by Tom Clancy
There was a collective “oh” from the assembled multitude, which had expected shouts and screams. The newly arrived chiefs regarded one another with raised eyebrows, and the young officers who’d been contemplating the abortion of their service careers retired to the wardroom in a state of bemused shock. Before meeting with them, Wegener took his three leading chiefs aside.
“Engines first,” Wegener said.
“I can give you fifty-percent power all day long, but when you try to use the turbochargers, everything goes to hell in fifteen minutes,” Chief Owens announced. “An’ I don’t know why.” Mark Owens had been working with marine diesels for sixteen years.
“Can you get us to Curtis Bay?”
“As long as you don’t mind taking an extra day, Cap’n.”
Wegener dropped the first bomb. “Good—’cause we’re leaving in two weeks, and we’ll finish the fitting-out up there.”
“It’ll be a month till the new motor’s ready for that crane, sir,” Chief Boatswain’s Mate Bob Riley observed.
“Can the crane turn?”
“Motor’s burned out, Cap’n.”
“When the time comes, we’ll snake a line from the bow to the back end of the crane. We have seventy-five feet of water in front of us. We set the clutch on the crane and pull forward real gentle-like, and turn the crane ourselves, then back out,” the captain announced. Eyes narrowed.
“Might break it,” Riley observed after a moment.
“That’s not my crane, but, by God, this is my ship.”
Riley let out a laugh. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you again, Red—excuse me, Captain Wegener!”
“Mission Number One is to get her to Baltimore for fitting-out. Let’s figure out what we have to do, and take it one job at a time. I’ll see you oh-seven-hundred tomorrow. Still make your own coffee, Portagee?”
“Bet your ass, sir,” Chief Quartermaster Oreza replied. “I’ll bring a pot.”
And Wegener had been right. Twelve days later, Panache had indeed been ready for sea, though not much else, with crates and fittings lashed down all over the ship. Moving the crane out of the way was accomplished before dawn, lest anyone notice, and when the picket line showed up that day, it had taken a few minutes to notice that the ship was gone. Impossible, they’d all thought. She hadn’t even been fully painted yet.
The painting was accomplished in the Florida Strait, as was something even more important. Wegener had been on the bridge, napping in his leather chair during the forenoon watch when the growler phone rang, and Chief Owens invited him to the engine room. Wegener arrived to find the only worktable covered with plans, and an engineman-apprentice hovering over them, with his engineering officer standing behind him.
“You ain’t gonna believe it,” Owens announced. “Tell him, sonny.”
“Seaman Obrecki, sir. The engine isn’t installed right,” the youngster said.
“What makes you think that?” Wegener asked.
The big marine diesels were of a new sort, perversely designed to be very easy to operate and maintain. To aid in this, small how-to manuals were provided for each engine-room crewman, and in each manual was a plastic-coated diagram that was far easier to use than the builder’s plans. A blow-up of the manual schematic, also plastic-coated, had been provided by the drafting company, and was the laminated top of the worktable.
“Sir, this engine is a lot like the one on my dad’s tractor, bigger, but—”
“I’ll take your word for it, Obrecki.”
“The turbocharger ain’t installed right. It matches with these plans here, but the oil pump pushes the oil through the turbocharger backwards. The plans are wrong, sir. Some draftsman screwed up. See here, sir? The oil line’s supposed to come in here, but the draftsman put it on the wrong side of this fitting, and nobody caught it, and—”
Wegener just laughed. He looked at Chief Owens: “How long to fix?”
“Obrecki says he can have it up and running this time tomorrow, Cap’n.”
“Sir.” It was Lieutenant Michelson, the engineering officer. “This is all my fault. I should have—” The lieutenant was waiting for the sky to fall.
“The lesson from this, Mr. Michelson, is that you can’t even trust the manual. Have you learned that lesson, Mister?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Fair enough. Obrecki, you’re a seaman-first, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wrong. You’re a machinist-mate third.”
“Sir, I have to pass a written exam ...”
“You think Obrecki’s passed that exam, Mr. Michelson?”
“You bet, sir.”
“Well done, people. This time tomorrow I want to do twenty-three knots.”
And it had all been downhill from there. The engines are the mechanical heart of any ship, and there is no seaman in the world who prefers a slow ship to a fast one. When Panache had made twenty-five knots and held that speed for three hours, the painters painted better, the cooks took a little more time with the meals, and the technicians tightened their bolts just a little more. Their ship was no longer a cripple, and pride broke out in the crew like a rainbow after a summer shower—all the more so because one of their own had figured it out. One day early, Panache came into the Curtis Bay Coast Guard Yard with a bone in her teeth. Wegener had the conn and pushed his own skill to the limit to make a fast “one-bell” approach to the dock. “The Old Man,” one line handler noted on the fo’c’sle, “really knows how to drive this fuckin’ boat!”
The next day a poster appeared on the ship’s bulletin board: PANACHE: DASHING ELEGANCE OF MANNER OR STYLE. Seven weeks later, the cutter was brought into commission and she sailed south to Mobile, Alabama, to go to work. Already she had a reputation that exactly matched her name.
It was foggy this morning, and that suited the captain, even though the mission didn’t. The King of SAR was now a cop. The mission of the Coast Guard had changed more than halfway through his career, but it wasn’t something that you noticed much on the Columbia River bar, where the enemy was still wind and wave. The same enemies lived in the Gulf of Mexico, but added to them was a new one. Drugs. Drugs were not something that Wegener thought a great deal about. For him drugs were something a doctor prescribed, that you took in accordance with the directions on the bottle until they were gone, and then you tossed the bottle. When Wegener wanted to alter his mental state, he did so in the traditional seaman’s way—beer or hard liquor—though he found himself doing so less now that he was approaching fifty. He’d always been afraid of needles—every man has his private dread—and the idea that people would voluntarily stick needles into their arms had always amazed him. The idea of sniffing a white powder into one’s nose—well, that was just too much to believe. His attitude wasn’t so much naïveté as a reflection of the age in which he’d grown up. He knew that the problem was real. Like everyone else in uniform, every few months he had to provide a urine sample to prove that he was not using “controlled substances.” Something that the younger crewmen accepted as a matter of course, it was a source of annoyance and insult to people of his age group.
The people who ran the drugs were his more immediate concern, but the most immediate of all was a blip on his radar screen.
They were a hundred miles off the Mexican coast, far from home. And the Rhodes was overdue. The owner had called in several days earlier, saying that he was staying out a couple of days extra ... but his business partner had found that odd, and called the local Coast Guard office. Further investigation had determined that the owner, a wealthy businessman, rarely went more than three hours offshore. The Rhodes cruised at fifteen knots.
The yacht was sixty-two-feet long, big enough that you’d want a few people to help you sail it ... but small enough that real master’s papers were not required by law. The big motor-yacht had accommodation for fifteen, plus two crewmen, and was worth a couple of million dollars. The owner, a real-estate developer with his own little empire outside Mob
ile, was new to the sea, and a cautious sailor. That made him smart, Wegener thought. Too smart to stray this far offshore. He knew his limitations, which was rare in the yachting community, especially the richer segment. He’d gone south two weeks earlier, tracing the coast and making a few stops, but he was late coming back, and he’d missed a business meeting. His partner said that he would not have missed it unnecessarily. A routine air patrol had spotted the yacht the day before, but not tried to contact it. The district commander had decided that something smelled about this one. Panache was the closest cutter and Wegener got the call.
“Sixteen thousand yards. Course zero-seven-one,” Chief Oreza reported from the radar plot. “Speed twelve. He ain’t heading for Mobile, Cap’n.”
“Fog’s going to burn off in another hour, maybe hour and a half,” Wegener decided. “Let’s close in now. Mr. O’Neil, all ahead full. Intercept course, Chief?”
“One-six-five, sir.”
“That’s your course. If the fog holds, we’ll adjust when we get within two or three miles and come up dead astern.”
Ensign O’Neil gave the proper rudder orders. Wegener went to the chart table.
“Where do you figure he’s headed, Portagee?”
The chief quartermaster projected the course, which appeared to go nowhere in particular. “He’s on his most economical speed setting ... not any port on the Gulf, I’ll bet.” The captain picked up a pair of dividers and started walking them across the chart.
“That yacht has bunkerage for ...” Wegener frowned. “Let’s say he topped off at the last port. He can get to the Bahamas easily enough. Refill there, and then anyplace he wants to go on the East Coast.”
“Cowboys,” O’Neil opined. “First one in a long time.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Sir, if I owned a boat that big, I sure wouldn’t run it through fog with no radar. His isn’t operating.”
“I hope you’re wrong, son,” the captain said. “How long since the last one, Chief?”
“Five years? Maybe more. I thought that sort of thing was all behind us.”
“We’ll know in an hour.” Wegener turned to look at the fog again. Visibility was under two hundred yards. Next he looked into the hooded radar display. The yacht was the closest target. He thought for a minute, then flipped the set from active to standby. Intelligence reports said that druggies now had ESM gear to detect radar transmissions.
“We’ll flip it back on when we get within, oh, say, four miles or so.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” the youngster nodded.
Wegener settled in his leather chair and extracted the pipe from his shirt. He found himself filling it less and less now, but it was part of an image he’d built. A few minutes later the bridge watch had settled down to normal. In keeping with tradition, the captain came topside to handle two hours of the morning watch—the one with the youngest junior officer of the watch—but O’Neil was a bright young kid and didn’t need all that much supervision, at least not with Oreza around. “Portagee” Oreza was the son of a Gloucester fisherman and had a reputation approaching his captain’s. With three tours at the Coast Guard Academy, he’d helped educate a whole generation of officers, just as Wegener had once specialized in bringing enlisted men along.
Oreza was also a man who understood the importance of a good cup of coffee, and one thing about coming to the bridge when Portagee was around was that you were guaranteed a cup of his personal brew. It came right on time, served in the special mug the Coast Guard uses, shaped almost like a vase, wide at the rubber-coated bottom, and narrowed down near the top to prevent tipping and spillage. Designed for use on small patrol craft, it was also useful on Panache, which had a lively ride. Wegener hardly noticed.
“Thanks, Chief,” the captain said as he took the cup.
“I figure an hour.”
“ ’Bout right,” Wegener agreed. “We’ll go to battle stations at zero-seven-forty. Who’s on the duty boat section?”
“Mr. Wilcox. Kramer, Abel, Dowd, and Obrecki.”
“Obrecki done this yet?”
“Farm boy. He knows how to use a gun, sir. Riley checked him out.”
“Have Riley replace Kramer.”
“Anything wrong, sir?”
“Something feels funny about this one,” Wegener said.
“Probably just a busted radio. There hasn’t been one of those since—jeez, I don’t even remember when that was, but, yeah. Call Riley up here?”
The captain nodded. Oreza made the call, and Riley appeared two minutes later. The two chiefs and the captain conferred out on the bridge wing. It only took a minute by Ensign O’Neil’s watch. The young officer thought it very odd that his captain seemed to trust and confide in his chiefs more than his wardroom, but mustang officers had their own ways.
Panache rumbled through the waves at full speed. She was rated at twenty-three knots, and though she’d made just over twenty-five a few times, that was in light-ship conditions, with a newly painted bottom on flat seas. Even with the turbochargers pounding air into the diesels, top speed now was just over twenty-two knots. It made for a hard ride. The bridge crew compensated for this by standing with their feet a good distance apart, and in O‘Neil’s case by walking around as much as possible. Condensation from the fog cluttered up the bridge windows. The young officer flipped on the wipers. Back out on the bridge wing, he stared out into the fog. He didn’t like traveling without radar. O’Neil listened, but heard nothing more than the muted rumblings of Panache’s own engines. Fog did that. Like a wet shroud, it took away your vision and absorbed sound. He listened for another minute, but in addition to the diesels, there was only the whisper of the cutter’s hull passing through the water. He looked aft just before going back into the wheelhouse. The cutter’s white paint job would help her disappear from view.
“No foghorns out there. Sun’s burning through,” he announced. The captain nodded.
“Less than an hour until it’s gone. Gonna be a warm one. Weather forecast in yet?”
“Storms tonight, sir. The line that went through Dallas around midnight. Did some damage. Couple of tornadoes clobbered a trailer park.”
Wegener shook his head. “You know, there must be something about trailers that attract the damned things....” He stood and walked to the radar. “Ready, Chief?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wegener flipped the set from standby to active, then bent his eyes down to the top of the rubber hood. “You called it close, Chief. Contact bearing one-six-zero, range six thousand. Mr. O’Neil, come right to one-eight-five. Oreza, give me a time to come left up behind him.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Take a minute.”
Wegener flipped the radar off and stood back up. “Battle stations.”
As planned, the alarm got people moving after everyone had had a chance to eat breakfast. The word was already out, of course. There was a possible druggie out in the fog. The duty boat section assembled at the rubber Zodiac. Everyone had a weapon of some sort: one M-16 automatic rifle, one riot shotgun, and the rest Beretta 9mm automatics. Forward, a crew manned the 40mm gun on the bow. It was a Swedish-designed Bofors that had once sat on a Navy destroyer and was older than anyone aboard except the captain. Just aft of the bridge, a sailor pulled the plastic cover off an M-2 .50-caliber machine gun that was almost as old.
“Recommend we come left now, sir,” Chief Oreza said.
The captain flipped the radar on again. “Come left to zero-seven-zero. Range to target is now three-five-zero-zero. We’ll want to approach from the target’s port side.”
The fog was thinning out. Visibility was now at about five hundred yards, a little more or a little less as the mist became visibly patchy. Chief Oreza got on the radar as the bridge filled up with the normal battle watch. There was a new target twenty miles out, probably a tanker inbound for Galveston. Its position was plotted as a matter of course.
“Range to our friend is now two thousand yards. Bearing constant at
zero-seven-zero. Target course and speed are unchanged.”
“Very well. Should have him visual in about five minutes.” Wegener looked around the wheelhouse. His officers were using their binoculars. It was a waste of energy, but they didn’t know that yet. He walked out on the starboard bridge wing and looked aft to the boat station. Lieutenant Wilcox gave him a thumbs-up gesture. Behind him, Chief Boatswain’s Mate Riley nodded agreement. An experienced petty officer was at the winch controls. Launching the Zodiac into these sea conditions was no big deal, but the sea had a way of surprising you. The .50-caliber was pointed safely skyward, a box of ammo hanging on its left side. Forward he heard the metallic clash as a round was racked into the 40mm cannon.
Used to be we pulled alongside to render assistance. Now we load up, Wegener thought. Goddamned drugs ...
“I see him,” a lookout said.
Wegener looked forward. The white-painted yacht was hard to pick out within the fog, but a moment later the squared-off transom stern was clearly visible. Now he used his glasses to read the name. Empire Builder. That was the one. No flag at the staff, but that wasn’t unusual. He couldn’t see any people yet, and the yacht was motoring along as before. That was why he’d approached from dead astern. For as long as men had gone to sea, he thought, no lookout ever bothered looking aft.
“He’s in for a surprise,” O’Neil thought, coming out to join the captain. “The Law of the Sea.”
Wegener was annoyed for a moment, but shook it off. “Radar isn’t turning. Of course, maybe he broke it.”
“Here’s the picture of the owner, sir.”
The captain hadn’t looked at it before. The owner was in his middle forties. Evidently he’d married late, because he reportedly had two children aboard, ages eight and thirteen, in addition to his wife. Big man, six-three or so, bald and overweight, standing on some dock or other next to a fair-sized swordfish. He must have had to work hard for that one, Wegener thought, judging by the sunburn around the eyes and below the shorts.... The captain brought the glasses back up.