"No way would we have refused, sir."
Torrinson put his hands on his hips, then lowered his voice. "You know, all I have to do is put in a request to the President and ask him to revoke that temporary status."
Grant's mouth curved up slightly. "Yes, sir, we're well aware you could. The question is … will you?"
"You know damn well I won't!"
"But here's a proposition for you, sir. If and when you decide to retire, we could use your expertise at Eagle 8."
Adler chimed in, "Wouldn't you just love seeing the look on new squids' faces when you were introduced?! I sure as hell would!"
"It's a tempting offer, gentlemen, but I don't think I'm … "
"Ready for civilian life?"
"That's about it, Grant. Although, things could change, as you both well know."
"We do. But maybe consider coming for a visit. It's not Silver Strand, but we're grateful to our benefactors for giving us the chance to make it happen."
"They must be remarkable men." Torrinson glanced at his watch. "Well, launch time's coming up. I'd like to thank your whole team. Where're you meeting them?"
"On the flight deck near the island. Our gear's already been loaded."
"I imagine your man, Frank, was disappointed he wouldn't be traveling with the whole Team."
"He was. Doc Palmer thought it was too soon after surgery for him to experience the stress from a Cat launch."
"Understandable." Torrinson reached for his cap on the desk. "Thank you again, gentlemen, for accepting and completing the mission. It's been a pleasure having you aboard."
Grant offered his hand, which Torrinson grasped firmly. "I guess I don't have to tell you, sir, that we'd be willing to offer our assistance to you anytime, anywhere, no matter what the circumstances."
"As much as I'd welcome the opportunity to work with both of you again, Grant, let's just hope it won't be necessary."
"I agree, but keep the invite to Eagle 8 in mind."
Torrinson reached for Adler's hand. "Joe, thank you."
"A pleasure, sir."
Torrinson centered his cap squarely on his head. "Well, what say we go meet those men of yours."
Fifteen minutes before scheduled launch, the Greyhound taxied to Cat 1, with its wings unfolding, preparing for flight. JBDs (jet blast deflectors) rose out of the flight deck. Final exterior inspections were made. The aircraft's launch bar and holdback bar were secured.
After a series of complex and coordinated procedures, completed mostly by hand signals, the Greyhound went to full power. The pilot released the brakes, then snapped a quick salute to the Cat officer. Within seconds of an F-15 being launched from Cat 2, the Greyhound blasted down the flight deck.
Chapter 28
Sixteen miles, 30 minutes northwest of Olongapo, the town of Castillejos was established by Tagalog families who migrated from Bataan province.
Approximately three miles east of the town, 50 acres of land had been owned by generations of the Lodrido family. A corrugated tin roof covered the simple but typical home made from planks, boards, bamboo and straw, all from the surrounding area, and redesigned by each generation. Sheltered beneath large spreading crowns of mimosa and mahogany trees, the two-tiered structure blended into the hillside, becoming nearly impossible to see from a distance. But it, along with the property, had fallen into disrepair. Dead grass, weeds, brush and vines blanketed the land.
A one lane dirt road wove its way from the farmlands to the crest of the hill. Only telltale signs of tire tracks on flattened dead grass and leaves indicated there was a road beneath. The road stopped in front of a shed near the house, wide enough to accommodate two Model CJ-5 Jeeps. Both were covered in dust. Wheels and wheel wells had thick coatings of mud.
The evening temperature was a mild 79°, with a light breeze. All that broke the silence was a constant growl from a single cylinder generator next to the house.
Three guards, with M16s, patrolled the grounds, following no particular paths, weaving their way in and out of trees. Even with their eyes accustomed to the dark, the blackness surrounding them seemed almost impenetrable. Flashlights hooked to their belts had rarely been used.
Inside, Danilo Artadi sat on a handmade bamboo chair, with his feet resting on a wooden crate. He hadn't had a decent night sleep in days. A few dead sailors aboard the American carrier was the only satisfaction he got after all the work, all the planning. He didn't have the weapons or equipment. All the money spent from the PNA's funds had been wasted.
From reading reports coming out of Bangkok, his men were probably dead. A violent explosion along the docks destroyed barges and buildings. The officials had no explanation for parts of a helicopter found around the wreckage and in the water. Not enough was left to find a registration number. For Artadi, though, knowing what had been stored on the barge, the destruction wasn't surprising.
He reached overhead and shut off the dim light from a pole lamp. Getting up, he slowly walked toward a front window. As he stood there, he thought about his last conversation with Mendoza. How could they have been so wrong about Quibin? Was it possible he'd also tampered with the group's records for the Philippines? Had Quibin syphoned money from taxes collected? Artadi's stomach churned. So much had gone wrong.
Then there was Cruz. He may have completed his work as their contact in Subic, but he'd disobeyed instructions by returning to Olongapo, and possibly leaving a trail for authorities to follow. Fool! Rodrigo and Efren saw to it that his body would never be found.
A sudden movement outside made him back away from the window, before he realized it was Rodrigo, one of his guards. That moment of distraction diverted his thoughts to the American, the one they suspected of killing the two men on the helicopter. Was he responsible for the barge too?!
The more he thought, the more agitated he became. This place was too isolated for him to work out issues that kept crowding his mind. He had to find more answers. And when he did, he would take action. He had to return to Olongapo.
He shoved aside a length of canvas hanging from the open doorway. "Rodrigo!" He stood in the doorway. "Rodrigo! Where the hell are you?!" The guard had walked past the window not two minutes earlier. No response. No footsteps. Not a sound. "Dammit!" He stepped outside, looking toward the shed. Putting a hand on his holstered weapon, he started walking to where the Jeeps were parked. As he walked, he called, "Rodrigo!" Silence. Already in a foul mood, he swung around and headed to the opposite side of the house. His men were known to occasionally "disappear" to grab a smoke, or refresh their betel quid.
"Luis! Arturo!" What the hell was happening?! He spun around. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Drawing his weapon, he bolted back to the side of the house. Sweat formed across his brow, as his eyes searched the darkness. There wasn't anything to see.
The keys for the Jeeps! He had to get back inside! Sliding his back along the wood siding, he eased himself around the corner, squeezing the gun handle tighter. The only sound came from the generator, and he silently cursed it. Shuffling his feet side to side, he slowly moved toward the doorway. He was ready to make a run for it.
His brain never had time to register the muffled clap. A bullet slammed into his upper chest. His legs immediately buckled. His body crumbled in a heap on the dirt path. With his spinal cord severed, he felt no pain. All feeling was gone. He lost control of bodily functions. His breathing became labored. He started slipping in and out of consciousness from lack of oxygen. His eyelids fluttered as he tried forcing them open.