She ducked under the barrier and turned toward me. “Well? If you’re gonna do it, let’s do it—there’s not much time.”
I signaled Nasty and Duck Foot. They sprinted toward Half Pint and me. We vaulted the wood sawhorses and followed Gold as she headed back west, toward the long line of trailers that were parked around the corner.
Now the cops were moving again. So was Manny. So was Buckshot. But we were a hundred and fifty yards ahead of them. An air horn blew three times. I stopped to see what was going on. “Goddammit, Dick, move.” Melissa’s voice was urgent, and she began to run. I heard car engines growling off to my left. “Goddammit, get your asses in gear! They’re starting the shot right now.”
“Let’s go.” I sprinted after her. So did my guys.
We made the far side of the street just as six police cars and a big truck labeled SWAT TEAM came barreling down the wide street, their sirens and lights going full blast. They passed right where we’d crossed the street, then careened around the corner heading toward the front of the high-rise.
A hundred yards behind us, Manny Tanto tried to talk his way past a pair of LAPD motorcycle cops. He wasn’t having much success. As we climbed into Gold’s Jimmy, he stared at us through a small pair of binoculars.
We made the rendezvous just after 0300. Gold let us off on the Pacific Coast Highway after turning her lights off and slowing to a crawl on the shoulder. I wasn’t sure whether we’d been followed or not, but I didn’t want to take any chances. We rolled out of her Jimmy into a ditch, let her take off, and waited five minutes to see if anybody cruised past. Nada. I owed the lady a big favor—which I’d repay if I lived long enough to get back to Los Angeles.
When I decided the coast was clear, we made our way across the highway and into Zuma Beach Park, crept onto the beach, then down the rocks and into the water. It was cold and we were all exhausted, and we had to tow Cherry, whose right arm was cut and who’d lost a lot of blood. But I saw the Malevolent Frog riding out the swells about half a mile offshore. Mike had put out two pairs of Cyalume sticks—reds and whites—and we used them to guide us out.
He pulled us aboard, dried us down with big, thick towels, warmed us up with coffee and brandy, helped patch up Cherry’s arm with surgical butterflies, then asked what the fuck was going on. He didn’t like bodies on his boat, and he let me know it in terms Ev Barrett would have been proud of.
I wasn’t keen on the idea either, but there hadn’t been a hell of a lot of choice in the matter. We had two KIAs, and I was going to have to dispose of them so that it looked like they’d been killed on official Navy business.
The question was how to do it. The casualties would have to be caused within the realm of plausible denial. And the corpses would have to be discovered in a state that prevented them from being examined or autopsied.
The closest facility to where we lay at anchor was Point Mugu Naval Air Station, where the original Red Cell had one of its biggest triumphs. Back in 1985, we hit the base on Labor Day weekend and blew Air Force One off the map.
This time Red Cell’s penetration would not be so successful. During the assault, we’d use some faulty IEDs—Improvised Explosive Devices—that would turn out to be a lot more powerful than we’d thought. There’d be a bad accident, and Wynken and Blynken would be killed.
My ass would probably end up in a court-martial, but I didn’t care. It was all such a clusterfuck anyway—Pinky probably spent most of his time trying to figure out how to get me out of his hair and back into jail. Well, he didn’t have to waste time on that, because between the North Korean mothership and this little op I’d done it to myself. Maybe he was right when he’d said that I’d fuck up, because I sure had fucked up right now.
But I had more important things to do than feel sorry for myself. I called the troops onto the fantail and ordered them to get as much rest as they could—things were about to get very busy. Mike got us under way at about 0445, and we steamed at twelve knots up the coast toward Pt. Mugu, some twenty-four miles from the pickup off Zuma.
The bodies had bled enough and swelled enough so that by daybreak they’d started to smell. We went dead in the water and took time to hose them off. It was an operational necessity—I didn’t want seagulls flying over the boat, drawing attention to us and to our cargo.
We reached Pt. Mugu during morning rush hour and lay two miles off the coast, between the Vandenberg missile range and the Naval Air Station itself. We spent all day riding the swells. Mike dropped fishing lines into the water just in case a stray patrol craft or plane spotted us. Nobody said much. Nobody was in the mood.
At 1500,I assembled the troops in the galley and outlined our assignment. “This is probably the toughest thing you’ll ever have to do,” I told them. I said that we were going to stage a raid on Pt. Mugu. During the infiltration, Nasty and I would stack the bodies on top of a bunch of live IEDs and blow them up.
I explained why it had to be done.
It didn’t go down very well with the men. But it had to be done.
I diagrammed the assault. Nod and Cherry would hit the police station, right outside the main gate. They’d cut the telephone lines and blow up the radio antennas so nobody could call for help. Pick and Half Pint would come across the beach and start a string of fires by the fuel farm as a diversion. Fires in California have a different meaning—especially when they’re alongside a fuel farm that holds enough J-4 to ignite the area from Oxnard to Camarillo. Meanwhile, Duck Foot would cut the chain on the back access road and plant a series of artillery simulators along the fence line closest to the Pacific Coast Highway. While the authorities dealt with all that chaos, Nasty and I would plant the two bodies and a bunch of live IEDs behind the Air Station’s explosive-ordnance-disposal facility.
We began the dirty work at 2130, going over the rail in pairs. Nasty and I towed the bodies in a raft. They’d begun to bloat by now and were pungent, stiff, and cumbersome as hell to carry. We grunted and groaned as we humped them through the marsh that bordered the Mugu Lagoon.
By the time we broke through the chain-link fence surrounding the EOD facility, the base authorities were already answering the call to the simulator explosions by the highway. As we found the perfect spot for Wynken and Blynken’s funeral pyre, we could hear sirens wailing as all hands were signaled to turn to for fire brigade duty.
Nasty broke into the weapons locker with a crowbar and removed enough dynamite to bring down a medium-size building. Working in tandem, we set the charges, fuses, and det cords, and—as reverently as possible in a situation like this—we placed the bodies in position atop the explosives.
Nasty knelt to say a quick prayer. I joined him. We remained there for a few seconds, then resumed our work in silence.
I took care to partially cover the bodies with earth, making a mound that resembled a grave. You might think I did it to be decent. Actually, I did it so the corpses would act as tamping for the charges, which would maximize the dynamite’s destructiveness. There’d be no way to salvage enough tissue from this explosion to conduct any autopsies or formal investigations of any real merit.
Nasty set the timer and we hauled ass, making our way back across the wildlife preserve, through the marsh, and down the lagoon. We grabbed the raft and towed it back out to the Malevolent Frog. The other teams were already aboard. Mike hit the throttle and we headed south. We were about three miles from the Air Station when a huge ball of orange flame rose into the sky.
It was done. Two more Frogmen to guard the gates of heaven.
As we passed Point Palos Verdes, I called Washington and told the duty captain who came on line who I was and what unit I commanded. I told him we had suffered two fatalities while expending live ordnance that we could not legally take on a commercial flight, while conducting a no-notice Red Cell penetration at Naval Air Station Point Mugu.
I told him a full report would be filed upon my return to Washington, and that, as Red Cell’s CO, the fault for the fatalitie
s lay entirely with me.
He started to blurt something back at me, but I pressed the off button and canceled the call. I wasn’t in a very talkative mood.
Chapter 19
WE LEFT LOS ANGELES ON THE FIRST AVAILABLE FLIGHT—ONE of those short-body 737 locals that was scheduled to make seven stops between LAX and DCA. I’d stowed our HKs and most of the Glocks with Mike Regan—no reason to take them with us and create a lot of problems for airline security. He promised to send them on via Federal Express when we were back and safe. Safe. That was a laugh. As I sat on the first leg of our flight—Los Angeles International to Ontario, California—I actually developed the shakes. They were similar to the anticipatory tremors that had preyed on me before combat patrols in Vietnam—the knowledge that there was something out there that wanted to kill me transformed my whole body into a powerful, sensitive antenna. Back then, they made me a better warrior.
Now, sucking a half-cold Stroh’s and staring vacantly out the window, I was getting the same vibes I’d had more than a quarter century ago when we left our base at My Tho after dark and went out into the Mekong Delta to hunt Mr. Charlie. But now the sensation was different. I didn’t know what it was, or why it was. I only knew that something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.
We took off for Scottsdale, Arizona, on schedule. I had a second beer. Then a third. I turned to look at my men. They were exhausted, wrung out, drained emotionally and physically. Cherry’s arm was still virtually useless. From the way he acted, I feared Pick might have a concussion. The rest of them had developed thousand-yard stares.
I knew what was wrong. We’d lost two men and only taken down one bad guy. Those results were unacceptable. Their performance was unacceptable. They knew it—and I knew it.
We dropped into Denver just after 1155 Mountain Time. There was an hour-and-ten-minute layover at Stapleton International, and I suggested that we go and stretch our legs—find a bar and a few draft Coors Lights. That would be a fitting memorial service to the Frogs we’d left behind.
We found a generic bar about two-thirds of the way down the concourse but still inside the security zone. It offered computer-dispensed draft and was almost empty. The better bars were all in the main terminal, but I veered to the right and the men followed. No need to bother the Stapleton rent-a-cops with the few lethal goodies we’d managed to stow in our hand luggage.
I know, I know—you’re wondering how we do that, what with all the concern these days about terrorism and fear of hijacking and the rest of it. Well, the answer’s simple—when you combine minimum wage with lack of motivation, you get the kinds of people who are hired at airports to check your baggage. Remember Narita? Well—it was a hundred times worse here than it was there. Makes you feel secure, doesn’t it?
We had about half a dozen rounds and I excused myself to drain the lizard, slipping out to the men’s room about a hundred feet inside the metal detectors. As I came out, I fell in just behind two guys who, although dressed in pinstriped suits, were—to my practiced eye—carrying heat. I went to Threatcon Delta.
The mind stopped and the computer took over. Who were they? Obviously, they were either The Law or terrorists. I discounted the latter category immediately: they didn’t fit the profile. In fact, from the way they dressed, they were feds. I drew closer without attracting attention. One of them was holding a photograph in his hand—a picture of me, the one on the jacket of Rogue Warrior.
Ah, fame. I slowed down and watched as they headed toward the gate where our flight was just getting ready to board again.
I jogged back to the bar.
“Let’s go.”
Nasty chugged the last of his beer, slung his knapsack over a huge shoulder, and swiveled off the bar stool. “Aye, aye, Skipper.” The rest of the guys drank up and reached for their stuff, too.
Half Pint stopped short as I started down the concourse, away from the gate. “Hey—what’s up?”
“Just follow—I’ll tell you in a minute. We gotta move.”
We went out past security, into the main arrival area. I herded the men through the doors and toward the cab line. “There’s a Rent-A-Wreck franchise about two miles down Thirty-second Avenue. Grab a cab. Meet me there in an hour.”
“What’s up?” Cherry looked over his shoulder.
“Cops,” I said as we walked. “Feds probably. Gone to the gate.”
“For us?” Duck Foot wondered. “How—”
“Move, goddammit.” This wasn’t the time or place to talk. “I don’t know whether they were feds looking for us or cops waiting to pick up an extraditee—but I’m not taking any goddamn chances. We gotta disappear until I can find out what the fuck is happening.”
I called Irish Kernan from a pay phone about a mile from the terminal, but he wasn’t in his office. His secretary said he had a meeting at the Pentagon and wouldn’t be in until after eleven. “Any message, Captain Marcinko? Can he reach you?”
“No—I’ll call him back later.” Damn.
I tried to reach O’Bannion in Hawaii, but he was out, too. Totally frustrated, I dialed Stevie Wonder’s private number at the Navy Yard. Two rings. Three. Four. I prayed in a way I hadn’t since the nuns at St. Ladislaus Hungarian Catholic School used to rap my knuckles with their rulers.
On the sixth ring he growled, “Yo.”
“It’s me.”
“Man, are you in a world of trouble, you sorry asshole.”
“Moi?”
“Yeah—twat.” I heard him slurping coffee from the Big Gulp 7-Eleven plastic cup he kept on his desk to annoy the brass.
“Intel dump. Nutshell.” I was in no mood for talkative.
“Mutiny. Felony murder. AWOL.”
Nutshell indeed. “Shit.”
“They sent the FBI after you.”
“Do I have any friends left?”
“Aside from me? Maybe a couple. But not anybody across the river. E Ring went to DEFCON Five the minute you called from L.A. They’d been waiting. Sent people to every fucking airport west of the Mississippi.”
“Anybody we know behind this?”
“The orders came from OP-06.”
“That’s not what I asked.” I knew damn well who was behind it. Grant Griffith was behind it. Mutiny was a court-martial offense. And felony murder. That was a nice touch. Icing on the cake. Felony murder would put me away for, oh, fifty years minimum. That’s a lot of time to steal Tomahawk missiles from the Navy.
And that’s what this goatfuck was all about. Nuclear Tomahawk missiles. The stakes were fucking incredible—billions of dollars, not to mention the national security. And I was the fucking monkey wrench keeping the greased machinery from moving. So, I had to go.
And to make sure I was taken out of the picture, Grant Griffith and Pinky had loosed the entire fucking federal government on me and Red Cell. Well, screw Grant and Pinky. They were goddamn traitors who were selling our country’s secrets and they didn’t deserve to live. Moreover—and more immediate right now—was the fact that I’d lost two of Red Cell’s best because of these arrogant, money-grubbing assholes, and I wanted to get even.
No—I wanted to get ahead. Grant’s head. On a fucking pike. Pinky’s ass—up the fucking river.
Yeah—what I wanted was to get my hands on those two goddamn cocksucking motherfucking dip-shit no-load pus-nutted pencil-dicked shit-for-brains sphincter-sucking asshole-kissing geek cockbreaths and kill them—not to put too fine a point on it—kill them very, very painfully. Very, very slowly.
“Any suggestions, Wonder?”
“Go to ground, bro. Don’t call anybody. Lemme see which way the wind’s blowing, and then we can make a plan.”
That made sense to me. “I got a prob here, too.”
“Only one?” I loved the boy’s sense of irony.
“One of many. When you were in Iraq, we hit the Yard.”
“I know. Bad juju. Lots of burned asses.”
“Well, we borrowed some stuff from TSD. Monitors
. I planted ‘em, and I have a receiver in my war bag. But I got no way of picking up what they’re putting out.”
“Where are they?”
“L.A. area, I think.”
“You think? You think? Shit, Holmes, ain’t you got no brains?”
I told Wonder about Seal Beach. I listened as he slurped more coffee. “Lemme see what they can do out past the Beltway.” He was talking about Vint Hill.
“Much grass, bro.”
“Nada. Stay in touch.”
I looked at my watch. “I’ll check in at about eighteen hundred your time.”
“I’ll be here. Watch your butt, lard-for-brains.”
“Eat shit and bark at the moon, asshole.”
We got two cars for the seven of us. I’d wanted three, but we had only two credit cards that still worked. The others were Pentagon issue—which meant they’d probably been canceled by now. Anyway, there was no way I was going to use ‘em and give the gumshoes a head start by letting them know where we’d begun our odyssey.
Nasty and I took Nod and Cherry with us. I chose a 1972 Monte Carlo—a real lead pig if you ever want to bust through a roadblock, chain-link fence, or other obstacle. Duck Foot, Mr. Bashful, selected a burgundy 1979 Fleetwood Brougham for himself, Pick, and Half Pint. We’d split up. Go south. I told the guys we’d meet up at a rest area I remembered from my SEAL Team Six travels. It was about a hundred miles from Denver on 1-25, south of Fountain and north of Pinon—just outside Pueblo, Colorado. Rendezvous h-hour was 2300.
If the feds were smart—which they weren’t—they’d be holding the plane now, interviewing the crew to see if they remembered where we’d gotten off, and going through our baggage piece by piece to see what we’d been carrying.
I was glad we’d been subdued on the flight. No heavy drinking. No naughty banter with the stews. We’d also been fortunate because we’d boarded separately—not your usual, boisterous, surly pack of SEALs in search of fun and games. The war god was looking after us. I hoped he’d continue.
I let Nasty do the driving, while I put my head back and tried to sort everything out. It was like running the inside of a maze—I kept smacking up against dead ends and blind alleys.
Red Cell Page 30