Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “Cuban officers . . . ?”

  “The Cubans are becoming more involved in smuggling operations every year,” Geffar said. “Never mind all their talk about cracking down on smuggling, unless it gets so obvious it embarrasses them. We believe Gomer is captain of a Cuban Komar-class patrol boat operating out of Veradero military base on Cuba’s north coast.”

  “I thought the Cubans had cracked down on that. They executed that army general, Arnoldo Ochoa Sanchez, after being convicted for drug smuggling ...”

  “A show trial,” Geffar said. “He was very popular with the military and with the people—there was talk of him being Castro’s successor.

  That would have bumped Castro’s brother Raoul out of the picture. Ochoa had to go, and in a way not to upset the military. Hanging a drug rap on him was the best way.

  “We also started sharing intelligence data on smugglers, played right into their hands. We told the Cubans where we were looking and they used our own intelligence to help their smugglers avoid our radar pickets and patrols. Now Cuban gunboats are actually stationed near drug drop points at the edge of their territorial waters. They claim the gunboats keep the smugglers away, but what happens is the gunboat captains are paid to look the other way until we or the Coasties show up. When we try to move in, the gunboats move in too.”

  “So what do you do with these Mayberry missions?”

  “Follow the smugglers all night, mostly,” Geffar said dryly. She pointed to specks on the map. “Planes from Colombia, Venezuela, Panama, or Peru drop shipments here, along the Sabana Archipelago on Cuba’s north shore. The smugglers pick up the shipments, always in plain view of the Cuban gunboats, then hop around through all these tiny islands and reefs dodging Coastie patrols. They head toward the Bahamas or if they’re really brave they’ll try to zoom in toward the Keys or the Everglades.

  “We watch and wait for one of these bozos to try to make a break for Florida or the Bahamas. We’ve charted a lot of air and surface activity recently that indicates they’ll try a drop some time in the next few days. Nothing definite, but enough to focus in on this area . . . Why don’t you come along, Ron? We’re putting together a surveillance mission to start in the next few days. You can fly in the Nomad, which stays at high altitude and keeps an eye on everyone on the infrared scanner and the SeaScan radar. Or you can come with me in the Black Hawk.”

  “The Black Hawk?”

  “If the Nomad reports smugglers are heading north toward Florida or east toward the Bahamas we’ll launch the Black Hawk, track them down. If we can we’ll vector in a Coast Guard cutter and have them stop them at sea, but mostly we wait until they get closer to land—we usually can’t rely on the Coasties to be around when we need them. We get authority to overfly the Bahamas, and we’ll carry a couple of Bahamian constables so they can make the bust ...”

  Gates’ color was not good. But he managed, “Fine. I’ll ride in the Nomad.”

  It was the first time Ron Gates had ever agreed to fly on an actual mission. In fact, it would be his first flight on any Air Branch aircraft where he wasn’t escorting a VIP.

  “I think it’s important for me to get some firsthand knowledge about what’s going on. It’s about time I got in on the action.”

  She kept a straight face, wondering if his courage didn’t have something to do with the sudden visibility this unit was getting in the White House.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll start the mission in two days, running round-the-clock surveillance operations. The Nomad stays up for six hours—that allows plenty of fuel in case it has to begin a chase, so clear your calendar for the whole night. We’ll meet here at 6:00 P.M., two days from today. You know where the Air Force enlisted dining hall is on base. You don’t need to go to the briefing, but it might be interesting. I need to give you a safety briefing and fit you out with a life jacket'—his eyes narrowed at the words “life jacket”—“and we’ll do that out by the Nomad on the ramp. That’s the big turboprop plane out there. Looks like a little C-130. Big radar on the belly.”

  Gates nodded, headed for the door.

  Gelfar sat alone in her office, clearing up some paperwork that had accumulated in her absence while recovering from the Mahogany Hammock mission and going over details of the mission in her mind. She’d had a little sport with Gates but in reality it was not going to be a laughing matter.

  With the 250-gallon armored internal fuel tank, which took up all but six of the helicopter’s twelve seats in the cabin, the Black Hawk had an operational radius of about 200 nautical miles. That usually allowed a flight of 200 miles at best endurance speed, at least an hour’s worth of hovering and maneuvering in the target area and the return flight with almost no reserve fuel. But flying from Homestead to “Mayberry” was 120 miles alone, and a protracted chase with smugglers from way out near Cuba could draw deeply on fuel reserves. If the chopper had to pursue smugglers to anywhere in the Bahamas Islands chain, it would be even riskier.

  Even though the Black Hawk had the fuel to do the job, it was cutting it pretty close. It meant that as long as the smugglers were heading north, the Black Hawk could spend only a half-hour chasing before it would have to return to base—if the smugglers headed south to evade, the Black Hawk would probably have less than ten minutes’ loiter time before having to high-tail it back to Homestead or Key West for gas. The Black Hawk was a reliable air machine, with its two huge turboshaft engines, but flying that far away from home ground, at night, was unnerving. Gates was lucky in his ignorance.

  The Black Hawk was not ideal for these long overwater missions but it was the only chopper that had the range and capacity for the job—the Nomad, a big turboprop reconnaissance plane built in Australia for radar surveillance of sea targets instead of aerial targets like the Citations or Cheyennes, had good range but needed a long hard-surface runway to land on. The Black Hawk was the only choice. They would have to wait until the smugglers were very close to Florida or Andros Island before launching it.

  It was times like this, Geffar thought, that they needed the damned Coast Guard. The Black Hawk could land on one of their big cutters and refuel and a few patrol boats would come in handy if they did observe a drop—

  It hit her then . . . Hammerhead One. That huge oil platform was still out there, about forty miles southeast of Key Largo in the Straits of Florida. Its position could not be better: forty miles closer to both Andros Island and Veradero, Cuba, than was Homestead Air Force Base. It had sea-and-sky-surveillanee equipment set up on board, and its huge deck could certainly accommodate a Black Hawk helicopter . . .

  Or a Sea Lion aircraft. Or both.

  She’d better see Hardcastle soon as possible.

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  The Same Day

  As Sandra Geffar hurried north toward Miami for her important meeting with her Coast Guard counterpart, another, more fateful meeting was just beginning in the Oval Office.

  The President of the United States greeted Senator Robert Edwards, the Senate Republican minority leader, like a long-lost brother, putting one hand over their clasped hands. “Good to see you. Bob,” the President said. He motioned him to the light brown leather sofa, which was arranged around the walnut coffee table on the south side of the Oval Office along with the President’s deep wing-back chair and a few other leather chairs. “Sandwiches and coffee. Take a load off. Please.” Edwards shook hands with Cabinet secretaries Preston, Coultrane, Secretary of the Treasury Floyd McDonough, Special Advisor on Drug Control Policy Samuel T. Massey, Senator Mitchell Blumfeld, the senior senator from Florida, and finally Vice President Martindale.

  Once arranged, the White House photographer came in and, as usual, took photos of the men gathered around the finger sandwiches and china coffee service; although not always publicized, an official photo was taken of each and every meeting in the White House. Coffee was poured for all by a smiling, white-jacketed steward. A few of those having coffee reached for the delicate china
creamer with the thin blue ribbon tied on the handle—this, as every guest to the Oval Office knew, was not the cream, not the sugar or the non-dairy lightener, but the pot with the Irish cream liqueur. They poured various amounts of the thick, sweet liqueur in their cups—all but Secretary Preston, who rarely indulged in alcohol at all—as they chatted pleasantries to each other for several minutes. It was all part of the ritual of doing business in the White House; it had been done like this, with a few modifications, ever since there was an Oval Office.

  The men were brushing away stray crumbs from the first few seafood sandwiches when the President motioned to his chief of staff, who opened the door to the outer office. Seconds later, a pretty redhead stenographer came in and quickly situated herself a discrete distance away from the coffee table, not too far so she couldn’t hear but far enough—a distance directed by the President through his chief of staff—so as to not catch murmured comments between the participants. The arrival of the stenographer signalled the end of lunch, but everyone in the room was astute enough to see what was going on and get ready to get down to business by the time the stenographer’s long, rose-colored fingernails were poised over her keyboard. At a nod from the President, Vice President Martindale sat up straight in his chair across from the President, cleared his throat quietly, and set his coffee cup down on the table. The delicate “CLICK” of the china cup on its saucer immediately silenced the low murmur of voices around the table; in the stately confines of the historic Oval Office, that tiny sound was more effective than the loudest gavel.

  “Thank you, Mr. President, gentlemen,” Martindale began. “As coordinator for the President’s narcotics control policy I wanted to review the progress of the ongoing program with you and see if we can come up with a united policy for the future. Drug abuse is on the rise. The rise of drug shipments into the United States indicates a rise in the offensive nature of drug smugglers, witness the attacks on Coast Guard and Customs Service interdiction forces.

  “Intercepting and stopping aircraft and vessels suspected of carrying illegal contraband is a big problem. Measures must be taken.” Some previously fixed-in-place happy smiles disappeared. Especially those of the Secretaries of Treasury and Transportation, McDonough and Coultrane.

  “Our drug-interdiction effort has two major faults: not enough resources—aircraft, ships, and manpower—to do the job; and most important, not enough coordination between the federal agencies to do the job—specifically the Coast Guard and the Customs Service. Recently I have received a lengthy, detailed proposal from a Coast Guard Admiral on how the drug-interdiction assets of the Coast Guard and the Customs Service can be combined into one new and different unit that would take over all drug-interdiction responsibilities from the coastline and borders out to the United States’ legal boundaries, its territorial limits. I asked for a demonstration to view this organization in operation and talk with the author of the proposal, Rear Admiral Ian Hardcastle, commander of the Coast Guard Seventh District in Miami. I also had a chance to speak with Inspector Sandra A. Geffar, commander of the Customs Service Air Branch in Miami. Air Force General Bradley Elliott and Major Patrick McLanahan were also there. In fact, it was Elliott’s organization that supplied most of the hardware in Admiral Hardcastle's test. You’re all aware of General Elliott, Major McLanahan and their recent . . . operations.” There were a few surprised glances around the table—most had heard of General Elliott and his remarkable mission, knocking out a Soviet laser installation, the Old Dog, or some such— by rumor only.

  “I’ve told you my feelings about Admiral Hardcastle’s project and I’ve discussed them with the President. He agrees that such an organization dedicated exclusively to drug interdiction and border security operations is necessary and should be implemented as soon as possible.” .

  In answer to expected concerns about shooting down civilians and so forth, mostly masking bureaucratic turf-protection, Martindale went on: ‘Tve seen Admiral Hardcastle’s forces in action,” the Vice President said. “They can read aircraft tail numbers, follow aircraft by remote control, measure course and altitude with precision. Yes, mistakes could happen, but I’m very impressed with the technology and its application. I really think they can do it. And it’s not just the hardware, but the restricted airspace plans he’s devised—simple and straightforward. He wants to corral all air and sea traffic into specific corridors and past radar and platform-based checkpoints, like cattle being led through chutes to their pens. If someone goes outside the corridor without permission they chase the guy down and intercept him.”

  “And that's when he gets shot down?” the President asked.

  “Only if the guy refuses or fails to respond to signals given him by the intercepting aircraft or vessel. Unless they find a reason to believe he’s not a smuggler, Hardcastle proposes that they will not allow any unidentified aircraft or vessel to cross the borders ...”

  Secretary of Transportation Coultrane complained that the procedures would be too difficult to spell out. Defense Secretary Preston said he’d prefer not to become involved in drug interdiction, the military should not be involved.

  “No problem,” Samuel Massey, the “drug czar,” said. “It’s time to try an all-out interdiction program. If the stuff starts getting scarce or expensive, if they can’t buy it or sell it so easily, maybe our other programs will kick in and become more effective.”

  The President cut it off. “I want this program put into action. I’m encouraged by what’s been reported to me by Mr. Martindale and I think we have the ability and the resources to do the job.”

  “Where are we going to get the money?” Secretary McDonough protested.

  “The proposal drawn up by Admiral Hardcastle spells out where the money comes from,” the Vice President said. “And you know it, Mr. McDonough—initial investment of two hundred million from the Defense Contingency Fund to activate the unit in the southeast and place three platforms in operation; eight hundred million per year from Defense to procure the V-22s, drones and radar gear; three hundred million per year from Treasury, mostly in the form of aircraft, vessels and manpower from the Customs Service”—McDonough groaned aloud at that—“and seven hundred million per year from Transportation for aircraft, vessels and manpower, mostly from the Coast Guard. These funding levels would continue until all drug interdiction operations are transferred from Treasury, Transportation and Defense.”

  “Defense can afford those kinds of assets,” McDonough argued. “Treasury can’t.”

  “After nearly thirty years trying to stop drug trafficking,” the Vice President said, “along comes a man who puts together a demonstration of a new organization that works. I believe it deserves full support.”

  “Any other comments?” the President asked. No replies, only a few empty stares and a couple of shaking heads. “Very well, I will draft a memo to all departments outlining the Administration’s plan to put this proposal into action.”

  The President turned to the Senate Republican leader from Texas. “Senator Edwards, Justice is drafting a bill to amend Title 53 and create the Department of Border Security. Senator Blumfeld has already pledged his support for the measure and as the senior senator from Florida, will sponsor it in the Senate. But I would appreciate your co-sponsorship.”

  Edwards nodded, but his face was impassive.

  “I still have reservations, Mr. President,” McDonough said. “Give me and my staff some time to draft a counterproposal, one that would be far less disruptive of the existing system—”

  “Floyd, let’s get on with this, all right?” the President said, rubbing his eyes. “I like this proposal. It sends a very clear message to the smugglers that we mean business. It does away with a lot of the bureaucratic crap floating around everything we try to do, especially in drug interdiction. Legal says it can fly. The Senate minority leader is willing to back it on the floor, and I think a lot of the majority will too if they know what’s good for them. I know it takes something a
way from your people but last I heard we’re all on the same damn team. I need a united showing on this one.”

  “I urge the Vice President to reconsider the proposal, re-evaluate it,” McDonough said quickly, ignoring the look of anger on the President’s face, “and resubmit it at the earliest possible time. If this is not done I wish to go on record opposing the proposal in its present form.

  “Thank you very much for your candid opinion, Mr. McDonough,” the President said, snapping off each word like an alligator chewing a mackerel. “Any other comments?” He didn’t wait long for a reply. “This meeting is adjourned. Thank you all very much.”

  The President got to his feet and took a step toward McDonough. “You signed on with me in the good times—I expect loyalty at all times. I heard your opinions, I considered them. I made my decision based on all the recommendations from my advisors. Now, 1 expect you to do your job. All clear, Floyd?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t support this proposal. My resignation will be on your desk within the hour.” He turned, squeezed past the other Cabinet members and the Senator minority leader, and strode out of the Oval Office.

  Good, the President thought, now I don’t have to fire tht son-of-a- bitch.

  Hammerhead One Staging Platform

  Two Days Later

  A light, warm rain was falling as Customs Agent Rushell Masters maneuvered his Black Hawk helicopters over the north landing pad on the huge Hammerhead One platform. A good breeze was blowing from the southwest but Masters had been landing on oil platforms, small helipads, jungle clearings and rooftops for twenty years.

  To mask its presence, except for required anchor and anti-collision lights, Hammerhead One had been dark until Masters approached the platform. When he was three miles out, following the platform’s navigational radio beacon, the lights were suddenly turned on.