Deadly Force (4 page)

“Is your father still on active duty?”

“Yes, sir. He was Navy air, and now he's captain of a carrier.”

“I understand that you're married, Chris.”

“Right. Been married now for almost three years.”

“SEAL scheduling and sea tours haven't hurt your marriage?” Ed asked.

“Sure, some, but Wanda is an understanding woman with a career of her own. No kids yet. Waiting a few more years.”

“What does she do?” Murdock asked.

“She has her own small sport clothes design and manufacturing firm here in town. Fabricates the clothes in Tijuana, part of that new across-the-border deal with Mexico.”

“Successful?” Ed asked.

Chris laughed. “Oh, yes, sir. Last year her gross income for the business was a little over twelve million dollars.”

“Just about as much as a JG makes,” Murdock said. They laughed.

“It doesn't bother me that she makes a lot more money than I do. She earns it. She's excellent at designing and has a great head for business.”

They talked for another half hour. Murdock sensed it
quickly, an immediate bonding with the young man. A meshing of purpose, ideals, and style. It had happened a few times before. An immediate rapport, both on the same wavelength.

Murdock looked at DeWitt and gave a small nod. DeWitt grinned. “About what I was going to say, Commander.”

Murdock stood and held out his hand. “Chris, you're our man. I'll have the master chief put through the paper today. He'll tell you when to report, but probably tomorrow morning. You better get your desk cleaned out and your gear turned in.”

“Hey, good, great.” Chris seemed a little confused. “But the master chief told me there were three men to be interviewed.”

“True, Chris,” Murdock said. “I know the other one and he doesn't stand a chance after we've talked with you. Now get out of here and get your papers put through.”

Chris grinned. “Hey, absolutely right. I can do that, Commander.” He shook his head. “Damn, I'm really gonna be here with the Third. Wait until I tell Wanda. We're going to celebrate tonight.” He stood, came to a braced attention, and snapped a salute. “Request permission to leave the Third Platoon area, sir.”

Murdock grinned and returned the salute. “Permission granted, Sailor. Get back here as soon as you can.”

When Chris left, Ed DeWitt dropped into the chair he had sat in so often and stretched out his feet. He rubbed his wounded leg and nodded. “Oh, yes, Murdock. I think that you've caught yourself a good one.”

Murdock frowned. “Yeah, but not as good as the one I'm losing. What do we do to integrate him into the squad as fast as possible? Like we needed him here yesterday?”

DeWitt rubbed his nose, as he often did when he was thinking. “Okay, I'm with you here for two weeks yet. Let's go to the desert for four days, see what this young man is made of. It'll also sharpen up the men and get them back in fighting trim. We also need a new man for Chris's squad. Do you have some candidates?”

“Master Chief sent me over ten who had requests on file. I looked them over and cut out three. First order of business
tomorrow morning when Chris comes back will be to help him pick a new man for his squad. Introduce him to the men in Bravo. Let him see physically who he has to work with. Then we'll see where we go from there.”

“Sounds good from here, oh, wise leader of men,” Ed said, cracking a grin.

“How does your new outfit look?”

“Good old Second Platoon of Five. Yeah, I've met them. Don't know squat about them yet. I like the JG there, so that's a plus. Just have to see how it works out. I won't transfer anyone out unless I absolutely have to. I have the option, if I'm sure I can't work with any of the men I inherit.”

Murdock laughed and put his feet up on the desk, then leaned back in the chair. “DeWitt, you're used to a bunch of oddballs here in the Third. You'll be able to work with almost anybody. They all are SEALs, so you know they've been through a lot just to get into the Team.”

“Yeah, yeah, I keep telling myself that. Just have to wait and see. What do you think about the four-day trip to the desert?”

“Sounds like a lot of work, sleeping on those sandy rocks and getting up double-dog-tired. I love it. We'll work out a training sked that will put Chris in the driver's seat all the way. See how he does.”

 

The next morning Lieutenant (j.g.) Chris Gardner leaned against the office door to Third Platoon when Murdock arrived at 0730.

“Couldn't sleep, Lieutenant?”

“Like a billy goat, Commander. Didn't want to be late my first day on the job.”

Murdock shook his hand. “Good to have you on board. This time of day we have to make our own coffee. You any good at it?”

“Not the best, sir.”

“Tough. I'll do it.” As he made the coffee, Murdock told Chris about the work for the day.

“So, I've got seven personnel folders over there on my desk. Look through them and see if you want one of them
for your squad. Pick three to interview. As soon as the men get here, you'll meet the rest of Bravo Squad to see what you have to work with.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

Ed DeWitt came in about 0800, and the three of them interviewed three men that morning. All had volunteered for Third Platoon and all were from other platoons on the base.

“So, which man do you like?” Murdock asked. “It's up to you. He'll be your responsibility, your input to the squad.”

“I'm going with the little guy, Rafii. I just like the way he comes across. He's from Saudi Arabia, speaks Arabic and Farsi like a native. Came here when he was four with his parents. Omar Rafii. He's a knife man. I bet you've had times when a silent kill with a knife from fifteen feet would be a bonus. If there are no objections, I'll tell the master chief to get Rafii's tail over here.”

“Done,” Murdock said. “You're right about the knife work. Ed here is pretty good, but I wouldn't want to bet my life on his getting a kill from even ten feet.”

“Amen to that,” DeWitt said with a grin.

“Now, Chris, I want you to help us lay out a four-day training sked for the desert. Tell us what elements you want included, and what you think will work best for you to get to know your squad members and to start the bonding process.”

Vice President Marshall Adams slumped in the seat of the big Mercedes on the way from Air Force Two to the hotel and another welcoming ceremony, reception, and state dinner. His eyes drifted shut and his head fell almost to his chest. He could never remember being this tired before. Twelve African nations in fourteen days. For a while before landing, he'd been seeing double. He'd give a thousand dollars for a good twenty-four-hour break in which he had nothing to do but eat and sleep.

The limousine hit a pothole in the best highway in town and jolted the VP out of his reverie. Yes, duty, friends to make, cash money to give away in the form of foreign aid, new people to meet, new nations to honor. He loved his job as ambassador extraordinaire for the President, but this was almost too much. His usually immaculate appearance had been reduced to a slightly wrinkled and sat-in suit, he knew, but there wouldn't be time to put on a fresh one before they got to the welcoming. Maybe before the reception. It had been a two-hour flight from the last country, whatever it was. The VP looked over at the man who sat in the limo with him.

“Wally, a thumbnail of this country again?”

Wally looked over at the VP. A moment ago he had been sleeping. “Yes, sir. Mauritania, an Islamic republic. The President is Maaouya Ould Sidi Ahmed Taya. He's sixty-nine years old, in office since 1992. Population two and a half million. In size it's larger than the state of Texas, but not as large as Alaska. Mostly arid except one sizeable river
valley. Most of the nation extends into the Sahara Desert. Literacy rate is thirty-eight percent.”

“Thanks, Wally. More than I need to know. I understand we're here for only six hours, then fly out just before dark. Where is the next stop?”

“Next we go to the relatively new nation of Sierra Bijimi, only a half-hour flight to the south.”

“Any big hoorah there tonight?”

“Nothing but a short welcome, then a whole evening and night of rest and regrouping.”

“Damn good, Wally. I could use a lot of both.”

It was just after nine
P
.
M
. that same day when Air Force Two, with Vice President of the United States Marshall Adams, settled onto the almost-too-short runway at Sierra City, and came to a stop next to a rolled-out red carpet.

“Wally?” the Vice President asked as he headed for the door.

“Sierra Bijimi, broke away from Central Bijimi in 1990. A republic, just below most of the Islamic nations. Ninety-seven percent African. Four million people. A small landlocked country. It has thirty-five-percent tillable land. The rest is dense jungle. Thom Kolda is President of a shaky democracy. A small country of four thousand, two hundred square miles. About twice the size of Delaware. Literacy rate is forty-seven percent.”

The aircraft door opened and Vice President Adams walked out on the steps to be greeted with a blaring band, a dozen floodlights, and a smiling group of black faces at the foot of the aluminum aircraft-access steps. “Here we go again,” he told himself. He waved and walked down the steps to be introduced to President Kolda.

Adams beat back a frown when he saw the nation's President. He was short, fat, had a seriously large nose and pig eyes. His suit was rumpled and had stains on the front. The hand that came out to greet the Vice President felt soft and flabby.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Adams said. “It's good to visit your nation.”

Kolda said something in the strange Wolof language. An interpreter at his side responded immediately.

“President Kolda is delighted to meet you, Mr. Vice President Adams, and welcomes you to our nation. We have some entertainment for you and your security men.”

“Tell the President that's wonderful, but I'm near exhaustion and need to get to my hotel.”

The interpreter shook his head. “I can't tell him that. He insists that you come with him for the entertainment or he will be tremendously insulted.”

The Vice President sighed and looked at Wally, who nodded.

“Tell the President that I will enjoy going with him for the entertainment.”

Twenty minutes later a limo deposited Vice President Adams, Wally, and two Secret Service men at a small nightclub with a guard outside the door. There were fifty people waiting to get in. They hooted and yelled when the Sierra Bijimi President and his party and Vice President Adams and his three men walked in the door. They were taken at once around the side of the club, which had a band on the stage and tables filled with people.

They went through two doors and then up steps into a small amphitheater. It was nearly filled with men of all ages. Adams guessed there were about two hundred men there. He didn't see a single woman in the audience. An usher took them down to the front row, where seats had been saved for them.

“What kind of a show goes on here?” Adams asked the interpreter, who sat between President Kolda and the Vice President.

“Show? Yes, a show. You will see shortly. It does not last long.”

A girl with large breasts bulging from a small bra top and wearing a short skirt served them drinks. There was no charge to the President's party. President Kolda took three of the drinks and then fondled the girl's breasts. She smiled as he did it. A moment later one of the President's aides tucked a wad of bills inside the girl's bra and she left quickly.

The Vice President looked around the area and realized that there was some kind of betting going on. Men moved up and down the aisles taking bets and giving out slips of paper, red or green. He asked Wally what it was.

“Got me, Mr. Vice President. Not a clue.” Wally asked the interpreter.

The man frowned and leaned away from Adams a moment. Then, with more resolve, he nodded. “Yes, they are gambling. I can arrange for you to make a bet if you wish.”

“What are they gambling on?” Adams asked.

The interpreter frowned and glanced at President Kolda. “You were not told?”

“Not a clue. What's going on?”

“You bet red or green,” the interpreter said. “Red is the more risky bet, but odds are five to one. Green is safer, but only two to one.”

“That I understand,” the Vice President said. “But what are they betting on?”

Just then trumpets sounded, and everyone turned to stare at a runway with a red carpet on it that came down one side of the arena and ended at a golden chair that sat in the twenty-foot-wide circle stage.

A girl in a flowing robe of pure silk and wearing a crown of diamonds appeared at the top of the red carpet. She posed for the patrons for a moment. If the diamonds were real, they must be worth half a million dollars, Adams figured. He watched as the girl came down the red carpet to the cheers and applause of the group. The men were standing now, so Adams and his men stood as well. They watched the girl come to the stage, go around it once, smiling and waving at the men. Then she strutted to the golden chair. She looked at the men, who cheered more and more. At last she nodded, loosened a tie at her throat, and whipped off the robe. Under it she was naked.

She stood, posed as a model might. She was slender, well formed and not at all self-conscious about displaying her naked body. The music, which had been low-key during the entry, now picked up. The girl sat down in the chair and the stage began to rotate, giving every man there a good view of the woman. The betting along the aisles surged as
men waved money at the bet takers. By that time the betting was at a frenzy pitch. Men shoved others aside to get to the bet takers. Money flowed. A fight broke out, which was quickly stopped. Men were shouting and screaming to get to the betting places. The music built again, then stopped suddenly. When the music ceased the betting evidently was over, Adams decided. The men in the aisles with the betting slips and the money vanished through doors that went under the stands.

Now two men marched down the red carpet to the stage as the music began again. A murmur of interest rushed through the crowd. One man wore a bright red suit and he carried a thin wooden box of highly polished wood. The man dressed all in green carried a smaller box. They showed the boxes to the men as the stage continued to rotate. Then a blast of trumpets ended the new music. The shouting and screaming from the men in the audience shut off at once, and in the sudden stillness Vice President Adams could hear the click of the latch as the red man opened the box he carried.

He lifted from the container a pearl-handled six-gun with a regular-looking barrel. There was a burst of trumpets and then silence again as the second man opened his box and took out a single silver bullet.

“Oh, no,” Adams moaned. The interpreter heard him and scowled.

“Mr. Vice President Adams. You agreed to come. It would be an insult beyond measure if you tried to walk out now. You must stay.”

The trumpets blared again, and the green man opened the weapon and inserted one round into the cylinder. Then he held the six-gun by the barrel and pushed the cylinder back in place. There was no way he could have put another bullet into the gun.

The hushed silence broke with applause and cheers as the red-dressed man handed the firearm to the woman on the stage. All this had happened Adams realized as the stage kept turning and turning.

“They wouldn't do this for real,” Wally whispered into
the Vice President's ear. “It has to be a stunt. It will be all right, I'm sure.”

Adams shook his head. “I know this sort of thing happens in the Orient. I've never heard of it here. Oh, it's going to happen, all right. With all that betting there would be a bloody riot if the event wasn't concluded.”

The music blared again, and the girl took the revolver and spun the cylinder. She kept spinning it for a complete rotation of the stage. Again the music stopped. A gentle, sympathetic voice came over speakers, and the girl turned toward the red carpet listening. The voice crooned stronger and more hypnotic, and Adams wished desperately that he could understand the Wolof words.

Slowly the naked girl lifted the weapon and put the muzzle over her heart. Screams and yells erupted from the audience, then trailed off when she moved the gun. She held it easily in her right hand, lifted it, and put the muzzle against the side of her head. The voice continued as if directing her. The screams came from the audience. She moved the weapon again, staring hard at the black hole of the muzzle. Then she opened her mouth and pushed the barrel two inches inside.

Silence throbbed through the arena. The girl reached up with her left hand and spun the cylinder again. Then she closed her eyes. The voice came strongly, ending in a scream.

Adams couldn't see the girl pull the trigger, but she must have. A second after the scream the weapon went off and the bullet exploded out of the back of the naked girl's skull. Her head flopped over the back of the chair and the audience stared in agonizing silence. Then the screaming exploded in earnest as the bettors who had won charged the clerks, who had appeared around the stage, which had stopped rotating.

“We leave now,” the interpreter said. They stood, and were escorted quickly out a side stage-level door they hadn't seen. Two men had to help President Kolda. Adams saw that the man was so drunk he couldn't walk.

Wally touched the interpreter's shoulder. “Take us to our
hotel at once. The Vice President isn't feeling well. Can you get us back to the hotel quickly?”

The interpreter smiled. “Is he ill, or is it just his soft-hearted feelings for the girl? Those girls get paid well. One pulled the trigger fifteen times and was never scratched. She retired with more than four million of your dollars. Some like the girl tonight lose the bet on their first try.” He nodded. “It is show business. Entertainment, no? Now I will get you back to your hotel.”

Twenty minutes later Vice President Adams sat heavily on the bed in the Presidential Suite in the Engaffe Hotel, the best in Sierra City, and tried to relax.

“I still can't believe it. Those men bet whether she would live or die. She killed herself, and it was sanctioned by the highest elected official in this backward nation. There must have been three hundred people there screaming at the spectacle. That their President could know about such a terrible event is criminal. That he was there slopping down drink after drink and enjoying the thrill of seeing a young girl in a life-or-death exhibition is totally disgusting. How can we ever deal with these people again?”

Wally held a sheaf of papers he had picked up when they arrived at the hotel. He had started to speak, but let the Vice President have his say. Now he took his turn. “Some more bad news about President Kolda and his regime here. Our ambassador says that the country is in a shambles. That the President and every official the ambassador has investigated is hip deep in graft, corruption, and shows a cavalier abuse of power. One small item. Earlier this year we sent them twelve million dollars of hard currency, which was to be used to build houses and upgrade the buildings and farming technique in one area a half hour outside the capital with rich fertile land.

“The ambassador tells me that only one small building has been constructed and that the Farm Fund, as it was called, is down to a seven-thousand-dollar balance. Everyone is pointing fingers at everyone else.”

Vice President Adams shook his head. “Did you see how those animals were screaming for the girl to pull the trigger? They were death merchants, most hoping that she
would live since it was a safer bet, but the rest were bellowing and braying for her blood.” He shook his head and washed his hands over his face. “Sweet Mother of God, I'll never forget the expression on that girl's face just before she pulled the trigger. I'll never get it blasted out of my memory for as long as I live.”

He took another deep breath. “What more do we have to do with these people? I'd like to cut out right now and fly to the next stop, but I know we can't do that.”