Under Siege (3 page)

“LC, you better get in here fast. This Kimchee looks about well done to me.”

Five minutes later they knew the story. They had put the man’s clothes back on and bound up his worst wounds. The slices on his body were the start of the death of a thousand cuts, where the victim eventually bleeds out from countless wounds, none that alone are fatal. Kimchee spoke English.

“My wife and daughters are all dead. Bastards made me watch as they killed them.” Tears splashed down the Korean’s cheeks. He slashed them away with his hand. “I didn’t talk. Can we get away?”

Ten minutes later they were halfway to the beach when Lam put them down in the dirt and weeds.

“I’ve got a foot patrol. Looks like eight men in a line moving toward us. They’re five yards apart and look serious. They must have found the wasted Jeep patrol.”

“Lam,” Murdock said. “With your silenced weapon, try picking off the men at one end of the line. We’re double-timing up to you. How far to the bandits?

“Moon came out, that helps. I’d say about seventy-five.”

“Hold until they are at fifty yards, then open with your M-4 on single. We’re moving.”

Lam lay on the edge of a rice paddy. The berm that held the water in the paddy was over two feet high here. He rested the M-4 A1 CAR 15 Colt Commando on the edge of the dirt and waited. The Korean patrol moved cautiously, checking out any cover that might hide an enemy. Lam felt the wet cammies in the dirt and figured he picked up two
pounds of Korean soil. The line moved closer. Lam sighted in on the near end of the skirmishers and pushed the lever to single shot. He took three deep breaths, held the last, and refined his sight.

His finger squeezed the trigger so slowly he was never sure just when the weapon would fire. His sight remained centered on the nearest North Korean soldier’s chest. The weapon fired with a soft
chug.
The Korean stumbled and silently went down. His buddy next in line didn’t notice. Lam moved his sights to the next soldier and fired just before Murdock slid into the paddy beside him. The second North Korean soldier dropped into the dirt screaming in terror and agony.

The rest of the North Koreans hit the dirt and lay still. Sixteen weapons opened up on them, cutting up the dirt and rice stubble of the paddy, and jolting into half of the Koreans. Two lifted up and tried to run to the rear. Both went down hard with hot SEAL lead in their bodies.

Wade switched to the 20mm mode and put one contact round in the center of the Korean zone. The blast echoed down the road and to the ocean.

“How far to the wet?” Murdock asked.

Lam lifted up and stared toward the smell of salt air. “Half a mile, if we’re lucky. We going back south for the boat?”

“Not a chance. We don’t need it now. If Kimchee can’t swim, we tow him.”

The SEALs had stopped firing at the North Koreans. Murdock figured that if any of them were alive they would be crawling away. “Okay, platoon, let’s lift up and jog for the beach to your right. Should be about half a mile, Lam tells me. Alpha out front in a diamond. Let’s move. Lam out two hundred. Now.”

“Kimchee, can you swim?” J.G. Gardner asked.

He nodded. “Like a fish,” the Korean CIA spy said.

They jogged to the coast, checked for patrols, then waded
into the surf with their weapons tied over their backs and swam on the surface for half a mile. Murdock keyed his radio.

“C.B., we’re ready for our close-up,” Murdock said.

There were three anxious minutes.

“Gloria, we’ll be right there. From the weak signal, I’d say you have us by four to five miles. You have light sticks?”

“Roger that, light sticks. We’re about half a mile out and two miles north of where you dropped us.”

The Navy boat Pegasus, which could do forty-five knots on a calm sea, drove forward and honed in on them five minutes later. Helping hands pulled the SEALs and Kimchee onboard, and the speedy boat darted out ten miles to where a destroyer waited for them. Within five minutes after boarding the destroyer, Kimchee rested in sickbay, getting patched up by a medic and at the same time getting debriefed by a CIA man.

NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE

Coronado, California

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock swam along behind the new guy in the platoon, Robert Doyle, Gunner’s Mate Second Class, as he led the Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven through the calm Pacific Ocean fifteen feet down. They were headed the six miles from the Kill House on the strand north to their headquarters and the BUD/S training area in Coronado. The kid could swim. He held the directional board in both hands and kicked his swim fins in powerful strokes.

Both Murdock and Bravo Squad leader (J.G.) Gardner had liked the man the first time they interviewed him. He joined the squad to replace Wade Claymore, who was a KIA on their last mission. He burned to death in a RPG hit on a bus they were riding in near the Mexican side of the international border in Tijuana. Claymore would be missed.

Doyle spoke Arabic and had been to the Navy Language School, which was a big plus. Murdock liked his attitude, even though he was an opera buff.

Murdock spoke into his underwater safe personal Motorola radio. “Let’s take a sneak peek and see where we are. Topside, but faces only.”

The sixteen men slanted up to the surface, broke the water just beyond the surfline, and checked the shore. “We’re about halfway and our time is good,” Murdock said. “Tate,
take over on the con and move us the rest of the way on the surface. Go.”

They swam a steady sidestroke on the surface until they came to the BUD/S grinder. They walked in, dripped their way to their platoon section, and checked in equipment and weapons. Then they changed out of their wet cammies into civvies. Murdock watched the men. They were ready again. The layoff had been good for them, training-wise and to heal wounds. Today they had worked the Close Combat House with live rounds for score, then charged into the surf and did covert landings six times, catching one of the four-foot waves and bodysurfing in as far as possible. They let the big water wash them in like soaked logs, pushing them up on the wet sand where they lay without moving for two minutes, before they rose up and stormed the beach with dry assault fire.

Gardner came in the small office of the Third Platoon and dropped in the second chair.

“So, how is Doyle fitting in?” Murdock asked.

“Good. He’s working in nicely. He swims great, is a natural athlete. He’s a keeper.”

Out in the squad area, George Canzoneri, Torpedo-man’s Mate First Class, dressed as quickly as he could and headed over to the Quarter Deck just after 1630. They were through for the day and he was tired, but more worried than tired. Phyllis had not gone to work today at the upscale jewelry store where she was a top salesperson. That wasn’t like her. And he had been disturbed by the high, wild sound of her voice when he phoned her that afternoon.

He spun the rear tires on his Honda getting out of the SEAL parking lot in front of the Quarter Deck and slammed into traffic, cutting in front of three cars with a few feet to spare getting on the highway. They lived a mile and four-tenths from the base in Coronado and he could get there in twelve minutes even hitting red lights. Today he made it in ten.

He ran up to the ground floor condo they were buying and pushed open the unlocked front door. He told her always to keep it locked when she was home alone.

“Hey, Phil, I’m home.” She wasn’t in the living room. They had been married for six years, had no kids, and one dog. “Phil?” Canzoneri hurried into the kitchen, then to the bedroom. Phyllis lay on the bed in a tangled robe. She looked up, tears streaming down her face. She wiped away the wetness and sat up, her head down, looking up at him quickly, then down again.

“Damn it to hell, Can, I don’t know why. I just did.”

He frowned. “Did, did what?”

“You know …” She looked away. “I … I was feeling so low. I missed my weekly sales quota at the store, and Mrs. Parmley was upset and didn’t exactly say she might fire me, but there was that feeling in the air yesterday. I just couldn’t face that witch today. I … I called Barney.”

Canzoneri frowned. “Barney who?”

“You know, Barney. Three years ago.”

“God no, that dealer? The one I punched out because he almost got you hooked on coke?” He knew she had experimented with cocaine years ago, but together they had worked out of it.

“Yeah, he’s still dealing.”

“He came by?”

She nodded. Tears flowed again. Her shoulder shook and she held her face with both hands. He slid onto the bed beside her and put both arms around her slender body, pulling her head against him.

“How much?”

“Two papers. All the cash I had. He doesn’t take checks. I … I did them one right after another before the downside came. Then when that wore off I wanted to die. I threw up three times and made a mess and … and …” She broke down crying again.

He held her until she stopped. He guessed it was over
five minutes later when she brushed away the tears and looked up, her jaw set.

“I swear to God I don’t know why I did it. He said he’d be back tomorrow. I told him not to come. He laughed and said I’d be begging to see him before noon. What can I do?”

“I’ll be here when He shows and have a surprise for him. Now you have a shower and get dressed. We’re going out to dinner.”

“I … I don’t know if I can eat anything.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’re going out for dinner and then you’re going to buy that new dress you’ve been wanting. You said you needed a basic black. Go.”

She worked out of his arms, kissed his cheek, and started for the bathroom. Phyllis turned and stared at him a minute. “How did I ever get so lucky that you married me?”

Canzoneri pointed. “Go,” he said softly with a huge grin urging her on.

They ate at Coco’s. Had steak and lobster and a huge double chocolate cake sundae.

“Hey, I can eat after all.”

“I had to elbow you out of the way to get even half of that sundae.” Canzoneri dug into his wallet and pulled out three dollar bills. He always left a three-dollar tip no matter what the bill was.

Back home they watched TV for an hour, and then they went to bed. Phyllis rolled toward him and kissed his lips.

“Just one more thing would make this mostly-the-worst-day-of-my-life get turned around into the best afternoon and evening.”

“Do I get to guess what that one more thing is?”

“No, just get naked and we’ll figure out something.” A thin smile crowded on her face and it gave Canzoneri a glimmer of hope that maybe they had whipped the cocaine beast again. The next morning at 0700, Canzoneri phoned Master Chief Gordon MacKenzie on the Quarter Deck at the SEAL compound.

“Master Chief, Canzoneri here. I’ve got a problem.”

Three minutes later, Canzoneri hung up. He had a two-day family problem leave. Now all he had to do was figure out what to do if Barney did come by. Break his legs, yeah, that would be a good start. Then put two in the back of his head to be sure.

Canzoneri shook his head to get back to reality. First coffee, then he’d think it through. He heard a noise behind him and spun around, his combat mode briefly taking over. Phyllis in her robe reached out and put her arms round him.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. It … it just happened. I knew it would be hard …”

He kissed her gently. “I told them I needed two days of my accumulated leave time, so, I’m not going in today.”

“Good. Coffee?”

“Always.”

They sat at the small kitchen counter and watched each other.

“Look Can, I’m so sorry I don’t know how to start. The group told me there would be times, but I thought I could kick them. Yeah, big kick. I get to thinking about you and the danger you’re in at least half the time, and it gets to me. Then I’m feeling sorry for myself and I called Barney …” She let it trail off and looked up at him from big brown eyes.

“You know that’s the only reason I married you, woman. Those eyes of yours. So damn big they look like they belong to a young fawn. So deep brown like I could drop in and never stop sinking.”

He reached over and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. “Hey, if Barney comes back today, I’ll have a man-to-man talk with him. I’ll suggest strongly that he never come around here again or phone you.”

“Can?” She looked up, caution, then fear, flooding her face. “Just don’t hurt him. He’d sue you in an instant. He’s won four assault and battery civil suits in two years.”

Canzoneri grinned. “Oh, yeah, I won’t hurt him for long. Once a guy is dead, he don’t hurt none at all.” He watched her.

Phyllis nodded. “A little SEAL humor, I know that by now. First time I heard you say that I nearly wet my pants. But really, don’t touch him. He might have somebody with a hidden camera somewhere.”

“If he shows up, we’ll invite him inside, then his camera won’t help him. Six will get you ten he won’t come. Now breakfast. Cereal, eggs, and hash browns, toast, more coffee, and some just-squeezed orange juice. You ready?”

By nine-thirty, Barney had not arrived, so they took a walk. Canzoneri had looked hard at his hideout .32 and decided to leave it in the drawer. He wouldn’t need it in Coronado in broad daylight. He scowled. What would narrow daylight be?

They walked along the golf course on Glorietta Boulevard. Not a cloud in the sky—65 degrees and warming. Just a nice Coronado winter day. They went up past the tennis courts and then south again. A block from their condo they saw a small man get out of a Lexus and stand by the fender waiting for them.

“Barney?” Canzoneri asked.

“Yes. Let’s not even stop.”

They walked up to the car and went right on past. The man laughed and followed them. “Don’t want to be seen talking to me, right? Happens. I’m only here because the little woman there asked me to come back.”

Canzoneri turned so quickly Barney bumped into him.

“Hey, watch it.”

“Barney, listen carefully. Right now I’m so mad that I could kill you and brush you off like a swatted fly. Or I could hurt you in a dozen places without leaving a mark. You want to go through the rest of your miserable life as a hunch-backed cripple with one good nut and no way to get it up?”