“Hey, pardner, looks like you had some trouble,” the teamster said. “Know where your car is?”
Mahanani shook his head.
“What make and color?”
The SEAL told the man.
“Yeah, shouldn’t be too hard to find. Lean right there on this Cadillac and I’ll do a quick recon.”
He was back three minutes later. “Got her, right over here about twenty feet. Can you walk, or you want some help?”
Mahanani held out his hand for help, and five minutes later he was inside his car with the window rolled down.
“Thanks,” he said to the trucker through cut-up lips and cheeks.
“Hey, no problem. Had me a fight or two myself and didn’t always win. You sure you can drive?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a break, then drive.” The trucker waved and went on to his big eighteen-wheeler parked at the far end of the lot. Mahanani sat there trying to figure it out. He’d been beaten up just because he’d made a small threat to Harley?
After sitting there for a half hour and trying to think it through, Mahanani knew what he was going to do. These guys were going down, one way or the other. He would risk two more runs to TJ for them and bring back the drugs. Then, on the third one, he would bring in the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Agency, agents. The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that the tribal council and the people who ran the huge Casa Grande Casino did not know about the strong-arm tactics and the drug smuggling. They had too much at stake to risk it all. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to bring the DEA in on it without getting charged himself.
He started the engine and headed for the exit. He was almost there before he realized it had grown dark and he hadn’t turned on his headlights. He stopped, turned them on, and put on his seat belt, then checked both ways and made sure his vision was acceptable. Yeah, okay. He pulled through the parking lot and back on the freeway driving at fifty-five mph in the right-hand lane. He didn’t want to have to make any quick decisions that fast driving might call for.
The big SEAL tried to figure out how to do it with the DEA. He would say this was his first run for them. They’d threatened him, and were going to turn him in to his commanding officer for gambling, which could get him thrown out of the Navy. Yeah. Good start. He wouldn’t agree to wear a wire. The DEA would have to trail him. He’d make it easy. They could hang back when the car went into the garage in TJ. Yeah, and then tail him back to San Ysidro and the garage and take them down. Then go to the casino and arrest Harley and the Hammer and their wrecking crew. That is, if they could get to the casino without the San Ysidro men warning the Hammer.
Mahanani settled down to drive carefully. He knew he was driving so safely a cop might think he was steady-drunk. He hadn’t had a drop, no problem there. He speeded up to sixty miles an hour and moved into the second lane. Yeah, he could do that. Now all he wanted to do was get home through the blacked-out four-way-stop intersections and across the bridge into Coronado and his condo. It was spooky driving with no house lights anywhere and no freeway signs lit. You really had to know where you were going.
He tried to relax. Oh, yes, he’d give somebody half a month’s pay just to magically zap him into his own bathroom. Then he could start repairing the damage to his face and lips. For sure he’d have a black eye, and maybe a broken nose. He was going to look terrible by tomorrow morning. Maybe a little makeup would help, or some camo paint.
He had stopped the car twice on the way home to vomit from the aftereffects of the kidney kicks. At last he cruised into his parking spot at the condo and sat there thinking. Or was he stalling, wondering if he could walk up the steps to his condo? He stepped from the car and threw up again. He wiped his mouth, and hurried up the stairs and inside so he could rinse out his mouth. His face was a mess. He washed it tenderly, then patted down the cut-open areas with alcohol swabs, and decided to let it be until morning. Then he’d have to decide what to do. Call in sick? Not an option unless he was half dead. He wasn’t even a quarter dead. He’d be there bruises, Band-Aids, and all.
For the tenth time that morning, Murdock realized how much he missed the use of the Internet and e-mail. The damn lights were still out. A newsman on his battery-powered radio said it might be two more days before all sections of the San Diego area were powered up. Strange how he had come to rely on the Internet for several aspects of his job and his communications with Ardith in Washington, D.C. He looked at the sheaf of papers that the master chief had given him when he arrived that morning. Most of them were routine. MacKenzie had copied them down from SATCOM transmissions. It was still their only communications off base.
The telephone still worked for local calls, but the military radio net had been vital to the whole operation. Murdock had worked through most of the stack of material when Master Chief MacKenzie rushed into the office about 0930 that morning. DeWitt and the platoon were at the O course running it again for time.
The usually calm old salt MacKenzie had a sheen of sweat on his brow and his eyes were spiked open with alarm.
“This just came in, Lad sir. It’s bad news.” He thrust a paper at Murdock who read it.
“From Don Stroh. To Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, Third Squad, SEAL Team Seven. We’ve had tight security about the fact that the President and Vice President and his top planning staff have been at a secret retreat for the past two days. The President has kept on top of the attack on San Francisco and the hijacking of the cruise ship and has issued the required orders to deal with the matters. Communications had been with his usual travel group of high performance radios. When the power grid went down yesterday morning just after daylight on the Pacific Grid, it also blacked out the President’s radio communications from his retreat. He’s up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
“Their only communications is by SATCOM, and their last report was four hours ago. It said that they were being attacked by an armed group of men operating like soldiers. They were having to scatter so they wouldn’t be captured. That was the last report we had from him. Something must have happened to the SATCOM.
“One of the last messages reported that the three helicopters at the site were destroyed with what looked like RPG’s. So they couldn’t fly out. The SATCOM report said they were under a heavy military attack and were on the run. Then the transmissions stopped.
“A rescue force is now being put together by the FBI and the military. It has been suggested that two Army Ranger platoons and one platoon of Navy SEALs be included in the package.
“I have made a strong pitch that Platoon Three from SEAL Team Seven be assigned to the rescue force. Will keep you informed. If this plans flies, the forces will be activated almost at once today. Stroh out.”
“The President,” Murdock whispered. He held up his left arm and looked at the homemade bandage. “I guess I should have had the medics take another look at this arm and get it ready for some action. Yes, it bothers me some, but my buddy ibuprofen is a real help. Show this paper to DeWitt when he comes back. Tell nobody else and ask DeWitt to keep mum on it until I get back. I’ve got to see the medics. I’m gone.”
Ten minutes later, Master Chief MacKenzie called to Lieutenant Ed DeWitt as he came back from the O course.