Death Blow sts-14

by Keith Douglass

  “Sounds like that wimp Stroh is cooking up a good one,” Jefferson said.

  Murdock opened the second envelope. It had a computer printout Navy logo on the top of the page.

  Lieutenant Commander Murdock:

  Well done on the embassy run. Glad you made it back with only one wounded. You are to remain in place for up to two days. New orders coming.

  In the Bangladesh invasion, China and Pakistan overflew parts of India north of Bangladesh. India is furious. They have threatened to shoot down any more aircraft from Pakistan or China that try to fly over the area. India’s Air Force has the planes to match the Chinese MiGs. Be aware of this critical situation.

  Orders will follow in this form through e-mail since it’s our only military hard copy equipment available to deal at these distances.

  It was signed by Captain Irving Robertson II, captain of the Stennis, CVN 74.

  Murdock read the orders to the men.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Jefferson asked.

  “Means we have all day tomorrow to clean our weapons and wash our clothes,” Ostercamp said.

  * * *

  The same day the SEALs went into Bangladesh to bring out the embassy people, the Chinese and Pakistani peppered the sky over the corridor of India between Bangladesh and China with more than fifty transport planes with paratroopers. Fighter-bombers took out the main military airport near Dhaka and the civilian airport, blasting them into junk but not damaging the runways.

  It took the jumpers just six hours to secure the military airfield, then the planes came in with resupply, food, and essentials to an army in the field. It went just the way the Chinese had planned it. By nightfall of the first day, more than half of Bangladesh was in control of the paratroopers.

  The surprise raid on the military air field wiped out two squadrons of MiG-29s of the Bangladesh Air Force and three transports and six Chinese-made P-5s and F-6s. The Bangladesh Air Force had been destroyed except for one squadron of the older MiG-19s. The Chinese didn’t know where that squadron was home based.

  Just before the attack, the king of Bangladesh and all the royal family had flown in their private jet to Calcutta to be out of danger. Most of the city facilities had been captured by the end of the day. The police were routed, the small military garrison nearby nearly wiped out by the high-powered Chinese and Pakistani assaults. A dozen helicopters flew in the first afternoon, then big transports with armored personnel carriers arrived.

  On the second day, Chinese fighters were refueled and armed at the Dhaka military air base and roamed the countryside searching out the Bangladesh-type 54/55 tanks and a few Chinese-made type 59 tanks. Six were blown up the first morning. By noon of the second day, the war in Bangladesh for all practical purposes was over.

  * * *

  The SEALs ate and slept and watched reports of the war on the TV sets. The second day they were there, Murdock received permission from the base to take the men on a conditioning run.

  “How far?” the military policeman asked.

  “Ten miles.”

  The corporal swallowed hard. “Well, sir, you can go down the outer boundary of the air base, follow it around. That should cover about eight miles.”

  “Good,” Murdock said. “We’ll do it twice.”

  After they got back, showered, and dressed in fresh cammies the Indian Air Force provided them, a messenger came with an envelope for Murdock.

  He opened it, read it, and grinned. “Hey, guys, gather round, we’ve got news.” He read the letter.

  Murdock and SEALs, Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven. Calcutta, India.

  Hey, troops, your old buddy Don Stroh giving you some advance warning. Tomorrow morning you’ll get official through-channels orders to move back to the good old flattop Stennis, which is about where you left her in the Gulf of Thailand. They have it worked out how you’ll get there.

  Then comes the fun part. Did I say Hong Kong? I certainly did not. I can’t say anything until you get the official through-channels orders. So. Have a good night’s sleep. Oh, I’m on the carrier, so when you guys get in, the beer’s on me.

  “Hong Kong? that’s part of China now,” DeWitt brayed. “The British turned it over three or four years ago. Stroh suggesting that we’re going into Hong Kong? He must be nuts.”

  “Probably, but it does give us something to think about,” Murdock said. “At least we won’t have to do a conditioning run tomorrow.”

  “Hong Kong?” De Witt said. “Must be fifty thousand Chinese troops around that place. This has to be some fucked up Navy mistake. Just got to be.”

  15

  Tijuana, Mexico

  Detective Sergeant Mad Dog Sanchez had two men watching Juan Lopez’s house. Lopez didn’t go back there after the talk he had that afternoon with the police. He didn’t go there that night or the next day. Nobody knew where he was.

  Mad Dog shrugged and went to the next step. El Gallo Colorado was open at five in the afternoon. It was not the best bistro and cantina in town, but one of the better ones. They had two ex-fighters on the door as bouncers. They kept out people they wanted to and threw out those who caused trouble inside. Both men were heavyweights, six-one and six-three. Mad Dog did not wish to tangle with either one. He had fought welter and now was no more than 165 pounds.

  He waved at the two men who knew him. One opened the door without a word. Inside there were about fifteen patrons. Most at the bar. Two danced on the small hardwood floor. Six were actually eating the food from the little kitchen at the side.

  He knew the barkeep, who dropped his wipe rag and looked at the far door behind the bar, which had a two-way mirror showing on this side.

  “Ayeeee, Detective Sanchez. What would your pleasure be for a drink on the house?”

  “Tequila,” Sanchez said. Nobody called him Mad Dog within his hearing.

  Sanchez tasted the liquor, then put the glass on the bar.

  “Pedro, what do you know of Juan Lopez, the creep who hangs around here?”

  “Haven’t seen him for two days. Someone said he died in a cell at police headquarters.” Pedro looked confused and hurried on. He mopped at sweat on his forehead. “At least that was one story going around. You know how stories can grow.”

  “He was in good health yesterday afternoon when I walked him out of headquarters. You haven’t seen him since then?”

  “Not the shadow of him, I swear.”

  “So, where is Adolfo?”

  “I don’t believe he’s here yet?”

  Mad Dog grabbed the barkeep’s expensive silk shirt, bunched it in his hand and dragged the startled man off his feet and belly up on the bar.

  “Don’t lie to me, Pedro. I saw you look at Adolfo’s door and make some signal. Get back there and tell him I want to see him. Now it will be pleasant. If I have to chase him down, it will be most unpleasant and it will be private.”

  “Yes, yes. I bring him,” Pedro gasped out the words. His air supply was getting halfway cut off by the tight shirt collar. Sanchez let him down to the floor and straightened his shirt.

  “Go get Adolfo, now, Pedro.”

  Pedro wiped his hands on the rag, tossed it on a table behind the bar and scurried down the bar and through the door. Sanchez sipped at his tequila. A good drink should never be hurried. They had some of the best tequila in Baja California. Sanchez carried the drink down to the end of the bar well away from anyone who could hear their talk.

  Most of the bar patrons suddenly became interested only in their drinks or food. No one even looked in Sanchez’s direction. He smiled thinly.

  The man who moments later pushed through the door at the end of the bar and stepped behind it, was about sixty, with graying hair, a white moustache and a white goatee. He wore glasses and squinted through them now at Mad Dog. He wore an expensive sport shirt and slacks. He nodded.

  “Ah, yes, Detective Sanchez. Has Pedro been taking care of you? How about a steak diner, my compliments?”

  “
No, business, old man,” Sanchez spoke softly so only the two of them could hear. Pedro had not returned. “I’m looking for a killer who comes to your bar often. Lives here sometimes. I want his name. He’s a gringo, big guy, could be military. He’s been buddy-buddy with Juan Lopez, and now Cuchi Hernandez is dead. I want to talk to this gringo.”

  “What can I do?” Adolfo said. “I have seen him, he’s a customer. I have more than a hundred of our fine Norte Americanos in my establishment many nights. I can’t know details about each one. I know of him, but not a name. He pays his bill, he tips the girls. What is to know?” Adolfo had spoken softly as well.

  Adolfo stood away from the bar out of reach of Sanchez.

  “You know a lot more than you’re telling me. You know him well, Adolfo. I want his name, address, and phone number. I can close you down in two hours, old man. Remember that. Now, once more. Tell me the gingo’s name and his phone number. He murdered Chuci and you know it. Now spit out the name or you may not be able to spit anything any more.”

  Adolfo paled. His forehead showed a sheen of moisture. Twice he coughed and then ran his hand over his face. “Detective Sergeant Sanchez. I understand your wanting to catch a killer. We have too many murders in our town. It is bad for my business. But there just is no way that I can help you.”

  “No way? I have a way. I’ll use Cuchi’s favorite game. I’ll slice you a few times and see if your memory improves.” Mad Dog Sanchez took out a throw knife and flipped it outward holding tight to the handle. A five-inch blade of shiny sharp steel flicked into place and locked. Sanchez pointed the honed steel at Adolfo.

  “One last chance old man, or you may wish you had taken up telling nursery rhymes to niños.” He leaned over the bar and touched the tip of the knife to Adolfo’s chest.

  Sanchez heard the cantina’s door open but ignored it. A moment later a hand pressed down hard on the side of Sanchez’s neck and he turned. He saw three men larger then the bouncers at the door who now stood just behind him. All wore dark blue suits and ties and all had hard faces showing scar tissue and old wounds. One man’s eyelid dangled half closed.

  “Is there a problem here, Adolfo?” the taller of the three said. He took his hand off Sanchez’s neck. The detective turned slowly to stare fully at the three men. All wore the trademark dark blue suit of an El Padre organization man. El Padre ran the huge drug wholesale trafficking business in Tijuana that reportedly channeled 90 percent of all cocaine and marijuana through the west coast of Mexico and into the United States.

  Sanchez shrugged. “A small matter, a difference of opinion.”

  The tallest of the three with a scar from his right eye in a curve to his chin spoke again softly so no one else could hear. “Detective Sanchez. We want you to understand that there are no hard feelings here. We are businessmen and we help Adolfo with his protection. If he’s in trouble, it’s our job to straighten it out.”

  Sanchez had heard of these men, or others like them, but he had never met any of them before. He closed the knife, slid it in his pocket, and shrugged.

  “Simply a small disagreement. He shouldn’t have troubled you gentlemen.”

  None of them smiled or showed any emotion. Sanchez felt sweat under his arms. His nose itched. He frowned slightly. “Is there anything more?”

  “Yes, we need to end this here, now. We understand that you are worried about the death of one of our representatives. Yes, he died and no one knows who did it. This man was a problem of ours, and we resolved the matter. We would appreciate it if you could simply let the matter rest.”

  “I have a responsibility as a police detective—”

  The taller man held up his hand stopping Sanchez.

  “We’re sure that you have other cases much more promising that you should be working on. To encourage you to do that, we wish to make a contribution to your favorite charity through you.” He turned to one of the other men who handed him two thick stacks of peso bills. He held them out to Sanchez.

  “This is eighty thousand pesos, roughly ten thousand U.S. dollars. We hope that this act of charity on our part will help you to move on to other cases.”

  Sanchez felt a surge of delight, then fear. Buying him off? Why? What else had to be behind this? On the other hand, if he refused their money, he was sure that he would be taken into the back room and shot twenty times in the head.

  His hands trembled when he reached for the money. “My captain said I had already spent too much time on the Chuci case. He ordered me off it this morning. Yes, yes I think that I can move on to other problems. I’ll see that this money goes to a good charity.”

  Adolfo relaxed.

  Sanchez thought his knees would collapse.

  The three large men in dark blue suits only smiled, nodded and walked out the front door. Sanchez sipped at his tequila until it was gone, then slid the stacks of bills inside his uniform shirt and made sure they were safely stowed, stopped by his belt. Then he turned and with as much dignity as he could muster, walked out the cantina door and found his car. He was the good charity that the El Padre men had referred to. He had eighty thousand pesos. He would open a separate bank account that even his family would not know about. He drove a mile away but became angrier with each yard he traveled.

  How could they do that? Walk in and buy him off in front of a witness? How? He had their money, El Padre’s dirty drug money, but they couldn’t buy his soul. He’d find out who the gringo was, and he knew exactly how. He did a U turn in the middle of the street and swore at the driver who swore at him. He drove back within a half a block of the cantina he had just left and parked. He walked to the back door of El Gallo Colorado and waited. The girls would be coming soon. He saw them arriving from where he stood in the shadows of the next building. They were bright, pretty, and available for two hundred pesos. He waited for the older one he had seen before called Teresa. A minute later, he stopped her and motioned her into the shadows of late afternoon.

  “Sergeant Sanchez,” he said.

  Her face turned upward quickly. “So?”

  “I’m hunting a young gringo who comes to the cantina often. Sometimes stays several days. Do you remember him?”

  “There have been two lately. One in his forties. Bad tipper. The other one doesn’t even pay. He’s twenty-five or — six. Keeps his hair short but it’s blond. Must be six foot three. Yeah, I know him.”

  “I want his name and phone number.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a hired assassin for the Mexican Mafia or for the drug cartel. Not sure which, but one of them. He recently murdered a man.”

  “Haven’t seen him for a week.”

  “So, a name?”

  “Only one he uses is Howie.”

  “Phone number?”

  “I don’t carry that around with me. It’s home somewhere.”

  “Let’s go, my car is right down the block.”

  “I got to go to work.”

  “The assembly line won’t break down if you’re a half hour late. Come on. Or I could just arrest you.”

  She nodded and they went to his car.

  Ten minutes later they walked into a modest apartment. It was furnished better than Sanchez’s home.

  She moved to a small desk and looked through a book, then wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “This a San Diego number?”

  “Yes.”

  “No area code. Need one up there.”

  “You’ll have to find that out by calling them.”

  “Cheeky little whore, aren’t you.”

  She smiled. “You men like some fire, you don’t get any at home.”

  “Since we’re here…” He reached out and began to unbutton the blue blouse she wore. She caught his hand.

  “Three hundred pesos.”

  He slapped her so hard she staggered two steps to the side.

  “No more talk,” he said. “Take them off. I have a lot of work to do before the end of the day.”
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  16

  Gulf of Thailand

  Onboard the John C. Stennis, CVN 74

  The SEALs arrived back on board the carrier the same way they had left it, on a COD. They had landed almost twenty-four hours earlier and now they were getting ready for their new mission.

  They were two men down. Vinnie Van Dyke was still in the ship’s hospital with his chest shot. Dobler was in no shape to go along. He was in the carrier’s medical unit where they were fighting infection in his leg wound.

  “The Ganges might be the holy river of India, but it’s also the main sewer system,” one of the Navy doctors said. He had checked all of the men for any kind of infections or lung problems, gave them a clean bill of health, and sent them back to duty.

  The twelve SEALs worked over their gear for this special mission. Murdock and DeWitt had been in a conference half the morning trying to iron out the logistics. None of the men had a clue except the two words, Hong Kong, that Don Stroh had told them in his radio message.

  “No way it could be Hong Kong,” Jaybird chirped. “Hell, that’s right in the middle of about a hundred million Chicoms. They going to sit twiddling their tits while we walk in and take something or somebody away from them? Hell no. Even a million rifles is a lot.”

  “Bet he meant King Kong. He’s taking us to that new movie,” Franklin said.

  “Oh, no, it got canceled before it was made,” Lampedusa said.

  Murdock and DeWitt entered the compartment. There was no call to attention. This was the SEALs and no brass was present.

  “So?” Ching called.

  “You won’t believe this,” DeWitt said. “Yes, it is Hong Kong.” He waited for the cheers, and yells and catcalls to subside. “I know, I didn’t have a clue what we could do in Hong Kong in the middle of all those Chicoms.” He shook his head. “I’ll have the skipper tell you. He must understand it better than I do.”

  Murdock snorted. “Not much to understand. Believing it is a different story. The mission is this. There’s a Panamanian-registered cruise ship in Hong Kong on a world cruise with almost twelve hundred Americans on board. The Chinese have stopped the ship from sailing, saying that there are spies onboard and they must interview each of the twelve hundred and detain any they consider to be spies. The interviews began yesterday. By the end of the day, they had made it all the way through twenty little old ladies with blue hair and ten older men with prostate trouble.