“We could blast it open.”
“Probably about the only way, which would really mess up whatever they were trying to do down there.”
“Is there a tie-in with the oil platform?” the admiral asked.
“My guess is that there must be, but I have no idea what it might be. Perhaps a control station of some kind. Intelligence gathering for sure. That oil rig could hold a dozen antennas to gather all sort of electronic data, phone calls, e-mail, faxes, anything that has an electronic base. The same way we get electronic intel around the world.”
There were a few moments of silence; then the admiral came back on the air.
“Thanks, Commander Murdock. Well done. I’ll be reporting immediately to the CNO, the President, the heads of the CIA and FBI. They will work out any continuing action. You and your men are released to return to your normal duties in Coronado. Well done, Commander Murdock. Now, get Captain Roth on that mike.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral. Right away.”
A chief heard the conversation, and bolted out the door to bring in Commander Roth. He was there in thirty seconds. Murdock waved and left the radio room.
Murdock found his men in an assembly room where they had cleaned and oiled their weapons, changed out of their wet suits into cammies, and tried to look busy.
DeWitt caught Murdock at the door and asked him how it went. Murdock gave him a quick rundown. “What’s with the men?” Murdock asked. “The admiral has released us to get back to quarters.”
“The XO told me we could take the men to the regular mess at 1130. It’s almost that now.”
The Navy chief who had handled their embarking and landing on the air-cushion landing craft came in the door and walked up to the officers.
“Sirs, the captain tells me that you’re released and to arrange for the CH-46 to transport you back to Coronado. The bird will be ready to board at 1300. That way we all get to go to chow.”
“Thanks, Chief. We’ll be on the fantail at 1300.”
By 1430 the SEALs had stowed their equipment. Jaybird had taken the lights back to Team Supply, and Murdock and DeWitt had eyed the training schedule.
“Let’s do the O course for time,” DeWitt said. “I’m trying to cut down my personal best.”
Murdock studied the schedule again, then nodded. “Everyone but Bradford. I don’t want him tearing anything loose.”
“Right, he can keep the time tally.”
The Coronado O course, O short for obstacle, was said by some to be the toughest in the country. Murdock had cursed and praised it depending on his exhaustion factor. It had the usual walls and logs and jumps, and several with nearly impossible challenges.
Each man was timed going through, with the average about six minutes. The all-time verified record was a little over four minutes. DeWitt warmed them up with a two-mile run in the sand down the beach toward the Navy communication towers. They had ten minutes to cool out, then Jaybird led off.
“Want to get through the course before all you guys with your sweaty hands get everything out there all slippery wet,” he said. The men hooted him down, some with envy. Jaybird had one of the fastest times in the platoon for the O course. Today’s times were not for publication. Bradford would tell each man his time, but not record it.
Mahanani sat quietly as he waited for his turn on the devices. Usually he was good at them, but he didn’t know how he would do today. The casino/mule situation still bugged him. How in hell had he been so stupid as to get into debt gambling? Okay, he admitted that he had a problem with gambling, but he could kick it — if he could get out of his current situation without getting killed and without getting kicked out of the Navy. He’d heard about one Marine who got a dishonorable discharge and reduction in rate because of his gambling. The Marine had finally sold his car and started robbing his friends where they lived out at Camp Pendleton just to have enough money to gamble with. So it could happen.
He had to come up with a plan. It all depended on whether or not the casino owners and operators knew about the drug running. If they knew about it, he was in deep shit. If they didn’t, there was a chance he could turn in Martillo, and Harley, and maybe get the stateside connection busted in San Ysidro. Maybe. All he had to do was figure out how to do it and when. The sooner the better. Each time he ran the border with half to three quarters of a million dollars worth of cocaine, he was risking his neck and prison time. Wouldn’t that go over big with the family!
Mahanani stared at the sand. If he had forty-five kilos in the car, and a kilo went for fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, that meant one load could be worth up to nine hundred thousand dollars. He shook his head. He couldn’t even imagine what that kind of money was. They must have a massive distribution system if they moved that much coke every week or so. Maybe it was in a huge pipeline that funneled it back East and to the South. He shivered. He was in about a mile over his head. How in hell… He knew how. Now what did he do about getting out?
The whole idea of drug money repulsed him. He could just imagine the hundreds of thousands of addicts who were cheating and lying and stealing to feed their habit. He wouldn’t touch that money. Not even if he had a guaranteed way he could hijack his load and turn in the druggers at the same time. No way. Not a chance. He just wanted out clean and with his Buick and no damned debt to the casino.
As he waited his turn on the O course, he tried out various scenarios. He could go straight to the president of the tribe, the head of the casino, and tell them what Harley and Martillo had done to him. Sure, and if they were in on it, he’d be just another nameless corpse found half buried somewhere out in the dry hills of the East County backcountry.
Maybe he could call in an anonymous tip to the narc squad at the San Diego Police Department. He could tell them where the garage in San Ysidro was and how Harley and Martillo got their mules. No, then the cops would set up a watch and raid the place when they thought a mule was coming in. If he had to keep running, it might be him. That was out. If he was going to get it done, he’d have to contact the cops, tell them when he was making a run, and then let them raid the place just as he arrived with the cargo. They would have to give him immunity from any prosecution for turning in the place. At the same time they would have to arrest Martillo and Harley. No way. Then he’d have to testify. Oh, yeah, and then he’d have to quit the SEALs because he’d have to go into the witness protection program and get shipped off to Idaho or Montana or Georgia. Not a chance.
“Hey, Mahanani, you got water in your ears?”
He stood up, vaguely aware that it was the second or third time that Bradford had called him to take his turn on the O course. He’d attack each part of the course as if it were Martillo himself. Martillo was Spanish for “hammer.” He’d looked it up after the first run.
When he was through with the course, Bradford gave him his time. It was a full thirty seconds under his personal best on the big hairy O course.
Murdock cut the men loose about four that afternoon and told them to stay loose. Something could break on this sea-dome thing at any time. It was payday, so Mahanani stopped by the administration office for the team and signed for his paycheck. Most of the men had the cash sent directly to their banks electronically. But he’d never had a bank account. He liked to feel the cash in his hand. In his one-bedroom apartment in Coronado he stared at the cash. He could buy a lot of chips with that at one of the other casinos. They wouldn’t know him, and there were four or five more Indian casinos less than twenty miles away.
For a moment he could see the cards turning over. Hear the shouts of glee from the slots when someone won. It stirred him as little else did these days. But he squashed it in a second. He put most of the cash away and some in his billfold. Then he made supper. He was a good cook, and he ate well. It would give him something to do.