Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “So what the hell are you suggesting, Ian?” Cronin retorted. He chomped down on the cold cigar, then tossed it at the rust-orange side of the Numestra. “We start blasting away at every unidentified aircraft and vessel in American territory? We’re the United States Coast Guard, not the old East German Border Guards. It’s a damned frustrating job, for sure. There are risks, yes—lots of them. Each man and woman on those ships knows that, but they go out there, it’s their duty—”

  “But it’s crazy to have them go out there unprepared for the—” “Then we start sending them out better prepared. Better weapons, better training, more backups, a greater show of force . . .”

  “I agree, sir,” Hardcastle said quickly. “Yes. Send out a ship or an aircraft better prepared and better armed for such a conflict. But not a Coast Guard ship. ”

  “I don’t get it,” Cronin said, shaking his head. “Who else do we send? The Navy? The Air Force? The Coast Guard has armed vessels, radar planes, trained seamen ...”

  “But do we send out a Coast Guard crew armed and loaded for bear on every mission? Seventh District vessels participated in over fifteen thousand law-enforcement missions last year. True, most were routine searches and boardings. We did a few hundred smuggling intercepts, those were in the minority. It’s dangerous and impractical to load up essentially a life-saving and search-and-rescue crew with heavy weapons and send them out on routine patrols. They’ll be likely to come out shooting when they pull over a fishing boat for a minor infraction. And if they don’t treat every mission as a dangerous intercept they’ll be unprepared when the shooting starts.”

  Cronin kept silent, Hardcastle pressed what he hoped was an opening.4 My people are already loaded up with duties, Admiral. We are the only agency in the country that’s supposed to enforce international, federal, state and local laws all at the same time. The pressure’s really on every time they go out on patrol. Now, we give them a new tasking—the next freighter or fishing boat you stop may blow you out of the water with a LAWS rocket. Check him for lifejackets, flame arrestors, expired flares, Stinger missiles and, oh yes, drugs, and don’t get killed while you’re at it.”

  “I am familiar with your sortie rate and with the responsibilities of the men under your command. I am also familiar with their duties and the pressures of the job. I don’t need a damn lecture.”

  “Sorry, sir, I was trying to make a point ...”

  Cronin was looking toward the docks of Coast Guard Station Mobile. Ahead, at the Resolute's berth, the docks and breakwaters were crowded with reporters and onlookers, all being held back by Coast Guardsmen and Louisiana State Police.

  “Who the hell let those reporters on my station?” Cronin said under his breath. “I’m gonna stretch the sonofabitch who authorized that ...”

  As the Resolute approached, Cronin and Hardcastle could see four vehicles moving through the crowd, red lights flashing, cameras swinging in their direction. Slowly the four ambulances made their way to the docks and stopped. The crowd surged toward them to get into position to see into them. The emergency medical technicians swung open the rear doors and awaited their grisly cargos.

  At that moment the steel doors leading to the Resolute's helipad opened. Cronin and Hardcastle moved aside, rendered salutes as the bodies of the ten Coast Guardsmen killed in the Numestra attack, including those of Commander Ehrlich and Lieutenant Commander Applegate, were wheeled out of the hangar-bay-turned-morgue and brought up to the quarterdeck for transfer to the ambulances. Hard- castle’s eyes narrowed as he noted that not all of the dark plastic bodybags were normal man-sized—several were hardly more than shapeless heaps . . .

  Cronin dropped his salute as the last gurney was brought past. “Damn it all to hell,” he said under his breath. He glared at the cameras on the docks, which had begun to zoom in on the bodies, and body parts, being rolled out on deck.

  “Sir—”

  “Yes, Hardcastle?”

  “I’m sorry this happened, Admiral. More than I know how to say

  Cronin turned away from the onlookers and reporters and stared at the Numestra for a few silent moments. Then: “I know.” There was a long pause. The tugs maneuvered Resolute into its berth, and line handlers began securing the damaged cutter and the disabled freighter.

  “Ian, write up your recommendations. Develop your plan for this new security unit you talked about. If I can approve it, I’ll make it part of my report to DOT, Coast Guard headquarters and the Joint Chiefs. Hell, maybe it’s time for some real action. Maybe we’ll be able to make a real difference.”

  Homestead AFB, Florida

  Two Days Later

  Hardcastle found her at the Homestead Air Force Base shooting range in the early morning sun. Sandra Geffar was at the one-hundred-yard range, with an amazing array of weapons in the gun rack beside her—handguns, including her .45, .380 and nine millimeter automatics; a standard Customs Service issue Browning twelve- gauge full-choke pump shotgun; a Steyr automatic rifle; an M-16 automatic rifle; and an Uzi submachine pistol. Sandbags had been set up to help her sight in each weapon, and she had a set of gunsmith’s tools to adjust the sights, trigger pull and safeties of each weapon. Boxes of ammunition lay strewn around her, along with magazine clips. Several more boxes of ammunition had been emptied. She had also been trying several types of holsters and shoulder rigs for each weapon, and a spotting scope was set up on a tiny tripod next to her right elbow.

  The array of weapons was dazzling, but Sandra Geffar looked anything but dazzling. She was wearing a neck brace. Her face was bruised and discolored. She had deep black circles under each eye, the result of being caught in the terrific blast when her Black Hawk helicopter was destroyed. She moved with a slight limp. A white elastic shoulder brace she should not have removed was underneath the pile of gunleather.

  She either did not notice or chose to ignore Hardcastle as he walked up to the range beside hers to watch. She had just finished sighting in her .45 caliber automatic. She had selected the fifty-yard range, and the man-sized silhouette target automatically moved out to the fifty-yard position, then motored laterally to the left.

  “Excuse me, got time to talk?” Hardcastle asked.

  Her eyes registered his presence. Without a word she loaded two nine-round ammunition clips, stowed them in the left ammo pouch of her shoulder rig, loaded another clip, shoved it home in the .45, chambered a round, replaced another round in the clip and hol- stered the big semi-automatic pistol in a right-side holster.

  “You’re left-handed,” Hardcastle observed, trying to keep it light. “I never noticed ...”

  No reply. He heard a sudden rattle of paper and turned to see the silhouette moving rapidly across a thin wire from left to right. Quickly Geffar had the .45 out of the shoulder holster, aimed and fired ten rounds at the target. Without lowering her gun hand she ejected the spent magazine, retrieved another, shoved it home and fired off nine rounds. She loaded the third clip but she had gotten only three rounds off before the target disappeared behind a mechanism shield to the right of the range.

  “Damn it.” She hit the button to retrieve the moving target, then lowered and safed the smoking pistol. “My hand’s shaking so bad ... I used to be able to get off all twenty-eight rounds and still have enough time to pull out the .380 before that target went away. Now I can’t even shoot straight.”

  “Not shooting straight?” What the hell was “straight,” Hardcastle wondered. Every half-inch-diameter hole except two or three were within the center “5” expert qualification area on the black silhouette. Twenty-five hits. He would have a tough time, he knew, putting that kind of group into a stationary target at thirty yards—she did it at fifty on a moving target. “Yeah, a real shame. You’re practically a candidate for the gang-that-couldn’t-shoot-straight.”

  Geffar gave him a look as she reloaded the .45. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Your office said you were still in the
hospital.”

  “I checked out this morning. I was going nuts. Air Force doctors are even duller than the civilians.”

  “How’s the neck?” Said seriously.

  “I hurt. Okay? I hurt all over. 1 see stars when I move my head. My hands shake. I can’t find a holster I can carry comfortably because my right shoulder feels like it’s coming apart. You get the picture?” She finished reloading a magazine for the .45. “Change the target for me, will you?”

  Hardcastle pulled off the battered silhouette target, rolled up a new one and clipped it on the heavy metal clamp. “I’ve got a good idea for you.”

  “What?”

  “Go home and get some rest.” He let the target unroll as Geffar selected the one-hundred-yard range. The target sped away.

  “I’ve been out for a week now and morale at the unit is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  “Death can do that. The answer isn’t to punish yourself.”

  “What did you do after you lost your Falcon—throw a party?” “Forget it. You want to beat yourself up on the target range, fine. But don’t drag everyone else down with you—especially when they’re trying to help. Even if you do deserve a kick in the rear end.” She slammed a magazine home in the .45, paused, then ejected it and slammed the weapon down on the bench. “I’m very sorry,” she said a moment later, “but I’m not an old ex-Marine ex-Vietnam vet like you. Truth is, I’ve heard and read about big shootouts with drug dealers, and I’ve fired a few shots at suspects, but I’ve never been involved in a deal like the one last week. I’ve never seen men die like . . . that...”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She dragged the white shoulder brace out from underneath the pile of holsters on the gun bench. “Sorry. Yes,” she said quietly as she slipped the brace over her right shoulder and arm. Hardcastle found a Thermos of coffee, retrieved an extra cup from the range security office and poured two cups as they walked out along the grassy area surrounding the range parking lot.

  “I think I know what you’re feeling,” Hardcastle began. “A virgin out of Marine Corps Officer Candidate School, I was put in charge of a bomb-disposal unit and sent to Nam. I knew nothing about bomb disposal—hell, I knew nothing about anything. I lost five guys a week, guys I barely knew. I blamed myself every time I got a casualty report.”

  Geffar nodded.

  “You feel all alone because you’re in charge, but you’re not. There are people out there waiting to help you, if you let them.”

  “What happened to you, then?” Geffar asked. He seemed to be walking slowly. “I've heard you spent time in a hospital in the Philippines . . .”

  “Detox,” Hardcastle said, his voice a monotone. “They called it ‘battle injuries’ or ‘physical therapy’. I was into everything—grass, booze, uppers, downers, you name it. The Marine Corps cleaned me up, then transferred me to the Coast Guard. That was twenty-two years ago . . .”

  “You ... a drug addict?” Geffar said. “How could they let you . . . I mean . . .”

  “Rise up through the ranks? Become an admiral? Things were different during Vietnam. A lot different. Guys looked after one another back then. Marines looked out for one another, because you knew that one day you’d have to rely on someone else to save your butt. The Coast Guard was almost the same. No matter who you were or what you did before, the day you set foot on their base or their boats you became one of them. Personnel files, medical records— they meant nothing. You proved yourself by how you worked with the guys in your unit, not by what your personnel records said. That was true for the lowliest grunt or the highest ranking flag officer.” “But if you have a history of... drug abuse ... nowadays they bust people for even a minor infraction . . .”

  “Back then they needed soldiers more than they needed headlines about drug abuse in the ranks.” He paused, looking at Geffar. “So you were checking up on me.”

  Geffar shrugged, and there was even a hint of a smile. “It must be going around, Admiral—I discovered that my records were pulled the other day. From your office.”

  “So you checked on me to get even?”

  “I asked around, I didn’t pull your personnel files.”

  “Probably because you couldn’t get access, one of the few prerogatives of flag rank. I’ll have them sent over to you.”

  “Good . . . why are we going round like this, Admiral?”

  “Call me Ian.”

  “No thanks, Admiral.”

  “Suit yourself. I wanted to talk about drug interdiction. Your job and mine.”

  “What about it?”

  “What's your opinion of our roles in drug interdiction?”

  “I think it stinks. We’re understaffed, underfunded, we do fewer and fewer investigations and more and more sitting around waiting for stuff to happen. When it does, Customs seems two steps behind, waiting on other people to get their act together or get out of our way.”

  “People like the Coast Guard?”

  “The Coast Guard, DEA, FBI, SLINGSHOT, BLOC, Justice, Treasury, ATF, the military . . . The Customs Service is supposed to be the primary drug-interdiction force in the United States—that was true even before the so-called Anti-Drug Control Act. But we’ve taken a back seat to the DEA for the past five years and now we’re beginning to get the same ass-end view of your Coast Guard. We can’t make a move without half the U.S. government getting involved. Add in state and local cops—we just don’t have room to maneuver. A classic no-win situation.”

  "So what’s your solution?”

  “Solution? I’m not sure there is one . . . What are you driving at, Hardcastle? You got a hidden microphone in your wheel hat there?” “Just tell me your beefs. Compared to you I’m the new boy on the block in this business. I mean, it’s been your area for nearly your whole career. I’m just an old jungle pilot.”

  She looked at him, still not convinced he didn’t have something else in mind beside hearing her gripes, but what the hell . . . she’d had it on her chest a long time . . . “Customs fights a losing battle by letting the smugglers get onshore,” she began. “It’s obvious—once the stuff hits the shore it can disperse faster and safer than if it was still on a plane or ship. Customs can’t really operate much beyond the twelve-mile limit. Part of the problem is the old 1986 Anti-Drug Abuse Act, which gave your people, the Coast Guard, authority over drug interdiction operations from shore outward—by the time we pick up the smugglers and take control, it’s often too late. The druggies get the upper hand.”

  “So you try to keep the drugs from getting onshore. The stuff comes in from South and Central America or wherever by plane. The smugglers drop the stuff offshore, and it’s picked up by speedboats. How to stop that?”

  “Intelligence and presence,” Geffar said quickly, getting caught up in it. “You’ve got to try to find out when the stuff is coming in, and you have to have the equipment and manpower to be there waiting for it. You can try to do one without using the other but it’s not efficient Once you find them you hit them. Hard. You can’t let them get onshore. You have to get them before they scatter, and you’ve got to nail all of them ... We have maybe one-tenth of the equipment and manpower we need to do the job. For every one we chase there's five, ten we can’t run down. We give ourselves official excuses—the contact is iffy, he’s too slow for a big smuggler—but the fact is that we don’t chase them all down because we can’t. I have only three Citations and three Cheyennes here at Homestead that can carry out a night intercept. You have only eight C-model Falcon interceptors in the whole Coast Guard—only four here in Florida, the rest in California and Alabama. If we’re lucky we can fly half of them at any given time; the rest are down for maintenance, busy or deployed someplace. That’s less than half the planes we need to cover all the night smuggling in just south Florida alone ...”

  Hardcastle had actually taken out a notepad and had started taking notes.

  “All right, Admiral, just what’s going on?” Geffar said.

>   “I’ll come clean. I’ve been tasked to provide input, like they say, for a project I’ve had in mind the past few months, and more so since what’s happened recently. It’s only supposed to go as far as my Atlantic area headquarters, but I’m betting, hoping, it’ll go all the way to the top—even to the White House.”

  Geffar looked at Hardcastle for a long moment, skeptically at first, then with growing interest. She motioned toward a shady picnic area far from the parking lot. When they got to a table she lowered herself slowly, trying to will away the pain in her aching muscles and joints. “Okay, Admiral . . .”

  “Ian.”

  “Okay, Ian. And you can call me Sandra if it’ll take that shit-eating grin off your face. So what’s this big project of yours?”

  “Actually, it’s all about what you’ve just been saying. There are too many fingers in the pie. There’s no orderly chain of command, no continuous line of authority throughout what the computer boys call the smuggler’s profile. We have no good way to prevent the smugglers from coming onshore, and most important . . . there’s not enough commitment—political, monetary—to the whole deal. We’ve got talk, summits and czars coming out of our ears. But real commitment? That takes making tough, maybe politically unpopular decisions to pursue drug smugglers and the organizations that finance them all over the world—not just near our own shores.”

  “You sound like a politician yourself, Hardcastle. You plan on running for something?”

  “I’m not a politician, I’m a Coast Guard officer. No one would vote for me anyway.”

  “You got that right.” Geffar paused, shook her head. “I still don’t get where you’re coming from, Hardcastle.”

  “Look, how much of the drugs entering the U.S. come in by air?” “One-third, maybe forty percent. The rest by sea or cargo containers—”