Just before the attack, the king of Bangladesh and all the royal family had flown in their private jet to Calcutta to be out of danger. Most of the city facilities had been captured by the end of the day. The police were routed, the small military garrison nearby nearly wiped out by the high-powered Chinese and Pakistani assaults. A dozen helicopters flew in the first afternoon, then big transports with armored personnel carriers arrived.
On the second day, Chinese fighters were refueled and armed at the Dhaka military air base and roamed the countryside searching out the Bangladesh-type 54/55 tanks and a few Chinese-made type 59 tanks. Six were blown up the first morning. By noon of the second day, the war in Bangladesh for all practical purposes was over.
The SEALs ate and slept and watched reports of the war on the TV sets. The second day they were there, Murdock received permission from the base to take the men on a conditioning run.
“How far?” the military policeman asked.
“Ten miles.”
The corporal swallowed hard. “Well, sir, you can go down the outer boundary of the air base, follow it around. That should cover about eight miles.”
“Good,” Murdock said. “We’ll do it twice.”
After they got back, showered, and dressed in fresh cammies the Indian Air Force provided them, a messenger came with an envelope for Murdock.
He opened it, read it, and grinned. “Hey, guys, gather round, we’ve got news.” He read the letter.
Murdock and SEALs, Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven. Calcutta, India.
Hey, troops, your old buddy Don Stroh giving you some advance warning. Tomorrow morning you’ll get official through-channels orders to move back to the good old flattop Stennis, which is about where you left her in the Gulf of Thailand. They have it worked out how you’ll get there.
Then comes the fun part. Did I say Hong Kong? I certainly did not. I can’t say anything until you get the official through-channels orders. So. Have a good night’s sleep. Oh, I’m on the carrier, so when you guys get in, the beer’s on me.
“Hong Kong? that’s part of China now,” DeWitt brayed. “The British turned it over three or four years ago. Stroh suggesting that we’re going into Hong Kong? He must be nuts.”
“Probably, but it does give us something to think about,” Murdock said. “At least we won’t have to do a conditioning run tomorrow.”
“Hong Kong?” De Witt said. “Must be fifty thousand Chinese troops around that place. This has to be some fucked up Navy mistake. Just got to be.”
15
Detective Sergeant Mad Dog Sanchez had two men watching Juan Lopez’s house. Lopez didn’t go back there after the talk he had that afternoon with the police. He didn’t go there that night or the next day. Nobody knew where he was.
Mad Dog shrugged and went to the next step. El Gallo Colorado was open at five in the afternoon. It was not the best bistro and cantina in town, but one of the better ones. They had two ex-fighters on the door as bouncers. They kept out people they wanted to and threw out those who caused trouble inside. Both men were heavyweights, six-one and six-three. Mad Dog did not wish to tangle with either one. He had fought welter and now was no more than 165 pounds.
He waved at the two men who knew him. One opened the door without a word. Inside there were about fifteen patrons. Most at the bar. Two danced on the small hardwood floor. Six were actually eating the food from the little kitchen at the side.
He knew the barkeep, who dropped his wipe rag and looked at the far door behind the bar, which had a two-way mirror showing on this side.
“Ayeeee, Detective Sanchez. What would your pleasure be for a drink on the house?”
“Tequila,” Sanchez said. Nobody called him Mad Dog within his hearing.
Sanchez tasted the liquor, then put the glass on the bar.
“Pedro, what do you know of Juan Lopez, the creep who hangs around here?”
“Haven’t seen him for two days. Someone said he died in a cell at police headquarters.” Pedro looked confused and hurried on. He mopped at sweat on his forehead. “At least that was one story going around. You know how stories can grow.”
“He was in good health yesterday afternoon when I walked him out of headquarters. You haven’t seen him since then?”
“Not the shadow of him, I swear.”
“So, where is Adolfo?”
“I don’t believe he’s here yet?”
Mad Dog grabbed the barkeep’s expensive silk shirt, bunched it in his hand and dragged the startled man off his feet and belly up on the bar.
“Don’t lie to me, Pedro. I saw you look at Adolfo’s door and make some signal. Get back there and tell him I want to see him. Now it will be pleasant. If I have to chase him down, it will be most unpleasant and it will be private.”
“Yes, yes. I bring him,” Pedro gasped out the words. His air supply was getting halfway cut off by the tight shirt collar. Sanchez let him down to the floor and straightened his shirt.
“Go get Adolfo, now, Pedro.”
Pedro wiped his hands on the rag, tossed it on a table behind the bar and scurried down the bar and through the door. Sanchez sipped at his tequila. A good drink should never be hurried. They had some of the best tequila in Baja California. Sanchez carried the drink down to the end of the bar well away from anyone who could hear their talk.
Most of the bar patrons suddenly became interested only in their drinks or food. No one even looked in Sanchez’s direction. He smiled thinly.
The man who moments later pushed through the door at the end of the bar and stepped behind it, was about sixty, with graying hair, a white moustache and a white goatee. He wore glasses and squinted through them now at Mad Dog. He wore an expensive sport shirt and slacks. He nodded.
“Ah, yes, Detective Sanchez. Has Pedro been taking care of you? How about a steak diner, my compliments?”
“No, business, old man,” Sanchez spoke softly so only the two of them could hear. Pedro had not returned. “I’m looking for a killer who comes to your bar often. Lives here sometimes. I want his name. He’s a gringo, big guy, could be military. He’s been buddy-buddy with Juan Lopez, and now Cuchi Hernandez is dead. I want to talk to this gringo.”
“What can I do?” Adolfo said. “I have seen him, he’s a customer. I have more than a hundred of our fine Norte Americanos in my establishment many nights. I can’t know details about each one. I know of him, but not a name. He pays his bill, he tips the girls. What is to know?” Adolfo had spoken softly as well.
Adolfo stood away from the bar out of reach of Sanchez.
“You know a lot more than you’re telling me. You know him well, Adolfo. I want his name, address, and phone number. I can close you down in two hours, old man. Remember that. Now, once more. Tell me the gingo’s name and his phone number. He murdered Chuci and you know it. Now spit out the name or you may not be able to spit anything any more.”
Adolfo paled. His forehead showed a sheen of moisture. Twice he coughed and then ran his hand over his face. “Detective Sergeant Sanchez. I understand your wanting to catch a killer. We have too many murders in our town. It is bad for my business. But there just is no way that I can help you.”
“No way? I have a way. I’ll use Cuchi’s favorite game. I’ll slice you a few times and see if your memory improves.” Mad Dog Sanchez took out a throw knife and flipped it outward holding tight to the handle. A five-inch blade of shiny sharp steel flicked into place and locked. Sanchez pointed the honed steel at Adolfo.