Payback by Keith Douglass Read Free Book Online

at four hundred yards.”
    Bradford went prone, sighted in on the box, and fired. There was the usual whooshing sound as the Enhanced Audio Rifle fired and the blast of air out the back kicked up a dust devil.
    The box at four hundred yards slammed backward, collapsed, and rolled thirty yards along the side of the hill.
    â€œWorks at four,” Murdock said. “Sadler, try the five-hundred-yard target.”
    He did, and the box flattened and jolted backward ten yards.
    â€œAcceptable,” Murdock said. “Ching, take a shot with the EAR at the six-hundred-yard box.”
    He did, and there was no movement of the box or the ground on either side of it. Fifty yards this side of the box, there was a minor disturbance and some dust kicked up.
    â€œSo, we have a working range of five hundred for the EAR. Who hasn’t fired one of the twenties in a while?”
    Three men lifted hands, and Sadler, Howard, and Jaybird each put three rounds through the twenty at a huge rock out about a thousand yards.
    When they finished, Murdock told the men to load up, then police the area. He thought about the brass they had left on the assault fire going up the hill. Tough. They’d done enoughtoday. They would police up that part next time out.
    On the bus ride back to Coronado, Murdock could think only of a nice hot shower and a good dinner out somewhere. The men had voted not to stop in Alpine for a store-bought meal. Murdock wondered if he could figure out how to set up a chat room with Ardith so they could talk back and forth on the Internet. It could be done. He’d just have to work it out.
    Lam had made the hike and workout with no problem. Bradford was still a little weak, but if they had two or three weeks before any serious assignment, he should round into shape with no problem. Now the only question was, would the CNO, Don Stroh of the CIA, and the President give them the three weeks they needed?

3
The Channel
Off Santa Barbara, California
    Arnie Gifford watched the big clamps grab the next section of pipe and slowly lower it into the test well they were drilling in the edge of the Santa Barbara Channel. It was far enough offshore not to infuriate the conservationists. Still, they’d had their share of Greenpeace trouble. Arnie chewed on the unlit cigar and eyed the oil-drilling platform a quarter of a mile farther away from the coast. It was in deeper water, too deep he figured, and there had been no good reports coming from it.
    He had been an oil driller most of his forty-seven years. His face and arms were burned brown by the sun, and his blue eyes these days always held sunglasses to cut the glare and the damage of the sun. He was in good shape, swam and dove a lot in the ocean. He had done weight lifting in his youth, and still had a well-developed upper body. He squinted slightly as he stared at the rig known as Wentworth Petroleum Number 4. He wondered where the others were. What puzzled Arnie was the unusual activity around the rig. For the past six months he had seen large cargo ships anchor near the platform. The next day the ships seemed to ride much higher in the water. What in hell were they doing there? They couldn’t discharge that much cargo on that small drilling platform.
    He had seen a couple of the men he knew who worked on the rig in a bar just last week, and he’d asked them about the ships. They’d laughed and said he was seeing things.
    â€œWhat the hell would a cargo ship be doing around ourrig?” they’d said. “Maybe they were bringing out our payday cash.” The two men had laughed it off and headed for the door.
    He’d seen the federal inspection boat head out to the rig, and heard that Number 4 had passed the safety and environmental tests with no problems. There was no oil on the rig or in its hole, so the test was a little premature.
    As Arnie watched, another freighter flying a Panamanian flag eased to a stop forty yards off the oil rig