Payback by Keith Douglass Page B

guard hesitated, then waved him on through. Mahanani was sweating like a marathon runner in July. That had been so close. If they’d pulled him into secondary inspection, the drug-sniffing dog would have roamed around his car automatically, and he’d have been busted and on his way to Chino State Prison for ten to fifteen. Shit, what a fucking close call.
    He was still sweating, his stomach growled, and his whole gut felt like it was going to explode. A mile down the road there was a little turnout, and Mahanani pulled off the freeway and opened the door quickly. He vomited out the door before he could get his feet on the ground. He retched three times, then shook his head. Maybe it was the steak. He wiped his mouth and wished he had some water. But he did feel better. It had been a bug of some kind. He closed the door, sat there for five minutes while his stomach settled down, then started the engine and drove away into the traffic with no trouble.
    Ten minutes later he delivered the car to Jose, and received a receipt for four hundred dollars. Jose looked at him sharply. “Why did you take so long to drive six miles?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? I came right here. Oh, I had to pull over and throw up. I guess I had some bad food. There’s still some of the vomit on the edge of the door. Take a look.”
    Jose did. “So, be careful what you eat down there. Take a few McDonald burgers with you the next time. Don’t ever stop once you leave the garage. We have you on a clock. Just a warning.”
    Mahanani climbed into his Buick, found the can of Coke he always kept in the tray, and drank half of it. Then he drove back to Coronado with no trouble. Damn, there had tobe some way to beat them at their own game. Just thinking about that half-million-dollar cargo he had transported made him ready to invent all sorts of plans. Something had to work. Now he knew they had him on a clock from the time he left the garage until he beeped for Jose. They would know how long the wait time was at the border. One TV news channel gave the wait time every ten minutes. Not even a long holdup at the border would get him off the hook. No time to stop on this side and stash the goods. Oh, sure, if he tried that, he’d be dead before he could get back into his Buick.
    But he kept thinking about it. How in hell did he get out of this mess, stop being a fucking mule, get his Buick pink slip back, and pay out his IOU at the casino? A thought crept into his mind, but didn’t seem to make sense. Did the casino management know that these two men were working a drug-smuggling operation? He shrugged. How could they not know? They were making millions off the gambling, but a few hundred thousand on the side from drugs wouldn’t hurt. Top management over there had to know.

7
The Channel
Off Santa Barbara, California
    The trusty CH-46 landed on the command cruiser Vicksburg, CG 59, at 0820, and the SEALs jumped off and assembled on the fantail. Ed DeWitt waited with the other SEALs as Murdock went to talk to the cruiser’s captain, Commander Roth.
    Roth was a short, heavily muscled redhead, and he grinned when he saw Murdock.
    â€œSo, I just wanted to take a look at the guy who has shaken up the brass and the CIA. I’ve never had an order directly from the CNO before, probably never will again. Can you tell me what this is all about?”
    â€œCommander, I’d be glad to if we knew. That’s why we’re going on a recon down about a hundred feet. Want to come along?”
    The captain chuckled. “Not about to get down that deep. Hell, it’s been so long since I’ve been in the water I don’t even know if I remember how to swim. Oh, the CNO says my ship is your ship, you’ve got the whole damn fleet we brought up here. Whatever you want, you get.
    â€œHe said we are on maneuvers, we do some simulated attacks, some circles around the two towers, and a general charging back and