The SEALs picked up Ching at his guard post and sprinted for the nearby building. A machine gun cut through the silence. The lead splattered just to the side of the SEALs as they crowded behind a wooden building.
“Where is he?” Gardner yelled. Nobody knew. Then Gardner saw the flashes and aimed a 20mm round at them. He hit the laser button, and the round exploded over the heads of the machine-gun crew. Two of them went down dead. The third man crawled back to the.30-caliber weapon and continued to fire.
Fernandez zeroed in on the flashes with his sniper rifle and fired six carefully aimed shots. The machine gun ceased to function.
“Let’s move,” Murdock said. Sandari led them down the block at a trot, angled away from the Government Building, and they were halfway down a narrow street with shuttered businesses on both sides when a seven-man squad of federal soldiers blocked their way and at once began firing.
The SEALs took cover wherever they could find it. Three old cars were the best to be had. The SEALs returned fire. Two twenties exploded in airbursts over the soldiers. One lifted up to run toward the corner, but Fernandez nailed him with two rounds from his sniper rifle.
The firing from ahead fell off. Another airburst twenty silenced it. Two federals lifted up and raced to the shelter of a building at the corner. They made it.
“Canzoneri, Mahanani, go check for survivors,” Gardner said. The two ran forward on a zigzag course, then stopped and kicked the corpses. One man lifted his rifle, but a round from Mahanani’s MP-5 ended the threat.
“All clear,” Canzoneri said on the Motorola. The platoon ran forward, stepped over the bodies, and hurried up another block. Murdock had assigned Lam and Bradford to take care of the Vice President. One of them was always near him. When the firing started in the street, Bradford had pushed the Vice President behind the car and held him there. On the march they stayed beside him. He struggled now to keep up, and Lam was on the Motorola.
“Skipper, we’re having trouble staying with you. Cut the damn pace.”
“That’s a roger, Lam. We’re slowing down. How’s he doing?”
“We’ll make it if we go slower. Remember, he’s a civilian and probably fifty-five years old.”
They walked from there on. Murdock didn’t worry about Don Stroh. He could take care of himself and keep up. They were almost out of the splash of houses near the four- or five-mile line when Sandari dropped to the ground. The rest of the SEALs went down as well. Sandari didn’t have a Motorola. Murdock crawled up beside him.
“A truck and soldiers in the road ahead,” Sandari said.
Murdock looked it over. A roadblock. They might have roadblocks up every night. This one had one truck and five or six men. The SEALs could take it out or go around it. If the SEALs splattered the soldiers, it would pinpoint their location. He didn’t like that.
“Lam, how’s the Veep doing?” Murdock asked.
“He’s tired, but he says he can make it. He should be behind a desk somewhere, not out here.”
“Seen Stroh?”
“He’s around. He picked up an AK-47 at that last set-to. He thinks he’s a SEAL now.”
“Good. He’ll have some practice. All hands. We have a roadblock ahead. We’re going into the field to the left. We need to move that direction to find our chopper. Absolutely no noise. We’ll keep ten yards apart. Follow our path.”
Murdock motioned, and Sandari walked off the dirt road into a field, and went out a quarter of a mile before he turned north again. They hiked for another thirty minutes through fields and along some roads, and then turned back to the right.
“Twenty minutes and we should be at the chopper,” Sandari said. Murdock had kept close tabs on the Vice President. He would hold up well as long as they just kept walking, Lam told him. Stroh had come by, and had been disappointed they hadn’t had another firefight now that he had a weapon.
The Motorolas picked up a transmission.
“Calling Murdock. This is Halstrom. Come in, Murdock. I’ve got some trouble.”
“Halstrom. Murdock here. Just barely hear you. Where are you?”
“Almost five miles north of the drop-off point. I waited there after the second run with Mojombo. He said wait there. An hour later a bunch of gunmen started shooting. I had to lift off. Took some rounds and some damage. I flew out a ways and set down so I could inspect the ship for any real problems. I found some. They cut up my bird pretty bad. Three rounds into the engine. I have a cut oil line, a messed-up fuel line, and control-surface damage. Just no way I can put this bird in the air. Afraid I can’t ferry you guys back to the village.”
24
Shortchops Jackson waited for the white cop to come up to his rolled-down window.
“What’s the problem, Officer?”
“Will you please get out of the car and put your hands on the roof?”
“Sure.” Shortchops did as he was told. He was frisked quickly and then told to turn around.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Your left taillight is out. With a nice car like this, I figured you’d want to know. Can I see your registration and license?”
“Registration is in the glove box.”
“I’ll get it,” the cop said. He sat in the Caddy and pushed over so he could open the glove box. He took out an owner’s manual with the registration paper clipped to the first page. He took it out and read it with his flashlight.
“Are you Arnold Jackson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your license says Arnold S. Jackson.”
“Right, I don’t always use my middle initial.”
“Okay, sit down in the car. I’m going to give you an equipment violation. You get it repaired within thirty days and send in a receipt with the signed ticket, and you’ll be square.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later the cop pulled away from Shortchops and the thin black man gave a sigh of relief. He changed his mind about going to Las Vegas. Hell, the cops would find him sooner or later. Maybe he should just go down to the Central Police Station and say he’d heard they wanted to talk to him about Joisette. Yeah, maybe, maybe not. For now he’d go home and get some sleep. If he was going to clean up and get straight, this was the time to start. He had to get clean; he had to get a lawyer. A new shirt and some good slacks wouldn’t hurt. Some nice ones. Even new shoes. Shortchops grinned. He was feeling like a rich man already.
The cops worried him. How do you prove that you didn’t do something? Tough. They had to prove that you did. Tougher when you didn’t do it. He drove carefully back to Southeast San Diego, and parked down the street from his apartment. It was the worst place he had ever lived. Maybe in a few months he’d have lots of money. Or maybe he’d be in jail waiting trial for murder. First thing he had to do was vanish. Leave everything in the apartment and get the hell out and find a new place. Yeah, move. All he’d take would be his fiddle. That’s why he liked the Caddy. It had room enough to tote the bass wherever he went. That was the problem. Where did he go? The cops could be down at his place right now waiting for him. They were smart, had contacts. He did know quite a few people in town, especially around his apartment. He grinned. And he knew a few hookers. So where this time of night?
He decided. He’d have to sleep in the car tonight. In the morning he’d find a cheap apartment somewhere. He could even stay at one of the missions downtown. Pray and sing a little and you could bunk there for a week at a time. Yeah. Praise the Lord.
Murdock knew that everyone in the platoon had heard the word from the chopper that it couldn’t ferry them back to their camp at Tinglat. Conference time.