Payback (6 page)

He saw a second diver coming from his left, and pivoted around in the water. Murdock pulled the speargun from his leg, and when the diver was ten feet away and waving his fighting knife, Murdock fired the first ten-inch steel shaft. It hit the attacking diver just under his clavicle, missing his heart and lung. The diver soared upward out of the fight. Murdock waited, but no third diver appeared. He had no prisoner. He swam down to fifty feet and moved away from the tower. After a hundred yards he surfaced to get his bearings, angled more to the southeast, and began stroking for the shore.

Twice he came to the surface from his familiar fifteen feet, and adjusted his course to hit the point. It was easy to see from the water, being just up a ways from the Goleta campground where there were a dozen beach fires blazing brightly.

He stopped just offshore and checked the landing area. His Explorer was where he had left it. Nobody seemed to be around it. No one on the beach. He swam the rest of the way, walked out of the water, pulled off his fins, and carried them.

A man surged out of some shadows to his left straight at Murdock, swinging a baseball bat. Murdock spotted him at once and threw his swim fins at the man, knocking the bat out of his hands. Murdock pulled his KA-BAR, and was about to challenge him when he saw a second man come from directly in front of him with a knife. He ducked the charge, threw up his left arm, and felt the knife hit it, but the blade didn't cut through. He whirled and found a third man charging toward him.

Murdock grabbed the speargun and fired for his legs. The steel ten-inch dart dug into the man's right thigh and put him down. Murdock swung around and caught the man with the knife bearing in again. Murdock's knife came up and sliced the attacker's bare arm. Then he spun around and slashed
again, drawing blood across the man's chest. The attacker screamed and ran into the darkness.

The man with the baseball bat knelt on the ground holding his right wrist.

“Bastard, you broke my wrist,” he shrilled. Then he stood, holding his wrist, and ran toward the street. Murdock moved up to the man with the spear in his thigh. The man held up both hands.

“No more,” he said. “Christ, but that hurts. Damn speargun? You some kind of one-man army?”

“Something like that. Right now you've got a date with the local sheriff.”

“Hell, no, take me to the hospital, I'm bleeding.”

“You'll bleed more if you give me any trouble. Get in the rig and shut your face.”

The man with the dart in his leg looked at Murdock's stern expression and the KA-BAR knife he waved around. He nodded and crawled in the Explorer.

Fifteen minutes later at the Sheriff's Department headquarters, Murdock, two detectives, and the sheriff questioned the man.

“Three of you came after me,” Murdock said. “Why?”

“Hell, we figured you'd have a wallet and some cash and maybe steal your car. We needed some loot to make a score.”

“You waited for me when there were twenty guys in the campground you could have rolled. I don't buy it.”

The sheriff moved up. “Your ID shows you're J. J. Martin. Look, Martin, we can get you to the hospital just as soon as you tell us who hired you to beat up Murdock. We found the brand-new hundred-dollar bill hidden in your wallet. A bum like you couldn't hold on to a C note for ten minutes. Who hired you?”

“Just waiting for this dude to come back to his—”

One of the deputies slapped Martin with his open hand and knocked him off his chair. He wailed in pain. They sat him back on the chair.

Sheriff Kirkendol grinned. “Did you like that, J. J.? We've got lots more where that came from. Now. Nice and slow. Who paid you the hundred clams to beat up on the diver coming out of the water on Goleta Point?”

J. J. looked at the sheriff, then at the big deputy, who was opening his fist and closing it.

“Aw, hell, not worth getting beat up for. Don't know a name. Some guy in The Pelican, that dark little bar on Fourth Street. He paid us a hundred each to find this diver and smash him up. Never saw the guy before.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Oh, hell, no. He had a hat on pulled down low and shades on in the bar. Could have been almost anybody. Now can I get to see a doctor?”

“You want to press charges of assault and battery with a lethal weapon?” the sheriff asked Murdock.

“Too much bother.”

The sheriff turned to a deputy. “Take him to the emergency room and dump him off. No charges. And be sure that hundred-dollar bill is still in his billfold.”

When the wounded man had left, Murdock and the sheriff sat alone in the interrogation room.

“So, did you get to the tower?” the sheriff asked.

“Oh, yes. I'm sure they have some kind of sonar protection around the tower so they can spot boats or swimmers coming in. I don't know how they do it. They put three armed divers in the water to greet me. One of them is going to be sleeping with the fishes tonight, another one has a speargun dart in his upper chest, and the third one swam away.”

“Thirteen,” Sheriff Kirkendol said.

“What?”

“That must be the thirteenth man you've killed. Glad that's out of my jurisdiction. Did you find anything out there?”

“I can't tell you, not until I tell some other people. But I thank you for your help. I'm heading back to San Diego.”

“Just like that?”

“It's a federal case, Sheriff. I've got to report it. If we can give you any help on your case, we will. Right now I'm due back in the squad room down in Coronado. Thanks for your help. Don't worry, I'll clean up the blood that good old J. J. got on my Explorer.”

“Federal? Murdock, I don't understand.”

“You don't have to. Just don't talk about that other oil rig
out there. Something should be happening soon. You take care now.”

 

It was almost midnight when Murdock gassed his Explorer and headed out for home. Three hours, maybe three-and-a-half drive time to get down to Coronado. Shouldn't be any traffic this time of night, and if he pushed it a little, he might get in some sleep tonight before calling Don Stroh at 0600. If he was lucky the spook would be in his office by 0900 Washington, D.C., time. Murdock pictured the solid structure built on the bottom of the Santa Barbara Channel about two miles offshore. What in hell was it? Who put it down there? What could it possibly be used for? Why would the protectors kill anyone snooping around? He wanted some answers, and he knew Don Stroh would too.

At 0615 Murdock stormed through the Quarter Deck, waved at the night watch still on duty, and hurried to his small office in SEAL Team Seven, Third Platoon. He picked up the unsecure phone and dialed the number of Don Stroh at his CIA office in Arlington, Virginia. The spook answered on the fourth ring.

“Yeah, I'm here but I'm not awake. Haven't even had my coffee yet. What's up?”

“Good morning to you too, Super Spook. You know my voice. This is not a secure line. Get your SATCOM out and warmed up. I'll be calling you in ten minutes on something important.”

“Murdock, you're drunk again, right? What the hell is this? A secure line. When do we use a secure line?”

“Almost always, like when I catch more eatable fish than you do. Get somebody who can run a SATCOM for you and get it tuned in and turned on. Fifteen minutes. Be there. I've got to find my SATCOM.”

“You're not joking.”

“I never joke when I have to get up after three hours of sleep. Now get cracking.” Murdock hung up, went to the equipment storage closets, and took out one of three SATCOMs they used. He set it up in his office with the dish antenna pointing out the window. He had to open the window to get it to give off the beep to show it was properly aligned with one of the satellites. Then he checked his watch. His stopwatch dial showed eight minutes had elapsed since he'd
talked with Stroh. At twelve minutes he turned on the set, heard the beep again, and pushed the send button on the handset.

“Don Stroh in D.C. Murdock calling.”

He waited a moment, and then a voice came back that wasn't Don Stroh.

“Yes, Don Stroh's office here. We're just set up and working. Here's Mr. Stroh.”

“Don, record this, you'll want to refer to it. Have your recorder ready?”

“Yes, go ahead. What in hell do you have?”

Murdock sketched in his long day in Santa Barbara, including his fight with the three divers. He told about finding the structure on the channel floor.

“Somebody with a lot of resources is doing something off that oil platform besides drilling. Figured you'd want to know. I'm telling my boss here as soon as he gets on board. You didn't hear this from me. Let's see what happens going up the chain of command.”

“Sounds ominous. They killed two men who tried to check on the underwater, including one ex-SEAL?”

“Right. That's why I went to take a look. It's in your hands now. I want to write up a report for Masciareli. You've got it on your end.”

“Good enough. We'll get something on it, then contact the chain and see where we go. I'm out of here.”

Murdock signed off and made the coffee. He ate two bear claws he'd picked up on the way to the base. Then he tackled the report. He had it on the screen within a half hour. Then he went back over it and rewrote it until he had it the way he wanted it. He spell-checked it on the computer, thanked the grammar unit for catching a small goof, and then printed out four copies. He gave it a file name and left it on his hard disk. Then all he had to do was wait for SEAL Team Seven's commander to get into his office.

Murdock tried to do some paperwork he was behind on, but couldn't get with it. He kept thinking about that domelike structure he had seen fifty yards from the oil rig. What the hell was it and who had put it there?

At 0700 Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie phoned.

“Commander, lad, you're up early this morning, it being a Friday and all.”

“Master Chief, remember I told you I was going to Santa Barbara? I did. Want to read something interesting before I show it to the commander?”

“Indeed I do. I have some fresh-brewed and a few donuts if you would care to honor me with your selfness.”

Murdock grinned. “Be right there, Master Chief.”

The old Scotsman frowned as he read the two-page report.

“Two men dead including Irwin. I remember him well. You even think they have some kind of sonar protection around the tower and this building?”

“The way it looks, Master Chief. I'd like to know what's inside that building down there on the bottom of the channel.”

“Of course, Don Stroh hasn't seen this report,” MacKenzie said.

“Absolutely not. I just wrote it. No time for him to see it.”

“And you didn't call him this morning at 0613 on your regular phone?”

Murdock laughed. “Can't get ahead of you, Master Chief, can I? That call will be our little secret. I figured that the CIA should get on this and get cracking in case the chain of command upward didn't work well.”

MacKenzie's green eyes sparkled. “Aye, laddie, and a good move it was. I know nothing. The good commander said he would be in his office this morning to make some early morning calls, but I haven't seen him yet. When he comes in . . .” The chief stopped. “His Lincoln just pulled into the parking lot, lad. You're in luck. You can deliver your missive yourself.”

Ten minutes later Commander Dean Masciareli frowned at the two sheets of paper and then looked up at Murdock.

“Somebody up there killed these two men including an ex-SEAL, and you say they have a building on the bottom of the channel?”

“Yes, sir. I'd really like to know what's inside that concrete-looking structure.”

The commander paused for a moment, then he nodded. “All right, I'm faxing this to Admiral Kenner immediately. Then I'll call him. This is something somebody needs to look into and it should be us. Sonar that can pick up men swimming and let the sharks go by. Amazing.” He pushed a buzzer, and his yeoman came in, took the two sheets, and got his instructions. The two officers waited a few minutes until the faxes went through. Then the yeoman came back.

“The two pages are sent, confirmed,” he said.

Commander Masciareli reached for his phone and dialed the long-distance number. It rang four times.

“This is Commander Masciareli in Coronado. I need to speak with the admiral at the first possible moment.” He waited. Less than a minute later he lifted one hand and nodded at Murdock.

“Richard, did you get the two-page fax I just sent you? Something strange going on up by Santa Barbara I think you'll be interested in.”

The commander put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He's getting the fax. He's a fast reader.”

Masciareli grinned when he listened. “Yes, sir, I agree it's something that could be tremendously important, especially if the Chinese or North Koreans are involved. Would it be FBI or CIA jurisdiction?”

He listened. “Yes, sir, Murdock is right here.” Masciareli frowned as he held out the phone to Blake.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Commander Murdock, sir.”

“Murdock, yes. Good scouting mission. How deep is the water there?”

“From eighty to a hundred feet.”

“The structure on the bottom of the channel, it looks like concrete?”

“Yes, sir. But no lines or tubes or wires leading away from it.”

“Antennas?”

“Didn't see any, but it was dark down there, and I didn't use any lights.”

“I'll fax this to the CNO. I'll suggest the CIA do the investigation here. They should dig into the owners of that platform. In the meantime I'm suggesting to the CNO that
we do a training exercise off Santa Barbara in the channel, with a dozen warships and landing craft as a cover for your platoon to dive and get all the specs you can on that structure. They won't dare use their sonar or we will pick it up. Look for antennas especially. I'll suggest we get this mounted for tomorrow afternoon. If the CNO goes for it, and I think he will, we should know something before nightfall tomorrow. Get your platoon ready, Commander. Let me have Masciareli again.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave the phone back to his boss and watched. The man's eyes lit up and he began to breathe faster. He grinned. “Yes, sir. I'll start getting ready on this end. We'll use just the one platoon. Can the Navy get the ships ready to move that quickly?”

He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir. I understand. Yes, sir. Good-bye.”

Masciareli turned to Murdock smiling. “Well, it looks like we have lit a fire under the admiral, and he expects the CNO to act as soon as he gets the fax. He said if the Navy can't get enough ships up there, we'll go with whatever they can move, destroyers, some cruisers, at least one amphibious landing ship with their landing craft, even some surface-effect ships. All we need is a good display to shield what you guys do downstairs.” He paused. “Good work, Murdock. I'm sorry about Irwin. I remember him. Blew out his knee over in Europe somewhere on a parachute drop.” He stood. Murdock stood. “That will be all, Commander.”

Murdock hurried to his office. Ten minutes later Don Stroh called him.

“Boy, you set off a whirlwind back here. I've got my boss and the CNO and the President yelling at me. So far I've dug up the owner of that platform. Some outfit in Texas, but it has six North Koreans on the board of directors. Also the President of the outfit has made twenty-four long-distance calls to Pyongyang within the past three weeks. His passport also shows four stamps to North Korea.”

“Stroh, could this be a nasty payback for the trouncing we gave North Korea when it tried to invade the South the last time?”

“Could be. Those Orientals have long memories.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We wait to see how the CNO reacts to your chief's suggestion that we do a recon over the spot tomorrow with a dozen or so Navy ships and your platoon.”

Think the brass will go for it?”

“It's either that or blow up the thing without knowing what's inside of it. They'll go for the recon. How far is it from San Diego to Santa Barbara?”

“A little over two hundred miles by highway. Probably not quite that far as the ships could cut across the arc the land mass makes along here.”

“At flank speed it would take eight or nine hours to get up there from San Diego,” Stroh said.

“We wait and we see. Let's hope we get to fly up and land on a cruiser instead of a ride on a boat.”

Don started to say good-bye.

“Oh, Stroh. You told the CNO about the North Korean tie-in to that oil-drilling tower.”

“You betcha, Red Ryder. Oh, you're too young to know about Red Ryder and his faithful Indian kid, Little Beaver. Yeah, everyone knows. I blabbed it all over town.”

“Take care.”

 

The same night that Murdock drove four hours to get home from Santa Barbara, Jack Mahanani braved the Casa Grande Casino east of San Diego. He got in the door and halfway to the cashier to buy chips before Harley caught up with him.

“Hey, Jack, how is it hanging tonight?”

“Straight down, man, not a good day. Your Buick is doing fine, not even a scratch.”

“You can't play tonight, Jack,” Harley said. “Word just came down. Sorry.” He waited for Mahanani to react. The big Hawaiian's shoulders slumped. Then he slammed his fist into his hand.

“You want the Buick too?”

“No, but there may be a way out.”

Mahanani looked up. “Oh, sure, on my knees in front of some bare-assed prick.”

Harley laughed. “Hey, nothing like that. Come on, have a
talk with a guy called Martillo. He can sometimes come up with plans to help when a friend gets in the hole with too much gambling.”

Mahanani snorted. He had heard stories about the fringes of the gambling world. This definitely would be the fringe. He frowned. “The guy is here in the casino?”

“Yeah.”

“He works for you guys?”

“Well, he's part of the larger picture. He's a kind of a consultant. Talk with him. If you don't want to work your way out of trouble, hell, you've only wasted a half hour.”

“Okay, but I don't make any promises.”

Harley led him through one section of the casino into a door marked “Employees Only,” and through a hallway with offices on both sides. Mahanani decided it must take a lot of behind-the-scenes business operations to run a large casino. They stopped at a door with no name on it and Harley knocked, then opened it. He went in first and waved Mahanani in. It was an office that looked more like a den or a living room. A seventy-two-inch television set hovered in one corner. A full-sized sofa took up one wall. On the other side was a large desk that had a clean top, with the exception of one picture in a silver frame. Behind the desk sat Martillo. He was Mexican, with bushy black hair, a full beard, and mustache all kept tightly trimmed. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, and now his face looked up and he nearly smiled.

“You must be Mahanani, the Navy SEAL, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down and rest yourself. Harley, bring us both a drink.” He looked back at the SEAL and his smile vanished. “Mahanani, you now owe us six thousand, six hundred dollars. We're holding the pink slip on your Buick.”

“Not sixty-six hundred. Just six thousand.”

“Young man, you didn't read the agreement you signed. The loan of six thousand is at a rate of ten percent per month. This is the second month, so you owe us another six hundred.”

“That's illegal.”

“So sue us.” The black eyes blazed at Mahanani and Martillo leaned back in the chair.

“You owe us a lot of money. We could simply collect your car and sell it for maybe eight thousand and give you the balance. But then you would have no wheels. A man isn't a man in Southern California without his wheels.” He stared at the SEAL for fifteen seconds. Then the touch of a smile came back. “Because you've been a good customer, we have a plan for you to pay off your debt. You can start tonight. Before you say anything, let me go through the plan. We loan you a car, not new and not in the best body condition, but it runs well. You drive to Tijuana, to a garage on Presidente Avenue. Friends will meet you there. You go to the restaurant just around the corner and have a meal but no alcohol. When you come back, you will get in the car and drive back to San Ysidro, just across the border where you picked up the car. You leave the car there and we deduct four hundred dollars off your loan. Simple, easy, no harm, no foul.”