Old Faithful landed twenty or so feet beyond the tri-hulled craft in a spray of wood splinters and saltwater. Red chopped the throttles and the boat glided to a halt. Both men looked back at the damage they had caused. The entire cabin top of the sailboat had been removed above the deck and the mast, which fell like a tall timber cut and ready for the mill, came to rest, half on the bow and half floating in the choppy water.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Red asked in a panicked voice.
“Who cares,” replied Stump, who worried more about getting caught.
“Hey, is anyone there?!” Red yelled back to the devastated boat.
“Come on man, let’s get the fuck outta here!” Stump cried.
“Hey, are you okay?” Red repeated.
“What are you waiting for man, let’s haul ass!”
Red gave the gas to both engines.
•
THUG-THUG-THUG
“Shit, we broke something,” Stump exclaimed, even more panicked than before.
“Look over the transom and check the drives. We may have bent one of the props,” Red suggested.
Stump climbed over the engine compartment and peered over the transom. “Hey look at this!” he said, pointing down to the water.
Red joined him lying prone over the engine box. Laced between the propellers and the drives was a red and blue quilt blanket.
“Shit Red, we must have killed the guy.”
“You poor fuck, why didn’t you have any lights on,” Red said, speaking directly to the blanket.
“Watch here, I’m going to see if I can clear the props.”
Stump listened but wasn’t sure if he was mentally prepared to watch an arm or maybe a gnawed-up leg come floating out of the twisted blanket. Red climbed behind the helm and put both engines into reverse. As the backwash flowed through the props, the blanket unraveled and floated off to the side of the boat.
“Yeah, you got it man!” Stump yelled.
Red could feel the power return to the outdrives. All around the boat there were floating pieces of plywood and Fiberglas. Red took one last look back at the sailboat before powering up. The Chris-Craft planed immediately, resuming its course toward the home marina.
Alvin Hipshire popped his head above the boat’s gunwale just in time to see the spray of the boat as it left. Along the horizon, the dropping flares lit up the sky. A quick glance around him and he could see his dream had been dissolved in one fell swoop. Was this a war zone? he thought to himself before reaching for his VHF radio.
Less than a mile away, Jim Plimpton heard chatter on two separate radios.
“Seven-Up, Seven-Up, this is Sunkist. Do you copy?” came from the CB.
“This is Seven-Up, what’s going on?” Jim answered.
“We hit a deer with Mom’s car. The deer is dead.”
Holy shit, Plimpton thought to himself.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is the sailing yacht Dream, Mayday!” the VHF marine radio squawked.
Plimpton jetted out across Largo Sound toward South Creek in the hopes of drawing attention away from his friends in Taylor Creek. Within minutes, he had wound his way to the open ocean and was headed back north along the dark side. Before taking off, Plimpton had strapped the cat’s eyes to his forehead. Despite the absence of any light, he maintained a perfect view of the water ahead of him.
The wreckage of the yacht Dream had spread out over the space of an acre by the time Plimpton spotted what was left of her and her captain, Alvin Hipshire, who stood waist deep in cluttered water amongst the wreckage, waving his arms in the air.
“Skipper, are you okay?” he cried out.
“Please help me. I’ve been run over by some God-awful powerboat. I think it was a Hatteras or maybe a Bertram. I didn’t get a very good look at it, but I’m sure it was at least fifty feet long,” Hipshire said, shivering as he spoke.
Plimpton looked around at the wreckage. What was once a large, sea-going vessel was now a shattered mess of floating debris. I hope this guy was insured and if so, I hope I wasn’t the one who wrote the policy, he thought to himself.
“Look, can I get you to shore?” Plimpton yelled.
“I would appreciate that,” Hipshire replied.
Plimpton motored the boat closer to the desperate man who continued to thank him.
“Listen, I can’t go very fast, but I’ll take you directly to the Coast Guard station in Islamorada,” Plimpton said, knowing he had at least an hour to burn before his friends were finished.
“Thank you again. You know, they should license those damned powerboat operators. No offense.”
“None taken.”
* * * * *
Seizure
Joel stood patiently next to his partner who piloted the small Boston Whaler through the winding mangroves of the North Creek. The sleepless night before combined with the stress of his first day was starting to take its toll. He reached down over the side of the boat and splashed some cold water on his face giving him a temporary reprieve. It was all he could do to keep from falling asleep, even while standing next to the boat’s console.
Owen continued through the confining channel, navigating around small mangrove islands and through the twisting channels. He seems to know this area well, Joel thought to himself. The boat made a final turn before entering the main channel where Owen turned off the motor, letting the boat drift against the tree-lined bank. All that could be heard was the stream of hot water draining from the outboard motor’s exhaust. Joel reached out his hand, grabbing a leafy branch and pulling the docile boat closer to the bank. The boat sat quietly for a few minutes as Owen tied a rope around the branch and Joel moved to the other side of the boat, sitting on a padded cushion in front of the console. As he put his head against the Plexiglas faring of the windscreen, he felt his eyes grow heavy and was soon asleep.
•
Fifty miles away at the C3I communications center, a supervisor entered the dispatch cube. It was part of his regular rounds, making sure things were running smoothly while ensuring a proper need for his position, knowing that his presence probably didn’t make a difference as to how the center was run. After all, with the advents of modern government and the changes their president, the actor, had made, it took an act of Congress for him to exact his authority. He learned though to be patient and practice the art of diplomacy when any conflicts arose. He ran a quiet post, sometimes at the cost of efficiency, but it was quiet and this meant, on a public level, undiscovered. Things could be worse, he thought. The President had just fired most of the air traffic controllers across the country, replacing them with under-trained rookies in order to break PATCO, the controllers union. I will forego any air travel for a while, he thought to himself.
The dispatcher was on her sixth cup of coffee for the night, this one accompanied by a cinnamon sticky bun from the vending machine in the staff lounge.
“Anything I should be aware of?” he asked.
“I lost another two and a half pounds this week,” she answered.
“Great!” he said aloud. Another one-fifty to go, he thought to himself.
“We have a 38-foot Stinger off Marathon and Blue Thunder 5 just returned from a run down Government Cut…something about Agent Cuttyworth’s bachelor party. Besides that it’s pretty quiet.”
“What about the inbounds?” he asked.
“It must be a bad night. Radar’s got a few planes and some large commercial traffic in the stream,” she answered.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Oh, I almost forgot, I’ve got one target inbound to Key Largo. I’ve got an FTA and a fresh one from Glynnco out of Tavernier in a 17-foot Whaler off Key Largo.”
“Owen Sands,” he stated.
“1903?” she asked.
“That’s him,” he answered.
“What are they doing in a 17-foot boat?” she asked.
“It’s not what they’re doing; it’s where they’re doing it. The channels aren’t big
enough for the big boats. If I were you, I’d watch. My money’s on Owen,” he said with a smile.
•
Back on the Boston Whaler, Joel felt a soft blow to the side of his head as he realized he had fallen asleep.
“Wake up kid,” Owen said.
He stood straight up as the two looked at each other.
“What!” he replied defensively. “I haven’t slept much in the last few days.”
“Shush!” Owen responded. He seemed to have a concerned look on his face which puzzled Joel. Then he felt it. The vibration came first. Then the muffled sound of two large motors idling, purring, and coming their way.
“They must be lost and unable to maneuver in these tight channels,” Owen said quietly as he looked at his watch: 1:19 a.m. He started the motor and motivated the boat forward again. The sound and vibrations were easily detectable now, even over the sound of the running outboard motor. The two watched very carefully as they came to an S curve in the channel. Owen spotted it first: a 38-footer, barely visible through the patches of mangroves. Their tiny 17-footer was still undetected as Owen began to act quickly.
“Here, take this,” he said, giving the helm to Joel who reluctantly took it, steering around the curve and closer to the approaching boat. Owen then grabbed a portable blue revolving beacon and a spotlight. He climbed on top of the small Fiberglas console, peering over the top of the six-foot-high mangroves. The small boat started to list to one side as the offset weight caused it to be out of balance.
“As soon as we round the corner, hit the switch at the bottom of the panel,” Owen whispered.
Joel guided the boat slowly toward the curve in the channel and then, as the boat began to turn, he hit the switch as his partner had requested. The beacon sent a bright blue beam of light sweeping over the top of the larger boat and the handheld spotlight put out a brilliant beam with the intensity of daylight directly on the two occupants in the cockpit of their 38-footer. From their vantage point, the lights appeared to be coming from a stalking Coast Guard gunboat.
As Joel maneuvered the small utility boat closer to the larger powerboat, Owen maintained the beam of white light directly into the eyes of the two men who shut down their engines and stood with their hands raised high over their heads.
“Papa 1925 to Sector. We’re stopping a vessel in Zone 32L, two POB, repeat, two persons on board,” he announced into the mic.
“10-4 1925 at 1:34 hours.”
Joel pulled alongside as Owen climbed down from the console. The boat was a 38-foot Midnight Express, an off-brand Stiletto manufactured in Hialeah almost exclusively for the smuggling trade. She was gray and black and had a faded paint finish that further diminished its appearance. The cockpit was weathered and the seats had gaping holes in the upholstery.
“What are you doing out so late?” Owen asked.
“We no habla inglés,” responded one of the men.
“Policía, Federales muchachos. ¿Dónde está el registro de la barca?” Owen said, asking them for the boat’s registration.
“I no have. No my boat,” the driver said.
“Mira por favor,” Owen continued to say.
“No problema aquí. We have done nothing,” the other man added impatiently.
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Owen replied as he brought the first man into the cockpit of the Whaler.
“This is just temporary,” he said as he applied a nylon flex cuff, binding the man’s wrists behind his back. “If everything checks out, I’ll let you two be on your way…Comprende?” Owen asked.
The lead agent then climbed aboard the larger boat and repeated the process on the second man before starting his search. These guys were definitely not on a pleasure cruise, Owen thought to himself as he viewed the duffel bags filled with dirty clothes and unused MREs, Meals Ready to Eat, the military’s version of a bagged TV dinner.
“Watch them closely,” Owen asked as he disappeared past the cabin door, down below the boat’s foredeck.
Joel looked at the two men. Both hadn’t shaved in a while and wore clothes that looked like they were from a Goodwill store. They were visually shaken up but complying with the orders Owen had issued to them. Seconds later he emerged from under the cabin. “Where’s the clavo? ¿Dónde está el clavo?”
Both men sat silent.
“Look, you’re both looking at fifteen years apiece. I suggest you cooperate. Where are you headed?” Owen asked again.
“We got our presidential rights, man,” one of them barked, making Joel laugh to himself.
Owen reached for the mic. “Papa 1903 to Sector.”
“Go ahead 1903,” the female voice responded.
“We are in custody of two Latin males and one 38-foot vessel. We will need ground units to cover 32 Lima for this target’s destination.”
“10-4. Am I authorized to alert local agencies?” she asked.
“Go ahead Sector, and advise them that we are looking for a destination to accommodate approximately four thousand pounds of burlap,” Owen said, as Joel raised his eyebrows. “Also Sector, the dock has to accommodate a 38-footer.” Burlap was the code for marijuana, usually transported in burlap sacks. Duct tape meant the hard stuff, cocaine.
“Copy that 1903, good work. I’ll alert your office. Will you need assistance with transportation?” she asked.
“10-4, have Sector call and wake up Keys Truck Rentals.”
“10-4 1925 at 1:54 hours.”
Sector jumped into high gear. During the night, various radar operators and technicians had been monitoring a wide variety of inbound air and sea targets. A seizure had just been confirmed in North Key Largo and now it was their turn to try and find the source for the contraband.
Six targets had been labeled for further investigation. Four of them were airborne and sending transponder signals. Within seconds, the crew at the command center had dispatched field agents to intercept the planes once they had landed. The two remaining targets were waterborne and required a different approach.
At half past two in the morning, a Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk departed the Opa-Locka Coast Guard Air Station bound for aerial reconnaissance over the Gulf Stream. Mounted firmly into her belly was a FLIR unit, a computerized system that could enable the viewer to literally see in the dark without detection.
Owen Sands drove the 38-footer into Garden Cove less than half a mile away as Joel followed in the Boston Whaler. As the two boats entered the basin of Garden Cove, a red and yellow Ryder truck parked under an overhead streetlight came into view. A portly man dressed in jeans and a soiled white T-shirt stood leaning against the van, smoking a cigarette.
“Not bad for a first day, Special Agent Kenyon,” Holmes yelled as the two boats bumped to a stop against the dock. “How much did we get?” he asked.
“Looks like around four thousand, give or take,” Owen said.
“Well, I guess I’m waking up with another backache tomorrow,” Holmes replied.
“You mean we have to unload this stuff?” Joel asked.
“Who did you think was going to do it?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know… maybe them,” Joel said, pointing to the two prisoners.
“Gee, never thought of that before. What do you think boss?” Holmes asked.
“Aw hell, they’d probably say it was cruel and unusual punishment,” Owen answered.
The three agents unloaded sixty bales of cannabis into the yellow cube van, each piece weighing an average of seventy-five pounds. The Whaler was secured for the night and the prisoners were transported to the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department jail for holding until the morning. Sands put the finishing touches on the mission by affixing several bright red ten-by-eight-inch stickers on the boat’s deck and windshield that read:
SEIZED PROPERTY
U.S. Customs Service
DO NOT TAMPER
For More Information Contact:
Special Agent Joel Kenyon
Case # 84-19250001
Call 1-800-Be Alert
* * * * *
Residue
The home of Owen Sands was quiet with the exception of a soft ticking from a large grandfather clock that stood tall in the home’s cedar-lined den. Outside, the rising sun beamed into the windows while bright light engulfed the kitchen. Blue spotted wallpaper with ducks and pigs covered the walls and brass pots and other cookware hung from the ceiling over a traditional cutting board topped center island. The room felt warm but very much unused. The large wall clock mounted above an eat-in kitchen table read 7:45 a.m.
The silence was interrupted by the sound of bare feet hitting the crafted tile floor. Dressed in a long T-shirt, fifteen-year-old Jade Sands entered the kitchen. She passed through and cautiously opened an adjacent pantry, exposing the home’s washer and dryer.
She was not an exceptionally pretty girl, considered plain by most standards. Her face, like many girls her age, was covered with adolescent acne and stainless steel braces filled her mouth. Her shoulder length dirty blond hair was unbrushed. In school, her grades were slightly less than average although she didn’t really struggle. The teachers who watched over Jade said she was not meeting her potential. Still, she managed to get by. On a small chart affixed to her bathroom mirror she had calculated the exact number of days she could miss during the school year without getting kicked out. The days were distributed on a sliding scale so as to guarantee an equal amount of time off throughout the year.
Jade didn’t have many friends but the few she did associate with were close. There was Lisa Sikes, who had a ring pierced into her nose, and Lisa’s brother, Darren, who preferred the traditional, standard earring that was pierced into a portion of the ear. The three spent a lot of time together, usually doing much of nothing, listening to music or sneaking a cigarette or two.
Mid Ocean Page 15