Lt. Commander Mollie Sanders

by Miller, Mitchell R.

  Mollie nodded, then glanced at Perez’s empty hands. She asked the enlisted man, “Have any extra bathrobes? Ensign Perez didn’t know she was staying over.”

  “I’ll bring some supplies to your room – including a toothbrush.”

  Surfer turned to Mollie and Perez. “Good-night, ‘ladies.’ Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Asshole! Exactly what you’d expect from an airplane driver.

  A half hour later Perez emerged from the bathroom of the billet room in her borrowed military robe and got into a twin bed.

  Mollie sat on the other twin bed working her BlackBerry.

  “Is your gear arriving tomorrow?” she asked Perez.

  “My mother will take a seabag to the base to be sent up here.”

  “You live with your mother?”

  Perez smiled. “Nearby.”

  Mollie looked away, her expression unreadable. A mother living nearby. Then Mollie got out of bed and locked the door.

  “You’re Academy, right, ma’am?” Perez asked.

  “Yes. You can call me Mollie – when we’re off duty.”

  Perez hesitated. “I’ve heard about how hard it can be for women at the Academy.”

  Mollie shrugged and snapped off the light. She said into the dark room: “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  CHAPTER IV –TANGOS

  April 19

  0800 hours

  Mollie, Surfer, Perez and Jaiswal stood on a pier at the Port of San Pedro. Southern California sunshine illuminated two port police divers in full diving regalia standing nearby.

  The two divers jumped into the water as Jaiswal said, “We’ve got a team checking the hulls of the cruise ships and tankers for bombs.”

  “They can’t check all the ships in the harbor,” Mollie said.

  Jaiswal nodded. “We do what we can. Airport security got billions from Congress. Coast Guard got a tiny piece of the pie.”

  Surfer muttered at Mollie: “Told you it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  Mollie ignored him and instead spoke to Jaiswal. “Can you point us in the direction of the nearest Target store? We need to buy some civvies.”

  A half hour later Mollie and Perez parted from Surfer and the translator Sam at the entrance. “See you back here in 30,” Mollie said to Surfer. “And think civilian, not tourist.” Mollie ignored the look Surfer shot her.

  “I’ll be getting coffee,” Sam said.

  Mollie nodded, then led Perez to the women’s section, where they both tried on summer pants and tops. “Nothing too noticeable. We need to blend into the crowds,” Mollie said.

  Precisely at 0900 hours they met Surfer and Sam back at the entrance. “Find any clothes to go with your call sign?” Mollie asked Surfer.

  “Easier to do than finding clothes to go with Gearhead,” he said.

  Mollie shrugged, then led the way out of the store and back to the unmarked Coast Guard sedan they were using.

  When they reached the Santa Monica Pier, Sam started to pull the car into a parking lot.

  “Drive on, Sam,” Mollie said. “Operational rules. We’ll leave the car a few blocks away in case the parking lot is under surveillance.”

  Sam found a parking space three blocks away. As they got out of the car, Mollie eyed Surfer’s outfit. Then she reached toward his collar but he jerked away.

  “I’m just straightening your collar. Want you to look the best for your part.”

  Surfer allowed her to touch his collar.

  “Okay, we’ll give you a five-minute lead,” Mollie said. “Then we’ll walk toward the pier.”

  Minutes later Mollie took a deep breath of ocean air as she and Perez stepped onto the board walk. They had 10 minutes before the meet, so Mollie and Perez admired the goods offered for sale in booths along the pier while keeping an eye on Surfer and Sam a few feet ahead.

  Mollie spotted two swarthy men approaching Surfer and Sam. This was it!

  Suddenly, as the men were almost next to Surfer and Sam, a smoke grenade rolled down the pier!

  Dashing through the smoke screen, Mollie and Perez looked for the men. But they were all gone!

  Mollie reached into the summer straw purse she’d gotten at Target. Pulling out her BlackBerry, she pointed to the screen. “Surfer doesn’t know I planted a tracker on him,” she said to Perez.

  Perez grinned. “When you straightened his collar?”

  “Imagine that.”

  “But what about the car keys? Sam has them.”

  Mollie fished keys out of her purse. “I asked for a second set of keys. You can never be too careful.”

  Moments later, panting from the brisk walk to the car, Mollie guided the car out of the parking space while Perez held the BlackBerry showing a GPS screen.

  “They’re getting on the freeway!” Perez said. “Right and then left at 4th Street.”

  Mollie drove east on the 10 until the La Cienega exit south, where the men’s car had turned off several minutes earlier.

  “This is one of the back ways to LAX,” Perez said. “It goes through pumping oil fields in the middle of housing areas.” Perez checked the BlackBerry again. “In fact, I think they’ve pulled off into one of the oil fields.”

  After crossing over Exposition Boulevard, the car climbed past Baldwin Park and then dipped down, exposing the oil pumps. “Turn off here,” Perez said.

  Mollie drove the car over a bumpy service road until they spotted a service hut with a solitary car next to it. Mollie stopped her car several yards from the hut. She figured the sound of the pumping well covered their approach.

  A Latino sat on a crate in front of the hut reading the newspaper La Opinion. Perez said to him in Spanish, “Is that you car?”

  He replied in Spanish: “What’s it to you?”

  Mollie answered in English: “Homeland Security. Random check. We’re looking for terrorists.”

  “Who’s a terrorist?”

  “You, asshole,” Mollie said as with one deft movement she grabbed his arm. He groaned as she twisted the arm behind him and frog marched him toward the hut.

  At Mollie’s nod Perez pulled a pistol from a skeleton holster hidden by the summer shirt she wore and took off towards the back of the hut.

  Mollie shoved the Latino through the door of the hut, using him as a shield. In her other hand she held her gun.

  Inside the hut she saw Surfer and Sam each tied to a chair, the two swarthy men arguing in Arabic with Sam.

  The men spun towards Mollie and she jabbed her gun into the Latino’s kidney, causing him to scream out and collapse writhing on the ground.

  Mollie swung up her pistol in a two-handed grip.

  “Who wants to die first? And at the hands of a woman. Does that get you into paradise?”

  She waited a full beat, then ordered: “Untie them.”

  The two men hesitated, then moved toward Mollie.

  At that instant Perez broke the window on the rear wall and stuck her gun through the window, aiming at the backs of the two men.

  “Freeze!” Perez said.

  They froze.

  Mollie waved her gun in the direction of Surfer and Sam. “I said untie them.”

  Mollie kept her gun aimed while Surfer and Perez restrained the two swarthy men and the Latino.

  Mollie motioned Surfer to come outside. “What happened?” she said.

  “We didn’t have the password so they caused that diversion on the pier. Then back here they kept asking how we knew to meet them.”

  Mollie smiled. “The haystack is dwindling.”

  Surfer shook his head. “You‘d better call somebody to arrest these guys.”

  “Call who?”

  “LAPD?”

  Mollie shot him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “FBI?”

  “They’d only foul it up.”

  “Homeland Security? Or the Coast Guard?”

  Mollie worked her BlackBerry. “The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco,
and Firearms. They handle explosives and they will be the easiest to keep off our case.”

  “Remind me to stay well away from you,” Surfer said.

  She shot him a dirty look, then dialed a number on her BlackBerry.

  **

  1235 hours

  Kevin was pissed as hell. He, Gearhead, Perez and Sam had waited at the oil well until ATF agents had shown up and taken the three men into custody. Then they had returned to Coast Guard headquarters and changed back into uniform. They’d even had a chance to eat some grub.

  Five minutes ago a different ATF agent had shown up and was chewing out Jaiswal over the operation. All this because Gearhead had …

  “… no authority whatsoever to make an arrest!” the ATF agent said. “To question suspects. Or to carry a gun, for that matter.”

  Jaiswal eyed the agent. “You’re saying a member of your country’s armed forces doesn’t have the right to be armed?”

  Gearhead had to butt in now. “I’m detailed to the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard has law enforcement powers. Therefore, I have law enforcement powers. Got it?”

  Jaiswal smiled at the agent as if to say “there you have it.”

  “I’m taking this up the ladder!” the agent said. “All the way to the top! If you think for one damn minute that you can get away with this.”

  “Yes, well, you do just that,” Jaiswal said, pointing to the door. “Meanwhile, would you excuse us?”

  The agent muttered to himself as he stormed out. Kevin felt in sympathy with the guy -- Gearhead made Kevin mutter too.

  Gearhead turned to Kevin. “We need to find out what those tangos from the boat know. Maybe the guys at the pier were just messengers. It’s possible they didn’t know who the men were they were meeting or who the men were they were supposed to deliver the package to.”

  “You don’t know that those men from the boat are terrorists,” Kevin said. “Maybe there’s no sinister purpose. The explosives you found could be used to bring fish up to the surface.”

  “Fish! Did you see any fishing equipment?” she said.

  Gearhead turned to Jaiswal. “Damn it to hell! Can’t we talk to the crew members? What’s holding up our access?”

  Jaiswal grimaced. “We are always having these territorial disputes over jurisdiction. You would think that since 9/11 we would work together. But no. We still have to take our place at the back of the line. The others usually think the Coast Guard doesn’t have a need to know.”

  Kevin watched Gearhead clench and unclench her fists.

  Jaiswal gave a small nod. “While we wait for word on the interrogation, why don’t you check out some of our procedures?”

  A half hour later Kevin stood with Gearhead and Perez on the deck of a Coast Guard patrol boat. Petty Officer Jameson had been assigned by Jaiswal to give them a tour of the port by water.

  Jameson looked through his binoculars at a distant point. Then he gestured with the binoculars at an oil platform.

  “We’re in the direct flight path of LAX’s four runways. Any skiff or oil platform can launch a shoulder-fired missile on a plane.”

  For chrissakes Kevin thought.

  “And the target can be easily picked ahead of time,” Gearhead said.

  Of course Perez nodded her head in agreement with Gearhead.

  “You’ve increased patrols,” Gearhead said to Jameson. “What else to deter such attacks?”

  “Analyzing intel. Hoping to find clues for an early warning.”

  Kevin looked out at the port, then turned to Jameson. “The port is wide open – an invitation for ...”

  A shout from the cabin interrupted Kevin.

  The boat’s captain, Lieutenant Masters, strode on deck. He pointed to a ratty-looking freighter.

  “That son-of-a-bitch is discharging bunker oil.” He spoke to Jameson. “Form a boarding party.”

  “Lt. Masters, may we be of service?” Naturally Gearhead had to ask.

  Masters looked at the three Navy personnel. Then he looked out at the vessel on the patrol boat’s portside. He pointed to Jameson. “Follow his orders!”

  Kevin, Gearhead and Perez waited with Jameson as the patrol boat came up on the tramp steamer, which had PRINCE MISHKIN/VLADIVOVSTOCK painted across its stern.

  Jameson hailed the boat to prepare to be boarded.

  A shot exploded on the deck of the Coast Guard cutter. Kevin, Perez and Jameson took cover. Not Gearhead.

  Kevin saw her pull her gun and return fire directed at the tramp steamer’s cabin roof.

  There were no more shots from the apparently silenced shooter.

  A klaxon from the tramp steamer signaled compliance with the boarding request. Jameson came forward from where he had taken cover.

  “Going for a medal?” he said to Gearhead.

  Ha! He should only know, Kevin thought. “She’s on the Navy pistol team,” he said.

  Gearhead didn’t even look at him as they followed Jameson onboard the tramp steamer.

  Masters joined them on the steamer when the crew had been lined up on deck.

  The captain of the steamer spoke in Russian to Masters. “I am sorry for the shots. Some of my men are difficult – they are not used to international rules.”

  Masters didn’t say anything. Obviously he didn’t know Russian.

  Suddenly at Kevin’s elbow Gearhead spoke in Russian: “I am sure that is true. What is also true is that you and your crew are under arrest.”

  Naturally she spoke Russian. Was there anything she didn’t do?

  Gearhead turned to Masters. “I’ve just said he and his crew are under arrest. I assume that is your intention.”

  Masters looked at Gearhead. “You speak Russian?”

  “Studied it at the Academy.” She hesitated for only a second. “And I need to keep my hand in. Mind if I question the captain myself?”

  **

  Mollie sat across from the steamer captain in a Coast Guard interrogation room. She counted five empty coffee cups in front of him.

  They had been at this for some time. The captain continued to insist on his innocence.

  Mollie didn’t buy it. But she also didn’t think he was a terrorist. She’d studied the Russian language and culture enough to believe that this captain was just doing “business as usual” for a Russian-registered tramp steamer.

  Mollie rose, nodded at the captain, and exited the room.

  In the hall she shook hands with two men in suits, both FBI agents, who flipped their badges at her.

  Because Mollie didn’t think this incident related to the needle in the haystack that they were looking for, she’d agreed with Jaiswal that the FBI should be called in.

  The first FBI agent said, “You’ve had him to yourself for long enough. We need to speak with him.”

  “Either one of you speak Russian?” Mollie asked.

  “We have an interpreter with us,” the first agent said.

  “What have you learned so far?” the second FBI agent asked.

  “He’s a good liar. Must have taken acting classes.”

  “Your interest in him?”

  “Shoulder-fired missiles. My pilot and I had to dodge one a couple of days ago.”

  “You think these guys did that?” the first FBI agent asked.

  Mollie shook her head. “They weren’t anywhere near at the time in question. I’m just covering my bases.”

  Mollie turned and walked into the temporary work space. When she entered, she spotted a food bag waiting for her.

  “I’m glad to see this,” she said. “Grilling someone in Russian increases one’s appetite.”

  Surfer walked up to her. “Your attitude is going to get you in deep shit some day.”

  “What attitude?”

  “The one that makes everyone else look like a fool.”

  Mollie opened the bag of food. “Better than having everyone look good until they fail.”

  Surfer turned to Perez. “Don’t take Lt. Commander Sanders as a role mod
el. It could get you killed.”

  Perez shrugged. “I can make my own judgments.”

  Mollie ignored his comment. She turned to Perez and said, “Can you find me another Arabic translator? Civilian or military?”

  “What happened to Sam?” Surfer asked.

  Now she spoke to him. “I don’t speak Arabic except for a few phrases. I have no way of knowing if Sam can be trusted. If we ever get to question the men from the boat – who might have launched that shoulder-fired missile at your plane -- I’m not going to risk this whole investigation on a faulty translation.”

  Surfer held up his hand. “Wait a minute. I thought the three boats you identified as possibles were searched and one had SAMs on it.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to say that the missile shot at us came from that boat’s SAMs.”

  Perez said, “I’ll get on finding another translator right away.”

  “Make sure the new translator has never had any known connection with Sam,” Mollie said. “And keep them apart – don’t introduce them. We’ll have the translators listen separately to any interrogation tapes.”

  “What if they’re both bent?” Kevin asked.

  Mollie smiled. “The solution to this possible problem should be on its way. Special delivery.”

  Perez left the room as Jaiswal entered.

  “What’s the situation at Camp Pendleton?” Mollie asked him. “Can those Marines help us if needed?”

  “If we knew ahead of time where and when an attack was to be mounted. Can’t have them standing guard around every ship indefinitely.”

  Surfer chimed in: “Los Angeles is just one port on this coast. What about Seattle? There’s a sub base up there. That could be an attractive target.”

  Mollie shook her head. “It’s a military target. Taking out that base wouldn’t disrupt the economy of the U.S. But taking out San Pedro harbor would be a major blow to the U.S. economy – remember $1 billion of goods passes through San Pedro each day.”

  Surfer said: “Truckers. We have to investigate the truckers.”

  Mollie nodded – Surfer had a good point. “Isn’t Homeland Security doing something to check truckers who haul dangerous loads?”

  “Doesn’t have to be dangerous loads,” Jaiswal said. “Just has to be a truck crammed with explosives rammed into the pier.”