“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 t
hat 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.”
Mahanani laughed. “Sure. You use me for a mule and if I get caught, I spend ten years in a federal pen for drug smuggling. I know about those garages. I’ve heard stories and seen articles in the paper. Do I look like an idiot?” He stood.
“I’ll take your keys to the Buick now,” Martillo said, his voice with a snap to it.
“So that’s it. I either bring in drugs for you, or you take my Buick and give me a thousand in change.”
The dark Mexican shrugged. “Amigo, it is your car. Do as you wish. Take your time. No rush at all. You have two minutes to decide.”
“Shit. How much extra weight would be on the car? It couldn’t be tilted or riding too low or it would be pulled into secondary inspection for sure.”
“My friend. We have been doing this for years. We know how, we know how much. There is never more than a hundred pounds in any one car. That’s less than another passenger, and makes no change in the springing of the car or how it rides or how low it hangs on the frame. Believe me, we’d be out of business soon if we started losing half of our mules.”
“How many do you lose?”
“Last year, only three. That was out of more than two hundred trips.”
“How many trips could I make before they became suspicious?” Mahanani asked.
“You would go in a different car each time, with different clothes. Once a week, maximum. For you it would have to be on a weekend. But that’s when traffic is heaviest and the investigations are fewest. Ten trips and you would have four thousand paid off on your debt.”
“Ten trips. Fifteen to pay you guys off. Not counting the interest.”
“You make the runs, we’ll forget the interest,” Martillo said. “Hey, we’re the good guys. We’d like to work with you to get you out of debt. We don’t want to take your car. We have the pink slip just for our own protection. Collateral. Now, what do you think about making your first run tonight? I’ll go to San Yisdro with you to get your first car. After this you just report to Jose down there and he’ll work you from there.”
Mahanani squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never so much as stolen a pencil or shoplifted a magazine. Now he was considering smuggling in dope, probably heroin or cocaine. He could get ten years easy. But if he didn’t, he could be without his car. Yeah, not in jail, but bumming rides from the other guys and trying to explain how he lost his damn Buick. Fuck this whole thing. How did he get trapped into gambling in the first place?
“Hey kid, I ain’t got all night. You want to take a run down to Mexico or not? Your call.”
“Let’s go.”
* * *
A little over an hour later a new Cadillac pulled up to a decrepit-looking garage and used-car lot in San Ysidro, a run-down section of San Diego less than two miles from the international border with Mexico. Martillo honked the horn three times, and a garage door opened and a man came out wiping his greasy hands on a rag.
“Yes sir, Martillo. We doing business?”
Martillo chattered with him in Spanish, then pointed at Mahanani and then pointed out the passenger’s-side door. “When you get to the garage in TJ, honk three short ones, like I did. They will get you turned around in about an hour. Don’t watch. Go to the café and have something to eat.”
As Mahanani got out of the car, he saw his Buick pull into the same lot and stop. A man got out of it, tossed the keys to Mahanani, and slid into the Cadillac, which promptly left.
“Hey, kid, come in here and I’ll introduce you to your new wheels,” said the man from the garage. “You drive like Martillo told you to. No detours, no shortcuts. It’s an easy place to find. I’ll give you directions. Stop at the garage, go get a taco, and go to the garage, then drive back here. Beep your horn twice and I’ll open up and you drive into the garage. Got that? You better. I can’t hold your hand no more. Come on.”
The two miles to the border went fine in the old Chevy. Then when the Mexican border man waved him through into Mexico without a word or a glance, Mahanani felt better. The route was easy, down the main street that led off the freeway to Presidente, then down it three blocks to the garage, which he could see. There were no lights on. It was nearly ten o’clock. He beeped the horn three times, and a door opened up and he drove inside.
Four Mexicans stood there waiting for
him. One took him by the arm. “Tacos around corner,” he said. It may have been the only English he knew. Mahanani felt strange as he walked out the door and around the corner to a small café. Inside he ate a taco, then had a second one. It took about half an hour. He retraced his steps and found the door he had come out locked. He knocked three times. A small panel in the door opened, and then the door unlocked.
“Early,” Jose said. They put him in a small office with a chair. Ten minutes later he backed the 1985 Chevy out of the garage. He could feel no difference in the handling. He retraced his route, and suddenly he was at U.S. Customs. A bored inspector looked at his car and scowled.
“Where were you born?”
“Honolulu, Hawaii.”
“How long you been in Mexico?” he asked.
“Just tonight, playing tourist.”
“Anything to declare, booze, fur coats?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, move on.”
He was through, and trying not to feel the thrill of getting away with something. For a mile he kept watching in his rearview mirror, but no flashing lights came racing toward him. Yes, he’d done it, earned four hundred dollars, and he hadn’t been caught. Of course, now he was a drug smuggler. He was shaking by the time he drove the two miles into San Ysidro to the garage. There he beeped twice and the door opened. Mahanani drove inside.
Jose grinned at him. “No trouble, no problema. Sí. Is easy, no? Your car’s just outside.”
Mahanani nodded and hurried toward his car. He wasn’t sure he could walk that far. He’d never committed a crime before in his life. Now he was a fucking dope smuggler. He sat inside the Buick for five minutes before he started it. By then he figured he could drive home on the freeway without wrecking the car. He was so hyped up he couldn’t believe it.
He tried to calm down. He’d done it, and would do it again, and maybe he could get out of his IOU with the casino. But fourteen more trips? He didn’t know. There had to be a better way. He could investigate. He would think on it. Gradually he calmed down. He eased off on the throttle, realizing he was passing everyone on the freeway. He was doing almost ninety miles an hour down U.S. 805. He slowed to sixty and moved into the right-hand lane. Better. Yes. He drove with the utmost caution to his apartment in Coronado. It had been a tough evening. How in hell was he going to get out of this one?
Payback sts-17 Page 7
