“Call your CO and have him contact the Riverside County authorities. I’m sure that’s the county you’re in. He should be able to get them by phone or through some emergency ham operators. Best to sit right there until the sheriff gets there. Yeah, I know, a hassle, but the locals have certain rights too.”
“Since when did you get to be such a going-through-channels guy? A change of spots for you, Stroh. Hell, might as well call Masciareli. Take care, Stroh. Out.”
The top frog in San Diego said he’d take care of it, and yes, they should stay put until the sheriff’s chopper arrived. Shouldn’t be long.
By the time the sheriff and three deputies arrived, they had been well briefed by the military that this was a highly classified mission and that it was a matter of national defense. The SEALs could be questioned, but not quoted. The military would arrive as quickly as possible to take charge of the live Koreans for questioning. The dead ones were to be referred to the United Nations.
Sheriff Windy Wheeler stepped out of his chopper two hours after Murdock’s call. He had on khaki pants and shirt and a .45 on his hip. The SEALs had carried the dead out of the cave, and walked out the live ones, then retied their feet.
It was nearly dark before the sheriff’s vans had loaded up the dead and the prisoners and left the area. Sheriff Wheeler shook hands with Murdock and DeWitt and grinned.
“Be damned. You got the bastards that helped turn the coast into a black hole. I don’t know what kind of a report I’ll make, but you gentlemen won’t ever be mentioned. We’ll send out a search party tomorrow to scour that hill you showed me to see if you did nail the other three North Korean bombers up there. You say a 20mm rifle? Damn, I thought that was a cannon the jet fighters use.” He shrugged. “Whatever, it worked damn good. I think I can release you boys so you can scoot back to Coronado. Of course, I never have met you or seen you and these deaths are by person or persons unknown. Oh, yeah! You boys have a safe trip now.”
It was a quick flight back to Coronado. Some of the men slept, some relived the chase of the bombers. Murdock tried to remember when he’d had a good night’s sleep. Maybe tonight, if he could drive through the two traffic lights he had to pass to get to his condo. He hoped traffic tie-ups were smoothed out by now. Sleep, yeah, maybe tonight.
14
Jack Mahanani parked in the lot outside the luxurious casino and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He had remembered correctly. The Indian management at the casino had been worried about rolling blackouts during the electrical energy shortage, so they’d bought and installed a large commercial turbine to power their huge generators. They could provide enough electrical power themselves to run the whole casino and the rest of the tribal reservation. He had heard them talking about it several times.
Once the SEALs hit their home base that afternoon, they had cleaned up equipment and weapons and been cut loose for the day. Nothing to do until 0730 the next morning. Mahanani had stewed around in his condo for two hours, cursing the coastwide blackout that still held. His portable radio said the big shots were working on it. Some of Washington state was powered up, and some areas of Los Angeles.
No traffic lights, no house lights. Then he remembered that the casino would be up and running. This might be a good time to take another trip to Tijuana. The electronic stuff at the border would be off. Or would it? No matter. He could chisel another four hundred dollars off his IOU. Yeah, and bet that against ten years in Chino State Prison. At last he talked himself into it, and drove to the casino east of San Diego.
Now he kicked out of the car and locked it. Wouldn’t matter. The Hammer had a key to it, along with the pink slip, the ownership certificate. If they wanted it, they would take it.
He saw the lot had only half as many cars as usual. A lot of people had forgotten that the casino would be running, blackout or no. Mahanani strode toward the big front door, and was halfway to the tellers to buy some chips when Harley pulled up in front of him and held out his hand.
“Hey, buddy, haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Business?”
“Yeah, Harley, I have to work for a living, remember?”
“You sure aren’t a good enough gambler to make a living off us, Mahanani. Doesn’t matter much, because you’re blacklisted now until you work off your IOU and get your Buick back. No more gambling for you.”
“Not even twenty bucks for the slots?”
“Not even that. You want to talk to the Hammer?”
“Will he want me to make a run tonight?”
“No way. With the blackout you could be crashed into, or held up somewhere. Besides, we don’t have a full load ready to go. Tijuana is having some trouble with the cops over there. The damned cops get bought off and then steal half a load and sell it themselves. Nothing crooked-er than a crooked Tijuana cop.”
“So what am I supposed to do? I can’t play and I can’t drive.”
“Suck your thumb or anything else you can reach, buddy. That’s up to you. Just thought I’d save you some embarrassment at the window, that’s all.”
“Thanks a load of shit, Harley. Get out of my face or I might just lose my temper and throw your ass across the room.”
Harley stepped back. Mahanani outweighed the small Indian man almost two to one.
“Don’t get nasty. Nobody made you come here and play. Remember that. Now, probably be better if you just headed for the door and drove away.”
“Yeah, a lot better.” Mahanani gave him a scowl and walked toward the door. He was outside the casino and one row from his car when a man came up in front of him and asked about the time. Mahanani looked down at his watch and the big guy slugged him in the gut, doubling him over. A knee pumped upward, met the big Hawaiian’s chin, and dumped all 240 pounds of him on the blacktop. He gagged and turned to get up. Then another man came from behind a car and kicked him in the side just over his kidney. Mahanani shrilled in surprise and pain and rolled to the side away from his attackers.
They were ready. A third man kicked him in the other side and he slid onto his back, one arm over his face. The pain was worse than he had ever known before, even when he was shot in the left arm. He tried to get up. Surprisingly, somebody lifted him from behind so he could sit up. He tried to look around as a jolting fist crashed into his jaw and spun him sideways. Somebody behind held him now in a choke hold around his throat. The fist came again, and then a third time, and Mahanani tried to shake the cobwebs out of his brain, but it wouldn’t clear. The man behind let loose of him, and a fourth blow hit him on the side of the cheek, and he flopped to the parking lot’s freshly striped blacktop. He wanted to pass out, but he couldn’t. The parking lot lights were fuzzy balls.
Somebody dropped beside him and picked up his head. Mahanani didn’t recognize the face that jammed in an inch from his. “Look, Mahanani, I thought we had a deal. You drive for us and be nice to the help. You just keep doing that and we’re all friendly again. You threaten Harley or don’t drive, and we find you and my boys will really put the fear of the tribe into you. You dig, Hawaiian beach bum?”
Mahanani blinked and tried to see who it was. Then he knew. The Hammer. “Yeah, I dig,” he said through cut-up lips and with blood running down his chin.
The Hammer let his head fall the eight inches to where it hit hard on the blacktop, causing some blue stars to go off in Mahanani’s head. The other men turned and walked away.
It was ten minutes before Mahanani could sit up. He had to hold himself up with both hands. His car, where in hell did he park? He couldn’t remember. His vision cleared and he stared at the rows of vehicles. One car was only six feet away. He crawled to it and tried to stand. On the first three tries, he couldn’t get his legs under him. On the fourth, he made it only when a guy with a teamster’s hat and a month of body odor helped him up.