Counterfire sts-16

Home > Nonfiction > Counterfire sts-16 > Page 27
Counterfire sts-16 Page 27

by Keith Douglass


  DeWitt aimed dead center on the cabin and fired. The round exploded with a cracking roar, smashing the cabin and bringing an immediate slowing of the fishing boat. A minute later it was dead in the water.

  “Boarding party,” the Navy captain ordered.

  The patrol boat came alongside the fishing craft. Two sailors quickly tied the two together, and an Israeli with an Uzi submachine gun jumped on board the fisher and bolted forward to what was left of the cabin.

  “Nobody here and no dead bodies,” he shouted.

  “Go below.”

  A moment later he was back. “No one and no dead bodies.”

  “Where are they?” the captain asked.

  “Overboard, just after they took that shot,” DeWitt said. “They knew they couldn’t outrun us or outshoot us. So they went for a swim.”

  “Three miles?” the captain asked.

  “Easy for a swimmer,” DeWitt said. “And they could have a sea sled on board. A man like Zekharyah would plan ahead. What could he do if you figured out the deal and nailed the supplier? He must have heard about the fire and the raid on the International Food distributor.”

  “Where would they be now?” the captain asked.

  “A sea sled can make about two knots per hour. My guess is they have scuba gear, which will leave a trail of bubbles. We could go in within a mile of shore and work a picket line back and forth looking for bubbles. Once there we can drop off our SEALs every twenty yards and watch for the fishermen. We don’t leave bubbles.”

  The young Captain Dagan looked at DeWitt and grinned. “Let’s do it, go now.”

  He reported the situation to the other patrol boat and to his superiors on shore, who gave him the go-ahead. The other patrol boat met them at the spot and their divers went into the water. A half hour before the swimmers could have made it a mile offshore, the picket line stretched for half a mile in a direct path from the first firing of the fishing boat’s rifle to the beach.

  Just before he went into the water, DeWitt suggested to the young captain that he request the Army to send a company of men to patrol the beach, watching for any exhausted swimmers coming out of the water, especially any with a sea sled. That was backup in case they got by the divers.

  “Done,” the captain said.

  Murdock went underwater, made contact with his SEALS, and they began their prowl of their sector. It was only three hundred yards wide, but was in the center of the estimated line the swimmers would take.

  The Coast Watch captain went on the fisherman’s network frequency, notified the boats in the area about the three missing men, and warned them that if they picked up the men out of the water, they must report it immediately. The men were fugitives and would be arrested on sight. Anyone harboring the men would be subjected to stiff fines and imprisonment.

  Then the Coast Watch boat worked a line a mile long up and back, crawling along at three knots, watching for any trail of bubbles.

  Underwater, the SEALs worked through the clear water. The sun was out bright and the water sparkled with the light. They stayed at ten feet, figuring any swimmers would be above them. On the second run up the three-hundred-yard course, they found a trail of bubbles. The problem was they came from below. Canzoneri followed them down, and when he came up he surfaced to report.

  “Just a gush of bubbles out of a crack in some rocks down there,” he told DeWitt. “Mother Nature passing air. Wouldn’t be surprised if it had a bunch of foul chemicals in it.”

  They dove again.

  On the third swing along their assigned corridor, Canzoneri swam up to DeWitt and pointed to his ears, then out to sea. They both tried to listen, then DeWitt grinned. It was a motor. It could be the sled. It was too faint to be the patrol boat’s motor. They knew how it sounded. This one was faint, but coming their way.

  Canzoneri swam back along the line and compressed the men so they were only ten yards apart, so they could just see each other in the water. They kept at fifteen feet now and waited. They all gave thumbs-up. Everyone could hear the motor, a thin whining sound that would come from an electric motor underwater.

  Mahanani stared to sea, and looked upward in surprise as he saw it coming. The nose of the sled was down about ten feet. It had one man on the handles and two more men with scuba gear hanging on to the sled man’s ankles as they were towed along.

  Mahanani waved to the man on each side of him and pointed upward, then waited until the three men were directly over him. He surged upward, jerked the first man’s hands off the sled, and grabbed his air hose and ripped it out of its connection. He swam for the second man, but Victor was there ripping away at his face mask, jerking it free, then holding the man underwater as he clawed for air.

  Mahanani went back to his first man and jolted him upward, bringing him out of the water and keeping the arm locked around his throat.

  The patrol boat had seen the splashes; it raced in from three hundred yards away. A second man popped up, Victor with a nearly unconscious fisherman. Both men were grabbed and pulled on board the patrol boat.

  Jefferson brought up the last man; he was half drowned, and the sailors on the boat used CPR and brought him back.

  “We want them alive so they will stand trial,” Captain Dagan said. He radioed the news that all three fishermen had been captured including Zekharyah. They went out to the drifting fishing boat, put a tow rope on it, and sailed for the harbor.

  * * *

  An hour later, the SEALs were back in their temporary quarters at the air base outside Tel Aviv. They had showered and were getting ready for chow when somebody yelled near the door.

  Don Stroh walked in and waved. “Am I too late to go on any of the missions?” he asked. Jaybird threw his floppy hat at the CIA agent. The rest of the SEALs shouted unkind words at him.

  He chuckled. “Well, maybe next time. Don’t suppose any of you would be interested, but this mission is over. I’ve had you released from the military here. There will be a business jet here at 0800 tomorrow to pick us all up and start our homeward journey.”

  That brought a series of loud cheers.

  “Always said that you were an okay guy,” Jefferson yelled.

  “The Israeli President has awarded each of you two medals. They will be noted on your record, but of course you can’t wear them until you retire.”

  “Thanks a lot, Stroh,” Fernandez yelled. “How about that ten-thousand-dollar bonus you were going to get us?”

  Stroh looked surprised. “Hell, hasn’t that come through yet? I put the requisition in about two years ago. Probably still going through channels.”

  Three more floppy hats sailed in his direction.

  He waved at them and went to talk to DeWitt and Murdock.

  He shook hands with both. “You guys did great on this strange one. The President appreciates it. The Israelis are more than grateful, and I’m pleased. To show you how happy I am, the steak dinners are on me at the officers’ club in about twenty minutes. We have a reservation.”

  32

  NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE

  Coronado, California

  The SEALs arrived at North Island Naval Air Station slightly after noon two days later. They’d had a holdup in London to pick up a special courier, and then another wait in New York. They dropped off their gear in the equipment room and pulled on their civvies.

  “You all have three-day liberty,” Murdock said. “If any of you wind up in jail, you’re going to stay there until your liberty is up, so remember that. I’m going to sleep for the next three days.”

  Jaybird dug into his civvies, waved at the bunch, and ran for his battered ’94 Chevy. It started. Good. He backed out of the lot and hustled across Coronado to the Little League field. There was no one practicing. He didn’t even know what day it was. He parked and walked up to the field, then sauntered into the public rest room the city had built nearby. In the men’s room he looked at the overhead where he had planted the video camera. It had to be there.

  He s
aw it, and moved a chair over so he could stand on it and pull the camera down. He pushed it under his loose shirt and walked out of the rest room to his car. It wasn’t the new kind of video camera that let you play back what you had just shot. He had to go home, get the adapter, and put the cassette into his video player.

  His mind was whirling. He couldn’t really use it as evidence in court. He had violated the privacy of anyone showing on the tape. But he also hoped that the camera caught Rusty Ingles with his pants down molesting at least one small boy. He needed proof, and this would be it. If he was lucky. If the sound-activation switches had worked. If there was enough light. If nothing went wrong. If they were in a spot where the camera could see them.

  Jaybird drove sedately. He didn’t want to get a ticket and waste that much more time. He parked, ran up the steps to his apartment, and burst inside. It was just as he had left it.

  He turned on the TV, set it on Channel Four, and pushed the tape in the video player. He hit the rewind, and was pleased how long it took to rewind. He had something on the tape.

  Then it stopped and he punched up the play button. The TV picture shut off, there was some lead tape, then the inside of the playground bathroom came into view. The mike wouldn’t pick up much from that distance, but there were some rumbles of voices. At first there were only four young boys urinating with their backs to the camera. Then they left, and the next image was of a man and his young son using the urinals. There were ten more men and boys shown in the rest room. Where was Ingles? In the next section Jaybird saw Rusty Ingles come into the shot. Phil, one of the older boys on the Little League team, followed him. Rusty said something and they both laughed; then they urinated with their backs to the camera. Before Phil could turn around, Rusty was beside him, talking, his hand moving Phil’s hands away and caressing his small penis. Phil pulled back, but Rusty said something else, turned, and his own penis was out, hard and angled upward out of his fly. The young boy giggled and looked around, too scared to move.

  Rusty played with the small cock for a few moments, but it didn’t grow any or get hard. Rusty said something else and they both laughed. Then Rusty began to masturbate. That was enough for Jaybird. He turned off the machine and took out the tape. He considered it a moment, then put it in a small box behind some books on a shelf in the living room.

  He brought in the newspaper from the porch. It was Wednesday. Not a game day for Little League, not a practice day for his team. Rusty Ingles should be at work. Either he was an insurance salesman, or he had his own agency. Jaybird fumbled in his wallet and found the card. Yes, his own agency. Jaybird stared at the card, then at the video camera. The camera didn’t lie. Ingles was a damn pedophile; he fondled and jacked off little boys. Not a chance Jaybird was going to let him continue as a coach. He had to be eliminated. How?

  Jaybird knew a blast from his trusty MP-5 would do the job. He lifted his brows. That was the first time he’d thought of killing the bastard. That was what Ingles deserved. How many of the team had he fondled since the practicing had begun? None of them must have told their parents or he’d be long gone.

  Jaybird kept shaking his head. “That fucking bastard!” he exploded. He went to the second bedroom and took a .38- caliber two-inch-barreled revolver from the bottom drawer. He fitted it into a holster and strapped it on his left ankle. His pants covered it fully, and made it easy for him to draw it in a rush. He still didn’t like the idea of shooting the fucking queer pedophile. Something slower, much slower.

  Black’s Beach. Jaybird grinned. Appropriate. Yeah. That was the nominally nude beach, where the city winked at nude swimming and sunning. It was hard to get to. You had to climb down the La Jolla cliffs on a treacherous trail, or walk down from Torrey Pines State Beach to the north. It was at least a two-mile walk and most people didn’t bother. Yes, the beach would be perfect.

  He thought of calling Rusty and taking him out to dinner so he could talk about the team and get caught up on what they had been doing. No. He hated the thought of being with the damn queer pedo that long.

  A drink and get caught up. Yeah. There was a bar in Del Mar called Harley’s. They would meet there at eight, have a drink, and then outside, he’d pull the gun and make Rusty get in Jaybird’s Chevy and they would drive. Jaybird had a folding military-type entrenching tool in his car that he used for getting out of sand traps. Perfect.

  He made the call, got Rusty on the second try, and made the date for the drink. Rusty seemed relieved that Jaybird was home. Said he was going crazy trying to coach. He didn’t know the game that well. Jaybird told him he’d take care of that for him at the next practice tomorrow.

  They met at eight o’clock. Jaybird was early, and stopped Rusty outside the bar. No sense being seen with him in the bar. Jaybird said it was too noisy in there to talk, so they went to Jaybird’s car to talk about the team. Once in the car, Jaybird pulled out the .38 and aimed it at Rusty.

  “What the hell?”

  “We’re going for a little ride, Rusty. I’ll explain on the way. You try to get out of the car, I’ll shoot you dead. That’s my job, killing people, and I’m good at it, so don’t give me an excuse.”

  “Christ, man, what are you saying? We’re friends. We’re coaches.”

  “Rusty, while I was gone, my video camera has been planted in the men’s rest room at the Little League field. Every time somebody talks in there, it snaps on and records until the sounds stop. Make you stop and think?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure, and there really is green cheese on the moon. You’re the star of the show, you fucking queer bastard pedophile. I saw you fondling one of the boys before I left. Now I’ve got you on tape, and I’ll be glad to turn it over to the Vice Squad and let them spread your face and your pedophile name all over the newspapers and TV news casts.”

  Rusty gasped, then didn’t say a word as Jaybird drove down from Del Mar on the coast highway and took the road to Torrey Pines State Beach.

  “Where the hell we going?”

  “What difference does it make to you, child molester? You’re going to have fun in the water.”

  “Hey, I don’t even swim good. I couldn’t keep up with you. You’re a damn SEAL.”

  “True. You don’t have to swim.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “At least,” Jaybird said. He parked at the far end of the strip along the surf next to the slope down to the beach. His was the only car there. No late-night swimmers and no blazes going in the fire rings.

  “Out of the car slowly. I can outrun you, so don’t try. I’d just as soon shoot your ass right here, but you might want to live a little longer.”

  “Look, man. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll close up my business and move to another town. I’ll give up coaching. Anything you want me to do.”

  “I want you to walk down to the hard sand and turn left and keep walking.” Jaybird carried the fold-up shovel in his left hand.

  “Come on, Jaybird. I’ve been straight with you. It just happens now and then. I’m not a nut about it. Just a feeling I get and I got to do something about it. Like when you really need a woman.”

  “Keep walking.”

  They moved down the beach for thirty minutes, then were in the middle of Black’s Beach. Absolute privacy. Hundred-foot cliffs rose in back of the beach. The tide was out and coming in. There was no good access to the beach for three miles to the south and two miles north. As private as it could get and not a person in sight.

  “Right here should be fine,” Jaybird said. Rusty turned toward him, and Jaybird hit him with a roundhouse right fist that knocked Rusty into the sand. Jaybird dropped on top of him, rolled him over, and bound his wrists and ankles with plastic riot cuffs he had used for years.

  “What the hell? Jaybird, I don’t understand.”

  “Right, you don’t understand. That’s why you fucked the little kids. But you won’t do that anymore.”

  “I promise I
won’t. Get these things off me.”

  “No.” Jaybird watched the surf coming in. He was about halfway down where he could see high tide had been that morning. It would peak about midnight. Just right.

  He moved in front of the pedophile and began to dig.

  “What are you doing?” Rusty screamed.

  “Didn’t you ever go to the beach and the kids covered you up with sand right up to your nose?”

  “You can’t, you wouldn’t. For the love of God, Jaybird. I’m a human being here. Just one little quirk. That’s all, just one.”

  Jaybird went on digging. The soft sand moved quickly. There was no water yet when he was two feet down. He dug a trench six feet long, then added another foot. It was three feet deep when the seawater started coming in. He rolled Rusty into the grave, then turned him over and pulled his shoulders to the near end so his head was just above the level of the sand.

  Rusty was sobbing. “You can’t do this, Jaybird. You can’t.”

  “Who the fuck is going to stop me? You’re just another vermin on this old planet that the SEALs have to wipe out. It won’t hurt much at first.”

  Jaybird used his knife, sliced the plastic strip off Rusty’s ankles, and put it in his pocket.

  “You keep your legs right there or I’ll club you on the head with the shovel. Got that?”

  Rusty sobbed and nodded. “You can’t do this.”

  Jaybird shoveled the sand back in the hole, covering up Rusty’s legs. Rusty pulled one leg out of the sand and Jaybird stepped on it, forcing it back down in the loose sand. By the time Jaybird had two feet of sand in the trench, Rusty couldn’t move his legs.

  Jaybird took his knife and laid it along Rusty’s throat. “I should slash your carotid and let you bleed out. But not this time. I’m cutting off the band on your wrists. You let them move from your lap where I put them and I bash you with the shovel. Just like with your legs. You get it?”

  Rusty didn’t answer. He stared at Jaybird with wild eyes; they darted from one side to the other as if looking for a way to escape.

 

‹ Prev