Free Tropical Terror by Keith Douglass Page B

Ching go with his Mandarin.”
    As he said it they all heard a car driving up to the front door and stopping. The four men split to different sides of the front room and watched the door, which still hung open, with one hinge out of place.
    â€œHello, anyone home?” a voice asked from outside.
    Jaybird jumped in front of the open door, his Bull Pup covering the visitor.
    The young man wore a baseball cap and carried an “instant hot” pizza box.
    â€œHey, at least it’s a different weapon this time. You owe me twelve dollars and forty-two cents.”
    Ten minutes later they finished talking with the delivery man. He knew nothing about the people in the house. Twice he had brought them pizza and cola. The first call was yesterday afternoon.
    â€œThat’s twelve dollars and . . .”
    Murdock waved him quiet. “We don’t have any money. Hey, try the drivers of those two white vans a half block over. They look hungry.”
    The SEALs went back to the questioning. One of the men spoke English. He quickly admitted he was a U.S. citizen and had been sucked into this conspiracy. He did what they told him to do. He didn’t even know that some Chinese had invaded two of the islands.
    â€œNo one has come to this house except the pizza guy,” the Hawaiian-Chinese man said.
    Murdock believed him.
    The questioning with the Mandarin-talkers went slower. There was a minor language problem, but they could communicate. Ching quickly found the one in charge of the radio location. He refused even to give his name.
    Ching hit him in the face with his big fist and knocked the tied man off the chair. He was put back on the chair and thesame question asked. Ching hit him again, this time in his unprotected gut. The man turned pale. Then his eyes went wide and he vomited on the floor.
    On a small radio that had been left precisely where it had been when they came in, Mandarin words were now heard. Ching picked up the transceiver and answered.
    â€œYes, we are here. There has been no report from the Americans.”
    â€œWhere is Sung?”
    â€œTaking a piss. Need any of us over there?”
    â€œNo. We’re secure here. The plane is ready if we need it. Ask Chang if he thinks another body would infuriate the Americans and be counterproductive.”
    â€œWill do.”
    Ching put his hand over the microphone, and a moment later spoke into it. “Chang said the one kill should be enough. Any more would, as you say, be counterproductive.”
    â€œKeep in touch.”
    â€œWe’ll do that.”
    The set went silent.
    Murdock had listened from the doorway. Ching translated the exchange. Then Murdock called for Holt, who had the radio out and was folding out the antenna as he ran into the room.
    â€œCINCPAC, now.”
    Holt made the moves and gave Murdock the handset. He made one call and had a quick answer.
    â€œCINCPAC, how many private landing strips on Maui big enough for a good-sized plane that are near or on the grounds of a large house or mansion?”
    â€œOne of my men is contacting the FAA here. We’ll know in a few minutes. What progress?”
    Murdock told the officer of their find and the dead end. “When we get a good lead, we’ll let you know. Murdock out.”
    Holt moved the SATCOM to one side, leaving the antenna tuned on the satellite and the switches on to receive. He went to the table and stared at the radio the Chinese used.
    â€œLook at that little thing,” he said. “It isn’t even Chinese. It’s a low-priced walkie-talkie.” He looked at the printedmaterial on the sides and back and chuckled. “Damn, only a half-watt output. That means this shit-face radio can transmit not more than three or four miles at the most.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Murdock yelped. “Holt, you wonderful motherfucker, don’t you ever die. Get on the horn and ask CINCPAC for any airfields within four miles of this