"Roger," Grant responded, while silently wondering: No guard?
Approaching the end of the alley James stopped, then leaned his head around the corner. No lights or cars were along the one-lane road leading north away from the docks. Less than 100 yards east of his position was the mouth of the Chao Phraya River. The opposite shore was nearly two miles away.
"Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. Road going north is clear."
"Copy that. A.T. moving in one."
As the four men were preparing to take off, Slade pressed the PTT again. "Hold positions. UF on deck."
Novak quickly raised his rifle, trying to zero in on the man. "Got him! Near chopper!"
"Shit!" Grant said under his breath, before contacting Slade and James. "Four-One, Six-Eight. Hold positions."
"Roger."
Adler came alongside Grant. "At least we know one UF's home."
Grant nodded, but his frustration was obvious. "Four-One. Does UF have 'glasses' or scope?"
"Negative. Sixteen (M16) only."
Grant and his men were ready to haul. "Waiting for all clear. Copy?"
"Copy that."
Slade kept his eyes on the UF, who finally walked toward the starboard side, then continued toward the bow, looking over the side at the coal black water.
Slade gave the word: "Go!" Without wasting a second, and with Grant in the lead, they hurried to the building.
Novak took a position close to the fence, covering everyone's back. The other three men continued to Slade's location.
Grant whispered, "Still on deck?" Slade nodded. Holding his MP5 close to his chest, Grant leaned slightly, seeing the UF, now walking around the chopper. One guard. But how the hell many were below deck? It didn't matter. They were going in.
Novak was still on watch near the fence when he heard Grant's voice in his earpiece. He flipped down his NVGs and hustled back to join the Team.
"Mike, set up where you've got a clear view of the entire barge, maybe a roof. Go."
Two-storied structures were limited on either side of the alley. As he neared the end, Novak glanced at a roof, then stepped through the doorway. Broken wood, paper, trash, rusted tools, mooring ropes covered the floor. Stairs were toward the back. He stood at the bottom, trying to determine if they were at least semi-safe, when a sound made him swing around. Rats — scurrying toward a hole in the back wall. He couldn't waste any more time, and started climbing, staying close to the stair supports. The second floor debris was worse than the first, with everything soaked from rain pouring through holes in the roof. But he finally spotted an old wooden gangplank. He braced it against the edge of the roof opening. The angle was steep, so he leaned forward and held onto the wooden sides, as he carefully climbed.
Once on the roof, he crouched low, and advanced cautiously toward the front, avoiding wet spots that could mean a weakening. Getting down on his belly, he crabbed his way forward, working toward the edge of the flat roof. Laying his rucksack next to him, he raised the NVGs, then looked through the scope. He pressed the PTT. "Seven-Three in position. Target at one o'clock."
"Copy that," Grant responded. "Advise when clear."
With Novak assuming responsibility for the barge, Stalley covered their sixes, watching for any unfriendlies that could approach from the west side of the alley.
On the barge, Carlo Reyes stopped his pacing and paused on the starboard side of the chopper. It wouldn't be much longer and Salazar would relieve him. For the past few hours, Salazar and Mendoza were taking inventory, securing boxes and weaponry, while Mendoza waited for Artadi to call. Perhaps they'd be updated on the new supervisor for the factory. Flores would train him on the day-to-day operation. It shouldn't take long. Once that was completed, Reyes hoped they could begin retracing their voyage back to Saigon, then onto Olongapo, delivering the long-awaited weapons to Artadi. Finally, they'd be home.
Novak breathed slowly, saying quietly, "C'mon you bastard! Move!" As if on cue, Reyes reappeared, puffing on a cigarette. He walked toward the bow and paused again, blowing smoke rings, obviously bored with his guard duties.
Novak was ready to give the all clear, when James' voice sounded in everyone's earpiece: "Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. Eyes on three UFs. Approaching from north."
"Shit!" Grant whispered through clenched teeth, before requesting, "Distance."
"Seven five yards, closing slowly."
"Copy that." Grant wanted identification, with a very remote possibility the three could be civilians. The AN/PVS high-powered scope would be the best means for facial recognition. "Seven-Three, put eyes on. Report."
Novak scooted backwards, then got into a crouch and hurried to the back corner, immediately getting on his belly and crabbing his way close to the edge. Focusing the scope, he slowly moved the rifle until three men came into view. "Eyes on. Stand by."
"Roger." Grant shook his head. What the hell else would go wrong?
Novak zeroed in on the UFs. "What the fuck?!" he mouthed. Two had weapons drawn, the third was gagged with hands tied. "Zero-Niner. Confirm deuce with weapons; third is Asian; gagged, tied."
"Copy that." So much for the possibility of civilians, but … a prisoner? More PNA men? "Can you identify?"
"Stand by." Refocusing the scope, Novak lined up the crosshairs on each face, recognizing one immediately. "Hawk! Eyes on Hawk! Do you copy?"
Grant's brain kicked in. "'FUBAR'?!"
"Affirm. Wearing Steelers T-shirt, jeans."
"Second guy?"
"Unknown; in camies."
"Copy that. Six-Eight, do you have eyes on?"
James reported: "Affirm."
"Seven-Three, put eyes back on barge."
"Roger." Novak hustled to the front. Quickly setting up, he aimed the rifle, trying to locate the UF on the barge.
Adler whispered, "Take no prisoners?"
Grant clenched his jaw. "I want that sonofabitch Hawk alive." He turned to Stalley. "Join up with DJ. Go." Immediately pressing the PTT, Grant notified James: "Six-Eight. Hold position. Five-Two approaching." Grant motioned for Slade to maintain his position, before notifying everyone: "Roundup. Repeat. Roundup. Zero-Niner, Two-Seven going in." They all knew the plan: take prisoners. Grant and Adler were going aboard the barge.
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.