest figures, he'd have the tedious task in making comparisons.
But a different train of thought began interrupting his concentration. He threw the book on the table, then angrily shoved the straight-back chair away from him as he stood. Anyone on the carrier, especially longtime users, had to have been affected. Was it possible the ingredients in the last batch of drugs had never been altered? Without any announcement being broadcast on television or in newspapers, without any word from the Americans, what other explanation could there be?
Two hours later, the wheelhouse door opened. Salazar was the first one down the stairs. He walked toward Mendoza and handed him a faded blue notebook, but Mendoza slapped it aside. "What did you learn?!"
"Everything was running smoothly."
"I meant the ingredients! What about the change of ingredients?! And was that delivery made to Subic?!"
"He confirmed ingredients were changed to your specifications, and delivery was made on schedule."
Mendoza rubbed a hand back and forth in frustration over the top of his dark brown hair. "I don't understand why nothing has been reported by the Americans!"
Salazar sat on the edge of the table. "Maybe I'm wrong, Rodel, but I'm getting suspicious of Nimuel."
Mendoza's brow wrinkled. "What makes you say that?"
"You know he's usually confident in the way he runs the operation. And we've never had reason to doubt his ability. But he acted very different today, especially after we found a few pills on the floor near the back of the room."
"What about them?"
"They were red."
Mendoza pounded a fist on the table. "He's making money on the side."
"It looks that way. What should we do?"
"What should you do?! You go back! You squeeze every bit of information from him! I want to know who he's selling to, locations, how much he's made, and where he's hiding that money!" Mendoza motioned Salazar closer, then poked a finger against his chest. "Above all, Bayani, you confirm again that he made that change!"
What Mendoza was asking, the way he was ordering, Salazar had to be sure. "He's one of us. How far do you want me to go?"
"If he's done what we suspect, Bayani, he's no longer one of us."
Salazar nodded. The men started to leave, when Salazar asked, "Do you want Carlo and Mindo to stay on deck?"
"Yes. Now, go," Mendoza motioned with a backward flick of his hand.
Chapter 9
Fuel crewmen, wearing purple long-sleeve shirts under life vests, hauled a heavy fuel hose away from the Sea Knight. Even with the fuel tank and two auxiliary tanks being "topped off," the chopper would require in-flight refueling on its return trip.
Sitting in the cockpit of the Sea Knight, Lieutenant Ethan Gore and Lieutenant.(j.g.) Rich Feith were preparing for takeoff. A plane director, using lighted wands, gave them the all clear signal. Gore turned on the battery switch, rolling the throttle to idle detent. He pulled the start trigger switch at the end of the collective, used to increase the pitch of the rotor blades by the same amount. Once the engine reached forty percent, he released the switch. Within 15 seconds, the engine was at idle.
Team A.T. stepped out from the island's WTD, then ran across the flight deck. Straps of their submachine guns were slung over their shoulders. SIGs were holstered. Rucksacks were in one hand, as the other held down wide-brimmed jungle hats. Boots pounded on metal as the men ran up the ramp and into the cargo bay.
Petty Officer 2nd Class Blake Milton, crew chief, stood at the top of the ramp. "Welcome aboard!"
"Thanks," Grant responded, as he put his rucksack on the deck.
Milton handed him a helmet with wire mike. "Here you go, sir. It'll be easier for us to communicate once we're airborne." As Grant adjusted the wire mouthpiece, he looked toward the cockpit, noticing a .50 cal machine gun near the port side window just behind the cockpit. A gunner stood behind it, repositioning the link-belt to the right side, before he adjusted a Starlighter scope.
The scene was becoming all too familiar for Team A.T. Adler leaned toward Grant. "It's déjàvu all over again!"
The men lowered a continuous row of fold-down jump seats, snapped seat belts in place, then signaled with a thumb's up. They were ready. "Looks like we're good to go," Grant said to the crew chief.
A motor whined, raising the steel ramp. Milton hurried toward the cockpit. Giving final word to the cockpit crew, he got last minute instructions. He took his position just behind the cockpit near a 3x3 open window, opposite the gunner. He adjusted the leather holster with his .45, then swiveled his M16 around to his back. With NVGs in place, he leaned an arm on the window frame.
Gore opened the throttle completely, increasing the speed of the tandem rotors. He pulled up slowly on the collective, effectively changing the pitch of all rotor blades by the same amount simultaneously. Depressing the left foot pedal, he kept pulling up on the collective. The chopper got lighter on its wheels, slowly left the angle deck, then transitioned from hover to forward flight, making a slow bank to port.
The Sea Knight flew on a northeast heading over the Andaman Sea. As it approached Zadetkyi Island, Gore pushed the stick forward, sending the chopper even lower. Heading more north now, it flew along the channel separating the island from Burma's West Coast. Seawater swirled violently beneath the chopper, kicked up by rotor wash. It was flying at max speed, and would remain on its present course another 15 miles before turning east. A satellite image had showed a small clearing, one klick north of the target. If the chopper couldn't land, the Team had an alternate plan: fast rope.
Sitting on the jump seats in the 7'3" wide cargo bay, A.T. was dressed out in camies, with green and black paint streaking their faces. Jungle ops were nothing new. They took extra precautions, protecting themselves from spiders, ticks, snakes, or anything that could crawl up their pants. Using strands of paracord, they tied the bottom of their pant legs securely around the outside of jungle boots. Shirts were tucked in, sleeve cuffs buttoned. Inside their chest vests they carried extra ammo, vials of tear gas, M67 frag grenades, lock picks, signal flares, signal mirrors, two tourniquets, passports and "haul ass" money. Adler and Diaz had small blocks of C-4, det cord, and chemical pencils.
Weapons were ready. HK MP5SDs (9mm), a full-time suppressed variant of the MP5 submachine gun, with a wet-technology, stainless steel sound suppressor.
Their new SIG Sauer P226s, with silencers, operated by the locked breech short-recoil method. The barrel and slide were locked together using an enlarged breech section of the barrel locking into the ejection port. The hammer could be manually cocked at any time to fire in single action mode.
Novak had his sniper rifle, with an AN/PVS high-powered scope, specifically for night ops. The scope could detect at 650 yards, with a range of recognition of 437 yards. The rifle's GPS system would be practically useless because of the jungle's thick overhead cover. But one significant capability it retained: rapid fire.