Ambush

5

Training the next two weeks was the hardest Murdock could remember. He made sure it stayed that way. Men could die in the field if they couldn’t run fast enough, if they couldn’t shoot straight, and for a dozen other reasons that could be prevented or at least made less likely by tough, realistic training.

For the past two days they had been at Niland, near the Chocolate Mountains in the desert just east of the Salton Sea. Today they had split into squads for training in tactics, and each unit went in a different direction. They were to meet at a certain flat-topped mountain at 1400 for some joint operations.

The Navy bus they arrived in was loaded heavily with ammo. Each day they fired their weapons until they ran out of rounds, then worked the rest of the daylight with simulated firing drills and attacks on various gullies, sand dunes, and giant cacti.

The platoon marched back to the bus shouting the age-old Army chant: “You had a good home and you left. You’re right. You had a good home and you left. You’re right. Sound off. One, two. Sound off. Three, four. Cadence count. One, two, three, four — one, two…”

They went through twenty different verses to the ditty, some of them not fit for a family audience, and were marching with style when they came to the bus and stopped. The bus had pulled along the cool waters of the Coachella Canal of the massive irrigation network from the Colorado River that made the whole Imperial Valley green and areas to the west and north blossom with farm crops.

Senior Chief Sadler stared at the men. It had been a tough training day. “That water looks good, doesn’t it? I’m not saying you can take a swim and cool off, but I’m not saying you can’t. Fact is, I’m going to get my boots off and get my feet wet right now. Platoon dismissed.”

There was a shout from thirteen throats as the men dropped their packs, weapons, and combat vests, and dashed for the swiftly running waters of the canal. Every summer people drowned in the canal when they misjudged its swiftness. The SEALs didn’t mind. They had trained in this powerful flowing water and knew what it could do. They splashed into it with their desert cammies on. They could wash them and cool off at the same time.

Murdock, Sadler, and DeWitt watched the men.

“Good job, Senior Chief,” Murdock said. “I think you might work out in this job.”

“Thanks, Skipper. We’ve got a good team here. It’s pulling together like no outfit I’ve ever worked with before.”

“When their asses are on the line, the men know they have to work together, or they’ll die alone,” Murdock said. He dropped his weapon, pack, and pants, which had his billfold in them. “You guys going to let the men have all the fun?” He ran for the canal and did a surface dive, then floated downstream with the current.

It was almost 1800 when the men straggled out of the canal, dug out dry cammies, and changed clothes. They spread their wet clothes in the sun to dry.

Senior Chief Sadler blew three short blasts on his whistle. “Listen up. We have just been attacked by a group of twenty infantry from across the canal. Form up now in a line of skirmishers and return fire.”

They were all out of ammunition so they dry-fired a few times, then went bang-bang. Two minutes into the exercise the whistle blasted once. “End of alert,” Sadler said. “Get dressed and on the old pony. We’ll eat our last MREs on the way back and then stop at Jack in the Box.”

The men cheered.

“About time,” Jaybird called. “I got myself killed twice back there by hand grenades.”

“We noticed,” Sadler cracked. “Your service will be in ten minutes.” The rest of the SEALs hooted in delight. At last they had a mouth that could match Jaybird’s.

The trip back was routine, but it would take three hours. Bill Bradford sat on the bus dozing, trying to figure out what to say to Xenia when he saw her again. They were in the same little building, right next to each other. He knew her secret and he didn’t know what to do about it. He certainly wasn’t going to turn her in. She must know that. Was there any way he could help her? Maybe find some more outlets to hang her work? That would take time, and luck. Good painters were everywhere. You had to be distinctive to stand out and get noticed. He didn’t know what to do.

It was after ten o’clock when he pushed in the dark doorway at the gallery on India Street. He’d seen lights upstairs, so Xenia must be there. Bradford went up the steps, making some noise so she would hear him coming. She leaned against her doorway as he came down the short hall.

“Well, at least you didn’t bring the cops,” she said. “I’m almost clean here. I force-dried one to get some small cracks in the oil. Then sent it to Santa B. The other one is done, but I can’t force-dry it for three more days. You still talking to me?”

“Damn right. Trying to figure out how I can help you.”

“Hey, God couldn’t help any, what chance do you have?”

“God?”

“Sure. I used to go to church. They said pray. I prayed. They said put your troubles on Jesus. I heaped them all on his shoulders. None of it helped a fucking damn bit. So, if those two didn’t make a dent in my problems, why in hell do you think you can?”

“Hey, with a SEAL all things are possible. Let’s get our heads together and see what we can work out.”

“Oh, God, but I’ve been hoping you would say something like that. I’ve been fucking scared to death you would cut and run. Yeah, let’s get together, but first come in here, I’m in a real need. I’ve just got to have somebody about six foot two spread out on top of me and socking it to me hard and fast.”

It was nearly an hour later before they both came down from their highs and their breathing and heartbeats had returned to near normal. They sat on the side of the cot sipping at cold beers.

“Great,” she said. “Perfect.” She sighed. “I wish the rest of it was so easy. Once I get this last portrait out of here, I’ll breathe a lot easier.”

“Your last one?”

“Going to try. Going to work like a schizophrenic nymphomaniac and try to get a gallery in La Jolla to represent me. I’m going into the fifteen-hundred-to-five-thousand-dollar class and see where the goddamn chips fall.”

“Sounds good for a start. What about Laguna Beach?”

“Too much competition. There are a hundred forty galleries up there. Would you believe it? Probably twice that many good artists. No, I’m going to hit Long Beach, and LA and Beverly Hills. I’ll do good theater, dressing the part for each different location. If I try for a spot in redneck Santee, I’ll go nude.”

“So how do you force-dry an oil painting?”

“Some say it can’t be done. I set it in the direct sun for three hours at a time, then put it in my refrigerator for an hour, then back in the direct sun. Hardens the outside, but not all the way through. Then when the inside hardens completely in about three weeks, the outside will develop what I call my aging cracks. Looks pretty damn good.”

“Three more days?”

“Yep, if I can hold out and if the damn fraud squad doesn’t run right up my ass.”

“You keep the wet one hidden?”

“Oh, yeah. A sliding panel I built in the wall. Take a fucking magician to find it. Only you, I, and Rollo know where it is. If he ever gave me up, I’d slice his balls off.”

“Let’s see what you’re working on now,” Bradford said. It was a seascape off a windy hill with a huge house in the background and a woman sitting on the cliff watching the sea. Xenia had it about half done.

“Yes, I like it. What is it, three by four feet? Big enough to get a lot in there. Just don’t try to get in too much.”

“Yes, old master.” She poked him in the ribs. Then she kissed his cheek. “Damn, I like having sex with you.”

The next day, the SEALs training went wet. They swam ten miles with flippers and in wet suits, then jogged for four miles, and wound up with rubber ducks surfing in on the crashing Pacific waves. They went in and out three times, and the eight men in each boat made the surfing each time without dumping the boat in a breaker.

Bill Bradford gave a long sigh as he changed into his civilian clothes and headed over the quarterdeck to the parking lot. He turned on the local news station as he always did. It was just past five o’clock, the national five minutes were over, and the local news came on.

“The weather has turned sultry again, and the weatherman says there’s a chance of some southern flow moisture coming to us out of Baja California if the onshore flow will hold off a little and not blow all of the rain into Arizona.

“San Diego Police and the FBI arrested a local artist today on charges of fraud in a complicated scheme to paint and then sell copies of seventeenth-century old Dutch masters as originals. The charges are fraud, conspiracy, and interstate transfer of the fraudulent paintings. Santa Barbara Police cooperated in the arrest. They say the dealer there was selling the ‘just found’ lost old-master paintings for as much as a hundred thousand dollars to private collectors. The name of the local artist has not been revealed pending the search for more members of the conspiracy.

“In other news, another water main broke this morning—”

Bradford snapped off the radio and pulled to the side of a Coronado street. He shook his head in surprise and denial. He suddenly felt cold and shivered. How? It had to be Xenia. Why didn’t they give her name? Were they hunting him? He thought it through, and decided that the police would only want to talk to him. They couldn’t charge him with anything. He wasn’t that good a painter. He started the Honda and drove on to the co-op studio on India Street. Two men in suits and holding hats sat in the small display area. Rollo stood there talking to them. He turned.

“Oh, Bradford. Didn’t know if you’d be in today or not. These men from the FBI want to talk to you.”

“Why? They want to buy a painting of mine? Hell, they can talk as I paint. I haven’t done any good work now in three days, and that has to stop. Upstairs, gentlemen, and you’ll see how a starving artist works.”

One of them started to protest, but the other shook his head and they all went up the stairs. At the door to the studio, Bradford stopped and held up his hand.

“Yes, I heard about the arrest of an artist for fraud. It can’t be me. However, I’m allowing you into my studio, but not authorizing you to search the place or to remove anything. Are we agreed on that?”

“Yes, we agree. We just want to talk to you,” said the taller FBI man Bradford mentally named Jeff.

They talked. It was what Bradford had expected. Yes, they had Xenia in custody.

“I’d seen some of the portraits she did and was blown away at the quality of her work. She’s a gifted artist. I liked the modern work she does better, like the marine she’s working on now.”

“Did you know that she was painting copies of old masters?” Mutt, the shorter of the FBI duo, asked.

“I’ve had some art training. Anyone who has had art history courses can recognize the style and type of painting of the seventeenth-century artists. Every artist born copies old masters for practice, to see if he or she can get the light just right, get the tone and feel of the painting.”

“Did you know she was selling them?” Jeff asked.

“Of course. We try to sell everything we paint. That’s why we have a gallery downstairs. Would either of you be interested in a nice marine for your office? I specialize in marines.” He picked up a finished and dry oil from a table. It was oil on canvas and not yet framed. “How about this one? I can have it hanging on your wall for only a hundred and forty-nine dollars. Plus tax, of course.”

The FBI men looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Mr. Bradford. Did you know to whom she was selling the copies and how much she was getting for them?”

“Hey, her business. We try not to pry. If Rollo sells a nude to a grade-school teacher, I’m supposed to report him? Hell, this is a co-op so we can pay the rent, not so we can baby-sit each other. Of course I didn’t ask her how much she sold her paintings for. I knew the prices downstairs. We don’t snoop on each other. There are six of us here. Have you talked to everyone?”

“You’re the last,” the Mutt FBI clone said.

“Good. Now if you’re not going to buy a painting, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve been working on this windswept tree on the cliff for two days, and I still can’t get it right. If you can’t help me there, then I’d appreciate it if you leave.”

“So far, Mr. Bradford, you haven’t been charged with anything. We understand you’re in the Navy. It would be in your best interest not to leave town for the next few days.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He pointed to the door. The feds took one last look around and went out the door and down the steps. When he figured they should be out of sight, he started down. Rollo was halfway up.

“You heard,” Rollo said. “She must have been getting big bucks for those old master copies.”

“How did they get onto her?”

“The FBI said they couldn’t tell me, but that they had been watching her for a month or more. Watching all of us. They came early this morning when I arrived. Xenia was still sleeping. They rousted her out. Had a search and arrest warrant, searched her room, found an old master copy, and took her and the painting downtown.”

“You talked to them first?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You knew she was doing the copy work?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And you spilled your guts to the feds, didn’t you, you slimeball. Without you they probably couldn’t have arrested her. Did she have the fraudulent painting hidden?”

“Yes.”

“And you told them where it was. You little fucking bastard.”

Bradford hit him with a punch that came so fast, Rollo didn’t have time to dodge it. The blow caught him on the side of his head and slammed him to the floor. He looked up with surprise and anger.

“So what did you tell them about me, you traitor?” Bradford said.

“You? Nothing.” He scooted backward on the floor toward the door. “Nothing about you. You don’t do copies.”

“So you’re the one who’s been searching through my studio when I’m not there.”

“Hey, just once. I needed some good canvas and you usually had more than you needed.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s important now is how can we help Xenia.”

Rollo stood cautiously. “You’re not going to hit me again?”

“No. If I did, I’d probably keep right on hitting you until your face was a bloody mush and your brains were spilling out a big crack in your lousy fucking skull. How can we help Xenia?”

“Bail? I couldn’t help her there. They want ten percent of the bail price for a bond. Not a chance with me.”

“You tell them I was sleeping with her?”

“Yes, but I said I did too. So that cooled that down.”

“You’re a real bastard, Rollo. And a fucking bad painter. You should stick to living rooms, one-story apartments, and fences.”

Bradford turned, put his brushes back in the jar of water, and at the door, turned off the lights.

“Stay out of my way, Rollo. Then I won’t have to kill you.” Bradford pushed past the startled artist and hurried down the stairs. He wondered if the FBI had had a search warrant and raided his apartment. When he drove home to the second-floor, three-room apartment in Coronado, he found that the FBI had been there. The landlady met him.

“Nothing I could do,” Mrs. Chalmers said. She was about forty, round and plump, with thick glasses and a limp. “They had a warrant, so I opened the door for them so they didn’t break it down.”

Inside, he found they had been neat. Everything had been moved, then replaced. Even the pictures on the wall had been lifted and checked behind. Most were not rehung straight. Mrs. Chalmers stood in the doorway.

“I watched them. I told them if they weren’t neat about the search, I’d find out where they lived and phone their mothers. One laughed, the other shut him up. They were neat.”

“Did they take away anything?”

“Not that I saw. Anything missing?”

“Not that I can tell so far. There was nothing here that would interest them. It just makes me mad.”

“I read the warrant. It said there was just cause to think that you may be involved in some criminal activity.”

“That’s what they think, but they’re wrong.” He hesitated. “Thanks, Mrs. Chalmers, for your help. I better get some sleep.”

Bradford went over the quarterdeck the next morning at 0745 as usual, waved at the Master Chief MacKenzie, and hurried to Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven. Half the platoon was already there and the men were working on their gear.

“Bradford,” Senior Chief Sadler called. “We’re on a four-hour alert. Something is cracking wide open in the Philippines. We’ll probably be out of here by noon.”

By 0815 all members of the platoon had reported in and were working on their tropical-weather duffel. They would take three sets of forest cammies, two pairs of boots, and other clothing for an extended stay.

“This is a tropical nation and we’ll be near the equator, maybe four hundred miles away,” said Sadler. “Daytime temperatures can go to a hundred degrees with humidity close to that as well. We’ll be there in January, the best time of the year climate-wise. Sometimes the daytime temperatures will get up only to sixty degrees. So think warm, wet, and humid. Lots of times it rains every day over there in January. Think wet. Carry on.”

In the small office, Murdock looked over at Ed DeWitt. “The chain-of-command edict has ruptured in places. I took a call from Don Stroh this morning at home. He said to gear up. The official word won’t come for three hours and then we’ll have only an hour to get ready. He’s arranged transport out of the North Island Air Station for us. The Master Chief knows the score.”

“What’s the problem in the Philippines?” DeWitt asked.

“Not sure. Stroh said he’d meet us in Davao in Mindanao. That’s near the bottom of the batch of islands. As I remember, they’ve been having a lot of trouble with Muslim guerrillas down there. The whole Island is Muslim, not Catholic like the rest of the country.”

“As hot as Nam?”

“Closer to the equator, so hotter, more humid. Not a fun vacation. Jungle on jungle. Won’t be a walk in the park.”

A tenseness filled the equipment room. The SEALs took multiple weapons; every man had two. All seven of the Bull Pups were slotted as well as both the EAR weapons. They had a good mix this time, with MP-5’s for close-in work and the MGs and sniper rifles. Since they wouldn’t be stopping at any U.S. military bases, they took as much ammo as they thought they might need. They went heavy on the 20mm rounds, and had six extra batteries for the EARs.

By 1100 they were ready.

Murdock took a call and scowled. “I’m sorry, that man is not available.”

“This isn’t routine, Commander. I’m with the San Diego Police Department and we have a warrant for your man’s arrest. I just want to make certain that you will have him available and not out on a training exercise somewhere when I get there. We’re talking about a felony here, Commander.”

“Do you know who we are and what we do, Sergeant?”

“Somewhat. SEALs.”

“Our platoon has just been alerted by the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. He’s the top dog in the Navy. We’re out of here in a little less than half an hour to fly to Manila, on direct orders from the CNO and the President of the United States. You’ll have to tell your captain that the PD has been outgunned and outranked. Anything that has happened with this man will have to wait until we return. Of course you can always go through channels, starting with Admiral Kenner in Little Creek, Virginia. That’s Rear Admiral, lower, Richard Kenner. I’m sure he’d be glad to talk to you.”

There was a long pause.

“Sergeant, what’s the charge against Bradford?”

“Conspiracy to paint and sell copies of old masters. A felony.”

“Sounds a little vague to me, Sergeant. I’ll give you a call when we get back from the Philippines in two or three weeks.”

“You do that, Commander. I’ll talk to your commanding officer. This is a civilian crime and the Navy has no jurisdiction whatsoever.”

“Good, tell that to the admiral.”

They hung up and Murdock frowned. What in hell had Bradford been doing in his spare time? He’d seen some of his marine paintings. Murdock had one in his apartment. They were good, but not in the class of an old master. There had to be some mistake. Murdock would get it sorted out as soon as they came back from Mindanao.