His boss, Commander Masciareli, top ass kicker of SEAL Team Seven’s 230 men, would chew him out for a week. Hell with him, the men needed some time off. They deserved it. Master Chief MacKenzie had met them and cut the orders at 0100 for them. Murdock had been up at five this morning for a two-mile run along Coronado’s beach. He had slept himself out on the five or six planes they had been on coming home. Now he stared at the stack of paperwork he had to do, which Master Chief MacKenzie had dropped on his desk last night.
Canzoneri had been taken directly to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego’s Balboa Park. The emergency-room crew had examined his leg, did some quick surgery to repair one area and then bandaged it up and admitted him. The estimate was that he would be there a week before being returned to light duty.
Franklin’s left arm was checked, two stitches replaced ones that had popped loose, and he was bandaged and released to duty.
By 0930 Murdock had only started on his paperwork when he looked up and saw Senior Chief Will Dobler standing in the doorway. He wasn’t sure how long the chief had been there.
“Senior Chief, come in.” Murdock stood and held out his hand. They shook and Murdock pointed to the chair beside his desk.
“Senior Chief, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I didn’t think the problem was that severe or I would have grounded you in a second.”
“Not your fault, Commander. It was all mine, and I have to live with that. I’ve had some time, but it’s going to take some more. I have to decide what I’m gong to do. I have to make a living. Navy is the only thing I know. I’m too damn old to be playing your kid games anymore. I’ve filed with Master Chief a request for transfer to one of the non-field jobs in the Team. I’m grounding myself, Commander. I hope you understand.”
Murdock nodded. He had hoped that this wouldn’t happen, but he was almost certain it would. Dobler was having trouble keeping up some days on their training runs and swims. At thirty-seven, he was by far the oldest man in the Platoon.
“I know how it is getting older in this game. I figure I have two, maybe three more years before I cash out. You’ll be missed in Third Platoon, you know that.”
“MacKenzie has a short list of three men he’s recommending to move in here. All three are in the same job in other platoons. Seems like everybody wants to get shot at.”
“Yes, I’ll have to get on that today. You know any of the three?”
“One of them, and he wouldn’t be my top pick.”
Neither man spoke for a moment, each reliving some action they had been in during past days.
“Has MacKenzie found a berth for you yet?”
“He’s working on it. He says there’s a cross-referencing spot open at the CIA in Washington, D.C. for a SEAL. Man who was there for two years just retired. Don’t know if I would like rubbing shoulders with those spooks.”
“Be a good berth for you, Dobler. Your combat, and your platoon action experience would be an eye opener for them. You’ve been there and done that. You’d be a top man for the spot. Has Masciareli done anything about it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“His word would help out a lot in D.C. I’ll bug him about it today.”
“Kids would have to change schools again.”
“True, but it would move you out of that house and the memories. Might be just the thing.”
Neither spoke again for a minute or two.
“You still have twenty days or so on your leave. You going to get away somewhere?”
“No sir. I’m spending all the time I can with my kids. We do something every day after homework. A show, a ride, go surfing, or swimming. I even went fishing with them at some lake.”
“Good. I’m going to call the top dog and urge him to recommend you for that referencing spot at CIA. Get out of here so you won’t hear the nice things I’m going to say about you.”
Senior Chief Dobler grinned for the first time. “Aye, aye, sir. I’m moving my butt. I’ll bug MacKenzie again. His coffee is better than yours, anyway.”
Murdock smiled when the chief left. There had been just a trace of the spark from the man that he knew. Maybe Dobler was starting to come out of his depression that must have wracked him after Nancy’s death. He reached for the phone to talk to his boss about Dobler.
The phone rang before he could pick it up.
“Third,” he said.
“And a good morning to you, Commander. You slipped over the Quarterdeck without my checking the polish on your shoes this morning.”
“Sorry, Master Chief, wasn’t thinking what I was doing. Just talked to Dobler. You in the process for our recommending him for that CIA cross-check spot?”
“That I am lad, sir. I talked to the commander. He’s with me on it. We’re putting together a package. I e-mailed Stroh not to let them fill the slot before they get our material on Dobe.”
“Good. Now about his replacement here.”
“You want to interview the three candidates this morning?”
“Are they ready?”
“They’ve been on standby since 0800.”
“Send them over an hour apart starting at 1000. You have any preference?”
“Me sir? I’m just a lowly master chief not fit to be making such officer-type decisions.”
“Yeah, right. And your mother washed your pants in her chowder. Who do you like best?”
“He’ll be the second man over. The first one is to sharpen your interview techniques. The best man is number two. But I didn’t say a word. Sir.”
“I hear you. Did DeWitt get his tail moving?”
“He went on a five day. Something about the high country around Denver.”
“Good, as far from water as he can get. Take care, Chief.” Murdock hung up and went back to the stack of paper on his desk. There must be a better way, but he hadn’t found it yet.
Detective Sergeant Sanchez pushed down in the front seat of the rented Chevy where he sat twenty yards down from Howard Anderson’s apartment. The man was in town. He had caught just a glimpse of him last night when he came to his place and then left almost at once before Sanchez could get to the door. Then Anderson had slammed through the sparse nighttime traffic at such a pace that Sanchez lost him before they made it to the bridge into San Diego. He was furious that the damned gringo could outdrive him when the man didn’t even know he was being followed. Sanchez went back to the apartment to wait through the night, but Anderson didn’t come back. Another two hours, and he was going back to Tijuana. This had been the closest he had come to the big American. Another two hours. Sanchez swore softly. He would get this gringo pig, it was an obsession now. He had to get him.
It was well after two o’clock in the morning when Howie Anderson banged on the back door of the El Gallo Colorado cantina. He kept banging with his fist and then with a chunk of wood he found nearby until someone opened the door.
One of the girls in a half-open robe, looked at him.
“Hey gringo, we closed.”
“You’re always open. Get the hell out of the way. Where’s Teresa?”
“She’s busy.”
“Same room?”
“Yes, busy. All-nighter.”
“I’ll throw the bum out. Got business, funny business.” He laughed. Then Howie hurried up to the second floor. Teresa always had the same room, number one. He tried the door. Locked. He pushed against it just a little with a shoulder slam and it popped open.
The light was on, but low. He surged into the room, saw Teresa with the long black hair on the bed, naked with a nude man beside her. Howie grabbed the sleeping man’s arm and pulled him off the bed. He swore in Spanish and jumped up ready to fight. But when he looked up at Howie’s six feet three inches and 240 pounds, he backed off. He put on his pants as Howie glowered at him.