The plane suddenly veered out of view.
“What happened?” Martindale asked.
“Major?” Hardcastle turned to McLanahan.
“The guy panicked and broke away,” McLanahan said. “He thinks he can evade the drone.”
The screen changed briefly to an enlarged picture of the digital-radar screen, showing the closeness of the two aircraft. The Seagull drone was executing a tight left turn to reposition itself in a tail-chase. Outside the area the radar-return and IFF data block of the Sea Lion tilt-rotor moved quickly into view. A moment later the screen shifted again to a telescopic video image of the twin-engine plane. The image was heeling sharply left, then right as the smuggler tried to evade the drone. The sea rushed up into the scene as the smuggler flew his plane lower and lower, trying to escape.
“Were attempting radio contact with the suspect as well,” Hardcastle said. He looked at McLanahan, who shook his head. “No response. The V-22 Sea Lion is joining up in the chase, he’ll take over in a minute.”
“What if your target is having a heart attack and can’t respond?” Coultrane asked. “What if he’s on autopilot, trying to save himself?”
Transportation Secretary Coultrane’s solicitous concern, Hardcastle couldn’t help thinking, had more to do with his perceived threat to his space than any humanistic worries over the safety of an innocent. He pushed back the thought and answered with a straight face: “He has no flight plan, no clearance to cross into our airspace, no Customs-entry report. He’s flying off established air routes, at extremely low altitude. Not exactly consistent with innocent, legitimate civil-aviation rules. If he’s had the ability to engage an autopilot he’s had the chance to set his transponder to squawk emergency— code 7700.”
The scene on the large-screen monitor changed again. The Seagull drone had moved back to a half-mile from the suspect’s plane. The scene now showed the V-22C Sea Lion, which was slightly higher and to the left of the suspect. The V-22C’s rotors were in transition-flight position, rotated to a forty-five-degree angle, a position that offered maximum helicopter-like maneuverability along with maximum speed. Both cargo pods on the Sea Lion were deployed, looking like big pontoon outriggers.
“Range to shore, eight miles,” McLanahan reported, monitoring to the large center situation map.
“At this point we have options. The current one is to track this suspect to his destination, see if he drops his load and try to apprehend on the ground or over open waters. Sky Lion or Sea Lion aircraft could survey the cargo dropped over water, vector in patrol boats to try to arrest the smugglers, or even try to intercept from the air. But this would be very risky. A Sea Lion in hover mode is extremely vulnerable to ground fire, especially heavy weapons or shoulder-launched missiles, just like any large helicopter would be. A better option: warn away any boats coming near the drop site and attack anyone who tries to pick up the load.” Hardcastle heard an uncomfortable stir from the audience.
“If the smuggler tried a landing, a Sea Lion with armed men could be dispatched to try to make an arrest, but as we’ve seen from the Mahogany Hammock disaster, that, to put it mildly, could be dangerous for our people. There’s no percentage in allowing this smuggler to get any closer to our shores. He has already violated several existing United States laws: he is inside territorial waters and airspace, without clearance or prior report of intention—violation of 5 United States Code 112 point 13, a felony. An unidentified aircraft, evading detection and interception—we would normally try another intercept pass to see if he’d respond and follow the drone, but we won’t move the Sea Lion in any closer—we’ve seen what has happened to aircraft like the Coast Guard Falcon jet that get too close to suspects.” Hardcastle turned to the console operator and nodded.
“This is our response.”
The Sea Lion began a slight descent, leveled off near the suspect’s altitude, then heeled to the left. As it did a burst of white light appeared off the right pylon and a streak of black and white erupted from the pylon and homed in on the twin-engine plane. The streak of light wobbled a bit in flight, its smoke-and-fire trail resembling an irregular spiral, but it found its target—the plane’s right engine exploded in a sphere of red and orange fire sending a cloud of oily smoke back in its wake. The plane veered sharply to the right, executing almost a full hundred-eighty-degree spin before crashing into the blue-and-green sea. Parts of its wings and fuselage bounced off the rock-hard water, and a propeller arced into the air as if tossed like a Frisbee by Neptune himself.
Vice President Martindale had lunged out of his chair. “Hardcastle, what the hell did you do? What did you do?”
Hardcastle took a deep breath—it had been a calculated risk. Was it worth it ... ? “Sir, this was a demonstration.” He motioned to the center screen. The image had cleared. When the picture stabilized it showed a wide circle of five Coast Guard vessels surrounding the impact point of the twin-engine plane. “This was a demonstration . . .”
“Demonstration? That wasn’t a real smuggler . . . ?”
“It was a confiscated smuggling plane, outfitted as a remote-piloted drone. We were controlling it from the Coast Guard cutter there on the left in the picture. We had cleared away the impact point for a radius of five miles—”
“Sir, I authorized this demonstration,” Admiral Cronin said, moving past the Secret Service agents to the Vice President. “I take responsibility.”
“All right, Admiral,” Martindale said, “what was the point? And this better be good.”
“The station platforms, the air and sea corridors, the surveillance drones, the high-tech aircraft—they’re all important, sir, but they won’t do the job by themselves. We’ll be able to see the intruder, we’ll follow him, we’ll witness a drug delivery or drop—but we can’t stop him from making that delivery, and we can’t stop him from turning around and escaping unless we make a decision to use force to prevent smugglers from entering or departing American territory . . .
“The Sea Lion aircraft can attack air or surface targets with either the Chain Guns or Sea Stinger missiles, and it has self-protective armor and electronic countermeasures—infrared jammers—to protect it. As I said, the Sky Lion and Seagull drones can also carry weapons, typically two Sea Stinger missiles.
“The program can be implemented in stages,” Hardcastle hurried on. “Notifying the public and others about the airspace and sea navigation restrictions should take at least ninety days after the go- ahead decision . . . During this time the platforms could be put into position and crews assembled to man them. I’m told that six V-22C Sea Lion-class aircraft are available immediately, and flight crew training can begin immediately at the Bell-Boeing flight test facilities in Arlington, Texas. Twenty Seagull and thirty Sky Lion drones can be made available within six months’ time. As for personnel, I’ve made a list of minimum manning levels for the project and I’ve identified personnel and equipment that can be transferred from specific Coast Guard and Customs Service air-interdiction units and put into service into the new organization—”
“ ‘New organization’?” Secretary of Defense Preston said. “This isn’t a Coast Guard/Customs Service joint project?”
“No. This needs to be separate from both organizations. It was my thought to combine the forward drug-interdiction forces of both services into one cohesive, unified command. The organization would not be under the Department of Defense,” he added, “except perhaps it could be federalized, as would the Coast Guard in time of war, under the Navy Maritime Defense Zone concept. But this group would be under civilian direction of the new Cabinet-level Department of Border Security—replacing the present so-called drug czar—as a fully authorized executive-level Cabinet position.
“I recommend that the joint-interdiction resources of the Coast Guard and Customs Service, including the joint Command-Control- Communications-Intelligence Centers, the National Narcotics Interdiction Operations Center, the National Narcotics Interdiction Information Cent
er and the Blue Lightning Operations Center be transferred to this new Department. I also recommend that the DEA and the FBI Narcotics Task Force be integrated into the new agency—”
“Disband the DEA?” the Vice President said.
Commissioner Crandall looked at Hardcastle, and if looks could kill... “I wonder who would command this new organization, Admiral? Could it possibly be you?”
Hardcastle decided to ignore the jab. “The continued operation of these groups outside the command of the new Department of Border Security would only hurt our chances to integrate drug-interdiction.”
Crandall turned to Martindale. “Admiral Hardcastle is distorting the facts. There’s a great deal of coordinated action between Customs and Coast Guard and other drug-interdiction agencies. Adding this new one would just compound the problem—”
“Commissioner, I disagree,” Sandra GefiFar finally spoke up. “I’ve not been exactly a big advocate of sharing with the Coast Guard. I have to admit that cooperation between Customs and the Coast Guard is at an all-time low, and it’s been piss-poor for years.”
“So what do you think of this setup, Inspector GefiFar?” The Vice President asked. “Obviously you’ve gotten your first taste of Admiral Hardcastle’s plan this morning, just as we have. But you’ve been there. You are there.”
“I’m impressed.” She was careful not to look directly at Hardcastle. “I agree with most of the Admiral’s approaches. He’s come up with ways to control inbound traffic to the United States, and an effective way of stopping uncooperative smugglers. There’ve been many times, watching a smuggler run away out of reach after dropping off a load of drugs in the Everglades, that I wished I had a Sea Stinger missile that I could put up the bastard’s tailpipe. Still, I worry about the military action, much as I’m attracted to it.”
“We both know the problem,” Hardcastle said. “Narcotics that get within a few miles of our shoreline are nearly impossible to stop. Customs has been active in drug interdiction for decades, but drug use and drug availability in the country is at an all-time high. Is that because Customs isn’t going it job? No and no again. It’s because the present system can’t stop the flow. I believe my system can.
“Drugs that reach the shores are a law-enforcement issue. The military or the Hammerheads don’t belong in the cities or on the streets, and I’m not recommending here that we conduct military anti-drug sweeps of Miami, or New York, or Bogota, or even Medellin. They don’t work anyway. We’re concerned with one thing: keeping the unidentified and uninvited ships and planes out of our territorial skies and waters. ”
“So we spend billions on tilt-rotors and drones and oil platforms and radars for the southeast,” Crandall spoke up. “The smugglers change tactics. They’ll step up containerized shipping, bring the stuff in across the Mexican boarder and through Europe or Canada. Your project will be obsolete before it’s activated.”
“No, sir. We’ve seen the smugglers try containerized shipping and overland routes through Mexico, and even the United Parcel Service, but they always go back to aircraft and vessel smuggling overwater. Why? Because it’s the fastest, safest, easiest way. If they put their shipment in containers they lose control of it for days, sometimes weeks, and every hour the drugs are out of their control is another chance for someone to slip up or an informant to squeal or for Customs to move in and seize it. If it goes overland through Mexico the borders can be patrolled better and sealed off faster, and the shipments have to be smaller to avoid detection.
“Air and sea smuggling, whether leap-froggmg through the Bahamas or direct flights from South America to Florida, will be the method of choice for sixty to seventy percent of smugglers, and a heavy percentage of those will be brought into the United States through the southeast—half, or twenty billion dollars worth per year, will come through Florida itself. We can tackle the other smuggling routes later on. I propose that we shut off the main source of illegal narcotics now. ”
Downtown Miami
Ten Hours Later
“Hardcastle’s a loose cannon,” Customs Service Commissioner Joseph Crandall was saying to Secretary Coultrane. “We can come up with someone, something better.” Coultrane didn’t disagree.
Vice President Martindale listened. He was waiting for Defense Secretary Thomas Preston to comment, holding back on his own thoughts until the veteran, highly respected statesman and close friend of the President spoke up.
Preston was not a career military man—few secretaries of defense were. He had spent years in the Navy, including two as a liaison officer to the White House representing the Commander of the Pacific Fleet during Vietnam. In those years as a mid-rank but well- respected aide and administrator, Preston began the long series of contacts, introductions, assignments that even now, was serving him well after twenty years out of uniform. He had been noted for wearing his Navy uniform clean of ribbons and accouterments. He had cut his teeth in the trenches of Congressional warfare instead of the muddy foxholes of southeast Asia, and unlike many who returned from the wars, internal and external, he had emerged stronger, fiercer, wiser. He knew he had been groomed for this position and maybe something beyond . . .
“Admiral Hardcastle’s proposal, backed by Admiral Cronin, is extraordinary, far-reaching, forward-looking.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’ coming?” Martindale asked.
“Not necessarily. I recommend taking it right up to the President. If the President goes for it he should be prepared for some battles, including in Congress. Cost estimates, for example, can be underestimated . . .”
“Four billion dollars,” Coultrane muttered. “That’s equal to the entire Coast Guard budget. That’s twice the Customs Service’s budget. And all to set up an interdiction network in just the southeast.”
Crandall muttered, “Let him have the V-22s and the drones—I wasn’t that impressed with them anyway. But let him try to take my Black Hawks and Citations and we’re gonna tangle.”
Martindale wasn’t listening to Crandall. He was studying Preston.
“What about a boss for this Border Security Force,” the VicePresident asked Preston. “Drug czar Samuel Massey? General Elliott?”
“I doubt Elhott would take it,” Preston said. “He’s on temporary assignment. Air Force is his love and career.” He paused a moment. “In a way it’s a no-win position.” He picked up Hardcastle’s thick proposal booklet, where it was open to a color laser drawing of an armed V-22 Sea Lion aircraft, its pylons bristling with missiles, its nose-mounted infrared scanner resembling a hungry wasp’s head. “Whoever it might be will take all of the responsibility and flak and little of the credit, if there’s any credit to be taken. He’ll be a shuttle between yourself, the President, and the commander of the operational forces—these Hammerheads.”
Martindale nodded. “Then the commander of the operational forces becomes the main consideration.” Preston nodded. “Who? Hardcastle?”
“He’s your friend, right?” Preston asked Martindale without looking at him.
“We’ve known each other for a long time, yes,” the Vice President said a bit testily. “But that won’t affect my recommendation. You know it won’t.”
Preston nodded. “Of course.”
Martindale looked at Preston. The Vice President shook his head. “You’re talking ancient history, Mr. Secretary.”
“Congress has a long memory, Mr. Vice President, when it’s convenient.”
Admiral Cronin met Hardcastle, Geffar, Inspector Long, and Commander Becker in the lobby of the Hyatt Brickell Plaza, the hotel right across Second Street from the downtown Federal Building and the Customs Service’s canal-side headquarters. Already on hand with Cronin were General Elliott and Major McLanahan.
“The Vice President’s just finishing dinner,” Cronin said. “He should be ready for us in a few minutes.”
Long was staring at Elliott and McLanahan. Finally he leaned forward toward McLanahan and said in a low voice, “Okay. Who are you guys? Spi
es? Super heroes?”
McLanahan said nothing.
“The Vice President was talking to you like you walk on water or something. What’d you guys do?”
“We flew planes, we fly planes. Air Force jet jockeys.”
“We’re also advisors to Admiral Hardcastle,” Elliott added. “Leave it at that.” Long did.
Hardcastle lit his cigar. “So what’s on the agenda tonight, sir?” he asked Cronin. “Good news or bad?”
“I’ve no idea. But I thought your presentations and organization were top-drawer.”
GefiFar spoke up: “You were going for the shock value, and maybe it backfired. You blew the doors off with that demonstration, but I don’t think they like getting their doors blown off.”
“It was meant to shock,” Hardcastle said. “We’ve got a shocking problem here.” '
“But is putting a missile into some guy’s tailpipe the answer?” Long put in. “I’ve been flying for Customs for twelve years. Twelve goddamned years. I’ve got over seven thousand hours in nine different aircraft. We fly seven days a week, we make over four hundred busts a year. We work hard. Real hard. Now, it’s all going for shit. Now it’s not good enough. Yesterday, we were the front line, doing the job. Now, you’re trying to tell us, tell the Vice-President, that the answer is a whole new outfit that kills suspects.”
“Good point, Agent Long,” a voice behind them said. Vice President Martindale was a few paces away from the cluster of sofas where they were waiting. “Don’t stop,” he said. An aide brought over a wing-backed leather armchair and the Vice President sat between GefiFar and Becker.
“Well, I’ve gotten feedback from half the President’s Cabinet and a few unsolicited comments from some members of Congress who didn’t even know what was going on. So, continue. Agent Long has a good point. We have a pretty good program going with the Customs Service in charge of drug interdiction. They make busts and they don’t shoot down smugglers—”
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