Tropical Terror

6

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock watched the admiral closely, his mind already whirling with questions he was sure the Navy’s head man in the Pacific wouldn’t have answers for.

“What do we have to work with, Admiral?”

“Just two radio transmissions today and three phone calls yesterday. All were taped and we have copies of them for you. We know nothing about this splinter group of Chinese. We think they came from a Chinese destroyer and went ashore in a small boat. There could be only three or four or up to two dozen. We’re flying blind here. All we have is a radio frequency, their call sign, and their say-so that they are on Maui. We know that’s where our two men were vacationing with their families this week.”

“You have radio triangulation equipment on-base?”

“I believe so. The chief will check at once.”

A non-com left the room.

“We’ll need that equipment and an open radio channel with you so you can contact the group frequently to help us find a location on them. There’s a chance their transmitter isn’t where the hostages are being held.”

“Transport, Commander?”

“Two Sea Knights, to stay at the Maui airport at our disposal. Also, we’ll need to pick up all of our gear here including the EAR weapons. My men need a change of uniforms, a good meal, and we’ll be ready to go.”

“Sleep, Commander?”

“We’ll do that on the way to Maui.”

Four more officers sat around the big table in the admiral’s planning room.

“What about the radio?” Murdock asked. “We’ll be using the SATCOM.”

The admiral looked at one of the other officers, who spoke at once. “I can set up your transceiver to a clear channel. Take about five minutes. I’ll go back to your quarters with you.”

“Any restrictions on firing, sir?” Murdock asked.

“None. Remember, this is a civilian situation. Use your non-lethal when civilians or the hostages are involved. As for the Chinese, we want at least two of them alive to put on trial for the murder of little Patty.”

“Right, sir. We better get moving. We’ll work with Commander Johnson again for any equipment or resupply?”

“Correct.”

Murdock, DeWitt, and Dobler all stood, did about-faces, and walked out of the room. Lieutenant Commander Johnson stood outside waiting for them.

“We have two combat-equipped Sea Knights standing by at the runway at Hickam. I’ve had all of your gear brought together at the equipment room at your quarters.”

As they talked, the officer who’d spoken inside came out. He held out his hand.

“Commander Wilson. I’ll recalibrate your SATCOM and make some radio checks for you. Oh, thanks for getting our commo center back in operation. We only found one bullet hole in a piece of equipment, and that we replaced quickly.”

“Our job, Commander,” Murdock said.

A Humvee pulled up, and Johnson motioned the men into it.

Two hours later, fed, with fresh cammies and restocked ammo pouches and equipment, the Third Platoon stepped out of the Sea Knight chopper at the civilian airport near Kahului, Maui. Three white Ford extended vans met them on the tarmac, and they drove away. A short time later, they stopped on a vacant stretch of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

A specialist had come along to set up the triangulation equipment. He placed one receiver on the point of land, then took the other two ten miles away north and south and set them up. By 1600 they were ready.

Triangulation is a simple procedure whereby the three radio receivers will pick up a signal, each taking an accurate compass reading on it. The three directions are plotted automatically on a computer and where the three cross, that should be the place where the radio transmitter was operating. It does not always work. Sometimes there is distortion. Sometimes the transmitter is in a car or van and can be moving during transmission, and then keep on going afterward and be in an entirely new area.

This one had to work, Murdock told himself. They had nothing else.

Ron Holt made a radio check with CINCPAC and told them the trap was set. Ron changed his settings to pick up the CINCPAC frequency they would use to contact the kidnappers.

“We wait,” Murdock said.

Five minutes later the transmission went out. CINCPAC had a question about the amount of payback money for Chinese Naval ships sunk during the operation.

A reply came from the Chinese, but it was in a burst such as would come from a SATCOM-type radio. Lieutenant Hamlin watched the readout on his computer.

“A burst. Without a computer and enhancement, we wouldn’t have a prayer. With it we can get a shot at it.” The reports came in from the other listening posts by radio signal, and they were plotted on the computer and that overlaid on a map of the area, which had been preprogrammed into the computer.

Lieutenant Hamlin grinned. “Yes, we have a hit. It’s in a residential section of the small town of Keanae down the coast about twelve miles. I’ve got it about fifty feet south of an intersection there. We might get lucky.”

Two minutes later the van driver knew the location, and led the way with two of the vans loaded with SEALs. The lieutenant would try for another cross shot of any more transmissions.

They blasted down the coastal Highway 360 far above the speed limit, but they saw no traffic cops. It took them only ten minutes to hit the small town, then another five to find the right street. They parked a block away from the intersection, and saw a sprawling frame house halfway up the block. There were no other houses nearby.

“Could be it,” Murdock told the troops. They had unloaded, but stayed behind the vans.

“DeWitt, take your squad through the block here and see how close you can get to the back door. Don’t show yourself. We’ll work the front from across the street.” Bravo Squad moved out with Guns Franklin on the point.

Murdock looked at the two drivers. Both were young, clean-cut, and wore civilian clothes.

“Hey, drivers. You’ve just been promoted. You’re both Mormons on a mission. All you have to do is walk down the street, go up to that house, and knock on the door. See if you can raise anyone. My bet is that nobody will answer. Then walk on toward the next house way up the block.”

One of the drivers frowned. The other poked him in the shoulder. “Hey, you wanted in on some action. This is as close as we’ll get. Let’s do it.”

They talked together for a minute, then both shrugged and took the walk.

The two white vans were out of sight of the house. Murdock and three of his men bellied through the grass up to a point where they could see the house and watch the drivers. Murdock wished that he could be with the drivers.

The two men walked a little self-consciously up the sidewalk to the house. It was in bad repair, but looked occupied. One of them knocked on the front door.

Nothing happened.

They waited and then the same man knocked again. They heard somebody yell from inside. A third knock brought a sudden jerking open of the door and a Chinese man with rumpled hair and in his twenties.

“Sleeping, for God’s sakes,” he said. “Can’t you let a guy get some sleep? I work nights.”

“Sorry, we’re from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and wondered if you have a home church.”

“What the fuck are you saying? A church? Get the hell off my property. Come on, get off.”

Just after the man said it, a radio spoke in another room in the house with the smooth voice of the CINCPAC operator.

The driver shrugged. “Hey, we’re just trying to save your soul.”

The Chinese man slammed the door hard in their faces. They lifted their brows and walked away, but instead of going the long way, they cut back toward where their vans were parked.

Murdock watched them with a frown. He had seen the door open and the short talk. Maybe they’d heard something that would help. He and the others wormed back out of sight, then ran to the vans.

Harley, the more talkative of the two drivers, gave Murdock a play-by-play account of the meet.

“You say you heard a radio voice that you swear was the same one you heard on our radio from CINCPAC?”

“Swear to God, the same voice.”

Murdock looked at his watch. It was almost 1700. Be dark in two hours.

“We’ve got to move in before dark.” He knew the other squad had heard his talk with Harley the driver.

“DeWitt, you copied that?”

“That’s a Roger. We’re about forty yards from the back door. No fences. Two rear windows have heavy drapes on them. Inside, they are blind to us unless they move the drapes.”

“On my signal move up quietly, cover the rear windows and door.” Murdock looked around. They were fifty yards from the house. Windows on the side were not draped.

“Windows in the front of the house, Harley. Were they covered or open?”

“Blinds drawn. That old kind that you pull down and roll up. Closed off tight.”

“Lieutenant, any more transmissions from the house?”

The specialist looked up from his laptop computer. “One more that plotted about twenty feet from the first one.”

“Alpha Squad, we’re moving in. We have to get in front of the place first. Give us two minutes, DeWitt. Then we’ll signal and both walk up to the place together.”

It worked that way. Murdock heard nothing from inside the house. At the front door Bill Bradford lifted his size-thirteen boot and blasted the door open. It swung inside and Murdock was first through the open door, slanting right. Jaybird dove to the left.

“Clear,” both SEALs said at the same time. They heard excited voices from another room. Murdock and Jaybird were on their feet looking through a connecting door.

They heard a crash that might have been the back door being kicked open. A handgun barked in one of the rooms. That sound was followed by a three-round burst from a submachine gun, and then another burst.

When the sound tapered off, the earpieces spoke.

“We have two prisoners and one KIA,” Ed DeWitt said. “Are you inside, Alpha?”

“Inside and holding front two rooms. Move toward us carefully.”

Just then a man stormed through the open door from the second room. Jaybird, standing near the door, heard him coming and clubbed him with the stock of his Bull Pup, swinging it like a baseball bat. The Chinese man went down in a heap of arms and legs. Jaybird promptly cuffed him with riot plastic strips.

Ed DeWitt peered through the door. “Clear up to here,” he said.

“On the net. Everyone search this place. We need an address, a phone number, photos, anything that would tell us where the hostages might be. Move it.”

They looked for half an hour, tearing the place apart. It had been unused for a long time and the recent occupants hadn’t even messed up a coat of dust. It wasn’t hard to see what had been moved and where such information might be.

“Not a fucking thing,” Jaybird said. “We’ve been over this place with our fine-tooth a dozen times. No number on a scrap of paper. No note on a sleeping bag. Nothing.”

“How many live ones do we have?” Murdock asked.

“Three and one KIA,” DeWitt said.

“Separate them and interrogate,” Murdock said. “Try in English, then let Ching go with his Mandarin.”

As he said it they all heard a car driving up to the front door and stopping. The four men split to different sides of the front room and watched the door, which still hung open, with one hinge out of place.

“Hello, anyone home?” a voice asked from outside.

Jaybird jumped in front of the open door, his Bull Pup covering the visitor.

The young man wore a baseball cap and carried an “instant hot” pizza box.

“Hey, at least it’s a different weapon this time. You owe me twelve dollars and forty-two cents.”

Ten minutes later they finished talking with the delivery man. He knew nothing about the people in the house. Twice he had brought them pizza and cola. The first call was yesterday afternoon.

“That’s twelve dollars and…”

Murdock waved him quiet. “We don’t have any money. Hey, try the drivers of those two white vans a half block over. They look hungry.”

The SEALs went back to the questioning. One of the men spoke English. He quickly admitted he was a U.S. citizen and had been sucked into this conspiracy. He did what they told him to do. He didn’t even know that some Chinese had invaded two of the islands.

“No one has come to this house except the pizza guy,” the Hawaiian-Chinese man said.

Murdock believed him.

The questioning with the Mandarin-talkers went slower. There was a minor language problem, but they could communicate. Ching quickly found the one in charge of the radio location. He refused even to give his name.

Ching hit him in the face with his big fist and knocked the tied man off the chair. He was put back on the chair and the same question asked. Ching hit him again, this time in his unprotected gut. The man turned pale. Then his eyes went wide and he vomited on the floor.

On a small radio that had been left precisely where it had been when they came in, Mandarin words were now heard. Ching picked up the transceiver and answered.

“Yes, we are here. There has been no report from the Americans.”

“Where is Sung?”

“Taking a piss. Need any of us over there?”

“No. We’re secure here. The plane is ready if we need it. Ask Chang if he thinks another body would infuriate the Americans and be counterproductive.”

“Will do.”

Ching put his hand over the microphone, and a moment later spoke into it. “Chang said the one kill should be enough. Any more would, as you say, be counterproductive.”

“Keep in touch.”

“We’ll do that.”

The set went silent.

Murdock had listened from the doorway. Ching translated the exchange. Then Murdock called for Holt, who had the radio out and was folding out the antenna as he ran into the room.

“CINCPAC, now.”

Holt made the moves and gave Murdock the handset. He made one call and had a quick answer.

“CINCPAC, how many private landing strips on Maui big enough for a good-sized plane that are near or on the grounds of a large house or mansion?”

“One of my men is contacting the FAA here. We’ll know in a few minutes. What progress?”

Murdock told the officer of their find and the dead end. “When we get a good lead, we’ll let you know. Murdock out.”

Holt moved the SATCOM to one side, leaving the antenna tuned on the satellite and the switches on to receive. He went to the table and stared at the radio the Chinese used.

“Look at that little thing,” he said. “It isn’t even Chinese. It’s a low-priced walkie-talkie.” He looked at the printed material on the sides and back and chuckled. “Damn, only a half-watt output. That means this shit-face radio can transmit not more than three or four miles at the most.”

“Oh, yeah,” Murdock yelped. “Holt, you wonderful motherfucker, don’t you ever die. Get on the horn and ask CINCPAC for any airfields within four miles of this spot. Do it now. Let’s suit up and get out of here. Didn’t I see a cell phone in that van? Let’s move. Leave these assholes here tied up. We’ll phone the local cops to come pick them up and hold for the military.”

They rushed back to the van, and Holt kept the SATCOM set up with the antenna positioned. It beeped again to confirm it was aligned right. He made the new transmission about a local airfield, and had back a quick response.

“A local tells us there is an airfield at an old Dole mansion about three miles out of town inland. The road is Dole Road. The place is huge with airfield, swimming pools, polo field, the works. Owned by a rich Chinese now, as I understand it from the local officer from that area.”

“Could be the site of the hostages. We’re moving. Be dark in another hour, just about right. SEALs work best in the dark. Out.”

The vans were moving. The drivers knew the road and the mansion.

“Hell of a big place,” Harley said. He’d been past it. As he remembered, it had a private road with a gate that was usually locked.

They drove up to the gate just after dusk with the patented flaming Hawaiian sunset behind them. The gate had two padlocks on it.

“Oh, yes, Mother,” Miguel Fernandez said. “This one has an electrical keeper. If the gate is opened and the circuit is broken, it rings an alarm somewhere and we get company fast.”

Murdock stared at the gate locks. The padlocks would come open with little trouble. The electric circuit was another matter. How in hell did they open the gate to get the vans through and not break the connection?