“I can’t believe what just happened!” Bittel yelled over the commotion. “You okay?”
“I think so. Someone needs to check on that pilot,” Pat said, pointing over to the mass of twisted metal and broken Plexiglas.
“That blade just missed your head, Pat. Jesus!”
“I really don’t want to think about it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Okay. Guess you’re going to have to go to Sears and get a new suit,” Bittel said with a crooked smile.
“Why Mr. Bittel, I shop exclusively at J.C. Penney I’ll have you know,” Pat joked as the two laughed.
* * * * *
Land
The first sight of land occurred at around 1:30 in the afternoon. Del had the helm and was making good time. Both engines were running smoothly and the hull was beating down the four-foot chop that was in its way. On the horizon, Key West revealed its radio towers and a pair of smoke stacks that ventilated the island’s desalination plant, a system that provided freshwater to its inhabitants by removing salt and other minerals from the surrounding seawater. The process used a considerable amount of heat and flumes of rising, smoke-filled air could be seen for twenty miles in either direction. The sun was coming into view to the east and the small ascending particles of burning matter reflected the rays of light, giving off a glow that looked more like a sunset than a sunrise. A new day was born and as the Jolene Marie entered Hawks Channel, Del could see the lobster fishermen checking and setting their traps as well as the charter boats catching fresh schools of mullet and ballyhoo for bait. It was the start of a pleasant day and one Del would take calmly as they continued their trek north.
Hawks Channel would carry them up the outside of the Keys, past Biscayne Bay, Government Cut, South Beach and most of Miami Beach to the Haulover Inlet where they would cut into the Intracoastal Waterway and continue north another three miles to Turnbush. If everything went as planned, the Jolene Marie would land at around nine that evening, giving the crew ample time to unload and clean the boat before sunrise the next day.
“Want some coffee?” asked a soft voice from the galley below. Lynn was up and the smell of fresh coffee filled the wheelhouse as well as the rest of the boat.
“Sure, is Tony up yet?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she answered.
“It’s okay, let him sleep. It’s going to be a late night,” Del said. “I know Regis is probably going to sleep until twelve or so. I relieved him at three and he looked bushed.”
“How’s she running?” Lynn asked, sipping on a steaming cup and snuggling next to Del.
“Great, like a clock,” he answered. “Make that a Swiss clock.”
During the night, Tony had performed some routine maintenance on some of the boat’s systems. The batteries had been used regularly, running the cluster of electronics and lighting as well as the sanitation systems and freshwater maker. While in mid ocean he set the autopilot and went below to check the levels of water in each battery cell, filling them to the prescribed level with distilled water. The boat’s fuel supply was at one-quarter and he noticed the bow was running higher than he liked, primarily because of the weight they had added to the aft fuel tank. Tony tried to adjust for this by increasing the output of the water maker and filling the forward thousand-gallon reserve water tank. Everything was going well. Almost too well, he thought to himself as he retired back behind the large wooden wheel.
* * * * *
Interception
Have I done the right thing? Joel thought to himself. The day before, an overnight delivery had arrived from his brother-in-law Pat Stephens containing the pending indictment of his partner Owen Sands. Twelve hours later, he handed it over to him. Now they were speeding north after receiving an alert that their target boat, the Jolene Marie had called in and was due to dock in the posh North Miami yacht club, Turnbush.
Joel drove the red Camaro IROC north on U.S.1 out of Plantation Key as Owen thumbed through the grand jury transcripts. He was stunned by what he saw but in a way, relieved. Previously, the basis for his fears was the unknown. His paranoia was the product of his own speculation and, as Leslie used to say, “just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” His imagination had run wild. Owen knew enough about the law to know that what he was up against was filled with holes. He also knew however, that a case against one or more federal agents always took priority. At least now he could see in black and white what the opposition thought and by what suspicions they were acting upon. He knew he had a fighting chance.
Where did Joel fit into this though? Could he be trusted? Owen thought to himself. Joel had already done the unheard of in government service, put the concerns of someone else above that of their own. How was this disclosure of classified evidence going to affect him, a new and impressionable agent who, by the way, was very involved with Tessa, the widow of a former smuggler? The way he saw it, they were both in the same boat, and for the first time in months they were going to do the real job they were empowered to do.
The traffic on the eighteen-mile stretch wasn’t terribly bad. Joel jockeyed around the slower cars at an average speed of ninety while Owen read on through the documents, occasionally cracking a smile and a chuckle. The more he read, the more amused he became. Then the reality hit him. As a government agent, he was trained to act guilty, to always be on the defensive, and to always watch his back. At least you can be prepared when someone puts a knife in it, he would rationalize. However, the prime idea hit him rather hard. I’ve done nothing wrong! he thought to himself. Pat Stephens’s case was based solely on conjecture. There was no foundation, no basis of fact, just informants who made general accusations and circumstantial evidence. Confidential informants who had an axe to grind or people with twisted intentions. The grand jury machine had been assembled though and the only question was who it was going to devourer. There was someone in his office who was working both sides, that was a given. It was no mystery that most offices had one or two agents who could have been “on the take” but the Tavernier office, that could have been a real franchise of graft. The agent who betrayed his post down there could reap millions and do so in a fairly short period of time. The government tried to rotate agents through its field offices at a regular pace. It wasn’t a good practice to have federal law enforcement officials on close terms with the locals, especially in the Keys. One could easily get caught up in the Keys’ “attitude of the latitude.” Owen had been in the Tavernier office for eight years, a long time by most agents’ standards. Stephens probably figured that he had nestled into the local way of life. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. There was only one agent who had been there longer though, and now Owen knew what that agent, his friend of twenty years, was saying about him.
After their assignment together as agents in the Panama Canal Zone, Jordan Cheney took a lateral transfer to Customs and the top spot at the Tavernier field office. Owen Sands was a natural candidate for his assistant and with coaxing, Cheney got his old partner transferred to him in a short period of time.
As the IROC entered the Florida City roadblock, an awaiting cop flagged them through. Joel darted around the waiting cars, waving briefly as he passed. They hit the Florida Turnpike in less than a minute leaving them exactly half an hour to make it to the Turnbush Marina in North Miami Beach. In their haste, they missed the two black Chevy Suburbans that were waiting at the roadblock, parked next to the idling Florida City cruisers. They blended in with all the other stopped traffic waiting patiently.
•
Florida State Trooper Lester Mander had his spot picked out. The new Ford Mustang blended in under the swaying palms located on the highway’s median just south of the Snapper Creek Turnpike Plaza. Trooper Mander was just getting used to the new car after spending the last eight years with the same Plymouth Fury that he loved more than his firstborn son. His new car didn’t have the acceleration or top-end speed the Fury had and to make matters worse, the car ha
d been equipped with an experimental device, a crude appendage to the front of his steering wheel that was supposed to be there for his safety. While in development for the last ten years, automotive airbags were now starting to go into the mass-testing phase before being approved and made mandatory in all domestic passenger vehicles. State troopers all over the U.S. had their newer cars equipped with the devices that while bulky and cumbersome, were supposed to be fail-proof and a life saving edge one could be thankful for in the event of a catastrophic collision.
•
Joel didn’t notice the state trooper hiding under the group of trees ahead. His mind was on other things, mainly Tessa. He was in love and he didn’t quite know how to react. It wasn’t a feeling he had embraced before. The red Camaro sped over the four-lane blacktop like a bullet train following steel rails on a course for North Miami Beach. The alarm on the radar was the first to sound.
94-94-94-94
The amber display blinked, locked in on the illegal speeder. Mander popped a form-fitting plastic top over the Styrofoam cup of coffee he was sipping, put the car in gear and bolted up the embankment, squealing the tires as the accelerating car grabbed the pavement.
“642 Turnpike,” he called into the radio’s microphone.
“642,” squawked the radio.
“10-4, I am attempting a traffic stop on a red Camaro northbound at the Snapper Creek Plaza. This guy’s going ninety-four in a fifty-five. Go ahead and send me some backup, please. Also, this is probably the no-contact hit and run suspect from a previous incident involving an FHP vehicle.”
“642, do you have the car stopped yet?”
“Negative Turnpike, I’m trying to catch up to him now.”
“10-4, 642. Be advised I just received a BOLO from U.S. Customs. A red Camaro IROC Z-28 occupied by two white male subjects is wanted in connection with a federal drug indictment. These subjects are both known to impersonate law enforcement officials. The subjects are considered armed and dangerous. Use extreme caution. Detain and hold for U.S. Customs. This is per Special Agent in Charge Jordan Cheney.”
“10-4 Turnpike, where’s my closest backup?”
“I show 1134 in Florida City working a minor signal four traffic accident.”
“1134 Turnpike,” the second trooper interrupted.
“Go ahead 1134,” the dispatcher squawked.
“This is 1134 - Show me en route to backup 642 on his 10-50 traffic stop.”
“10-4, 1134, did you copy direct 642?”
“10-4, I’m on them now, they’ve slowed down to seventy.”
•
“Shit!” Joel exclaimed looking into his rearview mirror as he pulled the car to the side of the busy roadway.
“What is it?” Owen asked looking behind him.
“Let me ID this guy, we’re running out of time,” Kenyon said, putting the car in park before reaching for his wallet.
“Occupants, put your hands against the windshield!” shouted an authoritative voice over the trooper’s overhead PA system. “Driver, with your left hand, turn off the ignition and throw the keys out the window.”
Joel looked back at the trooper still seated behind the wheel, concealed in his patrol car. This guy meant business, he thought to himself as he started to reach for the keys. Something wasn’t right; this guy is doing a serious felony stop.
“Wait,” Owen said.
The two looked at each other for a second and then, as though they had rehearsed a dozen times, Joel took his opposite hand and jammed the center-mounted gear shift into reverse, stepping on the gas and sending them backwards towards the trooper’s black and tan Mustang. The impact wasn’t especially great but it caught Trooper Mander completely by surprise. His first instinct was to reach down for his holstered gun, which was not an easy thing to do since he was seated. A bright flash of white light, which dulled his senses for a second, interrupted him. What was happening? he thought to himself. One of the subjects must have fired his gun, he feared. Where was it? Why can’t I see? Am I dead?
The sound that accompanied the flash left a ringing in his ears. It must have been a gunshot. Where is 1134? Am I dying? He smelled something burning. These guys aren’t close enough. My God! I shot myself. Slowly he blinked his eyes. A trace of white powder lingered in the air as he noticed a cloud-like pillow assembled in front of him. The car’s airbag had exploded upon impact catching him off guard. Unable to see past the white balloon, he grabbed for his radio microphone but grabbed his hot cup of coffee instead. Steaming mud scorched his hand and ran down his right leg. Joel shifted the car back into drive and accelerated forward, regaining his trek northward.
As Mander yelled for backup, the two black Suburbans blasted by his disabled patrol car.
•
Twenty minutes later, with a countywide bulletin being broadcasted on every police frequency in a hundred mile radius, Joel exited the turnpike. As he made his way down North Miami’s 163rd Street, he could feel the traffic starting to get heavier. Ten car lengths behind, the two Suburbans that had been following the Camaro since Florida City maintained their distance. The stop and go traffic was more than Joel’s patience could bear.
“Shit!” he said to himself, hitting the soft center of the steering wheel.
“Relax. We’re less than fifteen minutes away,” Owen comforted.
Then without warning, a loud voice blurted out, “red Camaro!”
Joel looked back to see the blue and red flashing lights of a Metro Dade police car directly behind them.
“Pull to the next side street!” ordered a voice amplified by the car’s PA system.
“There’s no way out of this,” Joel said. “If we run, we could lead them to Turnbush.”
“Relax, let me handle this,” Owen replied.
As the red Camaro pulled into a nearly abandoned side street, the green and white Metro cruiser followed in behind, maintaining a safe distance. Officers Cabrera and Evans had been on duty for less than half an hour before the BOLO came over their radio. New to Metro, both had visions of making a name for themselves and this was to be their first stepping stone. Both men exited the cruiser with guns drawn. Cabrera, a large Cuban with dark skin and combed back jet-black hair yelled, not needing the assistance of the PA.
“Turn off the car and place your hands against the windshield!”
Evans held his gun tightly as he aimed at the Camaro’s passenger, ready to unload his automatic Smith and Wesson with a split seconds notice.
“Federal agent!” Joel yelled out of the window. “You can holster your weapons!”
“These are our guys,” Cabrera said, remembering the BOLO’s instructions.
“I’m scared,” Evans confided to his partner. “Maybe we should wait for some backup.”
“Shut up, you pussy!” Cabrera replied. “If they move, shoot them. Don’t hesitate.”
Joel sat still for a second before reaching for his wallet that was tucked between the seat and the center console.
“Cabrera?” Evans asked sheepishly.
“I said freeze asshole!” Cabrera shouted with a loud commanding voice.
•
“Are we ready?” asked the driver of the lead Suburban to an agent clad in black tactical gear that was seated behind him.
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” he replied, checking the clip on his AR-15 assault rifle.
•
Joel looked into the rearview mirror as he quickly returned his hands to the windshield. And then he noticed them, a black Suburban speeding in their direction followed by another. Both pulled up on either side of the Metro cruiser. Before the officers could see what was going on, all the doors on both vehicles opened at once as a dozen men, all clad in black and donning Kevlar jackets and AR-15s, spilled into the quiet street. Cabrera and Evans, trying to keep an eye on the car ahead, turned back in disbelief.
“Freeze! FBI!” said the lead man.
Both officers resumed their stance, straightening their aim against t
he Camaro, relieved that some assistance had arrived.
“I said freeze!” the lead man repeated, touching the tip of his AR-15 against Cabrera’s perfectly groomed jet-black hair.
“FBI! Put down your weapons and keep your hands in my view at all times. This will be over in a few seconds if you do exactly as I say,” he said in a direct but calm voice.
Both officers laid their weapons on the ground as two agents from the back took the men to the rear of the cruiser. Then, the lead agent approached the Camaro without fear, walking up to the open driver’s side window.
“Agent Kenyon?” he said to Joel.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Just clearing the way sir. We’ve been ordered to make contact with you at any cost,” the lead agent responded as Joel and Owen exited the Camaro.
“Our radios are down,” Joel said.
“I know. There’s been a major system failure affecting the entire East Coast. We have Mr. Stephens on the phone. He wants to talk to you,” the agent stated as another placed a cellular bag phone on the IROC’s trunk lid.
“Joel!” Pat shouted, relieved. “Where the hell have you been?”
“We’ve had some communication problems.”
“Where is Owen Sands?” Pat asked.
“He’s with me. Pat, this indictment is bullshit. None of it is accurate.”
“We’ll sort all of that out later. I’m in Miami and it’s been a hell of a day. When can we meet?”
“We don’t have time for that now. We are in the middle of a major case that’s ready to break. Please Pat, Owen needs this right now.”
Mid Ocean Page 39