Murdock looked at his second in command. “You have a minute?”
“Sure. Milly doesn’t know when to expect me.”
“DeWitt, the Navy is wasting your talent here in my platoon. You should have a platoon of your own. I’m putting a recommendation to Masciareli tomorrow that you get the next platoon opening here in GRUP-ONE.”
Ed frowned slightly. “You don’t want me around?”
“I depend on you too much, and you take up the slack. You deserve a platoon of your own.”
“Yeah, and if and when I got it, I’d be out of the loop with this action platoon. Wouldn’t get in on all of the juicy assignments.”
“Sure, and you wouldn’t get shot at so often. The average platoon here in the whole group averages only one action assignment a year. Most of them are no-shoot affairs. Milly will love it and you’ll still be with the platoons. Besides, you’ve had three serious wounds in the past two years. You’ve done your duty here, more than your duty.”
“I want to ask you not to send in that paper, Skipper. I like it here. Keeps my juices running. A transfer, even if it meant my own platoon, is something I’ll have to think about. Don’t send in the paper until we talk again, okay?”
Murdock watched his best friend. They had been through a lot of hell together these past three years. This was about the reaction he’d figured DeWitt would have.
“Okay. Talk it over with Milly. Now get out of here and go play old married man.”
DeWitt grinned. “Hey, thanks for the thought about the letter. I might go for it yet. I’m a long way off from another stripe, but wouldn’t hurt to be in a spot where it could happen. I’ll let you know.”
He left the office, and Murdock put his feet up on the desk and let his mind wander. There had to be some answer to this North Korean affair. What kind of a GHQ would they need? Could a submarine offshore do it? They had two subs that he knew of. Not likely. They’d need an onshore headquarters for good communications and movement. He was going to concentrate on the problem and worry it to death until he had something he could take to the brass. The fucking North Korean brains had to be right there on the coast somewhere.
Jack Mahanani checked his watch as he pulled away from the BUD/S parking lot. It was seven-thirty civilian time. The DEA guys would be home, but the operator might still be on. He drove to Chula Vista just south of San Diego and found a phone booth. He dug the number out of his wallet and dialed it.
“Good evening, this is the DEA task force.”
“Hi, this is the Reverend. Do you have a message for me?”
“The Reverend? Oh, yes, just a moment, it’s here somewhere. Yes. I have it. We have two of our men who want to talk to you. They told me to set up a time convenient to you and they will be there. They suggested a restaurant might be a good meeting place.”
“Good. Tonight at eight-thirty in a place in Pacific Beach called Tony’s. I’ll meet them at the bar.” He hung up quickly before they could trace the call. Then he remembered they for sure would have caller ID on all of their phones, so they would know what phone number the call came from. It wouldn’t help them any. He took a deep breath. Was he going to meet with them? Did he really want to set up a raid on these smugglers? Damn right. He had to get out of this smuggling trap and stay alive. He would make the DEA promise him that his name would not be mentioned and that he would get a guarantee of no prosecution for his part. Yes, it could work, if they could nail all of the smugglers working at the casino.
He looked at his watch. Plenty of time to drive to PB. He used to live over there, knew all the best spots. He’d get to Tony’s early and have a steak. He could use a good steak about now. Sure, then what did he tell the DEA guys? Hey, I just happen to be a narcotic mule and I wanted to spill my guts to you for immunity? Actually, that was about it.
He’d start with the gambling and the hole he’d dug for himself, and then talk about Harley and that damn Martillo. Yeah, he could make a good case for himself. He wouldn’t tell them too much, not even which casino, not right away. There were seven or eight Indian-run casinos in the county by this time. Yes, he could do it.
Halfway into Pacific Beach, a section of San Diego, a water main break closed off the main access and he had to take a five-mile detour. When he got to Tony’s and parked, it was five minutes to the meet time. He was sure the DEA guys had arrived early and had two or three other men lurking about.
A man read a newspaper in his car in the faint light coming from the dome. He was a ringer for sure. Mahanani shrugged and walked into the restaurant. He hadn’t incriminated himself yet. He wouldn’t unless he got a guarantee in writing of total immunity and his name not being used.
He went into the bar and checked the men standing there. There was only one pair of men: both in suits and both looked like cops. He walked up and stood beside them and ordered a beer. One looked at him.
“Are you the Reverend?” he asked.
“Might be. Who are you?”
The man flashed a badge that could have been from any agency.
“I better take a better look at the badge,” Mahanani said. The man handed it to him. DEA, the right one. They moved to a booth toward the back and waved the waitress away.
“Now, you said you know about a mule operation.” The larger man did the talking. No names were given or asked for.
“Right. I got suckered into it. I was stupid.” He told them about the gambling and how he was threatened and how they would go to his commanding officer if he didn’t pay up or work for them as a mule out of TJ.
“So, you Navy or Marines?”
“Navy. I would have been booted out of the service.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“First I want it in writing that I will not be prosecuted in any way for what I might have done, and I want to be completely anonymous. I want to get out of this without getting killed by the druggers.”
“That we can’t guarantee, the not-getting-killed part. If your story is good enough, I can get the immunity and we’ll never use your name. How about some details?”
“Not until I get that letter from your local office chief on stationery that I won’t be prosecuted and my name will be kept out of it.”
“The problem is we’ll need more than that to get the letter.”
“Fine, I’ll go to the San Diego Police narc squad.”
The men whispered a moment.
“All right, you said TJ to San Ysidro, numerous trips, with coke worth about half a million. What’s that, fifty kilos?”
“I don’t know. I never saw the drugs going or coming.”
“How many trips do they make a week?”
“My guess is five or six, but I can’t be sure.”
“That’s enough. Give me tomorrow. Then tomorrow night you call in and ask for a message for the Reverend just the way you did this time.”
“Okay, but if I don’t get the letter, you can forget all about this. I know a little how you guys operate. I know you’ve probably got pictures of me by now, and that one of your men out front has my license plate. Please don’t run it. You don’t need to know who I am. If this deal falls through, I’ll deny everything, even if one of you is wearing a wire. We do this my way, or you don’t get a good-sized smuggling operation iced out of business.”
He stood and left before either of them could respond.
Outside, he went to the car where the man was still reading the newspaper and tapped on the window. The man rolled down the window.
“Hey, your two DEA buddies inside said you can close up and go home. The party’s over.”
Mahanani grinned at the surprise and shock on the agent’s face. Then Mahanani laughed and walked up the street to his car. Nobody followed him as he drove away.