Death Blow sts-14

by Keith Douglass

  A mile from the border checkpoint, Howie threw the cop’s pistol out the window and his billfold after taking out two U.S. hundred dollar bills and two thousand in pesos.

  Now he really was going to go to Flagstaff, Arizona. He’d stop by his apartment for some clothes and some more cash and his ATM card, then he would be moving. There was only a slim chance that this cop knew where he lived. He wasn’t listed in the phone book. The SEALs would never give out his home address, even if this Mad Dog Sanchez did learn that he was a SEAL. Hell no, the cop couldn’t be that good. Howie figured he’d take his five days liberty in Flag and then get back to work with the SEALs.

  29

  Coronado, California

  Third Platoon Headquarters

  Murdock picked up the phone on his desk on the third ring. He had been reading over background reports and service files on the three senior chiefs as possible replacements for Will Dobler.

  “Third Platoon, Murdock.”

  “Oh yes, it’s good to hear a calm, friendly voice.”

  “Lampedusa. Sounds like trouble.”

  “Just a little bit, sir. It’s Jaybird. He did his thing last night and is now incarcerated in the Vista jail.”

  “Oh, boy. What is it?”

  “We were driving in that little Toyota of his north into Carlsbad when this guy in a new Caddy cut us off and laughed, gave us the finger, and laughed some more. When Jaybird got his rig under control he took off after the bastard. Needless to say, the little Toyota topped out at about ninety-five and the Caddy just walked away from us. Finally got Jaybird cooled down a little and slowed down, and we hit a bar in Carlsbad. The Jaybird got sloshed in an hour.

  “He kept yelling at this Cadillac guy, and the barman almost called the cops once, but I talked him out of it. He threw us out half hour later and Jaybird was still spitting mean mad. You know the routine then. He kept swearing at the Cadillac driver and peeling off his clothes and throwing them down. I was the rag picker. In five minutes he was jaybird naked walking in and out of stores there in Carlsbad at 1400. Broad daylight. Ten minutes later three Carsbad police cars arrived. They convinced Jaybird to go with them. I gave them his clothes and that was it. No resisting arrest, no punches.

  “At the jail in Vista they told me it was a misdemeanor and after he sobered up he could post three hundred dollars bail and be released. He has a court date, but if he doesn’t show the bail becomes the fine and it’s off the books.”

  “How many times is this for him?” Murdock asked.

  “Just two with me. You said he’d done it before then.”

  “Ask him how he got his nickname sometime. I can check his file, but I’d say this is at least five times. Different towns, different states even. Get him wrung out and released. Where you guys headed?”

  “Not the faintest. Decided to drive out two days, then drive back two days.”

  “Have fun. Damn quiet around here.”

  “You working on a new senior chief?”

  “Yeah. Hate to lose Dobler. But he’s made up his mind. You take care of Jaybird. We need both you guys.”

  Murdock hung up and went back to the file folders. All were good men. He didn’t have the slightest idea which one he would pick. The interviews would determine that. His first one was for 1000. He had a half hour more.

  Tijuana, Mexico

  It was almost daylight before a wandering street person saw a man in the alley. Good shoes. Yes, the man had good shoes, about the right size. If he didn’t know how to keep his shoes, he didn’t deserve them. The bum ran up quickly, looked around and saw no one protecting the man. He noticed that the guy’s pockets had been turned inside out. Robbed. Yeah. Wrong neighborhood. He had the guy’s right shoe unlaced when the man groaned and moved.

  The street knight jumped back, then saw the police shield on its leather folder laying beside the body.

  A cop?

  The bum frowned and took another step backward when the body groaned again and with great effort sat up. He said something but the words came out garbled. The man’s face flushed darkly, his glance darted around, his mouth dribbled saliva as stark fury raced through him. At last he motioned to the man, stood with pain and leaned on the bum as he staggered toward his car. Gingerly he felt in his pocket. Yes, he still had his keys. Could he drive? Yes. He had to get to a hospital. His throat felt on fire, he couldn’t talk. That damn gringo had surprised him. He wondered if he would ever speak again. He had to. Now he had a personal reason for wanting to find the gringo. There would be no expense to the state to prosecute this Howard Anderson. It would be a matter of attempting to escape and a tragic accidental shooting.

  The street bum helped Sanchez into the car, then stepped back and ran as fast as he could away from the car. Sanchez hardly noticed. He had to concentrate to get the car started. Small actions like turning they key that usually were totally automatic now had to be thought out carefully.

  It took him twenty minutes to drive five miles to the closest hospital. He parked in the emergency entrance where ambulances usually came and layed on his horn until a cop and three doctors and a nurse rushed out to help him.

  Coronado, California

  Will Dobler sat at the dinner table in the Fernandez house and nodded. This was what friends were for. He was lucky. Maria and Miguel had invited him and the kids over for supper. It had been a fine meal and he was feeling more like his old self. The kids had gone to play a computer game, and the adults worked on second cups of coffee.

  “We’re really going to miss you down at BUD/S, Senior Chief,” Miguel said.

  “Hey, you won’t have me to yell at you anymore. You’ll miss that with pleasure. Truth is, I’m getting too old to play these kid games. I’m right near to thirty-eight. Do you know that I’m the oldest man in the whole Team Seven in the field platoons? Oldest one. I am until Master Chief MacKenzie gets me slotted in somewhere. Hey, ain’t like I was shipping out. I’ll be over for coffee now and then.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Hey, you know what I’ll really miss. You were one of only four men in the platoon I could beat on the OC. My times were getting better, but that damn obstacle course is a true torture chamber.

  “Oh yes, the OC. I won’t have to worry about that anymore.” He paused. “Know we came out pretty clean on this mission. Vinnie was the only one with a bad wound. That chest shot is still giving them trouble over at Balboa. Not sure if he’ll get back to the platoon or not. My leg slice isn’t so bad. I could come back. But not sure about Canzoneri. Damn shrapnel tore a chunk right out of his leg. Gonna be a long time in rehab before he can even walk good again. He could make it back if he works hard enough.”

  “How’s your leg coming along?”

  “Good. I still use a crutch sometimes, but the medics say in six months the only thing I’ll remember about it is the three-inch scar on my leg. I’ll settle for that.”

  “Any regrets about being a SEAL, Senior Chief?” Maria asked.

  “Sure, the big one.” He wiped at his eyes. “Hell, I can’t bring her back. Damn it, I should have known, have watched her a lot closer. My fault, and that’s a damn big regret. When I can get past that, I have loved this SEAL life. Our platoon is on the cutting edge of world politics and national crises everywhere. Think what we’ve been a party to in just the past two years. It’s awesome. Yes, that aspect I’ll miss. But getting shot at, I won’t miss.”

  “You’ve been on some good missions, Dobe.”

  “Aye, and some really fouled up ones, like walking out of Chicom China with them shooting at us.”

  “We made it back. We completed our mission. Those are the two important elements.”

  “I like that part about you getting back,” Maria said. “That’s the most important part to me. You bet we worry. Milly and I are still going to meet every week. We’ve just about decided on Sunday afternoon. We can do girl talk, and yell at the Navy, and say a little prayer for your safe return.”

  Will Dobler wiped at
his eyes again, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the moisture away, turned, and blew his nose.

  “You girls were wonderful for Nancy. She used to say what a blessing it was to have the two of you for friends. She said you talked about all sorts of things, including her drinking.” His eyes misted again. “Oh, damn.” Will stood and walked to the front windows and blew his nose again and wiped his eyes. He came back and sipped at his coffee, using it as a prop to avoid saying anything.

  “We understand a little of what it’s been like, Will,” Maria said. “We lost our firstborn when he was just a year old. It was the greatest shock of our lives, before or since. I cried for a week. I came close to doing something terrible. A good friend helped Miguel and I through it.”

  They talked for another hour, then the coffee went cold and Maria reminded them it was a school night. Will gathered up Helen and Charlie and went out to the car.

  “Sunday dinner here,” Maria said. “We always have chicken with gravy and stuffing and the whole thing. Be pleased if you and Helen and Charlie can come.”

  Helen looked at her father. “Daddy, can we come, please. Linda has some of the best computer games.”

  “They’re easy, that’s why Helen likes them,” Charlie said. Helen swatted at him but missed.

  “Sure, we’ll be here. Don’t let us wear out our welcome.”

  “No danger of that Senior Chief. Hope you get a good slot in the Team.”

  “I will, or I won’t take it. Nineteen years of seniority still means something in this man’s Navy.”

  They waved, and Dobler drove the car away and toward his house.

  * * *

  Murdock picked up the phone in his office. “Third Platoon, Murdock.”

  “About your second interview. He should be over in about five minutes, will that be all right with you, Commander?”

  “Ardith, when did you… No, I won’t ask. You and your contacts. I’ve been back for almost twenty-four. Where have you been and what took you so long?”

  “That’s what I like, a warm welcome for a traveler,” Ardith Manchester said a catch in her voice and a beautiful smile coming over the line. “I’ve missed you, too. Now about lunch. I’ll pick you up, no I don’t have my car. I’ll see you on the Quarterdeck about one o’clock. The Master Chief says you should be done with interview number three by then. We could have a fancy lunch where they serve those little bitty things that are attractively arranged and taste like wallpaper, or we could go to Jack-in- the-Box, or that little Italian place here in Coronado where they have that combination lunch/wine tasting.”

  “I think I just bought a wine-tasting lunch. What’s new around the Beltline?”

  “The usual. Lobbying, vote trading, pork barreling, and backbiting. All the regular D.C. stuff. That’s why I like to come west.”

  “I like you to come west. How about Ensenada, Mexico, for a couple of days. I can wrangle some liberty.”

  “Sounds good, rush that interview, will you?”

  “Can do. Oh, you’ll know me by the white carnation between my teeth. I’ll probably be the only one with a flower.”

  He rushed the interview. This senior chief wasn’t the man he wanted. He had already made up his mind on number two, the one Master Chief MacKenzie liked. He changed into civvies and hurried up to the Quarterdeck.

  * * *

  It was four days since Detective Sergeant Sanchez had been found dazed and injured in the alley behind the El Gallo Colorado. They kept him in the hospital for two days until his voice cleared up. His trachea has been bruised and his voice box shaken up but not damaged. At once he had applied for two weeks’ medical leave and had come north to watch for the gringo sonofabitch who had assaulted him. He carried two weapons, had a third hidden under the seat of the rented car, and his Tijuana Police credentials.

  For two days he waited at the Anderson apartment, but the big man didn’t come. This was the third day and he had hopes. About noon a car stopped in front with two men in it. One was Anderson. Sanchez had to order himself to wait, it had to be when Anderson was alone. Not yet.

  An hour later, Anderson came out of his apartment, got in a car in the parking lot and drove. Sanchez followed the man a short distance out on the Strand heading toward Imperial Beach. Anderson turned off right into an unmarked parking area in front of several one-story buildings. Sanchez was so surprised that he kept on driving past. There was no gate, no guard. He had to drive down several miles to turn around and when he did it was in the Silver Strand State Beach. He turned around and drove back. This time he turned left into the same parking lot Anderson had. Only then did he see the sign, “NAVSPECWARGRUP.” He memorized the strange words or combination of words, turned around and drove out. No one paid any attention to him.

  There was no area around that parking lot where he could wait in his car. He drove back to the Anderson apartment and parked. He wrote the strange assortment of letters on a pad and studied it. They made no sense whatsoever. He took the pad and walked down the street. Sanchez stopped the first man he met.

  “Sir, could you help me? I have this long word, and I don’t know what it means.”

  The middle-aged man in a suit and with a pin on his lapel looked at the pad and chuckled. “You’re not Navy are you, son? That’s not a word, that’s an acronym, sort of. Stands for ‘Navy Special Warfare Group.’ So it’s really four words. That’s just out on the Strand. Where the Navy SEALs do their training. SEAL stands for Sea, Air, Land. The Navy SEALs. The toughest, meanest, roughest bunch of killers the world has ever seen. They can be nasty. I used to be Navy. Retired Commander. That answer your question?”

  “Yes, Commander, thank you,” Sanchez said and walked away. SEALs. He had heard of that elite bunch of special warfare men. So was this Anderson a SEAL or just visiting someone there?

  He could sneak up to Anderson’s apartment before he came home, slip the lock, and check inside. But that would be risky. Anderson might be home any minute. Still, it might be helpful. He wanted the man down and dead before the sun came up. No, he would break into the place. Too risky. So how?

  Challenge him? Yes. Put up a challenge, mano a mano. One on one. Him against the SEAL. Knives. He’d heard the SEALs like to use knives. Good. Only the SEAL would not know that it would not be a fair fight. The man was a killer, a hired assassin. He didn’t deserve to be treated fairly.

  Sanchez took his notebook, and with a ball-point pen printed out the challenge.

  “Anderson. I’m Sanchez. We met in Tijuana last week. I demand satisfaction. You and me, one on one, at a neutral site. Weapons of your choice. We fight until one man can’t get up. You shamed me. I must fight you and win. Tonight at midnight out on the Silver Strand State Beach. Beside the first restroom. I’ll be there. Will you be there or will you chicken out?” He signed it Sanchez.

  The detective sergeant folded the note once and fastened it to Anderson’s front door with two strips of tape from a roll in his pocket. Then he left as any salesman might, got in his car, and drove down the street several blocks to a shady spot, and took a nap in the front set. He might need it before the night was over.

  In the early evening he ate a good dinner in a Mexican restaurant, then walked four miles before he went to his car. On a quiet residential street, he parked. He dropped down on the grassy parkway, and did a hundred pushups. Then he sharpened a fighting knife that he carried. The fine stone let him put a razor-like edge on the six-inch blade. Nothing else to do but wait. At eleven o’clock he drove to the state beach and checked it out. No other cars there. He put his car at the far end of the parking and walked back to the first restroom building. He would wait in the moon shadows at the far side of the structure. There anyone driving in couldn’t see him. Yes, the headlights would give away the oncoming car.

  It was 11:05. Detective Sergeant Sanchez relaxed against the building. Several cars zipped along the highway heading toward Imperial Beach or the other way into Coronado. None of them slowed or stopp
ed. It could be a long wait.

  * * *

  Howie Anderson saw the note on his door the moment he went up the steps to his second-floor apartment. He didn’t find a lot of notes taped there. He ripped it off and read it.

  “How in hell—” Howie stopped, looked around the complex parking lot, then unlocked his door and stepped inside, closing the heavy door quickly.

  There was no way the little Mex detective could find him there in Coronado. But he had. He had even offered him a challenge a fight, just the two of them. More like a bushwhacking as soon as he poked his nose into that parking lot. Yeah, a fair fight, it would be fair all right. Fairly deadly. The little bastard had been totally humiliated when he had his ass kicked in TJ. He could settle the score only by killing the man who did it to him.

  Howie guessed that the detective would have some kind of an automatic weapon. He would need the same. He grinned and went into his bedroom, removed a false bottom in a big chest and lifted out a nearly new H&K MP5. It was the one that they had “lost” one day on a training mission. He had seen Khai drop it when hundreds of wasps had attacked them. Their nest had been accidentally kicked over and destroyed when the SEALs were running across some sparse territory in their private shooting grounds up in the mountains beyond Pine Valley. Two days later Anderson went back alone and found the submachine gun. The loss was written off as a platoon training accident and nobody had to stand a statement of charges.

  He hefted the little weapon and picked up two loaded, thirty-round magazines. If sixty rounds wouldn’t do it, he didn’t know what would. With the shoulder stock pushed in, he could hide the weapon under a floppy shirt on a cord around his neck. Surprise, surprise.

  He strapped on a .38 ankle hideout and kept a .45 on his hip. Yeah, that should do it. He’d make mincemeat out of the little Mexican cop in twenty seconds. Would he let the cop fire first? Not a chance. Shoot first, kill first, an old SEAL tradition.