"Wake up. Jud, come on now, wake up!" Jud came awake with a start, the pain in his head washing over him. Reeling from the pain and the nausea he felt totally out of control. This was more frightening then the pain itself. As if he was outside of his body, he watched himself. He could feel his equilibrium crumble, his entire being swirling about the room, and the dizziness threatened to empty his stomach.
Abrubtly he snapped back to the real world, the pain and nausea still with him, but the fuzziness vanished, replaced with a steel-edged perception of his surroundings. This sudden vision and the quiet of the closet-like room also served to sharpen his apprehension. Slowly, trying hard to move ever so quietly, he stood, waiting for the sudden rush of blood away from his injured head, to force him to his knees. But for some wonderfully welcome reason, he found himself steady on his feet, and the pain, although not diminished, dulled a bit. It was bearable.
Quietly, he padded up to the door, and twisting his hand in minute, near to microscopic movements, he opened the door to his prison. Through the crack he could just make out two men in uniform, both sitting to either side of another, more familiar person, all three backs to him. The two other men, both oddly on either spectrum of human build, were giving the un- uniformed man all their attention. Jud breathed a sigh of relief as the man not in uniform turned away from the whiteboard he was drawing on. It was Carlisle.
The rock band's bassy beat boomed in the Chief's club, as human bodies twisted and gyrated to the sound. From ages of 25 to 50, the crowd was filled with men and women from both the military and civilian life. Some were here to be seen, some ready to do more. Some were here hoping for romance, some willing to skip the formalities and get on with the main course.
In this crowd mingled the help. These were typically navy ratings wishing to make a few extra bucks busing or waiting on tables. Some were behind the bar, building the few extra dollars needed to support a large family on NCO pay.
The manager was a former Navy man, now retired and dragging down a fair paycheck as a civil servant. He sweated alot, in this small little hell of his. It wasn't necessarily the heat, but the pressure. For he catered to three or four private parties a night in the small rooms around the outside edges of the club. Because the club was located just outside the Moffet Naval Air Station front gate, this was a commercial affair, the Chief's club.
But it did lie on Navy property, so he had to follow certain rules. For instance, no call girls were allowed in the club. At least the obvious hustler's wouldn't be tolerated. For the most part the crowd was "clean" as a cop like Jud Taylor would have deemed them. No drugs, and there was dress code of sorts.
And because the men in the crowd were 99 percent Navy, there was a unwritten code as well. People who didn't fit the club's clientele rarely showed up. Of course, in the 3 private rooms, the guests were treated to a private (typically no-host) bar, and if desired fine hor's d'oeuvres. Dinner at the CPO club is known for its quality as well, and tonight the manager was sweating because someone had blown the order for New York Steak, and he was forced to offer prime rib instead. The damn customers had squawked about the prime rib. Imagine.
In any case he plumped down into the chair behind his little desk, wiping the sweat from his brow for the hundredth time this evening. Over the small partition to his left, his assistant sang out,
"Call for you on three"
The Manager sighed and picked the phone up. It was the wife of one of the more pleasant Master Chief Petty Officers requesting a reservation for next week. Luckily the manager saw a spot open and after some moans and groans the lady agreed to move her group's meeting to Wednesday instead of Thursday.
A shadow fell in through the door, and the manager used to people wandering around drunk in the club, called out rather impatiently,
"Come in, come in."
A man in a bush jacket obliged, his clean shaven face almost shining in the harsh lights of the manager's office. The manager tensed, he knew the type and it spelled trouble. He spoke out, perhaps a little too loud, hoping to keep the man's attention from the area behind the partition, hoping somehow to keep his assistant manager Julie alive.
"I am alone here, and there is no money here. Please don't hurt me." The ex-Navy man hated to plead like a coward, but his present position was horrible. Stuck behind the desk, and the pistol in his desk might as well have been in another room. Then he saw the UZI come out of the jacket, and he knew that pleading would do no good. He said his last few words with cold anger and hate in his steel blue eyes,
"You bastard. I hope they make you eat your barrel..."
"SWITTTTTT" went the silenced UZI and the manager was blown in half, splattering all over the office, changing the beige carpet on the petition into a permanent rust color. The assistant, quivering in fear and still out of sight, never breathed a word despite hearing her boss gurgle and die, as well as screams from the dance floor back in the club. Quietly she sank to the floor and, eyes closed, went into shock.
On the dance floor three men are holding the crowds back. Flinging open the side to escape, they turn back to the crowd raise their weapons, one of the Marines in the crowd dove for the closest man. With hateful eyes the terrorist opened fire, a spray of bullets fanning the crowd. Each shot took down three people, the high velocity bullets not stopping until hitting the sound proofing in the walls.
And no one appears to have escaped the fussilade of a total of 800 rounds per minute poured into the Friday Night crowd. Calmly, the terrorists slipped their UZIs back into their bags, and exited via the stage door into the CPO club parking lot.
As they jumped into a van, a Marine running from the front gate of Moffet after hearing the screams, unholstered his Navy Issue 45 1911A automatic and took aim. The van jumped away from the door, and the Marine, operating on instinct only, pumps his clip through the rear window as well as into the rear door of the van. Then as the van careens around in the parking lot, he calmly ejects the spent magazine and reaching down to the double holster on his white corded uniform belt, he yanks out two more. One goes in his mouth and one into the butt of the pistol. Then as the van lights now point him out, he crouches, and fires almost instinctively at the best target, the van window.
He smiles as he sees the van veer for a moment, realizing he has hit the driver. He stands and side steps as the van roars by. Dropping the second magazine out, he grabs the third out of his mouth. While walking a few steps to get a better shot at the rear of the van, he calmly slams the last clip into the pistol and from a classic stance fires lower into the cargo area of the van. Each shot brings sparks and he thinks that maybe he hears a ricochet as the heavy bullets easily pierce the thin metal of the old Ford van. But it isn't enough. The van swerves around the corner and up and over Highway 101, heading South on Moffet Boulevard.
Jud looked over the bodies of the CPO club patrons scattered about the floor. He and Carlisle had beat the ambulances by a few minutes and the overwhelmed Naval Clinic people were just now starting triage. As the head nurses waved the corpsmen away from the helpless ones, Jud gritted his teeth. He had seen this in Vietnam, the tough decisions made to spend the medical time on the treatable, ignoring the certain to die until more time could be spent. He bent down to comfort a young woman not deemed hopeless, her chest wounds already bandaged, and an airway and IV established. The airway frothed with red bubbles and Jud knew her chest wounds included a punctured lung. He carefully felt her side to see the additional tube allowing the air pressure to equalize in the chest cavity. Pneumo-thorax or some such condition he remembered from his battle field training twenty years ago.
He smiled down at the woman, who in her pain, mistook him for her lover.
"You okay Jerry?"
Jud played along, hoping to keep her spirits up, it could make all the difference in the world. "You bet, babe. You just shut up, you hear. Doctor says you'll be okay if you keep that beautiful mouth of yours closed."
"Okay, I promise" she replied breaking her own promise immediately by adding, "I love you hon. Always will."
"I know, I know. Shut up or I'll make you laugh" answered Jud, a tear coming to his eye. Her lover was out of her sight, a bar stool over his face. He had covered her with his body, and only a few of the shots had penetrated. He was basically sliced in half by the UZI's 650 rounds per minute delivery of lead, while she had only taken about five or six rounds across her chest. These had been slowed down by both the table her lover had thrown in front of them, and of course his own body. She would live, if she could adjust to the death of her man, and the deformity to her left breast.
"Just lay quiet, Hon. I have to go help some other people more hurt than you."
"That's my Jerry, I'll be ok, go ahead."
Jud smiled down at the woman as she passed out. He checked her ragged breathing, confirmed she was still clear, then moved over to another woman not so lucky.
This woman had been walked away from by the Nurses. She, amazingly, had only one wound from the fusillade of 9mm bullets. Unfortunately she had taken the round along the right side of the forehead. The Nurse had taped a dressing in place along her temple, but had neglected to do anything further, finding the woman's pupils fixed and un-reactive, her breathing labored, and bowels relaxed. If the signs were right, this one was brain damaged already.
But Jud, sensing he could spend the time, checked other vital signs and determined that despite the labored breathing, the woman was intact. Perhaps it was only shock that made her appear to be a vegatable, maybe not. He checked the dressing, insuring she wouldn't bleed to death, and palpitated a wide area around the injury checking to see if there was any additional internal bleeding. With luck, the woman would be in the hospital in a few more minutes and they could check for pressure on the brain from the trauma. But the logical part of his mind knew that the concussion of the bullet tearing across her temple had probably sent splinters deep into the "productive" part of the brain, leaving the woman a living vegatable. He swore, then moved on to another unattended victim.
This was a man, moaning in severe pain. The Nurse had established an IV, and carefully helped the man setup up compression on the wounds on his legs. A tourniquet was on the right leg, and Jud suppressed a retch as he saw that most of it was gone below the knee, chopped ragged by the stream of bullets. The left was also damaged but not as severely. The Navy man was in uniform, and as Jud kneeled down to comfort him, he said with glazed eyes,
"It's crazy, in the Gulf of Tonkin we took hits on our ship almost daily. Friends of mine took 30mm machine gun rounds and I never got a scratch. Then I get blasted on the dance floor. The damn dance floor! Can you understand that? It's crazy, in the Gulf..."
And Jud nodded saying, "Shussh, I hear ya. It's okay. Hey they give purple hearts for dance floors man. Shussh. You're going to be okay, now. Quiet down now, you're shaking up the ladies."
The grey haired Chief Petty Officer stopped his dialog for a moment stared at Jud and asked,
"Am I gonna lose my leg, Doc?"
"I'm not a Doctor, soldier. Doesn't look too good though. But remember that tourniquet or all bets are off. You got that Chief?"
"Aye, Aye, Sir. Three minutes?"
"That'll do. Just don't bleed too much. We don't like Navy blood on the dance floor."
"Yes Sir!" grinned the man, now coming out of the shock a little. And just as he did, the pain began again and he moaned and lay back, gritting his teeth. "Son of a bitch! Uggghh" was all he could say, and Jud stood up, now totally overloaded with pain and pity himself. He had gone through all this before. Let someone else enjoy this fine experience.
He burst through the side door only to run into the arms of a huge Marine Seargent coming in.
"Whoa, Sir" the man warned as Jud spun himself up against the side of the club.
Noting the heavy breathing and sweat on his forehead, the Marine took the light out of Jud's face, and said,
"Heavy going in there?"
"Got that right, Marine. Navy got his ass kicked. But this is one time I wouldn't laugh about it."
"Don't worry, Sir. We take good care of Navy. You gonna be all right?"
"Yeah, just a minute or so out here and I'll be fine. Shit, what a mess. I'm supposed to go in there and start asking questions like 'can you describe your assailant? Did you get a good look at their faces? Half of them are dying in there!"
"You a Cop? Or Federal?"
"Cop. Palo Alto. Liaison to FBI right now. God what a year this is turning out to be."
"Got that right, brother" replied the Marine Seargent.
"Anyone get a look at the guys who did this?"
"Well I put three clips in their van, that help?"
Jud looked up at the Marine and grinned, "Couldn't hurt."
The Marine grinned back, and continued, "Well I think I may have hit the driver. And I can't imagine I didn't get somebody in the cargo area. Hell, I pumped two clips into that tin box, I must have hit something."
"Hope so, Seargent. Hope so. Well, I guess I'd better get in there and do my job, seein-hows you've already done yours."
"If you say so, Sir. Why not take it easy for a few. Medivac is coming in..." he said pointing off to a couple of choppers sliding in over Highway 101 to land in the parking lot.
"...and they won't want you in their way. I catalogued the physical evidence in there already. Just a bunch of spent 9mm shells, and the one fellow from the dance floor who got away without a scratch gave me enough details to confirm the weapons as 9mm UZIs with the shortened wire stock. Commando weapons. It was definitely the same guys who have been stirring up trouble of late."
Then suddenly inspired, the Marine shown the flashlight in Jud's face, and then grinned in the recognition.
"Oh, shit. Guess you know all about these guys. Saw a mug shot of you in the papers. Congratulations on taking a few of them out for us. Damn good job."
"Yeah well, if I'd done a better job, this probably wouldn't have happened."
"Bullshit! These guys are pros, Sir. They hit this place like hell on wheels. A Marine fire-fight team would have had trouble with this bunch, and if I remember correctly you went after them with a damn 9mm pistol. Pretty gutsy, if you ask me."
"Pretty stupid really. I had a damn .357 loaded with plastic shells. Worthless."
"Well I wouldn't blame yourself" the Marine said, the light from the flashlight casting a fatherly look about him, as he continued as if lecturing to one of his men,
"You gave it your best shot, and took a couple of them out. Damn fine job, and I'm proud to say I met you. Now get in there and finish your job, before I kick your ass back to Palo Alto."
Jud grinned at the Marine style motivation, said "Aye, Aye, Sir" and forced himself back inside the disaster area to see if he couldn't help out the medivac personnel load their "passengers".