“So if we closed down the air route that might result in at least a thirty percent drop-off in available drugs—”
“Wrong,” Geffar interrupted. “It might result in a temporary reduction but that’s all. As the price rises more players get involved and they find other ways of getting it into the country. The percentage of air-imported drugs would decrease but other avenues would take up the slack.”
“But if more drugs were coming in by cargo container, and you anticipated that, you could head it off. step up inspections of containers—”
“But we’re stretched to the limit as it is. There are over three hundred cargo containers entering Florida every day. Every damn day. A real good inspection team, beefed up with National Guard or Reservists, can inspect one container in about two hours. Customs is lucky if it inspects twenty percent of all the cargo containers coming into this country—”
“You’re missing the point. Our goal was to close off the air route. Where it drives the smugglers after that—well, we deal with that next. But at least we deny the smugglers the easiest way to get their product into the country—by air.”
“So? You still haven’t explained how. How are you going to stop drugs from being smuggled in by air?”
“We have almost complete radar coverage of the southwest U.S. We have computers that can match radar targets with flight plans, integrate data, isolate violators . . .”
“Okay, so you see ten targets that are unidentified, planes that are buzzing around offshore that might be making drops, planes that might be heading north. Out of the dozens, sometimes hundreds of air targets out there, you see maybe two dozen a day that are suspicious. Then what?”
“Go after them.”
“With what?”
“Feel up to a little flying this week?”
“Why?”
“I’ve arranged for a little demonstration of a new technology that might be able to help us out. I’ll meet you here at seven Sunday morning. That’ll give you a few days to rest up—”
“What’s going on, Hardcastle? You trying to involve me in some stupid plan to get more juice for the Coasties?”
“This isn’t a Coast Guard project. Matter of fact, I have my doubts about what exactly the Coast Guard’s role is in drug interdiction. I’ve been in the Coast Guard a long time, and frankly I don’t think that chasing drug smugglers is a logical part of its job-description. Sure, it’ll always have a role in drug interdiction, but I believe it’s a waste of time and money to send Coast Guardsmen in Falcon interceptors and Island-class cutters out looking for drug smugglers . . . We need a drug interdiction organization, specially formed, tasked, and equipped for drug interdiction—”
“And that’s the Customs Service—”
“I don’t think so. You said it yourself—Customs doesn’t have the juice to do the job. You’ve got too many restraints. Before Customs can act you’re forced to wait until the bad guys get over land or open ocean and drop their load. After that, the odds of you making a clean bust nose-dive.”
“But what if we were to stop every damn vessel entering or heading for American territorial waters? Funnel each vessel through mandatory checkpoints, like border inspection stations? What if we inspect before they enter American waters?”
“That’s impossible—”
“It’s not. How about we require positive identification of each and every aircraft entering U.S. airspace . . . ?”
“We already do.”
“But what if we deny entry of any aircraft that is not positively identified?”
“Deny entry? What does that mean? If he’s unidentified, he’s trying to evade Customs or law-enforcement. . .” She looked at him in surprise. “You mean . . . shoot him down?”
“Detect at sixty miles, track at fifty, communicate at forty, intercept at thirty, communicate at twenty, warn at fifteen, open fire at ten,” Hardcastle said. “Standardize air-defense-intercept parameters—except air defense doesn’t apply the rule to light aircraft on smuggling profiles. Now, we apply the rule. We deny the airspace to all unidentified aircraft. Period. If they don’t respond to radio, light or visual symbols, they’re denied entry. The same for vessels on the high seas. If they fail to stop or fail to identify themselves, they’re intercepted and stopped.”
“You say that nice and easy,” Geffar said. “You’re also going to have some innocent people crashing into the ocean if you implement such a plan—”
“What I’m trying to do is keep illegal narcotics, weapons, money and other contraband from entering the United States. You know it, I know it . . . our current so-called system isn’t working. I’m trying to create a system that works. Sure, loss of innocent life would be disastrous, but fear of that shouldn’t paralyze us. We’d put safeguards in the system to prevent attack against people who do comply with the rules.”
“You can put all the safeguards in place you want, Admiral, but you and I both know that’s not a guarantee. The first family of four you strafe will erase years of work and billions of dollars of manpower and equipment. It could set drug interdiction back twenty years.”
“As I recall, those were the same arguments used when the Customs Service Air Branch went operational,” Hardcastle said. “I know it’s the same argument they used when we started air-interdiction operations, when we announced that a big three-engine jet plane would fly a few dozen feet behind your plane to read your registration numbers. Families would be splashing into the Caribbean, they said. Well, neither one of us has killed any civilians in almost thirty years and we’ve done a lot of good. Now it’s time to do more, much more ...”
She didn’t seem to be buying it. “I think I can prove it would work,” Hardcastle said, “if you’re open-minded enough to see for yourself.”
“Hey, I don’t have anything to prove to you. I’m doing my job
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“Nothing that you could come up with.”
“Then it’s settled. Sunday morning. I’ll meet you at your headquarters at seven.”
“I’ll be there. But this better be good, Admiral,” Geffar said. “You can expect zero out of me or my people until I’m convinced that your big idea won’t end up a fiasco.” Or a way to ace out Customs, she silently added.
CHAPTER THREE
Brickell Federal Building, Miami
Several Days Later
UNDER fingers more accustomed to wrestling with helicopter cy- clics and aircraft throttles than tiny buttons, things tended to disappear off the computer screen for Hardcastle, never to return. So he relegated the squat, boxy-looking computer with its rodent-looking pointing device to a small desk in a corner and kept the old reliable Selectric on the typing table near his desk.
The sight of Hardcastle hunting and pecking his way through his report would normally have seemed funny to Coast Guard Commander Michael Becker, Hardcastle’s aide, except it was now well after nine o’clock in the evening. Becker, who with his horn-rimmed glasses and necktie (a rare sight in humid Miami) looked more like a young ensign than a veteran cutter skipper and station commander, grimaced at his boss’ painful tapping. Like a Chinese water torture, he thought.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Admiral, I’d be more than happy to do that for you . . .”
“You already offered, Mike. I told you, I can’t do dictation. Never have. And it would take you longer to decipher my notes—if I ever bothered to write them out for you. I’ve got to do this part myself. Why don’t you head on home?”
“I know you’re under some pressure to get this report done,” Becker said, “and I’d like to help—”
“Then shut up and let me work.”
Becker nodded and slumped back in his chair.
“Has General Brad Elliott called to confirm his arrival time?” Hardcastle asked Becker as he continued his maddening hunt-and- peck. “We need his equipment for this weekend’s presentation. He has to know how important his organization’s involvement is.
”
“I think he understands, Admiral. He called from Fort Lauderdale. He arrived early this afternoon with his project officer. I met him just after he arrived—”
“He’s here already?”
1 knew you were busy so I didn’t want to disturb you. He’s ready to meet with you as soon as you’re free. But in any case he’s ready to go.”
It was the first time in a long while that Becker had seen his boss looking optimistic about anything. “What’s Elliott like?”
“Late fifties, thin, kind of hyper. Gutsy and regular Air Force all the way. You’ll like him, though. The scoop is he’s his own man. His project officer looks young, early thirties max.”
Hardcastle looked up from his work. “I hear Elliott is an idea man . . . That’s good for our side.”
“He also has an artificial right leg. Did you know that?” Hardcastle didn’t.
“He calls it his stump but I hear it’s a pure bionic limb, not a prosthesis. Works like a regular leg—ankle, knee, even the ball of the foot fully articulated. He’s fully cleared for flight duties, though. I checked. He was the one who flew the V-22 in. Dropped it right on Gorilla One.”
“You know how he lost his leg?”
“I couldn’t find out,” Becker said. “There’s a lid on that from the Pentagon to Nevada.”
“The guy gets more interesting every time I hear about him.” Hardcastle turned toward a photograph on the wall of an unusual aircraft, a machine that looked like a cargo plane but with twin helicopter-like rotors on its wings. “How’s the Sea Lion look?” “Awesome. You’re scheduled for your first flight tomorrow morning. It’ll blow your mind.”
“Then I’d better get this report done . . . Oh, the drones? All set to go?”
“Elliott’s project officer, a Major McLanahan, has the Seagull and Sky Lion drones ready to go,” Becker reported. “The Sky Lion’s been deployed on Gorilla One, along with the control consoles and data- link equipment. The Seagull will launch from Marathon Airport— there’s just not enough time to set up its launch-and-recovery gear on the platform.”
“Well, I’m surprised these guys got it all together, got all this gear in place so fast,” Hardcastle said. “It was worth all the hassles and hoops we had to jump through to get this mysterious HAWC agency to help us out. The Air Force keeps such a tight lid on HAWC’s existence, I’m surprised we got anything.’
Becker got up, waited until Hardcastle rolled another page out of the old Selectric. “Four hundred and nineteen pages. Think you’ll be done soon, sir? This is setting a world’s record.”
“Four-fifty, max,” Hardcastle said, rubbing his eyes. “Not including indexes, glossaries, maps, slides.”
“Four-fifty. That’ll piss off ATLANTCOM for sure,” Becker said. The draft proposal of the new unit Hardcastle was creating had already gone through ATLANTCOM, the Atlantic Area Commander’s office, three times, and had been kicked back with pages of suggestions and directed changes. Once, Admiral Cronin had flown down to Miami unannounced to argue over a particular point that Hardcastle had been adamant about keeping intact. Cronin had also been shocked at the length of the document, saying that the sheer size of the thing would almost guarantee that no one in the White House or Capitol Hill would read it.
“But it’s not the length of the thing that the admiral doesn’t like,” Hardcastle said. “He still doesn’t know whether or not to back this project.”
“You mean back you or not.”
“Maybe. He’s already played out a lot of line on this project, but he’s also known for supporting his people. Besides, it’s only natural that he’d have some reservations about an ambitious project like this. Fact is, I’m damn glad I have an Admiral Cronin around. Another area commander might leak some details of the project to give himself a little advance publicity. This commander won’t turn on or undercut his own people.”
Hardcastle had begun his painful typing again when he heard the knock on the door.
“Daniel! C’mon in.”
Daniel Hardcastle, Ian’s youngest son and secret favorite, was seventeen years old, blond, tall and wiry and more like his father than Hardcastle’s twenty-six-year-old Roger, who was the image of his mother.
“Working late again, huh?” Daniel said and came over to give his father a hug. The Admiral gave Becker a look, one that apparently Becker had been waiting for. “If you’re sure you won’t need me, sir, I’ll take off,” the aide said. Hardcastle nodded, grateful for Becker’s insight.
“How’d you get here?” Hardcastle asked, checking his watch as Becker departed. “It’s pretty late. Did your mother—?”
“Hitched.”
“At nine, on a school night?”
“All we have tomorrow is graduation rehearsal,” Daniel said quickly. “My first class isn’t until nine—”
“You’re not going to your graduation rehearsal?”
“We went over this, Dad.” Daniel tried to shut it off, staring at a picture of a V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft on the wall.
“All right, all right,” Hardcastle said, immediately sorry he had brought the whole thing up. Yes, they did discuss it—argue about it would be more accurate. Rather than subject either of his estranged parents to the uncomfortable scene of showing up to a graduation ceremony together, Daniel had conveniently arranged an interview with the baseball coach at the University of Miami on his graduation day. That had not helped things between Hardcastle’s wife, Jennifer, and himself, but Hardcastle had chosen not to interfere with Daniel’s decision. That decision not to interfere had angered his wife even more. “Hey, no more hitchhiking, all right?” Hardcastle said. “There are guys out there that’ll pop you just because they don’t like the shirt you’re wearing. Or because they do like it. Know what I mean?” “Sure, Dad. Okay. No more hitching.” Daniel came over to his father’s desk and casually peeked at the stack of papers on the desk. Hardcastle slapped a red plastic cover over them. “Still working on your top secret project?” he asked. You’ve been hitting it awful hard lately, dad.”
“This is pretty important.”
“What’s it about?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be secret.”
“Well, can you at least tell me the unclassified version, or do I face a firing squad if I bug you about it?”
Hardcastle nodded, shook his head. “It’s an anti-drug program. That’s about it for now.”
“I figured as much,” Daniel said. “Why not legalize it?” Hardcastle rubbed his eyes wearily. “Can we talk about this some other time?”
“Sure. Sorry to rock the boat, no pun intended.”
“Knock it off, Danny. We’ve been round and round on this one. Booze and coke aren’t the same. And marijuana, nobody knows the long-term effects. But hell, you know the arguments.”
“Well, I see you knocking yourself out night and day trying to solve this thing, and the way I see it you’re trying to swim up Niagara Falls.” When he got no rise out of his father from that he looked up again at the picture of the Osprey on the wall. “That V-22 is awesome. You figuring on catching the bad guys with it?”
Smart kid, Hardcastle thought. Especially for one who pulled so many dumb stunts. “No fishing. Join the Coast Guard, go to the Academy and find out all about it.”
“I’m thinking on it.”
“You’re really thinking about the Academy?”
“Sure. How can I not?”
Hardcastle, pleased, decided not to push it. He changed the subject. “How’s your mother?”
“Fine.” Hardcastle gave him a questioning look.
“Okay, okay. She’s pissed.”
“Because I missed last weekend?” Daniel nodded. “I want to apologize for that, Daniel. I was swamped ...”
“You don’t need to apologize to me. Mom thinks I’ll be scarred for life if I don’t interact, as she calls it, widi my father every other weekend. Sure, I miss our time together, dad, but honest to God, I won’t be scarred ...�
��
Hardcastle stood, collected the stack of papers on his desk and locked them away in an office safe. “Let’s get out of here. Had something to eat?”
“I . . . was hoping . . .”
“Let me guess,” Hardcastle said with a smile. “A ride in the Scorpion.”
“It’s been a long time ...”
“But the closest airfield to your mother’s house is Taimiami. You’d have to walk at least two, three miles.”
“It’s worth it, and I’ll be careful and not let mom know.” Jennifer, Hardcastle didn’t need to be reminded, didn’t approve of him letting Daniel fly in the Super Scorpion (“You want to kill yourself, fine, but not our son.”). But Hardcastle enjoyed being with his son. He was so full of energy, alive, if also a little wild. Exactly the opposite of his self-controlled, controlling mother, a real estate agent in Miami, not to mention his brother, a third-year medical student at Johns Hopkins. Oh, he was proud of Roger and still had some affection for his wife, but being with Daniel was different, special. When he was with Daniel he felt years younger. You couldn’t buy that... besides, there was no danger in taking the kid in the helicopter. “All right, all right,” Hardcastle told him. “But I’ll call the assistant manager of Tiger Air at Taimiami; he should be able to give you a ride home. You're not going to hitchhike in the middle of the night, your mother would really fry my scalp if she found out.”
Hardcastle finished securing his reports and notes, then unreeled the ribbon cassette and fed it into a small shredder mounted on a wastebasket in the outer office.
“Your project must really be secret,” Daniel said. “You do this every night? What a hassle.”
“That’s why they pay me such big bucks.”
“Yeah, right, a whole two thousand nine hundred and eleven dollars and eighty-three cents a month. Before taxes.”
“Afraid you won’t get an inheritance?”
“Nothing like that,” Daniel said as they filed out of the office. “I just hear mom talking all the time. She says you’ve gone through hell already and she doesn’t understand why you still do it. She says you could have your pick of positions in half the corporations in America if only you’d stop playing sailor-boy.”
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