Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “Armed aircraft are part of the project, Agent Long, but they’re only a small part,” Hardcastle said. “The main part of this project I’m proposing is a way to regulate aircraft and vessels entering the United States.”

  “We already do that, Admiral,” Long said. “I believe you know the procedure: Every vessel entering the United States has to provide a manifest of cargo and passengers to Customs at least two days before entry. Aircraft must file flight plans and advise Customs at least one day in advance. On arrival each vessel and aircraft is inspected by Customs or signed off as cleared through Customs.”

  “That procedure has a basic flaw,” Hardcastle said. “It happens to allow smugglers’ ships and aircraft to enter U.S. territory. It gives them virtual free access to roam our territorial waters and airspace to make drops or deliveries.”

  “But how can legitimate vessels do business if they don’t get into port?”

  “They get in, all right,” Hardcastle said, “but after they’re inspected. My proposal requires identification of all vessels and aircraft before they enter American waters or American airspace.”

  “Before? You mean inspect a vessel before it reaches a U.S. port? Like the Coast Guard does now?”

  “Not exactly,” Hardcastle said. He motioned out the window, and Long strained to look outside the wide forward-cockpit canopy.

  Off in the distance was an enormous platform shaped like a huge diamond, each side of which was some six hundred feet long. The main deck was five stories high, with open walkways and glassed-in rooms along the sides. The corners were narrow and pointed. Attached to the sides of the platform was a series of floating docks, where several Coast Guard vessels were moored; catwalks led from the docks up to the lower level of the platform deck. The platform’s multiple huge legs could barely be seen extending down into the crystal blue waters.

  On the huge deck of the platform were four helicopter landing- pads, along with what appeared to be deck elevators where helicopters might be lowered to maintenance hangars below deck. Communications antennae and surveillance radars could be seen on the far side of the platform’s deck beneath an above-deck control building. Positioned along the edge of the upper deck were service cranes, elevators and conveyor belts that led nearly to the ocean’s surface.

  They were still miles from the platform but it was so large it looked like a massive flat-topped island. “What the hell is that thing?” Long said.

  “It’s called Hammerhead One,” Hardcastle told him. “Rowan Companies of Houston loaned it to us for this project. It’s an offshore oil-drilling platform modified as a forward command post, military base, communications center and helipad. The Air Force has been studying using these things as rocket launch-pads—we’ve just taken the concept a step further.”

  “But where did it come from?” Geffar asked. “We’ve got patrols out this way every night and we’ve never received reports about it.”

  “It’s been docked in Fort Lauderdale for several months,” Hardcastle said, “ever since we got it from the Air Force last year. Hammerhead One is a registered seagoing vessel—we had it towed out here and set up just yesterday. It has three retractable legs that anchor it to the sea bottom and jack up the platform above water level. Once it’s moved into position it can be set up in a matter of hours—you can even leave a full complement of personnel on board while it’s being towed into position and keep working while the thing is being moored into place. They’ve even launched and recovered choppers on it while it was being towed out here.”

  Hardcastle turned to the radios. “Hammerhead One, Lion One- One is five miles out.”

  “Lion One-One, Hammerhead One, roger,” a voice responded. “Radar contact. Clear for visual approach, west helipad one. Winds two-three-zero at ten gusting to fifteen, altimeter two-niner-niner- zero.”

  “Lion One-One copies,” Hardcastle replied. “We’ll be orbiting the pad once or twice before landing.”

  “Copy that. Hammerhead One out.”

  Hardcastle turned to Geffar. “You’ve been cleared to land, go for it.”

  “Me? Now you want me to land this thing? I need a checkout before I fly a plane, Hardcastle. I’ve already violated my rule once.”

  Hardcastle shrugged, moved to put his hands on the controls. “If you’re afraid to give it a try . . .”

  She understood what he was doing but still reacted. “Never mind,” she said quickly, and began transitioning to vertical flight. And feeling very damn good about it. She reduced throttle, feeding in more and more vertical nacelle angle to decrease both vertical descent rate and airspeed at the same time.

  “Take it around the platform at few times,” Hardcastle said, “get a feel for the winds and gusts out here before you land.” GefiFar nodded, began a slow orbit of the huge platform, decreasing her range to the main deck on each orbit.

  “You know,” Hardcastle said as they completed their first turn around Hammerhead One, “we can set up full working dock space below to service vessels of almost any size We can also have fully automated electro-optical, chemical and manual inspection facilities to check containerized cargo or large cargo spaces. A complete inspection can be carried out on two full-sized freighters at once or we can conduct more abbreviated inspections in preparation for thorough Customs inspections in port.”

  He pointed out the radar arrays on one corner of the platform. “With a complement of Sea Lion aircraft, interceptor vessels and other reconnaissance and interceptor assets deployed on these platforms we can control the waters for hundreds of miles in all directions, intercept intruders—”

  “Or destroy them?” Long put in.

  “Or destroy them,” Hardcastle acknowledged. “We’re talking about real security of America’s borders. Closing off drug-ingress routes is the best way to begin to get control—”

  “Put a Sea Stinger right through them?” Long asked. “What, sir, if you find a grandfather and his two grandkids in a little fishing boat? What if you blow them to pieces with one of those missiles back there?”

  “If that alleged grandfather refused to stop, refused to respond to signals from a interceptor vessel or aircraft, yes, right. I’m out to make this project work, Agent Long. How about you? Tough times, tough solutions.” Hardcastle turned back to watch Geffar’s approach to the platform. “Get used to it.”

  “How many rounds of thirty-millimeter gunfire does it take to sink a couple of kids, sir . . . ?”

  “Knock it off, Curt,” GefiFar interjected, although she didn’t entirely disagree. She had slowed the Sea Lion to a few knots forward speed and had rotated the nacelles back to the vertical for the descent.

  “Hey, that platform sure looks small all of a sudden,” GefiFar said as she began her approach descent. A crewman on the platform’s deck ran out to helipad number one and held aloft a pair of flags, waiting to help in the landing. “It’s like trying to land on a postage stamp.”

  “Relax, you’re doing fine,” Hardcastle said. “Remember, your power controls are very sensitive because the computer augments your inputs. Keep your descent rate under five-per-second—the display will change to feet-per-second when you get down below fifty feet. Keep an eye on the computer monitors. They’ll advise you on where to put your throttles and nacelles and compute drift and descent rate for you. Just take it nice and easy.”

  As GefiFar scanned the edge of the huge platform she noticed the unusual markings on the helicopter parked on the other side of the platform. It was a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter with Marine Corps markings, but the lower half of the chopper was dark green, the upper half near the engine nacelles white. As she flew closer to touchdown, she made out the words painted on the sides of the UH-60 helicopter ... “ ‘United States of Ameri...’ Hardcastle, that’s not a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter.”

  “Thirty feet to go,” he called out, reaching forward and flipping a circular switch full down, checking for three green “gear down and locked” light indications. “Gear down
and locked. Looking good.”

  “Dammit, that’s a VH-60. It looked like Marine One ...”

  “Marine Two,” Hardcastle deadpanned. “I forgot to tell you, that’s the Vice-President’s helicopter. The Veep and Secretary of Defense are both on board Hammerhead One.”

  “What?” The Sea Lion did a slight swerve to the left as GefiFar stared at Hardcastle. “I’ve flown this thing for a grand total of twenty minutes and now I’m supposed to land it on a postage stamp with the Veep watching?”

  “Watch your vertical velocity, Inspector,” Hardcastle said. “Forget Vice-President Martindale, concentrate on your deck crew.” GefiFar took a firm grip on the throttle control and gave it a power burst to arrest the fast sink rate. “You’ve got a ten-knot wind from your right so don’t forget to watch the drift, but don’t overcompensate. Main trucks first. . . lift the nose a bit... a little more ...” They felt a solid bump as the main gear landed. The deck crewman confirmed the main wheels were down, then guided her in to a gentle nose-wheel touchdown.

  “Just excellent,” Hardcastle told her as deck crewmen placed chocks and cable tie-downs on the V-22C Sea Lion. “I’ve got the brakes. Throttle to idle—we don’t want to blow the Vice-President’s hat into the water.” GefiFar retarded the throttles to idle, and Hardcastle began shutting down the electrical systems and the engines. “Welcome to Hammerhead One, gang. Doors are clear to open.” “You S.O.B.,” GefiFar said as she pulled oflF her helmet and stared at Hardcastle. For a moment he was worried she was really sore at him, but it seemed more a sense of relief, and accomplishment, than anger. “This was a set-up. Why? To embarrass me? Discredit the Customs Service? Get me fired? What the hell?”

  “You know it’s none of the above,” Hardcastle said. “If you’d had any trouble landing the aircraft I have taken over. I didn’t think that would happen and it didn’t. I wanted you to fly the Sea Lion so I could get you involved in joining up in this project.”

  “You mean you want me to participate in a Coast Guard project to fly armed helicopters and tilt-rotor aircraft off oil platforms—” “This is not a Coast Guard project, damn it. I’ve tried to tell you that before. I’m trying to create a whole new organization, separate from both the Coast Guard and Customs. But I want and need your participation, cooperation. We have to create a united front . . »” “Well, I need to know a lot more.”

  Unlike the President, who was just over sixty years of age, Vice President Kevin Martindale was a youngster of forty-six. An ex-Congressman, Martindale, unlike his predecessor, turned out to be a bulldog in the White House and on Capitol Hill, more than willing and able to engage in the back-room and cloakroom trench warfare to get the President’s proposals, and some of his own, heard by the Congress. One of Martindale’s major projects was drug control, and he was an outspoken advocate of tough-line responses to the growing drug problem in the United States.

  It was a surprise for Geffar to find him on an oil platform forty miles off the southern coast of Florida, but it was no surprise that he would be involved with something like this.

  “Inspector Geffar is our top Air Division officer,” a man standing beside Martindale said, and Geffar realized with a shock that it was Joseph Crandall, Commissioner of the U.S. Customs Service. “She’s been head of the country’s number-one drug interdiction unit for two years now.”

  “And a pistol champion,” the Vice President added. “Fra aware of Inspector Geffar’s background. You made the landing, right? And this was your first flight in one of those things, right?”

  “That’s right, sir. Did it show?”

  “No. But it’s a move that old sea dog Hardcastle would pull.” He turned as Hardcastle came around to greet him. “When you throw a party, Admiral, you don’t mess around. Impressive display, impressive. Inspector Geffar’s landing was right on the dot.”

  “She’s the best pilot on this platform, sir.” They shook hands, and Hardcastle also greeted Commissioner Crandall, Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston, Admiral Cronin and Secretary of Transportation Edward Coultrane. “I’d also like to introduce Agent Curtis Long, one of Inspector Geffar’s deputies, and of course General Brad Elliott, U.S. Air Force, the chief design engineer and consultant on this project, and his project officer, Major Patrick McLanahan.”

  “Brad Elliott,” the Vice President said as they shook hands. Geffar was surprised—the Vice President seemed really impressed, respectful, as he shook Elliott’s hand. Who was this guy . . . ? “It’s good to see you. The President sends his regards.” He turned to McLanahan, and they shook hands as if McLanahan was something special too.

  "Major, I want to offer my condolences for the loss of your friend, Lieutenant Luger. We’ll have to talk about your . . . your incredible flight. I’d like to hear more about it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” McLanahan said. Hardcastle, Geffar and Long looked at the Air Force officers for some answers to all this but got nothing. Who the hell were they? What had Elliott and McLanahan done . . . ?

  Finally the Vice President turned to Elliott. “So, General, you’re the one who’s responsible for a lot of the toys on this platform, and for this beautiful aircraft here.”

  “I’m here to get Admiral Hardcastle’s brainstorms off the drawing boards and into action,” Elliott said. “But I confess the Sea Lion is my pride and joy.”

  “Then show her to me,” the Vice President said.

  “Happy to, sir,” Elliott said.

  Hardcastle excused himself and headed off toward the elevators to go below deck, Geffar and Cronin following. They were met by Commander Mike Becker at the entrance to the elevator, who greeted Hardcastle as they entered the elevator.

  “Did you see that?” Long said as they started down. “Damn, I thought the Vice President was going to kiss McLanahan’s ring. What the hell did he do—save the world or something?”

  Hardcastle looked at Admiral Cronin, who gave him nothing. He knew what Elliott and McLanahan had done, Hardcastle thought. He’s not saying, at least not here, but judging by his expression it must have been pretty awesome.

  The flight of the Old Dog was, of course, still top secret. And so, therefore, were the roles Elliott and McLanahan had played in it.

  Hardcastle turned to Becker. “How’s it look so far, Mike?”

  “So far I’d say they’re impressed, Admiral. The platform is in better shape than we’d hoped, and we had time to give it a few coats of paint and a good washing before the choppers showed up.”

  “Ready to go to the briefing room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m impressed myself, Ian,” Cronin said, wiping sweat from his forehead as the air-conditioned lower decks began to take effect. “But Preston, Coultrane and Crandall aren’t as wide-eyed about this as the Vice President. What they see is their drug-interdiction appropriations going out the window, out of their budgets and into your hot-shot, high-tech special project here.”

  They were on the third floor of the platform, fifty feet above the gentle swells of the Straits of Florida. They could see two Coast Guard cutters about a half-mile away circling the platform and keeping the curious away. Occasionally a Coast Guard Dolphin helicopter could be seen as it continued its security sweep of the waters around Hammerhead One.

  The room had been transformed into a radar command-and-con- trol center. Two radar consoles had been set up in the center of the room, with three sixty-inch color projection screens in front of the consoles. Major McLanahan was commanding the consoles. Hardcastle began his presentation:

  “Welcome to Hammerhead One, Mr. Vice President, members of the President’s Cabinet, ladies and gentlemen,” Hardcastle began. “We propose to use these huge platforms, suitably modified, as bases for an extensive, bold and far-reaching border security force. Please note, I used the term border security, not only drug interdiction. As I see it, the key to successful drug interdiction is not just routine investigation and arrest but more aggressive, more sweeping tactical operati
ons of a paramilitary organization concentrating on securing America’s borders against unidentified vessels and aircraft.”

  Hardcastle pressed a button on a remote control device and the left screen snapped on, showing a digital chart of the southeast United States, ranging from South Carolina through Florida to Texas and as far south as South America.

  “Why not law-enforcement tactics? Why paramilitary tactics? Because we are talking about the skies and seas surrounding the United States, and the problems associated with controlling our vast frontiers require much more than routine patrol and port-entry efforts. If we take the area three miles from shore out to the twelve-mile limit, we’re talking about thirty-six thousand square miles of open ocean in the southeast United States alone. Thirty-six thousand square miles. At present we have approximately one hundred vessels and eighty aircraft, representing both the Coast Guard and the Customs Service, to patrol this area. Factor in the airspace and we’re talking about over one hundred thousand cubic miles of territory.” The center screen snapped on, showing stock video images of Coast Guard and Customs Service radar installations aircraft and ships. “The Coast Guard and Customs Service can adequately watch this territory, and the two agencies patrol the major known smuggling routes throughout this entire area. But even though we may detect unidentified aircraft or vessels with our surveillance systems we have no way to intercept all of them. We would need ten times the number of aircraft and ships we now have to accomplish this. The cost would be prohibitive, ranging in the tens of billions of dollars.” Hardcastle moved over to the right large-screen monitor as it snapped on. “However, there’s another way of securing this tremendous expanse of territory. By changing the rules on how vessels can enter our country.”

  “Let’s talk about ships first.” A spider’s web of lines crisscrossed the ocean areas of the chart; most culminated at known port cities such as Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Tampa, and Charleston. “Vessels entering the United States routinely follow established shipping lanes to American ports. They are not required to follow any particular routing, can freely navigate American coastal waters at will. They may be stopped and boarded by the Coast Guard at any time while inside this area but such boardings are rare—there aren’t enough ships to cover this enormous area. Outside of normal shipping lanes, far from normal patrol areas or port areas, unidentified vessels can operate with virtual impunity even though we can usually detect them and may even have them under surveillance.