A familiar noise made him duck for cover. Another chopper! Was it the same one? Was someone returning to confirm everything had been destroyed, or looking for survivors? But the men across the waterway seemed to be waiting for this one, signaling as it flew closer.
Coming from the north, it swooped down, then hovered. On the fuselage was the word "Navy" and a "Star and Bar" symbol, used on all U.S. military aircraft: horizontal red stripe, centered on a white horizontal baron either side of a white star, outlined with a blue border.
"A fuckin' Navy chopper!" he mumbled, swiping a hand over the top of his head. "Navy chopper." The men now being rescued were probably on the hunt for him. His brow furrowed. But why the hell would they hunt for him over some pills? And how did they find the shacks? "Only two possibilities," he grunted. NSA or CIA had been listening. He looked overhead. "Satellites." Somewhere along the line he'd fucked up, and had gotten careless.
He continued watching as the pilot maneuvered his aircraft, descending slowly until it was no more than 10 to 15 feet above the water, then he brought it closer to the shoreline. Holcomb's eyes never left the entire process as men and boys were hoisted into the cargo bay. Then, it was over. The chopper's nose dipped as the pilot pushed the stick forward. Within less than two minutes, Holcomb found himself completely alone.
Heading back to the boat, his newest concern was who the fuck was in the other chopper, the one that destroyed his operation? Who was out to kill him? There was no way in hell his supplier would turn against him, not with the money he was making. Then again, anything was possible. Yet, where the hell would Quibin get a chopper?
Names and faces flashed through his mind. He eliminated some, questioned others. Banyon? "Not possible!" Banyon had a good thing going, and without all the responsibility. His only job was to see that the drugs got to their destinations.
He untied the boat, shoved it into the creek, then climbed in. With a slow-moving current, he only had to use the paddle as a rudder, giving him more time to unravel his thoughts. But thinking only added to his confusion and anger. He'd lost years of work and years of income within less than an hour. Slapping the paddle hard against the water, he spit out with rage, "Fuck!" His comfortable way of life had suddenly turned to shit.
Fifteen minutes later he maneuvered the boat parallel to a hundred foot pier, made from rough cut planks. Grabbing hold of splintered board, he pulled the boat closer, tying it off at its bow then stern.
Hoisting himself onto the pier, he hesitated briefly, as he cast his eyes toward the forest. He had his work cut out for him. It might take time and miles, but he'd eventually resolve all his questions.
He started walking toward the village, and glanced at his watch, wondering if Banyon made the delivery in Dawei. With the short wave probably at the bottom of the waterway, he lost the means to make contact, so he'd just have to wait. He wondered if he could convince the former Army sergeant to join him in the hunt. But with what was at stake, neither of them would have a choice, especially if they wanted to ensure they weren't the ones being hunted.
Startup of drug production would have to wait, but somehow — somewhere — it would restart. Yaba had become their lifeblood.
Chapter 13
Flying low, coming from the south, a Huey approached the string of barges. Bayani Salazar guided the chopper closer, then hovered over the end barge, slowly easing the skids onto the reinforced raised deck. Running from the wheelhouse, Reyes picked up a hook attached to a wire cable, then ducked low as he secured it to the chopper. Salazar and Flores prepared for shutdown.
With his Uzi strap on his shoulder, Reyes went to the cargo bay door, stunned by what he saw. Blood splatters were on the deck, along both port and starboard sides, on the overhead, and canvas seats. His eyes finally focused on Mendoza, who had blood and brain tissue on his clothes. Not seeing Mercado or Bolivar, Reyes didn't have to ask questions.
Sitting in the middle section of the canvas seats behind the cockpit, Mendoza finally released his seat belt, but he couldn't stop from staring at the interior of the cabin. Two of his men … dead, their bodies somewhere at the bottom of the waterway.
Finally realizing how quiet it was, he looked up, seeing the three men watching him. Salazar asked, "Should we clean the … "
"Not now. Just lock it down. I want to call Artadi."
Salazar questioned, "What about Paolo? Can you contact him?"
"No. He has all the information he needs, and knows what must be done." He looked over his shoulder as he stood by the cargo bay doorway. "No more wasting time."
During the flight back to the barge, the three men discussed everything they saw, everything that happened. The biggest question: Who was the gunman? His shooting ability was true perfection.
When Quibin was interrogated, he never mentioned any such person. There was only his buyer, an American who went by the name of "Hawk." Could that have been him? But how did he know they were coming? Unless it was pure chance he was not in the shacks. Thinking back, the three men never saw anybody, only lights inside. Quibin said the few times he'd made a delivery, there were guards, and a few young boys. But today, no one was there, except the gunman.
Mendoza worried. If that gunman was the American, he might try to inflict revenge, maybe by destroying the Bangkok facility. Or would he try to hunt them down?
"Reynaldo, you to go to the facility, protect the operation. You'll have to remain there until we can find a replacement for Quibin. How much ammo do you have?"
"My gun's loaded, and we've got more stored below deck."
"Take extra, and grab one of the Uzis. Bayani, drive him in the Land Rover. Make sure everything is running smoothly, then you come back."
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.