Deadly Force (16 page)

“The EAR most likely first. How long to get down the river?”

Washington frowned. “Three hours. We can take fishing gear. The last stretch of the river is good for fishing. We can use civilian clothes there, and maybe on into town.”

“After dark we won't have to hide the weapons. Let's get ready and do it.”

 

They left at 1600 in the twelve-foot boat with motor. The second half of the trip they put on civilian shirts and hats and pretended to fish. They had no bait or hooks on their lines, only sinkers. After it was dark, they turned off the engine and drifted. Mojombo kept the small boat along the far shore. They heard rifle fire ahead on that side, and slanted to the other wooded shoreline.

On a hunch, Mojombo went past the fifteen-mile dock and angled into the shore down a quarter of a mile, where they hid the boat in some heavy vines. They changed back into their cammy shirts, and moved through the tangle of trees and brush to the one-lane dirt road that led south. Murdock brought his MP-5 up to port arms as he moved, just as a precaution. It was a fast-response weapon. They had walked fifty yards when a bright light snapped on not thirty feet from them and a voice barked out a command.

“Drop your weapons and put your hands into the air or we'll fire.”

 

 

Murdock dove to the left as he triggered the MP-5, raking the searchlight and killing it, and then swinging the muzzle to where he figured the voice had come from. A moment later a wail of pain lanced into the night. Murdock rolled four times, stopped on his stomach, and lifted the MP-5. There were shadows ahead. Then two shots fired. He kicked out three three-shot bursts from the sub gun at the muzzle flashes he saw, then rolled three times in the grass and weeds. When he stopped, he fired another six rounds at one muzzle flash he saw ahead. Then all he heard was silence. He clicked his mike twice and heard two clicks back. Both the other men had Motorola personal radios. A moment later came another set of clicks.

“Anybody hit?” Murdock whispered into his throat mike.

“Negative,” Howard said.

“Caught one in the arm,” Mojombo said. “Not too bad. I think it went on through.”

“Left side of the road,” Murdock said. “Move over here if you can with no noise. Might be one of them still alive up there.”

Murdock heard someone coming. Mojombo. Howard floated up without a sound. “Let's backtrack a hundred yards and move over to the next road,” Mojombo said. “It's not this traveled. Maybe they don't have any blocking group there.”

“We clean up on this bunch?” Howard asked.

“No, but first we look at that arm. Shield me, Howard, while I use my mini-light on Mojombo's arm. Over here.” He saw the African leader push up his left sleeve. The
bullet had lanced through the flesh on the lower side of his arm well away from the bone. Murdock used a kerchief and bound up the wound tightly. “Now it shouldn't bleed. Let's move.”

They found the next road south in a few minutes and jogged toward the city. Twice Mojombo asked the time. It was 1920 the last time.

“The betting stops at 2200,” Mojombo said. “Assaba will be there a half hour before then. He always bets.”

“So we have time to get there and get set up?” Murdock asked.

“Yes, should have. Maybe five miles to go.”

“We take him before he goes in or after he comes out?” Howard asked.

“Before,” said Mojombo. “Fewer people on the street. Afterwards, hundreds of men are around the doorway.”

They jogged down a dirt road that turned into a street with houses on both sides. Mojombo led them around the block to a less-traveled street, and they kept moving. Twice they stopped and let Army patrols move through the streets. The squads of four men were walking. No trucks, Murdock decided.

The last four blocks they moved cautiously, with Mojombo in the lead rushing from one shadow to the next. When he stopped them, they were half a block from the club in the downtown business area. They had come up an alley, and directly across the street was the club where the girls bet their lives on five-to-one odds. A parking spot had been left open right in front of the door.

“He'll get out on the far side away from us,” Murdock said. “We have to use the EAR as soon as his car stops. You tell us that it's the right car and Howard will fire. Then we charge up at once to the car and open the door, and you confirm your ID of the general.”

Mojombo nodded. They waited. It was just after 2120 when a big black Cadillac swept into the parking spot.

“Yes, that's his car. I know the license plate.”

Howard fired the EAR. The familiar whooshing sound came, and Murdock and Mojombo leaped up and charged the fifty feet to the black car. Two men who had been ready
to open the driver's-side door had fallen to the street. Three people beyond the car had also dropped to the sidewalk in a quick sleep. Murdock grabbed the driver's-side rear door and jerked it open. Two women almost fell out of the car. He pushed them back in. In the light from the dome bulb, Murdock saw a uniformed man on the far side. The door opened and Mojombo leaned in. He nodded. Then his hand came up and he fired twice with a .45 automatic at point-blank range into the general's forehead. Murdock slammed the door and took off running for the shadows. He heard feet pounding behind him. Mojombo caught him thirty yards up the alley. Behind them there were a few cries, then an uproar as men poured out of the gaming club.

Murdock and Mojombo ran past Howard, who jumped up and sprinted after them. Three blocks away the trio sagged into deep shadows and panted to catch their breaths.

When he could talk, Mojombo waved at Murdock. “It was my job to pull the trigger. I did. Now we get the hell out of here. They will throw every river patrol craft they have onto the water as soon as they get the word. Our small outboard couldn't compete.”

“We have to leave the boat and jog back up the river trail,” Murdock said. “Is it a good trade-off, the boat for Assaba?”

Mojombo laughed softly. “It is a wonderful trade. We can always steal another boat. Now we better get moving. We may have to split up. If we do, we meet at the ten-mile dock.”

They stepped into the street, and Howard led them on an easy jog that would cover seven miles in an hour.

They saw no patrols, and didn't hear any whining motors on the river. It was slightly after 2300 when they came near the ten-mile dock.

“Break time,” Murdock said. They sprawled in the grass under some trees and gulped in fresh air. Mojombo reached into a small backpack he had worn and took out six candy bars.

“Courtesy of President Kolda's warehouse,” he said. “Quick energy for the rest of the trip.”

They jogged for another two miles. Then the horse-cart
trail became too dangerous and they slowed to a walk.

“A thirty-mile hike,” Howard said as they moved along the trail. “This is a little more than I signed on for, Skipper.”

“We take ten-mile training hikes all the time,” Murdock said. “Twice last month we did twenty-milers.”

“Yeah, but not after combat,” Howard said. “I used up a batch of nervous energy back there when you guys charged the car. I didn't know what was going to happen.”

“We made it, and the President will have to look for a new hatchet man,” Mojombo said. “The people of Sierra Bijimi owe you two a great debt of gratitude.”

 

It was a little over four hours later when the trio walked into the tent area of Camp Freedom. Only one light was still on. Vice President Adams heard them arrive and stepped out to welcome them.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“We have one less villain on our list,” Mojombo said. “I thought I was in fair shape. Not true. I had a tough time keeping up with your SEALs.” He turned to Murdock. “You'll have to give me your physical training program before you leave. My men could use the added strength and stamina.”

“Right now all I need is a cot to flake out on,” Murdock said. Howard had already stumbled into his tent and dropped on the cot, sleeping before he could take off his clothes.

“Commander, just wanted to tell you that the Seahawk arrived,” said Adams. “It's got door-mounted thirty-caliber machine guns and looks lean and mean. I do suggest that we find some paint and cover up the U.S. markings on it. No sense going out of our way to get in trouble.”

“Glad they made it. We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

 

The next morning, Murdock was up at 0600 and had chow at the mess tent, then went to look at the Seahawk. It was what he had seen before, only with no twin sub-killing torpedoes under the belly. The inside had been stripped of nonessentials, and a .30-caliber machine gun was mounted
in each of the two open side doors. A friendly, redheaded, freckled-faced Navy man poked his head out of the cabin and grinned. “Hey, you must be the commander. I'm Josie Halstrom. This is my bucket. Hope we can do you some good. I usually have a copilot and a sensor operator. But we left the sensor man on the ship since we wouldn't be looking for any subs.”

“Morning, Halstrom. I'm Murdock. How many men can you carry in this rig?”

“The sister Blackhawk calls for twelve, but with your SEAL gear we could probably stuff in sixteen, if nobody exhales. One of them on each of the thirties.” The pilot frowned. “We really going to get in some shooting action?”

“That's the plan. My bet is you've never been shot at before.”

“No, sir, and that's the truth.”

“We'll try to keep it that way. We'll do the shooting. You had breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be in touch,” Murdock said, and went toward the Vice President's tent. The Veep was working at doing sit-ups on his bed.

“Twenty-nine and thirty,” Adams said. Then he sat up and wiped sweat off his forehead. Murdock stood just inside the flap, his floppy hat in his hand.

“Mr. Vice President, I know the President wants me to talk you into going out to the destroyer offshore. He's worried about you. How can you get the nomination for President if you're six feet under down here in Africa in an unmarked grave?”

Adams chuckled. “Now that's a new argument. I know that the President would like me to get out of this country, but I feel such a bond with these people. They are getting taken advantage of, and Mojombo Washington is their only hope. I'm going to stay and do whatever I can to help.”

“You know that the President could order me to take you out to the destroyer, and I'd have to tie you up and carry you to the chopper.”

“You wouldn't do that.”

“You're right. But if you wind up with a bullet blowing
your head off over here, it will be the end of my Navy career.”

“Hadn't thought of it that way. I'll be careful, for both of us.”

“Any reports yet from Sierra City about the little general?”

“Let's ask Don Stroh.”

They called him on the SATCOM, and he said the news media was going wild. “You should hear the TV newsmen. So far it's a two-hour special on local TV that may go on all morning. The international press are wildmen. They have interviews with the sleep victims, and with the women in the car with him, and the bystanders who took a nap as well. Nobody knows what kind of magic weapon it was. Some are saying it's a ray gun, and others say it's an atomic sleep pistol. The witnesses do say that two men in Army uniforms charged the car and one of them shot the general, then both ran into the darkness.”

“Any comment from the President here?” Adams asked.

“Only a brief statement describing the general as a longtime servant of the people of Sierra Bijimi and saying that he would be missed.”

Murdock took the mike. “Stroh, I'm trying to figure out where the rest of the SEALs would do us the most good. Down there in the middle of things, or up here? We have to go down there anyway for the action. What do you think?”

“Shorter trip from here to a target. I have some of the data you need. Not sure if I should read it over the air.”

“I figure we can send in the Seahawk once or twice before Kolda starts yelling at you. Want to ship the goods up by chopper?”

“Sounds good. Hold on, some trouble at the gate.”

Murdock waited. Two minutes later, Stroh was back. “Trouble, big buddy. We've got about five hundred federal troops at the front gate and a colonel who is demanding to see the ambassador. Everybody has a gun. Our Marines have set up a machine gun aimed out the front door at the gate. If somebody starts shooting, we're not going to stand a chance.”

“Order all of our men not to be the first to fire. Nobody fires a round unless specifically ordered to by you or JG Gardner. The colonel may just want to talk.”

“Then why did he bring five hundred guns?”

“Persuasion and insecurity. See what he wants. Keep in touch. We can't give you much support from here.”

“I better get down there,” Stroh said. “Later.”

Don Stroh ran from his room at the rear of the building to the front, and down the steps to the first floor. He passed the machine gun in the entranceway with its ugly muzzle pointing toward the front gate. Ambassador Nance Oberholtzer was halfway to the barrier when Stroh caught up with him.

“What does this guy want?” Stroh asked.

“Not sure. So far I've only heard shouting. He wouldn't violate United State soil by crashing the gate and charging in here, would he?”

“Depends how serious he is, and what orders he got. Maybe as a colonel, he's now in charge of the Army. Keep calm, voice low and serious. You know the routine. The louder he shouts, the softer you talk.”

The two men stopped six feet from the metal bars on the eight-foot-high gate.

“You the ambassador?” a man with silver leaves on his shoulders asked.

“Yes, I'm Ambassador Oberholtzer.” His voice was controlled, just loud enough for the man to hear.

“The President demands that you come now to his office for an official reprimand.”

“Of course, if President Kolda requests that I come to his office for a talk, I'll be more than happy to go.” The ambassador paused in a studied ploy. “Did you think you needed five hundred troops to convince me to come?” His voice was soft, his words carefully enunciated without a trace of emotion.

“I do what the President tells me to do. You will come out and get in my car.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am the ambassador, not one of
your cowering countrymen. I will drive to the Presidential Palace in my own car with my honor guards. If you don't allow me to do this, you will provoke an international incident. You don't need that right now.”

He waved at the garage area, and a two-year-old black Buick rolled out of the yard and toward the gate.

“Back up, make way,” Stroh bellowed as the large metal gate started to roll back on its track. The mass of riflemen edged backward. Then, at a word from the colonel, they turned and ran down the street, where they formed up into columns.

Two armed Marines and Stroh stepped into the car with the ambassador, and they pulled through the gate, which closed quickly.