Death Blow sts-14 Read online

  Death Blow

  ( Seal Team Seven - 14 )

  Keith Douglass

  Without warning, China and Pakistan launch offensives against Nepal and Bangladesh. The U.N. Security Council is baffled — why would China ally itself with India's northern neighbor? Then they learn that the Chinese are secretly planning to occupy Pakistan and take their oil reserves — by building a pipeline through India.

  Only one irrepressible force stands a chance against the immovable object that is the Chinese army — Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock and his elite SEAL team. But they'll have to walk a fine line, for even the slightest slip could lead to a full-blown nuclear war…

  Keith Douglass

  Death Blow

  This novel of

  military fiction is

  gratefully dedicated to

  all those veterans of all the wars

  that we have fought over the past sixty years.

  May those of us who are living always remember those

  who did not return home after the war

  and remember the parents,

  spouses, and children

  of those veterans

  who also served.

  FOREWORD

  Hello, and thanks for picking up this copy of Seal Team Seven. Every writer wonders who is reading his small gems and what they really think of them. Were they entertaining? Did they hold together? Did you like or hate the people?

  Input from readers is one of the ways that any writer can learn just how his books are being received by the public. So take time out and drop me a quick line. Let me know what you think of the series, the characters. If you have any plot ideas you’re just dying to tell me, slip them in. Who knows, I might use one of them.

  So send me a card or a letter. Praise the book or shoot it down, I want to know what you think. I’ll be glad to hear from you and will write you back. Send your comments to:

  Keith Douglass

  SEAL TEAM SEVEN

  8431 Beaver Lake Dr.

  San Diego, CA 92119

  Thanks and I hope to hear from you.

  — Keith Douglass

  SEAL TEAM SEVEN

  THIRD PLATOON[1]

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  Rear Admiral (L) Richard Kenner. Commander of all SEALs.

  Commander Dean Masciarelli. 47, 5'11", 220 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Commanding officer of SEAL Team Seven and its 230 men.

  Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie. 47, 5'10", 180 pounds. Administrator and head enlisted man of all of SEAL Team Seven.

  Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock. 32, 6'2", 210 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Six years in SEALs. Father important congressman from Virginia. Murdock recently promoted. Apartment in Coronado. Has a car and a motorcycle, loves to fish. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.

  ALPHA SQUAD

  Willard “Will” Dobler. Boatswain’s Mate. Senior chief. Top EM in platoon. Third in command. 37, 6'1", 180 pounds. Nineteen years service. Wife, Nancy; children, Helen, 15; Charles, 11. Sports nut. Knows dozens of major-league baseball records. Competition pistol marksman. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Good with the men.

  David “Jaybird” Sterling. Machinist’s Mate Second Class. Lead petty officer. 24, 5'10", 170 pounds. Quick mind, fine tactician. Single. Drinks too much sometimes. Crack shot with all arms. Grew up in Oregon. Helps plan attack operations. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.

  Ron Holt. Radioman First Class. 22, 6'1", 170 pounds. Plays guitar, had a small band. Likes redheaded girls. Rabid baseball fan. Loves deep-sea fishing, is good at it. Platoon radio operator. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

  Bill Bradford. Quartermaster’s Mate First Class. 24, 6'2", 215 pounds. An artist in spare time. Paints oils. He sells his marine paintings. Single. Quiet. Reads a lot. Has two years of college. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle or McMillan M-87R .50-caliber sniper rifle.

  Joe “Ricochet” Lampedusa. Operations Specialist Third Class. 21, 5'11", 175 pounds. Good tracker, quick thinker. Had a year of college. Loves motorcycles. Wants a Hog. Pot smoker on the sly. Picks up plain girls. Platoon scout. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher; alternate, Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

  Kenneth Ching. Quartermaster’s Mate First Class. 25, 6' even, 180 pounds. Full-blooded Chinese. Platoon translator. Speaks Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and Spanish. Bicycling nut. Paid $1,200 for off-road bike. Is trying for Officer Candidate School. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.

  Vincent “Vinnie” Van Dyke. Electrician’s Mate Second Class. 24, 6'2", 220 pounds. Enlisted out of high school. Played varsity basketball. Wants to be a commercial fisherman after his current hitch. Good with his hands. Squad machine gunner. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun.

  BRAVO SQUAD

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt. Leader Bravo Squad. Second in command of the platoon. 30, 6'1", 175 pounds. From Seattle. Wiry. Has serious live-in woman, Milly. Annapolis graduate. A career man. Plays a good game of chess on traveling board. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: H & K G-11 submachine gun.

  George Canzoneri. Torpedoman’s Mate First Class. 27, 5'11", 190 pounds. Married to Navy wife, Phyllis. No kids. Nine years in Navy. Expert on explosives. Nicknamed “Petard” for almost hoisting himself one time. Top pick in platoon for explosive work. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

  Miguel Fernandez. Gunner’s Mate First Class. 26, 6'1", 180 pounds. Wife, Maria; daughter, Linda, 7, in Coronado. Spends his off time with them. Highly family-oriented. He has relatives in San Diego. Speaks Spanish and Portuguese. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.

  Colt “Guns” Franklin. Yeoman Second Class. 24, 5'10", 175 pounds. A former gymnast. Powerful arms and shoulders. Expert mountain climber. Has a motorcycle and does hang gliding. Speaks Farsi and Arabic. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.

  Tran “Train” Khai. Torpedoman Second Class. 23, 6'1", 180 pounds. U.S.-born Vietnamese. A whiz at languages and computers. Speaks Vietnamese, French, German, Spanish, and Arabic. Specialist in electronics. Understands the new 20mm Bull Pup weapon. Can repair the electronics in it. Plans on becoming an electronics engineer. Joined the Navy for $40,000 college funding. Entranced by SEALs. First hitch up in four months. Weapon: H & K G-11 with caseless rounds, 4.7mm submachine gun with fifty-round magazine.

  Jack Mahanani. Hospital Corpsman First Class. 25, 6'4", 240 pounds. Platoon medic. Tahitian/Hawaiian. Expert swimmer. Bench-presses 400 pounds. Once married, divorced. Top surfer. Wants the .50 sniper rifle. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56 & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.

  Anthony “Tony” Ostercamp. Machinist’s Mate First Class. 24, 6'1", 210 pounds. Races stock cars in nearby El Cajon on weekends. Top auto mechanic. Platoon driver. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun. Second radio operator.

  Paul “Jeff” Jefferson. Engineman Second Class. 23, 6'1", 200 pounds. Black man. Expert in small arms. Can tear apart most weapons and reassemble, repair, and innovate them. A chess player to match Ed DeWitt. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

  1

  Tijuana, Mexico

  Howard (“Howie”) Anderson faded silently into the shadows against the wall of a closed shop that sold cheap pottery. He pulled down the stained slouch hat that had part of the brim torn off and hunched over so anyone seeing him couldn’t tell how tall he was. He wore two sweaters, both moth chewn and filthy but warm. His double layer of too-large pants had been patched several times. He walk
ed quietly on dirty, rundown sneakers. In his left hand, he carried a half-filled wine bottle partly hidden in a paper sack. He had bought the clothes three weeks ago at a thrift store on the other side of Tijuana. It had taken him twenty minutes to finish his disguise by layering dirt and grease paint on his face and hands.

  The clothes were untraceable. He carried no wallet or identification, only two thousand pesos for an emergency. Hidden under the sweaters, a .22-caliber automatic pistol rested in a belt holster. He tensed as a Tijuana Police car made a sweep along the cross street half a block down. The TJ cops were getting better at their job. He didn’t want them to see him.

  Howie checked both ways on the litter-strewn side street. No cars, no people. He worked his way painfully into the street, dragging his right foot, which turned outward so far he couldn’t step on it solidly. A car flashed by in the narrow street, missing him by three feet and bringing a screech of Spanish vulgarisms from strident young voices. Howie didn’t even look up. He was bilingual in Spanish. What they said was crude and challenging, but he wasn’t concerned about the newly rich TJ teens. He had bigger prey.

  The building he had been watching for the past four hours now showed lights on the second story. There had been none there for the past three hours of darkness. Howie jammed himself between a garbage can and a large wooden packing box in front of a tattoo parlor. It would be impossible to see him in the heavy shadows from ten feet away. From there had a good view of all six windows on the second floor of 4343 Blanco Street. Reymundo “Cuchi” Hernandez must be home. “The Knife” wouldn’t have much use for a blade, not after tonight.

  For the past three Sundays, Howie had tracked Cuchi, carefully recording every detail of his lifestyle. The afternoons he spent at the bullfights, then a big dinner and lots of drinks with his current mujer at an expensive restaurant. After that a long night with her in his bedroom. There had been few signs of the protection that Cuchi’s position had earned for him. His bodyguards must leave him after making sure he was inside his apartment. The eight-room bachelor pad hovered over a fancy ice cream parlor. Tonight looked to be the same for Cuchi. He usually came and went from a rear entry.

  Howie went over his plan again. It never hurt to question every detail on an operation, especially since there was no one to double-check with and no backup. The shed on the rear of the store was an easy climb to the first-floor roof. From there he would work the second-floor window in the rear of Cuchi’s apartment and be inside before the drug supplier knew it. Cuchi was pushing too hard for more territory, taking over three or four smaller suppliers without permission. The powers who supplied the third level of the huge operation with the product, didn’t like it. A spokesman four layers removed from the man at the top, El Padre, had talked to Howie one night a month ago in the El Gallo Colorado. The bistro/cantina was owned by one of Howie’s long-time friends. Most weekends Howie was at the café, down from San Diego, eating too well, drinking just enough, and sampling the always available bevy of eager muchachas. Sometimes the best things in life all depended on who you knew.

  Howie didn’t move for two hours where he hid beside the packing box. His muscles began to scream at him, but he’d stayed in one position for three times that long on many missions. He relaxed and waited for the lights to go out in the apartment. Three hours later the lights snapped off one at a time.

  Shortly after 0200, a sudden light from a downstairs entranceway slashed into the dark street. A woman came out quickly. The door closed. The light snapped off.

  Howie grinned. Everything was perfect. He’d never seen the woman of the night sent home this early before. Everything was in place. Tonight was the night.

  He was ready. His special Ruger Standard .22 long rifle pistol felt good in his hand. It was his favorite handgun. It was a classic 1982 upgraded model of the 1949 weapon that launched Ruger’s empire. It had a hold-open latch, a new magazine catch, new safety catch, and a modified trigger system. The basic weapon had a 120mm barrel, weighed 1020 grams, and had six grooves of rifling in the barrel.

  He had been extremely careful handling the pistol to avoid fingerprints. He had worn surgical gloves for loading the nine rounds in the main magazine and nine in the spare. There would be no fingerprints on the shell casings. He kept the thin plastic gloves on when he cleaned and oiled the Ruger last night after the team came off a night exercise. He did that work at home in his Coronado apartment. It had cost him six hundred dollars to get a custom-made silencer put on the weapon three months ago. That extended the barrel by four inches but it had been invaluable twice already.

  Howie smiled in the darkness, cracking the layered-on dirt and grease. He lifted up, stretched as he had seen street people do, and worked across the narrow passageway dragging his right foot as before until he made it into the shadows. Then he hurried down the darkness to the alley and up it to the third store, the ice cream parlor. It even had a marked rear entrance.

  Howie slid the Ruger into the belt holster and stood on a barrel next to the shed’s rear wall. He climbed up the back of the one-story building, finding foot- and handholds as the skilled hard rock mountain climber he was.

  After he swung up on the roof, he froze and listened. There was no cry, no window banging open, and no voice in the night. No ominous shape of a guard hiding in the shadows. He moved on soft-soled sneakers to the windows of the second story where he found the same one unlocked that had been left wide open last Sunday night. Cuchi was getting sloppy. Too sloppy to live.

  With infinite care and quietness, Howie edged the double-hung window up, letting the sash weight settle into its chamber gently and without a sound. He paused and listened again, inside and outside the open window.

  Nothing.

  Howie stepped through the open window into what he knew was a storage room. He drew the pistol and screwed on the four-inch silencer. The room was filled with boxes, cartons, and cones for the store below. He edged through and around them noiselessly, and turned the door knob. It was unlocked as he had hoped. He eased the panel inward an inch and peered through the slot. A small night light glowed at the far end of the hall giving a strange half light to the area.

  Howie slid through the door, then stopped, a prickle of alarm darting down his spine. Twenty feet down the hall, a man sat in a chair that leaned back against the wall. Howie could hear the guard’s slow even breathing. He growled in his sleep and moved just enough so the chair slammed down with the front legs hitting the floor. It woke up the guard. He swore softly in Spanish, turned the chair so it faced Howie. The man shook his head and blinked.

  “What the fuck? Who’n hell are you?”

  Howie had the Ruger up, he refined his head shot just a moment and squeezed the trigger. Just like on the close combat range. The guard clawed for his weapon in a shoulder rig. Before he could get it out of leather, the .22 caliber messenger sent an urgent message to his brain. The lead slug shattered as it tore through the skull and splattered into a dozen vital brain centers killing the guard in a half second. He slumped in his chair.

  The whisper sound of the shot couldn’t be heard ten feet away. Howie scowled. Something always had to go wrong. He’d never seen a guard inside. But then he’d never had a good look inside before. He moved up quickly, checked the man, dead. Howie took the revolver from the man’s holster and stepped soundlessly to the door just beyond. It had to be the bedroom. That’s where the last light of the night always showed.

  He listened at the door, his hand tightening on the pistol. Someone snored inside. Howie snorted softly and shook his head. Why did he have to make it so easy? Howie turned the knob. Locked. He saw the old-style door lock that had a key hole. He selected from a pocketful of keys an old time skeleton key and gently inserted it. A small metal clink sounded.

  The snoring stopped for a moment, then charged on as if to make up for lost sound.

  Howie turned the key in the lock and heard a soft click. He rotated the knob and the door eased inward. Now Howie wishe
d he had his night-vision goggles. Some light came in the window. A double bed sat against the far wall. One figure on it sprawled over most of the bed. He wore only pajama bottoms, and used no covers.

  Howie walked to the edge of the bed and lifted the Ruger. He eased the end of the silencer against the side of the man’s head.

  “Amigo, it is time to come awake one last time,” Howie said in colloquial Spanish. The cucillo mumbled and tried to roll over. The force of the silencer against his head brought him awake. His eyes snapped open, and he saw his situation even in the faint light.

  “Hey, hey. What’s this? You playing games? I am Cuchi. What the hell you doing?”

  “You were Cuchi, amigo. El Padre doesn’t like the way you’re moving in on other men’s territories, especially his. El Padre wanted me to tell you before you die. Good-bye, asshole.”

  Cuchi’s eyes went wide for a millisecond, then his muscles tensed, but before he could move the Ruger spat twice. The muzzle blast even through the silencer left two deeply burned powder circles on the side of Cuchi’s head. He died before his muscles could react. Two rounds to the head. It would look like a Mafia hit.

  The two fssssssst, sounds could not be heard outside the room. Howie nodded, turned and retraced his path down the hall, past the dead guard, and through the storeroom. He stepped out the window to the roof, then gently closed the double-hung window. He didn’t think about the dead men. He didn’t know either of them. They were criminals who sold dope that killed hundreds of men, women, and kids every day. They deserved no sympathy. Howie shrugged. Hell, it was just a job, an assignment, a mission.

  He crouched by the window, and looked quickly at every potential trouble spot. No noises, not even a dog. No late-night drunk getting home. He crept to the edge of the shed and crawled down the same way he had gone up. There was no evidence that anyone had climbed up this side of the wall.