Tropical Terror by Keith Douglass Page B

right-hand side of the barn and wait. Might have some work for you.”
    â€œI heard. Leave him there, Cap. That NVG could get a lot of us killed out here tonight. We’ll get Jaybird.”
    Less than two minutes later, Murdock heard the whoosh of the EAR weapon and the tingling in his ears. He clamped his hands over his ears just before glass shattered and a concussion and explosive force thundered through the small farmhouse like a freight train meeting a tornado head-on.
    â€œLet’s hit the house. Jack, check on Jaybird.” Murdock came up from the water trough running. He held the Bull Pup in front of him and used the NVGs to find the door ten feet down from a blown-out window. He was closest and the first one there. The door had been blown entirely off its hinges and lay shattered ten feet from the house. Murdock stepped into the room with the NVGs and scanned it quickly.
    A submachine gun lay on a counter pointed out the window that now held no glass. A man sprawled against the far wall, his head at a strange angle.
    â€œClear first room,” Murdock said. He slanted toward an open door out of what he figured was the kitchen. The next room held only two old worn-out sofas and a chair. “Clear room two,” he told the mike, and sprinted across it to another door. This one had two beds that had been neatly made up, a current calendar, and a copy of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin newspaper. Pizza boxes and remains of fried chicken takeouts littered one side of the room.
    â€œClear room three.”
    DeWitt charged into the room and kept going to the next door. He darted through the opening, his own NVGs working. Murdock sagged against the wall.
    â€œClear last two rooms,” DeWitt said.
    â€œMahanani, was Jaybird hit?”
    The earplug came on at once. “Yeah. Not good. Took a scalp graze that knocked him out. But there’s a second wound in the lower belly. It’s got to have hit some intestines. Peritonitis is a big problem here, Cap.”
    â€œFranklin, where the hell is that van?”
    â€œCap, we’re down the road about two miles. We heard the sub gun and are moving that way. Jaybird is hit?”
    â€œFloorboard that crate and get it up here. Make sure your driver knows where the best and closest emergency room is. You’re backup for Jaybird into the operating room. Take no shit from nobody. Get it done. We’re at an old farm with three buildings. Ronson, put up a green flare, now.”
    Lam had led the rest of the platoon through the complex and cleared it, and now he took out his three-cell flashlight and began searching the area. He found tire tracks at once.
    â€œTracks, Cap. Looks like at least two rigs. I’d say they are off-road or utility rigs. Lots of bootprints around the last set of tires.”
    â€œEstimated number?” Murdock asked.
    â€œCan’t tell. A lot of over-printing. Ten to thirty. Two utility vans could haul thirty men.”
    â€œKeep looking. DeWitt. Check the guy in the first room.Looked like he had a broken neck. Solves the prisoner problem.”
    Murdock went outside to where the flashlight glowed. He came up to Lampedusa just as he bent and picked up something.
    â€œOh, shit, this is not good,” Lam said.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Lam held it out. “A thirty-round magazine, like they use on submachine guns and on some automatic rifles. Looks like the guys we’re chasing have more than one automatic bang-bang.”

9
Old farm
Maui, Hawaii
    Commander Blake Murdock looked at the magazine. It carried 5.56mm rounds, which could be used in dozens of different international weapons. There was trouble ahead. So they’d snatched the two admirals. What were they going to do with them? Hold them hostage for some ridiculous prize was not reasonable. They must have a more practical plan.
    â€œHolt, let’s get on the air.”
    Ron Holt came up with the SATCOM radio, broke out the antenna,