Deadly Force (7 page)

Platoon Three of SEAL Team Seven enjoyed its second day of “camping out” on the beach just below the Kill House on the Coronado Strand and just north of the Navy antenna farm. Murdock thought about yesterday. They had started with a full-operational-gear jog down the six miles to the antennas in the loose sand. Then, after a five-minute blow, they walked into the sparkling Pacific Ocean surf, dove under the breakers, and swam out a mile due south, then retraced their route. All of the SEALs now had the new underwater Motorola personal radios, good for seven miles underwater and five miles on land. It helped them keep in touch with each other fifteen feet underwater even on a moonless night. After the two-mile trek they worked through the Kill House three times, taking names and times. The new man, Omar Rafii, hadn't seen the new Kill House.

“Hey, I ain't been through one of these for over a year,” he said. “We don't get out to the desert training much in the other platoons.”

“You'll have plenty of it here,” Jaybird said. He had taken an instant liking to Omar, and had been helping him adjust to the new platoon.

“Just don't let Jaybird lead you astray,” Senior Chief Sadler told the young man. “You know why we call him Jaybird, don't you? And it's got nothing to do with the little bird legs he has.”

“So tell me, Jaybird,” Omar said.

“Hell, okay. We was in Austria, or Senegal or maybe
Paris, France—I don't remember that part too well—and there was this huge guy in this bar who was just itching to pick a fight with somebody. Everybody in the platoon knew I was the best street brawler in the outfit, so they started pushing me forward.”

Somebody threw a brown MRE plastic pouch filled with sand at Jaybird.

“You're making that up, Jaybird, you asshole,” Bradford yelled. “Tell him the real reason. About that four-story building in La Jolla that night about four years ago.”

“Wasn't in La Jolla,” Lam said. “He told me it was in San Francisco, down in Chinatown somewhere, and it was before he was even in this man's Navy.”

 

That afternoon they worked a swim up to BUD/S and staged a mock attack on the grinder, then ran back to their campsite below the big antennas. That night they had a roaring campfire on the beach, and told war stories about some of the more hairy missions they had worked.

The next day had been a half hour of sit-ups and push-ups and stretching exercises before a six-mile run down to BUD/S and back.

When they came back, Murdock gave the men a fifteen-minute break. Then he lifted out of the dry sand and dusted off his cammies. “Break time is over, you ladies, time we get into some real workouts,” Murdock called. They lined up in a column of ducks by squads. “We're going to run back to the grinder and check out some IBSs and get in some work. Let's move it. Omar, lead us out at a seven-minutes-to-the-mile pace. Out-a-here.”

 

An hour later they had worked the IBSs twice coming in through the breakers, sliding up on the Coronado Strand, and rushing up through the water to create a beach landing. The next time they took the small inflatable boats out, Murdock made a change. “This time we get into the first wave and pretend that we dump the boat and everyone bails out in a simulated turnover. You all have that? We drop out of the boat into the breakers and swim and surf into shore, where we lay like logs for two minutes, before we charge
up the beach to the dry sand with simulated firing. No live rounds. Let's do it.”

The first boat motored into the surging Pacific swell just before it broke, and rode it halfway down before Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner gave a yell and his squad dropped over the sides of the boat, let it surge forward, then surfaced and swam in behind the pounding roar of the big surf. All eight men made it to shore, and lay in the receding water as one wave after another half-covered them with foaming, sandy water.

Murdock headed his Alpha Squad's IBS into the wave. Jaybird was on the motor and he angled for the top of the big swell, then just before it broke he angled down the sliding wall of water. He was off by half a yard and the wave tumbled the twelve-foot-long boat upside down, spilling out the men and racing the floating craft toward the beach.

Murdock surfaced and began counting heads. The last time they had dumped an IBS this way, one of his squad had almost drowned. This time he found seven more heads bobbing in the water, and he signaled and all swam hard for shore, where they spread out and dove into the wet sand in a rough line facing the beach as the ocean waters flowed over them and then receded. After three minutes Murdock used the waterproof Motorolas.

“Charge the dry sand,” he ordered, and the sixteen men lifted up and surged up through the water and wet sand and sprawled in the dry sand with weapons covering the thin strand of beach ahead of them.

“Jaybird, what happened?” Murdock asked.

“You said to dump the boat. So I dumped it. Not hard, just overplay the top of the wave by six or eight feet and you're going down.”

“It was supposed to be a simulated dump, not a real one. Remember when we almost lost Canzoneri when the boat clobbered him in the head when it went over?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Sorry, Boss. Won't happen again.”

Murdock gave them five minutes, then stood. “Okay, you hotshots, we have a swim. Know where the beacon is down on the point off the tip of the Naval Air Station? You've
been there a dozen times. Lieutenant Gardner will lead us out on a three-mile swim to the beacon. Then we turn around and come back home to BUD/S. Take us down fifteen feet and keep in touch with each other. We'll use a long buddy line for each squad. Let's get wet.”

Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner took a compass reading on the point that he could see down the coast. He took the handheld compass board, waded into the water, and checked the buddy line. The JG waved at Murdock, took the men down fifteen feet, and angled along his azimuth setting on the compass board toward the point.

Murdock swam in his position at the head of Alpha Squad. He loved the new Motorola radio, which worked better underwater than it did on the surface. The throat mike and earpiece made it an entirely hands-off operation, which would come in handy in a tough firefight situation.

Halfway there, Lieutenant Gardner called for a surfacing. The SEALs came up and the JG checked his course. He made a minor adjustment on his setting.

“Everyone okay?” he asked on the net. “We're about halfway. Let's do a mile on the surface. We're cutting across the water for the quickest route instead of following the curve of the land mass. Let's have a radio check. Alpha Squad first.”

The men sounded off in squad field-marching order.

“Everyone accounted for. Let's take a swim.”

They were crawl-stroking on the surface when their Motorolas sounded again.

“Murdock, lad, are you in range?” It was the Scottish-accented voice of Master Chief MacKenzie.

“Right, Master Chief. I read you loud.”

“Bring the boys home, Commander. We've had a bit of a message from the CNO. Seems like he's needing your services again. What's your ETO BUD/S?”

“Thirty minutes if we push it. We're in the wet about two miles off. Heading your way now. Might take us a little longer. Keep the lights on.”

“Copy that, Commander. Stop by and see me before you get dry.”

“Roger, Master Chief.”

Murdock waited a moment, then used the radio again. “Gardner, head us for home plate. Looks like we have a mission coming up.”

It was thirty minutes before the SEALs ran up the beach in front of BUD/S and flopped on the sand. Gardner had set a pace that was ten strokes to the minute too fast, and the men were exhausted.

Murdock, Gardner, and Senior Chief Sadler hurried on to the Quarterdeck. Master Chief MacKenzie met them just outside.

“Have enough wet sand in my Quarterdeck already,” he said. He handed Murdock a computer printout. It was in 16-point type and brief.

“Alert Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, to be ready to fly from North Island Naval Air Station at 1230 today. Bring all weapons, double supply of ammunition, full water gear, and tropical uniforms. Transport will be the Gulfstream II. Report to the embassy in Sierra Bijimi and await further orders.”

“Where the hell is Sierra Bijimi?” Murdock asked.

“Looked it up, lad. It's on the west bulge of Africa. Small place with about four million people. Something must have happened down there we don't know about. 'Tis now 1015. Suggest you get your tails in motion. I'll have a bus here for your transport to North Island at 1215.”

“Thanks, Master Chief. We're moving.”

Murdock told the men all he knew about the mission as they walked over to their quarters, changed into clean dry tropical cammies, and got their gear ready to travel. Full combat vests and ammo and their weapons went into duffle bags, along with complete wet suits and all of their underwater gear. They had early chow at the Amphib base across the highway, and were in the parking lot next to the Quarterdeck by 1200.

Chris Gardner was grinning. “Damn, the second day I'm with the platoon we get activated. Yeah, this is my kind of duty. Glad to be on board.”

“West coast of Africa?” Jaybird yelped. “Gonna take us a year just to fly over there. That's halfway round the fucking world. What does the Gulfstream II do? As I remember
it goes five hundred miles an hour at forty thousand feet. Maybe stop in New York, then to Newfoundland, head southeast to the Azores, and then maybe Mauritania before we go south to that little country. We're talking some heavy sack time here, gents.”

“How long, Jaybird?” Fernandez asked.

“Maybe twelve thousand miles at five hundred should come out to about twenty-four hours, not counting time stopped to refuel and the clearances and diplomatic shit. Say another six hours. Thirty hours. Then we'll also lose about eight or nine hours on the clock.”

“Shut up, Jaybird, you're making my head hurt,” Luke Howard thundered.

At the North Island Naval Air Station, the Gulfstream was warmed up and waiting for them. A slender, pretty woman in a khaki uniform met them at the door. Murdock spotted the lieutenant's bars on her shoulders and the silver wings on her blouse. She was Coast Guard.

“Lieutenant, some SEALs looking for a ride,” he said. “You have any seats open?”

“Commander, we have nineteen. Also some good food just stowed. Glad to have you on board.” She held out her hand. “I'm Sandra. I'm your bus driver for the trip.”

“I'm Murdock. I hear we're heading for Sierra Bijimi.”

“That's what my orders say. I've never been there before. If my flight plan works, we should find it.”

They moved out of the doorway and let the men troop inside. Senior Chief Sadler claimed the first four seats for the officers and himself. “Don't crowd, we've got plenty of good seats,” Sadler said.

Murdock and Gardner settled into their seats and strapped on their seat belts. Gardner shook his head. “These guys aren't going to be happy with thirty hours in the air. How about our taking a one-mile run on our second fueling stop? That could be Newfoundland. Then they'll be ready to sleep for about ten hours.”

“Good idea,” Murdock said. He liked this young man the more he saw of him. Yes, he would work out well in the platoon.

“Sierra Bijimi,” Murdock said. “I didn't even have time to look it up on the Web. We don't know a thing about the country. I wonder what Uncle Sam wants us to do down there.”

Just before the door had closed on the Gulfstream at North Island, a sailor had come boiling up in a Humvee waving a sheaf of papers. He ran to the door and pushed them at Senior Chief Sadler.

“Faxes just came in,” the sailor said. “Master Chief told me to get here before you took off or I was toast.”

“You made it,” Sadler said. “Now drive slow going back.” At once the crew chief closed and locked the cabin door.

Murdock and Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner divided the stack of fax pages and began reading.

“Oh, yeah,” Murdock said. Sadler and Gardner both looked at him. “Now we know why we're going to that little country. Some wild-eyed rebel down there kidnapped the Vice President and is holding him for ransom.”

“No shit?” Sadler said.

“So all we have to do is track down this rebel band, kill all the bad guys, and rescue the VP,” Gardner said. “Piece of cake.”

“Yeah,” Murdock said. “That's the what. Just how we do it will depend on a thousand different factors. Some of them must be in all this fax paper.”

Then all three went back to reading. Quickly Murdock discovered that the tiny nation was only ten years old. It had been carved out from another all-black African country through a small revolution. It was near the west coast bulge of Africa, and had one good-sized river flowing through it.
The population was listed as being 3.8 million people in an area about twice the size of Delaware. The nation was a member of the United Nations, and had a questionably elected government that was reported to be totally corrupt, with most foreign aid ending up in the leaders' pockets.

It had been described as a “mess of a country” that deserved better. The standing Army of 4,000 was poorly trained and had old weapons, and the men were paid infrequently. Sierra City was the capital. The country's Navy consisted of six small riverboats and a few more than one hundred sailors.

Gardner looked up from his reading. “Sounds like a sorry outfit. Why was the Vice President there in the first place?”

Murdock grunted. “Yeah, here it is. He went there on a goodwill trip representing the President. This country was added to his tour only three weeks before he left when another nation backed out.”

“So the rebels had to find out he was coming and then plan to capture him,” Senior Chief Sadler said. “Just who is this Mojombo Washington character anyway?”

Murdock shook his head. “I don't see much about him. Evidently he's new to the ranks of the rebels. Here it says that the man speaks English and has attracted some support from the outlying villages. The police think he has a stronghold somewhere up the Amunbo River that runs through there. Eyewitnesses said that the Vice President was taken up that river in a boat.”

“Who will we have to work with when we get there?” Gardner asked.

Murdock checked another page. “A small embassy has been established there and the new ambassador is in it. The President of Sierra Bijimi is Thom Kolda. We don't have much on him, but he evidently is the top bad guy in the place. Another bad guy probably is General Kiffa Assaba, who is the head of the Army and the National Police.”

“Hey, look at this,” Gardner said. “The only airport has one runway that's less than a mile long. The Vice President's Air Force Two had a narrow scrape landing there. It will be able to carry only half its normal load of fuel if it wants to take off.”

 

Murdock was glad when they landed at Newfoundland. The JG took the men on a two-mile run without any weapons or equipment. Murdock used the Gulfstream's radio to try to contact Don Stroh in Washington, D.C. He got through to the right office, but the secretary there whom Murdock had talked with before, said Stroh had already boarded a commercial flight on his way to Africa. She couldn't say exactly when he would get there. Murdock thanked her and hung up.

He took out the fax orders and looked at them again. The SEALs were to report to the American Embassy in Sierra City and wait for further instructions. At least they could do a little looking around, get to know something about the situation. If it was as bad as the reports he had read, neither the Army nor the President would be of much help. Now he wondered how strong this rebel leader was.

A messenger from the airport office raced in a jeep to the refueling location and asked for Commander Murdock. He saluted smartly, then gave Murdock a large manila envelope and retreated. Inside were more fax pages. Murdock saw that they came from Stroh. He read:

“Murdock. This is the latest. We may not have such a panic as we first thought. We received a SATCOM message directly from Vice President Adams. I'll give you a word-for-word transcript. Here it is:

“ ‘Hello, Mr. President. Please don't worry about me. I'm being well treated and I am safe and in no danger. I already consider these men I'm with as friends. . . .”

Murdock frowned, then read the rest of the Vice President's message. So he considered the kidnappers his friends, and he was being treated and fed well.

Stroh went on: “You'll land in Africa before I will. Get situated in the embassy or wherever they can house you and start nosing around to see what you can find out. This may turn out far differently than we first suspected. At least we stopped General Lawford from sending in a dozen F-18's to strafe the whole area up the river and follow up with a dozen riverboats to blast everything that wasn't dead already.

“Digest all of that local material and we'll talk as soon as I hook up with you in Sierra City.”

The SEALs came back from their two-mile run. They had hardly broken a sweat. Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner was sweating like a filly in August, Murdock thought. Gardner eased into his seat and shook his head.

“Hell, I thought I was in pretty good shape. Not so. I'm going to be on the three basics from now on, sit-ups, chin-ups, and pull-ups.”

Murdock shuffled the Stroh faxes to him. Gardner read the first few pages and looked up in surprise. “Vice President Adams is already a friend of his kidnappers? What the fuck is going on?”

“That's what we'll find out after we land in Sierra City. Why don't you brief the men on Stroh's material and what we learned from the other faxes. I want all the men to know as much about this situation and about this country as we do.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Gardner said. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and the back of his neck and stood up.

“Okay, men, listen up. We've had some more intel on our mission. Here's what we know so far.”

Senior Chief Sadler followed the details of the situation, but he also kept thinking about the black girl back in San Diego who had been so full of life one minute, and an hour later dead in the alley behind the club where their Gaslamp Dixieland Jazz Band played. Had Shortchops given her an overdose, or was he just messing around with her? Sadler couldn't remember if the detective had told him not to leave town. Hell, he was a material witness in a murder case. He could be in one shit-pot full of trouble as soon as they got back to the States. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd have to worry about that when they finished this little job and reported across the Quarterdeck. Until then he had to concentrate on the problem at hand.

Mojombo Washington smiled when Vice President Adams finished his radio message to the White House.

“Excellent, Mr. Vice President. That was a fine report to your countrymen so they don't drop a nuclear bomb on our camp. I hope that they believed you. I realize it's a bit unusual for a man evidently kidnapped to give such a friendly report.”

“They have to believe me. I hope to have more good news for them before long. You have a name for this camp we're going to?”

“Yes, it's Camp Freedom. We have about a half mile to walk up this trail to the camp. We didn't want it to be vulnerable to rifle fire from the river in case President Kolda sent some riverboats up this direction with soldiers in them.”

The Vice President had been a bird watcher at one time, and now he enjoyed spotting various species in the thick jungle growth. He'd reached twelve species sightings when they emerged into a clearing beside a small stream they had been following. The camp was as rough as Adams figured it would be. There were two dozen tents that would hold six men each. He spotted a mess tent for cooking, but with no place to sit down and eat. There were a number of small fires burning around the area. He caught the gentle purr of a small gas motor, which could be running an electrical generator, so they might have lights.

He saw weapons everywhere. Each man evidently had to carry a personal weapon with him at all times. They were rifles, submachine guns, and a few carbines and pistols. A mix of guns that would be hard to provide ammunition for.

Mojombo led the Vice President to a tent and pointed in through the open flap. “This, Mr. Vice President Adams, is your tent. It isn't as fancy as a hotel room, but I hope you'll find it comfortable. It has the only real bed in the camp, and at night there will be electric lights if you want to read or write. I have a selection of books, fiction and non-fiction, and writing pens and paper.”

“No bars on the flap?”

“Absolutely not. You're free to move around the camp. Of course it's about twenty-five miles through the jungle back to town if you want to hike it.”

“I won't be doing that. I'm interested in your cause, in
getting this crooked, murdering President out of office.” He went into the tent and looked around. It was better than the tents on some camping trips he'd been on. He sat down on the bed. “Oh, yes, this is good.” He looked up and frowned. “Now, how is the revolution coming along? What can I do to help? Right now there's no way I can bring in a battalion of Marines with all of their firepower.”

Mojombo stood just outside the tent.

“Come in, come in, sit down so we can talk,” said Adams. “I did some Navy time. Maybe we can come up with some ideas. How many men do you have with weapons?”

Mojombo stepped inside the tent and sat down in the one straight-backed wooden chair. He made a fist with one hand and rubbed it with the other hand. “I can put eighty men on a march with weapons and enough ammo for a good fight.”

“The general has about four thousand, you said.” Adams scowled. “Probably reserves he can call up. Those are not good odds.”

“That's why we make surprise attacks and then run like crazy. The traditional guerrilla operation.”

“It's worked for you so far, but they will get wise to that and keep out patrols, maybe put lookouts on the river at night.”

“You're right. I realize that with less than two hundred men, I can never win an all-out battle with General Assaba's forces. That's why you are my guest.”

Vice President Adams frowned slightly, then nodded. “Yes, yes, I see. If I'm here, that would bring worldwide attention to your cause, and to the atrocities and sacking of the national treasury. But you need more than just publicity.”

Mojombo stood and paced around the small tent. He went back to the chair and sat. “Yes, more than publicity. I can get maybe five thousand farmers and hunters and their families to follow me down the river to the city. A citizens' march against the federal government and the fraudulently elected President. We might win, if more than half of the military would swing over to our side and, with weapons, march with us. I would need at least two thousand armed
men from General Assaba's camp in order to stage a real revolution. Until that happens, I'm merely a criminal rebel with a price on my head.”

“I may have an idea that could help you, Mr. Washington. The American CIA calls it covert intervention.”

Mojombo grinned. “That is beautiful, a wonderful idea. What you're saying is that some foreign nation, like the United States, sends in some troops on a highly secret basis. They help me win my revolution and slip out the back door before anyone spots them, and the whole thing is done covertly, and everyone but the bad guys wins.”

Vice President Adams smiled. “Mojombo, you are an extremely bright and quick-thinking young man. Your English is better than mine.”

“I had a well-to-do father who sent me to school in America.”

“Why did you come back home? I'm sure you could have had a good job in the government somewhere.”

“I finished graduate school at the same time my father took seriously ill. I came home to take care of him and my mother and because I love my country and want to help my people.” They were both quiet for a short time. “Can you tell me more about this covert-intervention idea? Is it something that you could sell to your government?”

“I'm not sure. It would take a lot of investigation of the climate here, the whole situation, the criminal actions of the President and his Administration. Then you would have to prove that you have the support of the people, that they would be with you on an all-out assault on the capital.”

“That would be the easy part. I can videotape fifty witnesses for you within a week. I can document the atrocities, the massive thefts of money and matériel, and the killings by the Army of many innocent farmers.”

“Fifty witnesses to those crimes would be impressive. This all will take some time.”

“If you could send in five hundred Marines with their firepower and a dozen helicopter gunships, we could reduce General Assaba's Army to a handful of wild-eyed hard cases in three or four days.”

Vice President Adams stood, walked the short length of
the tent, and came back. A small boy slipped inside the tent with a wooden platter filled with several kinds of fruit, including a banana on top. Adams took the banana, peeled it down two inches, and had a bite.

“I'm afraid we couldn't be covert with five or six hundred men charging around your country. I was thinking more about twenty specialists to train and lead, perhaps carry out some swift silent strikes on their own.”