Deadly Force (12 page)

“Right, Mr. Vice President. Commander Blake Murdock and another SEAL moved up your way and delivered the message you must have received.”

“So why don't you send me the whole platoon? What is it, sixteen men? Send them to me so we can get some real firefights going here.”

“Now
that
we can talk about. The SEALs have guns free for any operation except against the Loyalist people. Maybe we can work out some kind of a joint attack. Hit them from both sides. The SEALs can lay down a devastating amount of gunfire once they get in position.”

“Mr. Ambassador, Mojombo Washington wants to talk to you. He's right here.”

“Mr. Ambassador, Washington here. We met once, but you wouldn't remember. What can you do to help us up here?”

“Not a lot, but we're talking with the President and the Navy. I'll let you know the minute we have any good news.”

“That is sounding better,” Washington said. “We have a small operation going down tonight, but if it works, it will happen without a shot being fired. Let you know how it comes out tomorrow. So when can you send the SEALs upriver?”

“Have to talk to the commander about that.”

“Is he there? Give him the mike.”

“Just a minute and I'll get him. What I'm wondering is, will the people follow you if you can get a full-scale revolution going? Can you get enough support for a mass march on the Government Building and throw President Kolda out of office?”

“Probably not without half of the Army coming over to my side. Then we'll have a chance. The Army is the big
factor. A lot of the top officers are unhappy with the current command. I'm working on it.”

“Mr. Washington, this is Lieutenant Commander Murdock.”

“I hear you were almost in Camp Freedom today.”

“Close enough, Mr. Washington. Glad you received the letter. I hope the sentry we gave it to was not punished. He did nothing wrong. He's a good soldier.”

“Actually I promoted him to corporal. Now. When can you bring your platoon up here and help us plan some attacks and then help us to take down President Kolda?”

“I'd say as soon as you get the support of and control the countryside and half of Sierra City. Then we'd have a chance of taking down the government. A revolution is a tricky affair. The people and the Army are the keys. Like you just told the ambassador, you need half the Army to desert to your command.”

“You're not very encouraging.”

“There's a lot we can do from this end, or with your help. Hit at some strategic points that won't harm the civilians. If you want them on your side, you can't start by killing half of them.”

“Right. One of my rules is that we will strike at no position where any civilians will be hurt or inconvenienced. For instance, we won't blow up the water-filtration plant in Sierra City.”

“Good move. I'd like to meet you, Mr. Washington, and talk. You tell your outposts and lookouts that three motorcycles will be coming up the trail tomorrow and not to blow our heads off. We'll use the password of Harley Davidson.”

Washington laughed. “Oh, yes, the Harley Hog. I rode one once. Then I wanted one for five years. Done. I may not be here by the time you get here, but talk with the Vice President and look over my men. Now, put the ambassador back on.”

“Yes, Mr. Washington,” Oberholtzer said.

“You contact the Navy. Tell them what we need. Also tell the President that tomorrow I'll be making my demands that the U.S. must meet in order for me to turn the Vice President over to the embassy there in Sierra City.”

“Demands? I thought this was a non-kidnapping situation.”

“I have demands. Quite a few and rather tough to meet, but the U.S. and the rest of the world can do it. I'll give my demands to the President on this frequency and on an international radio frequency tomorrow night at six.”

Detective Sergeant Petroff stared at the three piles of paper on his desk. He'd cleaned all the other cases off it. One stack detailed all of their interviews with the involved persons in the OD death of Joisette Brown. The second was Joisette's will and legal papers. The third pile was all they knew about Shortchops Arnold Jackson.

Petroff had an OD on a heroin victim, confirmed now by the autopsy. There were three other drugs in her system, but they hadn't killed her. However, the police had found no syringes at the scene. Neither of the women had a syringe or any drugs with them. The medical examiner hadn't indicated if death was due to a self-induced OD or to one induced by a person or persons unknown.

Then there were the legal papers, the legal and binding will the victim had left, and transcripts of the special interviews with three of the band members after Petroff found out they also were in the victim's will. The one he hadn't talked to a second time was the SEAL, Sadler, who the Navy said was on a mission “overseas.” The SEAL master chief petty officer out on the Coronado Strand assured Petroff that he would be notified as soon as Senior Chief Sadler returned to the base. There was no estimate given when that might be.

Three of the members of the Gaslamp Quarter Dixieland Band said they knew nothing of the dead girl, had only seen her briefly that one time the night she died, and that they had no knowledge whatsoever that they had been
named in the will each to get $50,000. They were stunned when he told them. There was no chance these three straight-laced dudes were lying. He didn't know yet about Chief Sadler.

The stack of goods on Jackson was mostly from the musicians' union and the Internet. His hometown paper in Cleveland had run a series of articles about him and his jazz work a year ago. Petroff had copies. They didn't help a bit. Well, a little. The man had been on chemo for a year to beat testicular cancer. It could come back at any time somewhere else in his body. He was seventy-eight years old. He was black, so he probably had prostate trouble. Petroff couldn't find any serious police records on Jackson. Busted twice in Cleveland for possession, but was cleared both times. That was it. Certainly no serious shit like murder. Had Shortchops given the girl the OD deliberately so he could collect his inheritance? He'd had the opportunity when he was alone with her. He'd had the means. He'd had the motive. But it all was shit-faced circumstantial, and not nearly enough to get a warrant for his arrest.

Two of the band members said that Chief Sadler had left the back room at the club just after Shortchops and the girl did. He was gone about five minutes. They figured it was a piss call.

Again circumstantial. Both Shortchops and Chief Sadler had the opportunity and the motive for killing the girl. He didn't know if Sadler had the means. The other band men said, as far as they knew, Sadler was straight-arrow when it came to drugs.

Which put Petroff right back in the vise, and the captain was squeezing it. Petroff had a week to get enough evidence for a warrant, or they would leave it open as an OD death with no suspects.

The 3.5-million-dollar estate kept bugging Petroff. A lot of men would do a lot for that kind of money. Had Shortchops waited for his chance and then hit Joisette with a huge OD? The medical examiner said there was enough heroin in her system to kill her two times over. Could the girl have taken a hit and forgotten it and had another one? Or had Shortchops given her a shot not knowing she'd already
boosted? Or had Shortchops deliberately given her a double dose knowing that it would put her down and dead in the alley before anyone could get there to help her? There was a chance that Chief Sadler had provided the fatal pop of heroin so he could collect the fifty thousand. That was a pile of money for a hardworking enlisted Navy man.

A week. He had a week, and then the captain was closing the file and putting him on something else. What the hell could he do in a week? Easy. He had to find Shortchops. He put on his jacket and headed for the garage. He had some favors due in the black community. There had to be somebody down there who knew Jackson, and maybe how to find him. It came down to digging up Jackson for a long talk, or quitting the whole damned case.

An idea hit him squarely between the eyes. There was a chance he could phone Senior Chief Sadler. The Navy said they would cooperate in every way they could. He started the unmarked Ford and headed for Coronado. There was a chance. Maybe a good one.

A half hour later he shook hands with Master Chief MacKenzie in the Quarterdeck.

The master chief read from the card just presented. “So, Detective Sergeant Petroff, what can I do for you today?”

“I'm at a critical point in my investigation of a death I think was a homicide. Senior Chief Sadler is a material witness and I need to talk with him. I know he's overseas. I also know he usually is on covert missions. What I need is a telephone interview with him of about ten minutes. I don't want to know where he is or what he's doing. None of my business. Solving this murder is. Who do I have to see to get approval for you to use your radios or phone lines to get me in touch with Senior Chief Sadler?”

MacKenzie nodded at the detective and sat down behind his desk. “Sergeant Petroff, let me make a phone call. I realize that the Navy has no exclusion rights when the police ask for our cooperation. This is slightly different. If you could wait in the outer office for a few minutes, I'll get your answer.”

“Fine, no problem. Oh, do you have any coffee?”

When the door closed, MacKenzie dialed Commander
Dean Masciareli. The boss of the SEAL complex was in and not busy. He took the call. After hearing the request in detail, the commander made an instant decision.

“I don't see how we can deny the sergeant a call. Just be sure it's covert as to area and activity. You might try SATCOM first. I have no idea what time it is in Africa. Carry on, Master Chief.”

When the detective came back inside he expected to get a quick no. His face brightened with the good news.

“We'll try to contact the platoon by SATCOM,” said MacKenzie. “It's a military radio that works off the satellite system. Usually we can contact any of our people anywhere in the world. I'll have it set up and get the antenna adjusted.”

The master chief looked at his watch. “With the time differential it should be early evening there. Which means they might not have their set turned on. It could take us an hour to make contact.”

“Fine, I'll wait. Just so the coffee holds out.”

It was almost two hours later before the calls every fifteen minutes to Murdock's platoon brought an answer.

Master Chief MacKenzie explained the situation.

“I can have Senior Chief Sadler here in five minutes,” Bill Bradford said. “Hey, there he is. Just a shake.” There was some dead air, then a new voice came on.

“Petroff, you still bugging me? Hope you've got that case all wrapped up.”

“Afraid not, Senior Chief. Have a few more questions for you. Did you know you were mentioned in the dead black girl's will?”

“Will? How would a down-and-out hooker have any money for a will?”

Petroff explained it to Sadler.

“You mean she was a kid of the Billy Ben Brown, one of the greatest jazz men who ever lived?”

“She was. She left to each of the men in your jazz band fifty thousand dollars.”

“Now I know this is a prank call. Nobody ever left me anything. Who are you really?”

“Would the master chief play a trick on you, Senior Chief?”

“No, guess not. Wow. Well, all I can say is that I had no idea. I bet the other three guys didn't either, right? Hey, wait a minute. Are you implying that one of our band guys had anything to do with the girl's OD just because we were in her will?”

“Had crossed my mind. What I haven't told you is that Shortchops Jackson gets the balance, something over three-point-five-million dollars.”

“That I don't believe.”

“Believe it. Billy Ben earned millions and knew how to keep his cash.”

“What does Shortchops say about this?”

“I'd like to find out. We haven't seen him or talked to him. He vanished the same night the girl had the overdose. You know where we can find him?”

“No idea. But you're crazy if you think any of the other four of us had anything to do with that OD.”

“Where did you go during the break when you left the back room just after Shortchops and Joisette left?”

“So that's it. I had the opportunity and now the motive. Sorry to bust up your case, but I went to the john. People have to do that, you know. And no, I don't have any witnesses. I don't need any help quite yet to take care of my own basic bodily functions. Now, if you don't have any more sensible questions, I have work to do. We're getting busy here today, so I'm signing off.”

The speaker on the SATCOM went dead.

“You must be through,” the Master Chief said to Petroff.

“Evidently. Trouble is, I don't know a damned thing more now than when I came out here. Thanks, Master Chief MacKenzie. I still want to hear from you the minute Senior Chief Sadler hits your Quarterdeck.”

It was night. Mojombo Washington had twenty men crammed into the powerboat that had come down the river on low power to cut down on the noise. He pulled in at a
small village fifteen miles north of Sierra City, and almost five miles upstream from where they usually landed with the boats.

The men formed into a column, and Mojombo led them out at an easy jog toward the city. At the first small village they borrowed two trucks that they promised to bring back before sunup. Both were small vans with twelve-foot-long bodies, which would hold a lot of goods.

They rode the rest of the way to the northern part of Sierra City, and left the trucks a block from their target. It was a large warehouse in a section not far from the river. Originally it had been used to keep merchandise and goods coming into the country via the river on small boats. Now it had been sealed, and there were two guards pacing in front of the big truck door.

Mojombo and his best marksman settled in the grass in the prone position and aimed their AK-47's. Both were pleased with the field of fire and the one-hundred-yard distance.

“Do it,” Mojombo said, and they both fired. The sharp crack of the rifles jolted into the quiet night and stilled a dozen nighttime insects and a nighthawk in mid-cry. They waited a moment. Then a squad of six men rushed the building, dragged the dead guards out of the light, and opened the big door. The first truck was ready, and was backed into the warehouse. Then the door was closed. Two men took the place of the guards, using their weapons and hats. In the poor light outside, they were hard to tell from the government troops.

Inside the warehouse, the men turned on the lights, and Mojombo whistled in amazement. “He's got everything here. Food, TV sets, video players, and cases of liquor.”

He did a quick survey and marked things to take. “All of the canned food, the packaged food. Anything we can eat,” he told the workers. The eighteen men rushed around loading the truck. To one side he found two new Honda 500cc motorcycles. He pushed them on board the truck himself. Most of what he saw he couldn't use. Dozens of pieces of furniture, recliners, dining-room sets, bedroom sets. There was nothing perishable. He found a dozen
five-gallon cans of gasoline. He took those for the bikes and his generator at the camp.

When the first truck was filled, they drove it out and backed in the second. Just then a jeep rounded a corner a block away. They pulled the door closed and waited. The men in the military jeep evidently were checking on the guards. The rig didn't stop. The man in the front seat simply waved at the two soldiers in front of the warehouse walking their posts. Then the jeep drove on.

The men inside filled the second truck with more of the food.

“Should we burn it down?” Lieutenant Gabu asked Mojombo. The leader frowned. “No, all of this can be given to the people when we take over. Let's leave it here. Let's move out now.”

Mojombo's second in command closed up the second truck. They looked outside, had a go from the two guards, and drove out, with the men inside and hanging on the sides and backs of the two trucks as they moved quietly through the dark streets north.

They drove to the end of the road at the ten-mile point from the city, and there the men began carrying the goods off the trail into the edge of the jungle, just out of sight. When everything was hidden, two men drove each truck back to the owners and thanked them with three cases of food each. Then they hiked back to the cache of food.

Mojombo took his men into the jungle another two hundred yards and let them go to sleep. They would be up at dawn to greet the people taking goods to market, telling them that when they came back there would be a surprise for them.

“It will be with the goodwill of the Bijimi Loyalist Party,” Mojombo told the people who began streaming by with their carts and wagons loaded with goods to sell at the open market.

Just after midday, some of the farmers began moving back up the trail. Mojombo stopped them, and his men piled cases of food on their empty carts and wagons and one small truck. He told them they could have one case for
every three they delivered as far north as possible. The farmers were delighted.

“We will remember you, Mojombo,” one elderly farmer said. He had twelve cases of food on his horse cart. “We will help you however we can.”

One of Mojombo's men went with every four groups taking food up the trail.

Just before nightfall, Mojombo's men had moved more than two hundred cases of food up the trail. The carts were used up to the twenty-mile mark. Then it was a walking trail. They hid most of the food off the trail and carried the rest to their camp. The hidden food would be used as needed, or it would be taken downstream to their next camp when they moved toward the city.