Grant pointed to one of the images. "We've been fixed on that airfield, but look to the east, by the river."
"Shit! A town!" Slade blurted out.
"Right, Ken," Grant answered. "Suggestions?"
Novak pounded a fist against his palm. "How 'bout we pay it a visit, boss?!"
"You read my mind, Mike, but even if a satellite picks up that plane after the last flyover, it doesn't mean it's still there. We'll have two potential targets. Two countries, Thailand and Burma. Will one be more important than the other? We can't split the Team."
Adler held up a hand. "Do I get a vote?" Grant nodded. "We hit the Bangkok location. Run a G2. Take no prisoners."
"A vengeance mission?"
"Damn straight! Silent and deadly! It's what we do!"
Grant looked at him through narrowed eyes. Adler was usually being facetious with these types of comments, but not this time. As he looked at each of his men, he could see it in their eyes. They were pissed. They wanted revenge for Diaz. They wanted revenge for young men they never knew personally.
Adler shook a finger at Grant. "Listen, we've pretty much pinpointed the PNA as being the bad guys. There's no way in hell those aren't the bastards. Think about this. None of the pills from the shacks indicated they … "
"Were the killers," Grant finished the sentence. "But somehow Bangkok and 'FUBAR' have gotta be connected, Joe."
Grant leaned back and linked his fingers behind his head, staring at Adler, but seeing right through him, as his brain processed the data. "With those shacks destroyed, that sonofabitch probably moved on anyway." Grant rocked the chair back and forth. "Looks like we'll have to depend on locating and identifying that goddamn plane." He snatched the sat copies off the desk, then stood. "C'mon. Let's see if we can borrow a 'Phrog' again."
An EOD petty officer was standing outside the door. Grant stopped. "Petty Officer, tell Lieutenant Ormond we said 'thanks' and we'll contact him later."
"Yes, sir, be happy to." He dogged down the heavy door, glancing at the six men hustling across the deck.
Chapter 16
Sonny Holcomb wandered around the village, waiting for Banyon. Villagers spoke to him, but they didn't ask any questions. It was known he controlled whatever activity went on in the pole houses along the waterway. And that was the direction where the explosions and gunfire had erupted. Citizens of Burma never interfered with, or exhibited any curiosity when it came to possible military or rebel action. Threats of prison or even death kept the innocent at bay. Life in this small village continued as usual.
He walked to the end of the pier, sucking on a bottle of warm, flat, Mandalay beer. He scanned an overcast sky, listening for the sound of an engine, waiting for any sign of the plane. For the first time in a long time, his nerves were getting the best of him.
Winds started picking up, bringing with them ominous-looking clouds. If the weather held true, they could expect another downpour, with no telling how long it would last.
"C'mon, Mitch! Where the hell are you?!"
Holcomb's plan was to investigate the grounds where his operation once stood, see if anything was salvageable, then fly to Bangkok, arriving well before dark. The factory operated only during daytime hours, when traffic was at its peak, when normal everyday sounds of the city could drown out motors of the pill-making machines.
He looked toward the sky again. Still no sign of the plane. Between the incessant heat, humidity, and his nerves, his clothes were already soaked. He gulped down the final mouthful of beer, and looked overhead. "Dammit!" He couldn't wait any longer. He sat on the side of the pier, ready to get in the boat, when he heard the engine. "It's about fuckin' time," he grumbled, spotting the plane as it came through the clouds. It was circling from the west, and had, more than likely, passed over the destruction.
Tossing the empty brown-colored bottle into the water, he took off jogging toward the airstrip. Banyon wouldn't have a clue where to find him — and would probably think he was dead.
Banyon was hurriedly going through his checklist, still uncertain whether to head for the village, or investigate the destruction. He kept telling himself it wasn't possible. Not only the loss of the shacks, but the possibility that Holcomb was dead. How could he have escaped?!
He put his pen on the clipboard, and diverted his thoughts. With all the contacts he and Holcomb had made, it should be easy to find a new "employer." Especially since he'd have the plane!
He started having more confidence in his future, until he looked up and saw Holcomb running toward him. He dropped the clipboard between the seats, then flung open the door. "What the fuck happened, Sonny?! What happened to the shacks?! I flew over …!"
"C'mon! I'll tell you on the way!"
With Banyon in the lead, following his usual path, the two men kept up a steady, hurried pace, brushing aside, and climbing over anything blocking their way. The first sound of rain, beating against the forest canopy, made them pick up their pace. Torrential rains could cause creeks to overflow, wiping out anything in their path. And going back to the plane could not only become a hazardous undertaking, but there'd be no way in hell they could fly to Bangkok.
Nearly out of breath, they finally reached the clearing. Banyon came to a complete standstill. "Holy shit! Do you honestly expect to find anything?!" He looked for the bridge. "And how are we supposed to get across?!" Holcomb was already wading into the water.
"Fuck!" Banyon didn't bother wading in, instead he ran full bore into the water.
Anything that was able to float was long gone, except for palms, small pieces of bamboo, remnants of the shacks that had become lodged in a small cove.
Crawling out of the water, Holcomb immediately started searching, even though he knew it was hopeless. He motioned toward the hill. "See if you can find anything up there." Rain started falling heavier, but Holcomb would persist in his search.
Spotting what looked like clothes, he ran to the cove, waded in, and pushed aside garbage, reaching for a pair of jeans hooked on a log. That was it. He dragged the water-soaked pants behind him. They had some damage, but considering …
A crack of a gunshot made him spin around and drop to a knee. He drew his weapon and waited, finally seeing Banyon all but sliding down the hillside.
"What the hell were you shooting at?!"
Banyon crammed his revolver into the holster. "A goddamn badger was sniffing around one of the bodies."
"Guards?"
"Yeah. Natives. But whoever killed them sure knew what the hell they were doing. One bled out. His jugular must've been sliced in half. The other guy was done in by a knife rammed in the back of his neck." Banyon reached around Holcomb and pressed a finger against the base of his skull. "Right about here."
The deaths mattered little to Holcomb. "I take it you didn't find anything else?"
"Just pieces of 'shit' that aren't gonna help you." Banyon tilted his head sideways in thought. "Sonny, those Navy boys you saw."
"What about 'em?"
"Have you ever heard of those SpecOps dudes, the SEALs?"
Holcomb swiped a hand over his wet head, letting the idea roll around in his brain. "If they were, something else is goin' on, Mitch. Something more than just fucking 'energy' pills."
The skies opened up. Rain fell fast and furious, making it nearly impossible to see. "C'mon! Let's get the hell outta here before we can't."
Chapter 17