Payback

2

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock leaned back in the chair at his small desk in the Third Platoon’s tiny office and waved at Ed DeWitt, who angled through the door.

“Well, DeWitt. I hear you had a great vacation down there in the Caribbean.”

“We kicked butt and asked for more, but they sent us home. No casualties, no wounds, all fit for duty.” He dropped into the only other chair in the office and sprawled long legs halfway across the room. “Anything cooking?”

“Not so you could notice. Your buddy and mine, Masciareli, wants us to participate in an all-Seven exercise next week.”

“All ten platoons? Why?”

“Unity, cohesiveness, and the American way. He’s still pissed you got to hit the Carib and he didn’t get to go along.”

“Maybe Don Stroh will rescue us.”

“Not a word from him or the CIA for a month now. He must be on vacation or maybe found a new girl.”

“Thought he was married.”

“He never has said one way or the other.”

“So how are the three wounded coming along?” DeWitt asked.

“You had Franklin with you. He said he was fit for duty.”

“Franklin worked as scout, did a good job. I don’t think that bullet in and out in his left thigh bothered him a bit.”

“Watch him on training for the next week. Not too sure about Bradford. He was in the hospital for a week, then out on limited duty, and so he didn’t report back here until last week. I kept him on an easy training sked. Doctors said that round missed his kidney by an inch and grazed one intestine. So when the infection is gone, he should be back in good shape. But I’m still worried about a torso wound.”

“What about Lam?”

“He’s sucking it up and gutting it out. Had a slug through his lower right leg and a ricochet on his right arm. Both healing well and he keeps up with everybody else on our training marches.”

“So, it’s training time. You have it set for next week?”

“This is Friday, Ed. Who is ready for next week? Unless you want to work Saturday instead of taking your four-day leave.”

DeWitt sighed and crossed his ankles way out on the floor. “Yeah, I’m with you. I’m taking the four days, rest up a little. All that killing pirates makes a guy tired.”

“All I need is your after-action report and you’re out of here.”

“Done in ten minutes.” He pulled out his laptop computer and began pounding away. After a few minutes he looked up. “Oh, keep tabs on Mahanani for me. He’s been acting a little weird lately. Nothing I can pin down. I asked him about it, and he said not to worry, he’d take care of any problems he had.”

“That doesn’t sound like our happy Hawaiian,” Murdock said. “I’ll watch him. Now finish that report and get out of here. Milly know you’re home yet?”

“She’s still at work.”

Meanwhile, Alpha Squad rolled into the equipment room after its ten-mile hike and found Bravo there.

“Vacation over for you guys,” Jaybird yelled. “Now you can get back to real work.”

Paul Jefferson picked up Jaybird and hung him upside down until he bellowed in fury, then tipped him over and sat him on a bench. “Never tease a man when he’s tired, little bird, otherwise you might get your feathers plucked out.”

“Easy on the merchandise, chess player. I don’t want to disappoint a certain little lady bird tonight in the nest.”

“Didn’t know we had buzzards around here,” Bradford jabbed, and Jaybird threw his sweaty T-shirt at him.

Jack Mahanani sat by himself getting dressed after his shower. Usually he was a big part of the high jinks and the drinking parties, but not today. He dressed and cast off as quickly as he could. He had on his civilian clothes when he went over the Quarter Deck, past Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie, and out to his car.

He drove by rote, hardly thinking where he was going. Tonight had to be better, his luck had to change. It hadn’t helped him the last time. He drove steadily for twenty minutes out U.S. Interstate 8 toward a bustling little town, went just past it to the Indian reservation and the sprawling Casa Grande Casino. Mahanani parked and walked in the front door, and at once a man went into step beside him. Mahanani knew him; he was what the casino called a “counselor.”

“Hey Jack, how’s it going, man?”

“In and out, same-oh, same-oh.”

“How are you treating our car?”

“Yeah, the Buick is riding good. I’m keeping up the tire pressure and getting ready for an oil change. I appreciate the lease you gave me on it, Harley, for a dollar a year.” Harley was five ten, all Mesa Grande Indian, with stylish cut black hair, a sparse little beard, and a slight 140-pound body. His main job seemed to be to help people who spent too much at the casino.

“Let me buy you a drink, Jack. We need to talk. Hey, if you weren’t a SEAL, I’d have dusted you out of here weeks ago. Yeah, you had a string of bad luck, but what can I say? I got a five-thousand-dollar credit for you now, which is on my tab, and that’s as far as it’s going.”

They went into one of the bars in the casino, and Jack felt the sweat begin on his forehead. His armpits were already wet. Damn, he just needed a little luck. Twenty-one, the blackjack table, was the best way a player could beat the house. All the rest of the games and the machines were fixed with a definite house advantage. If he could just read the cards a little better.

“Jack, you aren’t listening to me. You’re into us for five thousand, we have the pink slip to your Buick, and can claim it at any time. If you want to put that five thousand on your MasterCard, I can get you back to the tables.”

“You know I don’t have a credit card.” He hesitated, then pulled out his wallet. “But I do have three hundred dollars. You have any objection to a man spending his own money?”

“Hell, man, I should take it on account. If my boss knew you had that scratch, I’d be in a whole pot of trouble.”

“The Buick is worth twice what I owe you. You want to sell it and give me the extra cash?”

“Hey, man, no worry there. We want to keep you happy. So go ahead. Try the table. Maybe it’ll be good to you tonight.”

“No lie? I can just go and play?”

“That’s the business we’re in, Jack. Go on. Have a blast.”

Mahanani finished the drink, bought three hundred in chips, and went to his favorite blackjack table. He watched the play, mentally bet three times, and won each time. A player left the horseshoe and he moved in.

A familiar calm settled over him. Yeah, this was it, the thinking man’s way to gamble. If you played the odds right and could remember just a few cards. He saw the four decks the dealer was using and frowned. Nobody could count cards with four decks. He’d go with logic and the odds. Yes.

The first round he had a jack for a hole card, and came up with an eight. He stayed. The dealer knew he had eighteen or nineteen. The dealer showed seventeen. Two players blew over the twenty-one limit, and two stayed. The dealer checked the cards, then drew a card. He had to hit seventeen. He pulled out a three of diamonds.

“Pay twenty-one, who has twenty-one?” he asked in a singsong voice that Mahanani tried not to let irritate him. He paid one player and dealt the cards again. It was only a ten-dollar chip. He had deliberately bought only tens to help him conserve.

The second round he won, and was even. Then he lost four times in a row. After a half hour of playing, he was down a hundred dollars. He should quit and leave. Have a good dinner down in San Diego and take in that action movie he’d heard a lot about.

He kept playing. Logic, damnit, he told himself. You don’t hit seventeen when the house shows a max of sixteen. Stupid. He drew a five and broke. Get with it.

An hour later he was cleaned out. He saw Harley talk to the dealer and give him a green slip of paper. The dealer pushed the paper across the table toward Mahanani. He knew what it was. A credit slip. He looked at the amount. A thousand dollars. That would put him into the casino for six thousand. How much was the Buick worth? Nine thousand tops. Nowhere near the fifteen he paid for it. He looked at the green slip. The dealer closed the game and he wasn’t in it. Harley came up and touched his shoulder.

“Yeah, some bad luck. Three hundred ain’t no stake for this table. With a thou you can drop a few hundred and come back.”

“Can’t do it, Harley. I’m in too deep now. You know what I make a month? I can’t afford to sell the Buick. Got to have wheels.”

“You get healthy tonight and get your pink back. Give it a try. Hell, it’s only money.”

Mahanani stared at the green slip with his name on it and the printed figure of a thousand dollars. This was getting serious. He told himself he could stop anytime he wanted to. Now he wasn’t so sure. The green slip or his Buick. What would he do without wheels?

Hell, why not? His luck had to change. Logic. He had to think his way into each round. Logic. Yeah, he could do that. He took the pen beside the slip, signed it, and pushed it over to the dealer, who counted out a thousand dollars for him mostly in hundreds. Mahanani pushed the hundred-dollar chips back and asked for tens.

He took his first two cards. A seven in the hole and a jack showing. Good bluffing count, only these dealers never bluffed. Dealer showed sixteen. He watched two players break, saw the next one hold with a nine showing. Probably a nineteen. He looked at the dealer, who had to hit sixteen. The last two cards played out were under five. Bad odds. He put his two ten-dollar chips on top of his cards and waved the dealer off.

The next woman stayed with an eight showing. The dealer checked the hands still alive, then dealt himself a card. A damn four. It would have been his damn four if he’d taken it. The dealer closed out with twenty. He paid one player.

One of those damned nights.

By eleven-thirty that night, Mahanani was down to his last four ten-dollar chips. He shrugged and played all four. He came up with twenty on the deal and stayed. The dealer hit seventeen and pulled a five to break. The house paid.

Mahanani felt a lucky streak coming. Should he let the eighty dollars ride? Hell, no. He grabbed the eight chips, went to the cashier, exchanged them for money, and got out of the casino before he saw Harley.

Six thousand fucking dollars in the red to the Indians. He could stop anytime he wanted to. Sure he could. He sat behind the wheel of the Buick that he owned less than half of, and swore for ten minutes. Then he backed out slowly and took the freeway downhill to his apartment in Coronado. He had to work tomorrow. He was a SEAL. He frowned. No, they just came back from the Caribbean. He was on a four-day leave. What the hell was he going to do for four days? Surf. He’d hit Wind and Sea Beach and surf his balls off.

He wouldn’t gamble anymore. Never again. He laughed. Sure, never again until tomorrow night, because he was off duty and they didn’t have a night maneuver or training. He was a shitty gambler, didn’t have the knack for it. But he knew he couldn’t quit. Not until they refused to let him in the door without a wad of cash. Where would he get a stash of cash? In two or three days his Buick would be gone. The casino’s dollar-a-year lease price would be jumped to four hundred a month and he’d have to bow out. Then how in hell did he get to the casino? How did he get to work? How did he get anywhere?

He parked at his apartment and went up the steps two at a time the way he always did. How was he going to do anything after he lost the Buick? Fuck it. He’d think of something. Fuck it.

Murdock had called a Saturday training session for Alpha Squad. He was there when the SEALs arrived at 0730 looking sleepy and ready to eat nails.

“Good morning to you too, SEALs. Yesterday was our easy day. Today we go up to the mountain and learn again how to fire our weapons. We’ll do fire and move and cover. Then do it again and again until we can do it in our sleep. I won’t lose a man on our next little party because some fucking SEAL in my squad doesn’t know how to fire, cover, and move.”

He looked around, but not even Jaybird had a comment.

“Bring some cash with you because we’ll stop up in Pine Valley for some chow on our way home. No MREs. We load the truck in twenty minutes. I want every man to carry three times normal ammo. We won’t be taking the usual 20mm rounds, but plenty of 5.56. I’ll take some twenties in case we need them. Any questions?”

He looked around. Nobody said a word. Yeah, he decided. It was going to be one of those days.

Timothy Sadler, senior chief petty officer and top EM in the platoon, came into the office a few minutes later when Murdock assembled his gear.

“Do we supply our own driver?” the chief asked.

“Howard gets that assignment. The truck should be out front in less than five. You ready?”

Murdock rode in the cab with Howard. There wasn’t much conversation. Murdock felt grumpy. No reason. He was almost thirty-three years old, unmarried, and still playing kid games with lethal weapons and roaming the world getting shot at by all sorts of unhappy campers. He’d been promoted to lieutenant commander, the fourth step up the officers’ ladder, and could have a career shot at making captain some day before he retired. Of course he couldn’t do that in the SEALs. Too few spots, too many candidates. So he was back to playing with lethal toys hoping he didn’t get too many of his men killed.

His father kept trying to get him to resign and run for Congress. A real opportunity there, and then when the next opening came, he could go for Senator from the Great State of Virginia. Yeah, just what would make him, happy kissing babies and lying to everyone he met so he could get elected.

Then last night Ardith Jane Manchester had called. They’d talked for almost an hour and she’d said she was considering a job in the San Diego area. She was almost certain that she would be leaving Washington, D.C., and government service. So, with Ardith in town all the time, it would mean a better apartment and then the pressure to get married. He had enough troubles already.

It was a three-hour truck ride in the updated version of the trusty old six-by-six basic military truck. They turned off Interstate 8 somewhere the other side of Boulder Oaks, just outside the boundary of the Cleveland National Forest, where they had a loose arrangement with the landowner that they could use his mountains for target practice as long as they closed any gates they came to and policed up their brass and any trash. They always did.

They drove five miles on a dirt track to the left of the highway into sharp-rising hills and mountains. Howard had done this route before, and he came to a stop at a windblown live oak tree that had managed to stay alive through the last four droughts.

Five minutes later Senior Chief Sadler had the squad in a diamond formation and looked over at Murdock.

“Move them into a wide V formation so they don’t kill everyone in sight,” he said. “You and I will be at the center observing. Do a radio check.”

He listened as Sadler had each man chime in on the personal Motorola radios.

“All working, sir.”

“Move them out, Sadler. Keep five yards separation. No firing until my orders.”

The sun was out, tempering the five-thousand-foot altitude, as the SEALs worked up the first slope toward a pair of twin peaks about eight miles distant.

“Hit the dirt,” Murdock called in the radio. “Okay, we’re going to fire and move. I want the squad to move into a line of skirmishers on the senior chief. Ten yards apart. Move it now.” Murdock watched as the men at the end of the V ran back to line up with Saddler. Murdock moved up to the left end of the line.

“Teamwork is the key. I want you to count off by twos from the left. Count.” He barked out the first “one,” the next man called out “two,” the next called out “one,” and so on along the line.

“Number-one men, I want you to fire twelve rounds on my command, straight ahead. As you fire, number-two men will be charging ten yards straight ahead. Check your field of fire. When number-one man finishes firing, the number-two man will hit the dirt and cover for him as he runs up ten yards past where his cover man is firing. Check your fields of fire. We don’t want anyone getting killed out here. It would mess up the whole weekend. Each man will fire and move three times. Any questions?”

There were none. “Yes, I know, we’ve done this a hundred times, but this is a refresher. Time out your cover fire so you can shoot your last shot when your partner hits the dirt ahead of you. Number-two men charge forward first, number-ones support him with live fire. Ready. Start running and firing.”

Murdock hit the dirt and fired straight ahead. He timed his rounds, and quit when his number-two hit the dirt. Then he ran straight ahead past his support man ten yards, before he dropped into the dirt and rocks. The firing behind him stopped. He looked back and saw Jaybird lift up and run forward. He had twenty yards to go. Murdock timed his firing to last until Jaybird dropped down in a prone position ready to fire.

After Murdock had run forward three times, he stood and watched the rest of the men. Only one more man had to complete his run and get covering fire.

“All right,” Murdock said into the Motorola. “Anybody get killed?” He waited a moment. “Good, now let’s move up into a line of skirmishers and see what we can do about the nest of snipers up there in that old oak snag out about two hundred yards.”

Murdock took one end of the line of six men, and Senior Chief Sadler manned the far end.

“Walking fire, every ten seconds. No twenties. Keep the damn line straight. Let’s move.”

They worked ahead with assault fire, blasting the old snag. Twice Murdock had to yell to keep the line straight. When they were within fifty yards of the snag, Murdock called a cease-fire.

“Hold it right here. We’re going to work a new wrinkle. Been a while since we’ve played horse. Now and then we get into a situation where we have to carry out one of our men. Tough, and we can do some training on it.

“Right now I want you to pair up by weight. That’s Jaybird and Lam, Ching and Sadler, Bradford and Van Dyke. I’ve got the small one, Howard. We’ll be working downhill, so that may help. I want you to take the other man on your back and pack him for two hundred yards. Then we switch. We’re going to do that five times if our legs hold out. Let’s do it.”

Murdock motioned for Howard to get on his back. Howard weighed in at 250 to Murdock’s 210.

“You’re giving away forty pounds, Skipper,” Jaybird said.

“So, you want to take him?” Bradford snapped.

Murdock lifted the big man, gritted his teeth, and started downhill, holding on to Howard’s legs with Howard’s huge arms draped over Murdock’s shoulders. He took the steps deliberately, not sure how far he could go. He was in good shape, but this was a real test.

He worked well the first hundred yards. There were some yells and screeches from the other men. Murdock concentrated on getting his feet in front of each other and down the hill. By the time he made it to the last twenty yards, his legs were feeling rubbery, as if they might collapse.

Howard thumped him on the shoulder. “Far enough, Skipper,” he said, and Murdock let him down, then dropped to the ground rubbing his legs.

The others arrived, and the carriers looked spent. Murdock gave everyone a moment, then stood. “Let’s move out another two hundred. Change riders and carriers.”

Howard picked up Murdock as if he was an inflated toy and marched down the hill. He looked over his shoulder at Murdock. “Hey, sometimes I have trouble with distances. We might get closer to three hundred than two. Won’t hurt nothing. Know I’m a load. I’m gonna be damn sure not to get shot up bad.”

Howard did work down almost three hundred before they changed places and caught up with the other men. Murdock’s legs were hurting again, and when everyone was at the six-hundred-yard mark, Murdock called it off.

“Enough for this time. We’ll try to keep the weight class more even when we have Bravo with us. Now, take ten and let my legs get back to normal.”

“Hey, one thing,” Jaybird chirped. “I’m gonna write a law that says Howard can’t get bad shot up on a mission.”

“Yeah, and I’ll sign that bill into law,” Murdock said.

Murdock gave himself and the rest fifteen minutes to get their breath back and legs rested. Then he pointed to the tallest peak in the range. “See Bald Cap over there? How far do you think the top of it is from us?”

“Ten miles,” Bradford said.

“No way,” Lam said. “Look at those ridges in front of it. Got to be twenty-five at least.”

“That’s our target for tonight,” Murdock said.

“Twenty-five out and twenty-five back?” Ching asked.

“No, we fly back,” Jaybird said.

“Not going all the way,” Murdock said. “We’ll do ten miles due north and then turn around.”

“Only ten?” Van Dyke asked. “Hey, we’re getting a break.”

“Then back to the bus?” Jaybird asked.

“About the size of it,” Murdock said.

“Good,” Jaybird said. “That’s where the food has to be. Even an MRE will look good by the time we get back.”

Murdock put Howard in the lead with Bradford and Lam right behind him. They hiked in a column five yards apart. Murdock was behind Lam watching the two men who’d been wounded on the last mission. Any trouble and he’d drop them out for pickup on the return leg.

Everyone made the ten miles. Then Murdock turned them around at once and led out at a stronger pace for the bus.

“Oh, yes, big bad food-laden bus, here we come,” Jaybird sang out.

Bradford straggled a little on the return hike. Murdock gave the lead to Jaybird and hung back with Bradford. They were a quarter of a mile behind when the others hit the bus.

“Sorry, Skipper, just not as strong yet as I’m gonna be. Another two weeks and I’ll be shit-kicking guys all over the place.”

The men had a big cardboard box out of the bus when Murdock got there, but they hadn’t opened it.

Murdock slit the tape with his KA-BAR and handed out the box lunches he had conned out of the mess hall early that morning. They each had two two-slices-of-bread sandwiches, raw carrots, a big dill pickle, a candy bar, and a small can of mixed fruit with a snap top.

“Hey, anybody want to trade his mixed fruit for one of my sandwiches?” Vinnie Van Dyke asked. Nobody did.

After the meal, Murdock gave them fifteen minutes more to relax, then sent Jaybird and Lam out to the target range. He had them unfold the cardboard boxes they carried. They were two feet square, and the SEALs anchored them with a few rocks so they wouldn’t blow away. They put a box at four, five, and six hundred yards, then jogged back to the bus.

“Going to see exactly how far we can use the EAR weapon,” Murdock said. “Bradford, try one shot at the box at four hundred yards.”

Bradford went prone, sighted in on the box, and fired. There was the usual whooshing sound as the Enhanced Audio Rifle fired and the blast of air out the back kicked up a dust devil.

The box at four hundred yards slammed backward, collapsed, and rolled thirty yards along the side of the hill.

“Works at four,” Murdock said. “Sadler, try the five-hundred-yard target.”

He did, and the box flattened and jolted backward ten yards.

“Acceptable,” Murdock said. “Ching, take a shot with the EAR at the six-hundred-yard box.”

He did, and there was no movement of the box or the ground on either side of it. Fifty yards this side of the box, there was a minor disturbance and some dust kicked up.

“So, we have a working range of five hundred for the EAR. Who hasn’t fired one of the twenties in a while?”

Three men lifted hands, and Sadler, Howard, and Jaybird each put three rounds through the twenty at a huge rock out about a thousand yards.

When they finished, Murdock told the men to load up, then police the area. He thought about the brass they had left on the assault fire going up the hill. Tough. They’d done enough today. They would police up that part next time out.

On the bus ride back to Coronado, Murdock could think only of a nice hot shower and a good dinner out somewhere. The men had voted not to stop in Alpine for a store-bought meal. Murdock wondered if he could figure out how to set up a chat room with Ardith so they could talk back and forth on the Internet. It could be done. He’d just have to work it out.

Lam had made the hike and workout with no problem. Bradford was still a little weak, but if they had two or three weeks before any serious assignment, he should round into shape with no problem. Now the only question was, would the CNO, Don Stroh of the CIA, and the President give them the three weeks they needed?