Payback (3 page)

“I was thinking maybe one of them outbuildings could catch on fire. One twenty-mike-mike WP into that far one should make it burn like a torch.”

“Too much noise. They'd know we were here.”

“Right, Lieutenant,” Franklin said. “But what if I was to slip up on the back side of that shack and drop in a couple of Willy Peter grenades. They don't make much more than a pop.”

“Good. Get in position, but don't drop the WP until I give the word. We're supposed to have help out front. They gave me a radio, and I hope to hell it works. Donegan, you still have that GPS to pinpoint our location?”

“Sure do, Cap. You want the coordinates?”

“Work them out. I'll see if I can raise anybody on this tin box.”

He turned on the second radio he took from his vest and lifted a two-foot antenna.

“Skyhook, this is Grounded. Do you read me?”

There was no response. He tried again. “Skyhook, this is Grounded off the Pegasus. Do you read me?”

“Yes, Grounded. Skyhook here with the land troops. We have fifty men on roads leading into the area where you vanished. What have you found?”

DeWitt told him the setup. “Can't see any cars from here, but there must be some in front. Here is the GPS coordinates.” He read them off, and the Coast Guard man repeated them.

“Yes, we have men near there. We'll move forty men to the one lane leading into those three houses. The old Bamford place. Sold recently. We'll be on station in about fifteen minutes.”

“Let us know when you're ready. You bring your men in from the front on an attack, and we'll bottle them up if they try to come down the river. We have their boat.”

“Good. Talk to you in fourteen.”

Five minutes later, Franklin said he was ready. He was against the side of the building. It looked like it once had been a barn with hay and stalls, he said. “Even has a window with the glass out,” Franklin said. “I'll toss in the WP and haul ass on your command.”

“Make it in ten minutes, Franklin.”

“Roger that.”

DeWitt started the timer on his wristwatch, and then told the rest of his men what was going down. “We spread out along here as a blocking force. We'll wait until we see if they are armed, then give them a chance to surrender. If they don't, we'll blow their asses all the way into San Juan.”

The SEALs spread out, found cover, settled in, and waited. Then DeWitt gave Franklin the go, and they heard the WPs pop. A short time later smoke gushed from a broken window on the side of the old barn, and there were shouts from the houses.

Quickly a dozen men, women, and children ran out of the
houses and stared at the fire. It was beyond a bucket brigade, and the one garden hose had no pressure.

While they watched the barn burn, a submachine gun chattered off a dozen rounds in front of the houses.

“Men in the three houses,” a powerful bullhorn blasted. “This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Come out the front doors of your homes with your hands in the air and we won't fire. Don't endanger the lives of your women and children. You have three minutes to move.”

The people around the fire raced back into their houses. A short time later the bullhorn sounded again.

“No, we don't want your women and children to come out. We want the men to show themselves with their hands in the air.”

Just then a dozen men ran out the back of the houses heading for the river trail. Each man had at least two weapons.

“I'll do warning shots,” DeWitt said into the Motorola. “Hold fire.” He fired three three-round bursts from his MP- 5. “Hold it right there and drop your weapons,” DeWitt bellowed.

Three of the pirates fired at the woods in front of them.

“Open season on pirates,” DeWitt said, and the SEALs opened fire with eight guns. Five of the pirates went down. Two tried to keep firing as they crawled away. Five more dropped their weapons and held their hands in the air.

DeWitt called a cease-fire and used the special radio. “Skyhook, looks like it's time for you to come through the houses and collect the garbage. We have five pirates down and wounded, five with their hands in the air, and two trying to crawl away. Happy hunting. As soon as you collect this filth, we're heading back to San Diego.”

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock leaned back in the chair at his small desk in the Third Platoon's tiny office and waved at Ed DeWitt, who angled through the door.

“Well, DeWitt. I hear you had a great vacation down there in the Caribbean.”

“We kicked butt and asked for more, but they sent us home. No casualties, no wounds, all fit for duty.” He dropped into the only other chair in the office and sprawled long legs halfway across the room. “Anything cooking?”

“Not so you could notice. Your buddy and mine, Masciareli, wants us to participate in an all-Seven exercise next week.”

“All ten platoons? Why?”

“Unity, cohesiveness, and the American way. He's still pissed you got to hit the Carib and he didn't get to go along.”

“Maybe Don Stroh will rescue us.”

“Not a word from him or the CIA for a month now. He must be on vacation or maybe found a new girl.”

“Thought he was married.”

“He never has said one way or the other.”

“So how are the three wounded coming along?” DeWitt asked.

“You had Franklin with you. He said he was fit for duty.”

“Franklin worked as scout, did a good job. I don't think that bullet in and out in his left thigh bothered him a bit.”

“Watch him on training for the next week. Not too sure about Bradford. He was in the hospital for a week, then out
on limited duty, and so he didn't report back here until last week. I kept him on an easy training sked. Doctors said that round missed his kidney by an inch and grazed one intestine. So when the infection is gone, he should be back in good shape. But I'm still worried about a torso wound.”

“What about Lam?”

“He's sucking it up and gutting it out. Had a slug through his lower right leg and a ricochet on his right arm. Both healing well and he keeps up with everybody else on our training marches.”

“So, it's training time. You have it set for next week?”

“This is Friday, Ed. Who is ready for next week? Unless you want to work Saturday instead of taking your four-day leave.”

DeWitt sighed and crossed his ankles way out on the floor. “Yeah, I'm with you. I'm taking the four days, rest up a little. All that killing pirates makes a guy tired.”

“All I need is your after-action report and you're out of here.”

“Done in ten minutes.” He pulled out his laptop computer and began pounding away. After a few minutes he looked up. “Oh, keep tabs on Mahanani for me. He's been acting a little weird lately. Nothing I can pin down. I asked him about it, and he said not to worry, he'd take care of any problems he had.”

“That doesn't sound like our happy Hawaiian,” Murdock said. “I'll watch him. Now finish that report and get out of here. Milly know you're home yet?”

“She's still at work.”

Meanwhile, Alpha Squad rolled into the equipment room after its ten-mile hike and found Bravo there.

“Vacation over for you guys,” Jaybird yelled. “Now you can get back to real work.”

Paul Jefferson picked up Jaybird and hung him upside down until he bellowed in fury, then tipped him over and sat him on a bench. “Never tease a man when he's tired, little bird, otherwise you might get your feathers plucked out.”

“Easy on the merchandise, chess player. I don't want to disappoint a certain little lady bird tonight in the nest.”

“Didn't know we had buzzards around here,” Bradford
jabbed, and Jaybird threw his sweaty T-shirt at him.

Jack Mahanani sat by himself getting dressed after his shower. Usually he was a big part of the high jinks and the drinking parties, but not today. He dressed and cast off as quickly as he could. He had on his civilian clothes when he went over the Quarter Deck, past Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie, and out to his car.

He drove by rote, hardly thinking where he was going. Tonight had to be better, his luck had to change. It hadn't helped him the last time. He drove steadily for twenty minutes out U.S. Interstate 8 toward a bustling little town, went just past it to the Indian reservation and the sprawling Casa Grande Casino. Mahanani parked and walked in the front door, and at once a man went into step beside him. Mahanani knew him; he was what the casino called a “counselor.”

“Hey Jack, how's it going, man?”

“In and out, same-oh, same-oh.”

“How are you treating our car?”

“Yeah, the Buick is riding good. I'm keeping up the tire pressure and getting ready for an oil change. I appreciate the lease you gave me on it, Harley, for a dollar a year.” Harley was five ten, all Mesa Grande Indian, with stylish cut black hair, a sparse little beard, and a slight 140-pound body. His main job seemed to be to help people who spent too much at the casino.

“Let me buy you a drink, Jack. We need to talk. Hey, if you weren't a SEAL, I'd have dusted you out of here weeks ago. Yeah, you had a string of bad luck, but what can I say? I got a five-thousand-dollar credit for you now, which is on my tab, and that's as far as it's going.”

They went into one of the bars in the casino, and Jack felt the sweat begin on his forehead. His armpits were already wet. Damn, he just needed a little luck. Twenty-one, the blackjack table, was the best way a player could beat the house. All the rest of the games and the machines were fixed with a definite house advantage. If he could just read the cards a little better.

“Jack, you aren't listening to me. You're into us for five thousand, we have the pink slip to your Buick, and can claim
it at any time. If you want to put that five thousand on your MasterCard, I can get you back to the tables.”

“You know I don't have a credit card.” He hesitated, then pulled out his wallet. “But I do have three hundred dollars. You have any objection to a man spending his own money?”

“Hell, man, I should take it on account. If my boss knew you had that scratch, I'd be in a whole pot of trouble.”

“The Buick is worth twice what I owe you. You want to sell it and give me the extra cash?”

“Hey, man, no worry there. We want to keep you happy. So go ahead. Try the table. Maybe it'll be good to you tonight.”

“No lie? I can just go and play?”

“That's the business we're in, Jack. Go on. Have a blast.”

Mahanani finished the drink, bought three hundred in chips, and went to his favorite blackjack table. He watched the play, mentally bet three times, and won each time. A player left the horseshoe and he moved in.

A familiar calm settled over him. Yeah, this was it, the thinking man's way to gamble. If you played the odds right and could remember just a few cards. He saw the four decks the dealer was using and frowned. Nobody could count cards with four decks. He'd go with logic and the odds. Yes.

The first round he had a jack for a hole card, and came up with an eight. He stayed. The dealer knew he had eighteen or nineteen. The dealer showed seventeen. Two players blew over the twenty-one limit, and two stayed. The dealer checked the cards, then drew a card. He had to hit seventeen. He pulled out a three of diamonds.

“Pay twenty-one, who has twenty-one?” he asked in a singsong voice that Mahanani tried not to let irritate him. He paid one player and dealt the cards again. It was only a ten-dollar chip. He had deliberately bought only tens to help him conserve.

The second round he won, and was even. Then he lost four times in a row. After a half hour of playing, he was down a hundred dollars. He should quit and leave. Have a good dinner down in San Diego and take in that action movie he'd heard a lot about.

He kept playing. Logic, damnit, he told himself. You don't
hit seventeen when the house shows a max of sixteen. Stupid. He drew a five and broke. Get with it.

An hour later he was cleaned out. He saw Harley talk to the dealer and give him a green slip of paper. The dealer pushed the paper across the table toward Mahanani. He knew what it was. A credit slip. He looked at the amount. A thousand dollars. That would put him into the casino for six thousand. How much was the Buick worth? Nine thousand tops. Nowhere near the fifteen he paid for it. He looked at the green slip. The dealer closed the game and he wasn't in it. Harley came up and touched his shoulder.

“Yeah, some bad luck. Three hundred ain't no stake for this table. With a thou you can drop a few hundred and come back.”

“Can't do it, Harley. I'm in too deep now. You know what I make a month? I can't afford to sell the Buick. Got to have wheels.”

“You get healthy tonight and get your pink back. Give it a try. Hell, it's only money.”

Mahanani stared at the green slip with his name on it and the printed figure of a thousand dollars. This was getting serious. He told himself he could stop anytime he wanted to. Now he wasn't so sure. The green slip or his Buick. What would he do without wheels?

Hell, why not? His luck had to change. Logic. He had to think his way into each round. Logic. Yeah, he could do that. He took the pen beside the slip, signed it, and pushed it over to the dealer, who counted out a thousand dollars for him mostly in hundreds. Mahanani pushed the hundred-dollar chips back and asked for tens.

He took his first two cards. A seven in the hole and a jack showing. Good bluffing count, only these dealers never bluffed. Dealer showed sixteen. He watched two players break, saw the next one hold with a nine showing. Probably a nineteen. He looked at the dealer, who had to hit sixteen. The last two cards played out were under five. Bad odds. He put his two ten-dollar chips on top of his cards and waved the dealer off.

The next woman stayed with an eight showing. The dealer checked the hands still alive, then dealt himself a card. A
damn four. It would have been
his
damn four if he'd taken it. The dealer closed out with twenty. He paid one player.

One of those damned nights.

By eleven-thirty that night, Mahanani was down to his last four ten-dollar chips. He shrugged and played all four. He came up with twenty on the deal and stayed. The dealer hit seventeen and pulled a five to break. The house paid.

Mahanani felt a lucky streak coming. Should he let the eighty dollars ride? Hell, no. He grabbed the eight chips, went to the cashier, exchanged them for money, and got out of the casino before he saw Harley.

Six thousand fucking dollars in the red to the Indians. He could stop anytime he wanted to. Sure he could. He sat behind the wheel of the Buick that he owned less than half of, and swore for ten minutes. Then he backed out slowly and took the freeway downhill to his apartment in Coronado. He had to work tomorrow. He was a SEAL. He frowned. No, they just came back from the Caribbean. He was on a four-day leave. What the hell was he going to do for four days? Surf. He'd hit Wind and Sea Beach and surf his balls off.

He wouldn't gamble anymore. Never again. He laughed. Sure, never again until tomorrow night, because he was off duty and they didn't have a night maneuver or training. He was a shitty gambler, didn't have the knack for it. But he knew he couldn't quit. Not until they refused to let him in the door without a wad of cash. Where would he get a stash of cash? In two or three days his Buick would be gone. The casino's dollar-a-year lease price would be jumped to four hundred a month and he'd have to bow out. Then how in hell did he get to the casino? How did he get to work? How did he get anywhere?

He parked at his apartment and went up the steps two at a time the way he always did. How was he going to do anything after he lost the Buick? Fuck it. He'd think of something. Fuck it.

 

Murdock had called a Saturday training session for Alpha Squad. He was there when the SEALs arrived at 0730 looking sleepy and ready to eat nails.

“Good morning to you too, SEALs. Yesterday was our
easy day. Today we go up to the mountain and learn again how to fire our weapons. We'll do fire and move and cover. Then do it again and again until we can do it in our sleep. I won't lose a man on our next little party because some fucking SEAL in my squad doesn't know how to fire, cover, and move.”

He looked around, but not even Jaybird had a comment.

“Bring some cash with you because we'll stop up in Pine Valley for some chow on our way home. No MREs. We load the truck in twenty minutes. I want every man to carry three times normal ammo. We won't be taking the usual 20mm rounds, but plenty of 5.56. I'll take some twenties in case we need them. Any questions?”

He looked around. Nobody said a word. Yeah, he decided. It was going to be one of those days.

Timothy Sadler, senior chief petty officer and top EM in the platoon, came into the office a few minutes later when Murdock assembled his gear.

“Do we supply our own driver?” the chief asked.

“Howard gets that assignment. The truck should be out front in less than five. You ready?”

Murdock rode in the cab with Howard. There wasn't much conversation. Murdock felt grumpy. No reason. He was almost thirty-three years old, unmarried, and still playing kid games with lethal weapons and roaming the world getting shot at by all sorts of unhappy campers. He'd been promoted to lieutenant commander, the fourth step up the officers' ladder, and could have a career shot at making captain some day before he retired. Of course he couldn't do that in the SEALs. Too few spots, too many candidates. So he was back to playing with lethal toys hoping he didn't get too many of his men killed.

His father kept trying to get him to resign and run for Congress. A real opportunity there, and then when the next opening came, he could go for Senator from the Great State of Virginia. Yeah, just what would make him, happy kissing babies and lying to everyone he met so he could get elected.

Then last night Ardith Jane Manchester had called. They'd talked for almost an hour and she'd said she was considering a job in the San Diego area. She was almost certain that she
would be leaving Washington, D.C., and government service. So, with Ardith in town all the time, it would mean a better apartment and then the pressure to get married. He had enough troubles already.