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.