This time he saw it coming and tried to duck. Mad Dog had been in the ring for five years. He followed the duck, hit Juan with a straight left jab and then a thundering right-hand fist that caught Juan under the chin and lifted him an inch off the floor. He had been ready for it but that didn’t help. The room lights went fuzzy, then flickered and went out.
Juan fell to the floor of the Tijuana police interrogation room. A bucket of water sloshed over him and he cried out and then sat up.
“Stand up, you sniveling weasel,” Mad Dog shouted. “I know you have a gringo name and a phone number. I want it, and I want it today. I don’t have a lot of patience. We might do your fingers next.”
Mad Dog took a pair of pliers out of his pocket and worked the handles back and forth. They were well oiled and when Juan looked at them he felt a little bit of himself die. He didn’t want to die in this stinking cubicle. Where was El Padre? Who would help him?
A man in a business suit came to the door and talked with Mad Dog for a moment. The detective snorted and scowled. Then he started to turn away. Instead of leaving he did a spinning kick and hit Juan in the belly with his boot. Juan went down again and this time he did vomit. He couldn’t help it. He was on his hands and knees when gentle hands lifted him. It was the suit.
“Come, Juan. I just talked to the chief. No reason to hold you. Mad Dog is not pleased, but these cops seldom are unless they are paid enough. Let’s get out of here before the chief changes his mind.”
On the sidewalk outside the police station, the two men walked away slowly. Juan set the pace. He wheezed and had trouble talking.
The suit with the carefully knotted necktie handed Juan an envelope.
“Juan, a nice vacation for you in Acapulco. El Padre says you have earned it. Two weeks and by then Mad Dog will be angry at someone else. Oh, there’s a bonus in there for you besides your tickets and hotel reservation. Sorry I didn’t get to see you yesterday.”
The tall man in the immaculate suit moved away, stepped into a Jaguar sedan and drove down the street.
Juan looked in the envelope, then began to run away from the police headquarters. He found a taxi and went straight to the airport. He had money and could buy whatever he needed. Juan Lopez was glad to be on his way out of Tijuana and out of the reach of Mad Dog.
General Winston P. Alexander had known the president for twenty years. Now, as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, he was a prime adviser to the President on international military matters. They sat in the easy chairs in the Oval Office and sipped at soft drinks.
“True, we have no defense pacts with Nepal or Bangladesh or Mongolia for that matter,” the general said. “We do have an agreement with India; however, that could be interpreted as being binding on our assistance if she is attacked.”
“If attacked,” the president repeated. “So far she hasn’t been. I don’t think China is that stupid to take on another member of the nuclear bomb community.”
“So for right now, the chiefs of staff suggest that we simply sit on the sidelines and see what else happens.”
“We know that China is going into Bangladesh. Our intelligence operation is better there. Any developments on getting our embassy people out of there?”
The general nodded, glad to have some good news for a change. “Yes, the rescue mission is under way. The SEAL team was way over in the South China Sea, so it has some travel time. As I understand it, as soon as it gets dark over there, they will be moving.”
“I’d guess that India knows that China is going to move into Bangladesh,” the president said. “To do that, the Chinese must violate either India’s ground space or airspace. As I have been told, there is a narrow band of Indian territory between Bangladesh and China.”
“True. Depends how India reacts. We suggest that she will protest, then maybe put up some air power along that strip to slow down any air resupply to Chinese troops on the ground.”
“Will India ask us for any air help?”
The general shook his head. “I’d guess not. She has good air power, some good fighters. If China sends up their latest MiGs to defend the transports, it could be a good fight.”
“So, damn it, Win, we just sit on our hands and wait.”
“Not quite. We have a carrier group moving closer to the problem area. We have four ships in the Bay of Bengal, destroyers and cruisers, but our air power is eight hundred miles away.”
“I’ve seen the map,” the president said. “Not much we can do about that, at least for now. So we pick our noses, and see if we get our people out of that war zone.”
SEAL Team Seven, Third Platoon arrived in Calcutta tired, grouchy, and hungry. They had been up half the night getting their gear ready, finding the ordinance they wanted from the Navy stores, and getting on the COD Greyhound for the four-hour flight. It turned out to be five.
They arrived at noon at a military airport near Calcutta and were promptly fed and put down on cots for a six-hour snooze. Lieutenant Lonnie Brasco had paved the way for them, smoothed the glitches, and given Murdock a tour of the three CH-46s that had been flown in the night before from an amphibious landing ship that was off shore. Murdock took the one with door-mounted guns and a second one that had what looked like a level-headed older pilot.
“We’ll crank up at nineteen hundred,” Murdock told the pilots. “It’s an hour’s flight in there. We don’t know if it will be a hot LZ or not. From what I hear, the Chinese haven’t invaded yet. They must have got their timetable mixed up. But by tonight they could be all over the place.”
Murdock tried to get some sleep but couldn’t. He heard an announcement at 1430 that the Chinese had invaded Bangladesh, and thereby violated Indian air space. The announcement said that proper responses would be made.
In their makeshift barracks, the SEALs popped up from their cots at different times. The older hands slept longer than the newer men did. They had chow again at 1700 and then worked over their gear.
“Hear this is gonna be a walk in the park,” Howie Anderson said.
“Yeah, a park with a Chicom and his submachine gun behind every bush,” Mahanani snapped back.
“Chicom?” Ostercamp asked.
“Yeah, Mr. DeWitt used the term,” Mahanani said. “It’s from the Korean War, fifty years ago. Stands for Chinese Communists. Chicom. Fits.”
Murdock and DeWitt inspected their men ten minutes before load time; then they marched out to the choppers and boarded, half on each one.
“It’s the royal survival principal,” Jaybird said. “When the king and queen go on a trip, they travel separately, so the whole monarchy won’t go down in one fell swoop.”
“That makes you the court jester, Jaybird,” Jefferson said, and they all laughed.
All fifteen men had their ears on. Vinnie Van Dyke was still on the Stennis, getting the chunks of a lead slug out of his chest and lung. Murdock checked with DeWitt on the other chopper once they were in the air. Despite the loud noise of the rotor and motors, they could communicate. It was fully dark when they took off.
“DeWitt. We’ll have a hot LZ. We’ll go in as planned. You take the front door, and my squad and I will hit the back door. The birds will lift off and circle out of trouble until we call them in with a star shell and radio. They have our frequency.”
“That’s a roger, Murdock. We’re set here. Nothing for the door gunner to do yet. We’ve been over Bangladesh for twenty minutes and I don’t see any sign of fighting or Chinese below.”
“Same here. Coming up on a larger town. Hope the pilots go around it. Could be some action there.”