Red Tide
Page 10
“When do they take off?” Kate asked.
“Ten minutes. The winds are calm. They will take off three abreast. That cuts the take-off time for the whole flight by two thirds. Civilian pilots can’t do this. They’d wreck into each other before they got to the end of the runway. These men and women can. All 32 aircraft will be off the ground in less than five minutes. Once airborne, they will circle the field once for a com check between ground control, and plane to plane, then the flight leader takes point to the target. Round trip is 70 minutes.”
“Will they land three abreast, Lieutenant?”
“No ma’am. Too many variables. When they come home, the plan is to land them literally nose to tail. They will all approach in a single file. As one touches down he or she taxi’s to the end of the runway, and turns left to a marked service area. The next plane is 10 seconds behind the first, does the same and turns right into their designated service area. Experienced carrier ground crews will guide them in. Any plane experiencing mechanical or flight issues aborts the field to the grass and sets down. We cannot afford a wrecked plane on our runway.”
“Isn’t that more dangerous?”
“Yes ma’am, it is. These boys and girls are all volunteers. They know what they signed up for. We have fire and rescue apparatus on both sides ready for anything that might go bad.”
“What is your experience with things going bad in situations like this, Lieutenant?”
Jemison inhaled deeply, looked to the ground before meeting Kate’s eyes with his, and replied, “My experience is that anything that could possibly go wrong will go wrong. I think this is going to be a long day, Doc.”
USCGC Bertholf, Gulf of Mexico
Commander Phillips positioned the Coast Guard’s newest 418-foot Legend Class Cutter just north of the Red Tide algae bloom, 50 miles offshore. Laguna Vista Texas was the first populated US territory to become exposed to the deadly Red Tide, now estimated to be under 25 miles wide and just under 100 miles long. The Bertholf was 25 miles from the leading edge. That distance closed by 2 kilometers every hour. The bloom was thinning in the swift gulf current, but remained deadly as ever. Experts agreed left on its own, the tide would continue with the current to skim the entire Gulf Coast, eventually returning to Tampa where it was born. This was unacceptable to Commander Phillips.
From the Bertholf’s position, he could monitor the Navy’s progress with the requisitioned crop dusters, and direct search and rescue of downed pilots. As part of his small flotilla the Bertholf was accompanied by two RB-M R 42-foot shallow draft rescue boats, and a dozen RB-S 25-foot fast rescue boats. All crews of these craft were suited in hazmat suits and respirators for operating in toxic seas in the event a plane was forced to ditch. Along with the crew, each craft carried a Navy EMT with injectable antibiotics and oxygen. The Commander shuddered at the thought of pilots ditching in that soup.
These thoughts led him to memories of his time at the Academy in New London. Each cadet was required to memorize the Coast Guard Ethos, and recite every lengthy stanza word for word for any training officer requesting a performance. It contained words and phrases about pride, service, duty, and mission, sacrifice and courage. To be a Coasty, you could not refuse a rescue mission, ever. You had to try, no matter how dangerous. You may fail, but you always had to try. For this reason, Steve preferred the Coast Guards unofficial motto, which said it all in just one short sentence:
“You have to go out, but you don’t have to come back.”
Today was certain to provide a real life demonstration of exactly what that motto truly means. He would lead them out, and prayed he could bring as many back alive. His thoughts were interrupted by his first officer,
“Commander Phillips, the first flight is in the air and should be on station within 30 minutes.”
“Thank you Lieutenant, full ahead. We need to close the distance to the bloom. I want to get as close as possible. Have the quick boats pull up to 100 yards short of the bloom, and maintain 400 yard intervals on the seaward side as far south as we can extend. That our picket fence. Anyone goes down, a swift boat dashes straight in, snaps up our pilot, dashes out again and brings the pilot to us. We have six medical teams standing by below deck.
“We have communications with land based spotters picketing the beach. The first pass will attack the head of the bloom to stop its forward progress north. This is the battle ground. The current will bring the bloom to us. We need not chase it a hundred miles south. Turn-around time for each flight is estimated at 70 minutes. I think it will be more like 90 minutes, with refuel, quick maintenance-check and a change of pilots.
“32 aircraft in formation will be able to spray an area almost a mile wide and 8 to 10 miles long before the tanks are empty. Mr. Falcone was a bit off in his initial estimates. The chemicals contain colorant that will turn treated algae yellow. Make sure our people understand just because algae’s been treated and is yellow, it’s still going to be toxic. The smart people tell us it may take up to 24 hours to die and sink.”
The Commander’s intensity revealed his concern for his people. In the Navy, all command personnel focused on the mission, always the mission. In the Coast Guard, command personnel concentrated on their people. Take care of your people, and the mission will take care of itself.
“Every 24 hours, the bloom moves 36 miles north. That means we have to destroy 720 square miles of algae every 24 hours to prevent its advance up the coast. We need 72 successful missions each day. Right now we can mount 16, maybe 17 missions with the 32 planes we have. By this time tomorrow, we won’t have 32 planes. How’s the recruitment operation coming?” the Commander asked.
“We’re recruiting more pilots from all military branches as fast as we can. So far, we have an additional 200 plus, and double that number of aircraft mechanics on route to Galveston. More are coming. Mexico is sending 50 pilots and another 100 ground crew. We’ve commandeered a 200 room Holiday Inn Express a half mile from the municipal field. We have a mobile kitchen set up in large tents in their parking lot that can feed 1,000 people a day.”
“Planes, I need planes.” The Commander was feeling the strain, with no sleep in the last 24 hours, and none planned for the duration of Operation Gulf Storm.
“FAA records indicate 2,487 registered crop dusters in the lower 48 states. Each owner has been contacted regarding requisitioning their aircraft. Most have volunteered to fly them to Houston on their own dime, and turn them over to our mechanics and pilots. We’ve cleared George Bush Houston Intercontinental Airport of all commercial aircraft and operations. It will remain closed for the duration. It’s ours until this is over. That’s our staging area for incoming planes. The dang things are so small, we can stage six or eight in the same hanger as one 747.” the Lieutenant responded. “The rest are staged out on the tarmac.”
“What about fuel and chemicals?” the Commander asked.
“The Chemical plant in Houston has put on three shifts working round the clock. They can output 2 million gallons of copper sulfate a day. We organized three trucking companies to deliver it to the Municipal field round the clock. As for AV gas, that’s a bit of a problem. Houston Intercontinental stocks massive reserves of jet fuel, but these mosquitos use standard AV gas. Fortunately, there are 70 refineries in the southeast region. Minor delay, but it will be here when we need it.”
“How many air assets will we have tomorrow?”
“God willin’ and the creek don’t rise, 250.” Lieutenant Jimisen was definitely a John Wayne Western fan.
“That many aircraft will provide coverage for each flight 7 miles wide and 10 miles long. 70 square miles of treated algae per sortie. We can win this.”
Tampa, Florida
Bobby Lee paced his office, returning to the wrap around windows and magnificent vista his 12th floor penthouse office afforded, but it was not for the ocean view. His eyes were on the street in front of his building where several hundred very angry protesters were assembled, playing to the
television cameras. The 42-inch flat screen across the room brought his current predicament clearly into focus, as a national news anchor interviewed two men. The segment had been airing continuously since the evening news the night before. He turned to listen for what seemed the hundredth time.
“…are confident the Red Tide scourge now ravaging the Gulf coast of Mexico and southern Texas that is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent victims and threatens countless more originated here in Tampa Bay?”
“Yes.” That fucking Asian guy again. “Our research clearly trace bloom back to liquid fertilizer spill last July here in Tampa. Million gallons spill into waterways that flow into bay, maybe more. Fertilizer provide catalyst for algae already in water. Bloom carried across Gulf by freak Loop Eddy to Mexico where it explode. Many people die. Many more to follow.”
Thuy Piseth was interrupted by Jimmy Falcone at his side.
“The bigger picture here is the culture of corruption and callous disregard for the environment and the safety of our fellow human beings that allowed this preventable event to occur.” All camera’s and mic’s were pointed at Jimmy. He continued.
“Florida Lawn and Landscape is solely responsible for the spill. Their record of environmental and safety violations over the past five years is despicable. And, to add insult to injury, our sources tell us Bobby Lee Swagart, President of Florida Lawn and Landscape made a $200,000 donation to the Centers for Disease Control Foundation with the explicit intent to deflect media attention away from their illegal practices by having the CDC proclaim nitrogen and phosphate based fertilizer run off into waterways poses no threat to the environment or to humans. That statement was delivered in a public announcement by none other than Sherrod Simpson, Director of the CDC, currently under investigation…
Bobby Lee turned the broadcast off and returned to his desk. Instinctively, he understood no amount of damage control could contain the worldwide public outrage. That rage was being fed by the national and world media hourly, as the algae bloom disaster continued to rage north towards US shores. His landscaping empire was toast. Heads were going to roll. His head. Civil suits and class action suits would go on for decades, and consume every last dime he had. The Feds, and a room with no view at the gray bar hotel would not be far behind. Time to get out of Dodge.
From his early days as a teenager digging up palm trees in the State Park to sell to south Florida landscapers, Bobby Lee knew he had to have an exit strategy if he was ever caught. He had stashed stolen bikes throughout the Park he could grab quickly, and speed away on trails too narrow for Park Ranger jeeps to follow. Simple, effective, and under the radar.
The same rules applied today. There was nothing and no one Bobby Lee wasn’t prepared to walk away from in a second. The trail of trophy wives and ruined business partners left in his wake was evidence enough. One thing about clawing your way to the top of the heap, you stepped on a lot of people on the way up. He had no intention of sticking around to meet them again on his way back down to the bottom of the heap.
The media-mauling he endured last year following the spill was a cake walk compared to what was falling down around him now, but it had revealed his personal liability and vulnerability. Lawyers and Feds found the holes in his armor he never realized existed. In countless meetings with his attorneys, accountants, publicists, and bankers in his attempt to plug all the ways his assets or his freedom could be jeopardized, he came to the realization it was impossible to legally shield himself if found responsible for illegal behavior. It never occurred to Bobby Lee to stop breaking the law as the obvious solution. Never one to stand for principles, he decided to shield himself illegally.
Vast sums had been moved to Caribbean havens. He had emptied his corporate account this morning with several wire transfers, then an in-person cash withdrawal by one of his lawyers in Turks and Caicos, who simply walked away from the bank with a full suitcase. A lot of vendors and employees were not going to get paid. Ever.
Seventy-five countries with no extradition treaty with the United States were researched and rejected. Who the hell wants to live in Togo, the Sudan, Bosnia, or the Vatican. No, his safe haven was a lot closer to home, just 90 miles from his jump off point, Key West. Through his attorney’s, he had already bought and paid his way to paradise.
That dumbass Simpson had already been busted at his high profile villa in Costa Rica by that reporter, Falcone. Not Bobby Lee.
“Hello Cuba.” Bobby Lee rose, walked straight out of his office without another word to the express elevator and punched the down button with a beefy thumb. The trip to the underground garage was quick, with pleasantly entertaining soft music. He climbed into a waiting unmarked delivery van with driver. Once seated and out of the garage, his mobile rang. Very few select people had his personal number: bankers, lawyers, and people whose loyalty had been purchased.
“Yeah?” he answered. No need to be polite to lawyers.
“Bobby Lee, this is Sherrod. We need to talk. This algae event has got us both on the hook, and…
Bobby Lee could care less what happened to Sherrod Simpson. To Bobby Lee, there were two kinds of people in the world, those he could use, and those for which he had no use. Sherrod was now a member of the latter group.
“Sherrod, you old hoss! You sure got your tit stuck in the ringer this time! Startin’ to feel the pinch, are ya’? I always thought you’d look good in a jump suit. You know, orange is the new black, son.”
“We’re in this together, Bobby Lee.” Sherrod replied angrily. “When they traced that algae bloom back to Tampa and that tank spill at your supply yard, they drew a straight line from your bank records to the CDC Foundation donation.”
“I also donate to girls’ softball teams, and pet rescues. So what. I will confess, I do like to see my logo spread across young teenybopper chests. I’m a regular HU-MAN-I-TAR-IAN.” He responded. “Difference between you and me Sher, is that I make donations, I don’t steal them. And, I don’t play politics. When someone crosses me, they disappear, figuratively speaking, of course. Never know who might be listenin’.
“With you calling off the Mobile investigation prematurely just to fuck with that pretty little doctor who caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, well, that was just plain stupid. She done burned your ass once before. Looks like she got you again, real good. Like my daddy used to say, some people live and learn, and some people just live.”
“Bobby Lee, I have to leave the country. Mexico has issued a warrant for my arrest. They issued one for you, too. The charge is murder.” Sherrod’s fear was almost palpable.
“That’s real interesting, Sher, seeings how I never been to Old Mexico. That spill was a workplace accident, for which I’ve paid the fines, and taken remedial steps like any good corporate citizen. I had nothin’ to do with them poor people dying. That was caused by a freak current out there in the Gulf.” Bobby Lee’s voice exuded confidence, but his chest tightened in fear of the consequences he faced.
“How about 118 lawsuits for wrongful death? Does that capture your attention, Swagart?” Sherrod cut straight to the chase. “Look, I can’t go to Costa Rica. The Feds know about that place. Venezuela has a treaty to extradite, but they aren’t exactly on good speaking terms with the US. Any Latin country will be after our heads.” Sherrod paused, but Bobby Lee didn’t respond. He was still listening. He tried one last ploy.
“I can make it worth your while, Bobby Lee.”
Swagart’s interest rose. He had successfully hidden millions in the Caribbean, but was leaving many more millions behind. Beach houses, real estate, his multi-state landscape empire, stocks and bonds would all be seized by the courts. He could live quite comfortably for the rest of his life on what he had already stashed away. But who just wanted to be comfortable? Bribes for asylum were renewable investments with expiration dates. The CDC Foundation had tens of millions in donations from every pharmaceutical company in this hemisphere, and some from Europe. Sherrod had access to t
hese funds. Bobby Lee wondered how much money Sherrod could get his hands on quickly.
“How much worth my while, Sher? I may be a whore, but I ain’t cheap.”
Route 101, 30 miles north of Ciudad Victoria, Mexico
Miguel walked slowly towards the bullet ridden white Ford F-150 in the dust and brush off the side of the road. The driver, still belted in place, was upright, but what was left of his head tilted sideways towards the other remains of his head splattered across the bench seat and the passenger. The passenger hung half out his open door, likewise still restrained by his seat belt. Click it or ticket, as the Americanos say.
He draped the M-4 automatic rifle over his shoulder, as he inspected the cab. He immediately saw what he feared might be there, a portable military radio, now as bullet ridden as the two soldiers inside.
Miguel thought he recognized Sergeant Gonzales in front of the clinic in Ciudad Madero, but wasn’t sure. He kicked himself for volunteering to help evacuate his village. Gonzales was there to assist, and knew he was Cartel. Seeing Miguel driving an ambulance through Ciudad Madero would be beyond what the Sergeant would believe could be possible. So much for trying to be a nice guy. Never again.