“Mother of God,” Masters exclaimed over his interphone. “That’s the biggest damned oil platform I’ve ever seen.”
Geffar said, “The company that built Hammerhead One has a bigger one called King, and the Saudis have an even bigger one in the Persian Gulf.”
Nevertheless, the sight was remarkable, as if Times Square in New York or Fremont Street in Las Vegas had been transplanted out into the Straits of Florida. The platform’s four landing pads were illuminated, and bright red-and-white warning strobes indicated the location of Hammerhead One's radar, radio, satellite and data-link antennae cluster. The six-story engineering, maintenance, and living spaces beneath the roof were clearly visible now. The designated landing pad was rimmed with a bright strobe, blue circumference lights and a triangle-shaped illuminated azimuth and drift indicator that was plainly visible even from several hundred feet in the air.
Masters brought the chopper gently in for a touchdown, the chopper was secured by Coast Guard plane captains with quick-release cables, and Masters began shutting down the big helicopter. The huge searchlights were extinguished just as Masters, Geffar and their crew began exiting from the helicopter; only half-height “ballpark” lights were used to illuminate the Black Hawk’s landing pad for the benefit of the chopper’s crew chiefs servicing the machine. Masters, Geffar, two Customs Service agents and two Bahamian constables were led to the elevators to be taken below by Admiral Hardcastle wearing a bright yellow raincoat and yellow baseball cap with a strange emblem on it.
“I can’t get over this facility, Admiral,” Masters remarked as he took off his Customs Service baseball cap and shook the rain from it. It wasn’t until then that Hardcastle noticed the burn scars that creased almost the entire right side of Master’s face, neck and shoulders—the remnants of the attack at Mahogany Hammock. Masters noticed Hardcastle’s expression. “To coin a phrase, sir, it only hurts when I laugh.”
Hardcastle nodded. “I’m glad you’re up and around. You handled that Black Hawk as if you’ve been landing out here for years.”
They exited the elevator, hung up wet raingear on hooks in the corridor and headed toward the converted conference room.
“Well, we’ve had our first casualties by the Hammerheads,” Geffar said to Hardcastle as they were led through an office where coffee and sandwiches were ready.
“I heard,” Hardcastle replied, taking a mug of coffee. “The Secretary of the Treasury and the Customs Commissioner resigned. Who’s going to take their place?”
“Last word I got was Geraldine Rivera, the OMB director, was going to be nominated for Treasury,” Geffar said, “and Ron Gates was first choice for Customs commissioner. I talked him into riding along with us one of these nights—he’ll be aboard the Nomad tailing anyone heading north out of Cuba. It’ll be his first real mission with us—it’s like he suddenly got religion.”
As they were hanging up their coats, Geffar picked up Hardcastle’s cap and examined the insignia on it. The peak had a vertical profile of a hammerhead shark on it in black, with the large eye stalks on the head at the bottom and the large fins at the top. Extending horizontally from the shark was a pair of wings.
“Someone’s been doodling, I see,” Geffar said.
“Just an idea I had,” Hardcastle said.
Hardcastle reached up into an overhead cupboard and removed another cap—this one bore the gold scrambled-eggs oak leaf on the brim signifying a vessel commander. He handed it to Geffar. “This one’s yours.”
Sandra took the cap, examined it, then without a word hung her blue Customs Service cap on a hook, put her back-pocket crush on the brim of her new cap and slipped it on.
Hardcastle motioned the newcomers up five steps onto a higher tier. “As you can see, and for the benefit of you who haven’t been on board before, we’ve done a little remodeling in this control center. The primary operations and UAV control consoles are down there. We’ve got two Coast Guard technicians manning the consoles now. The screens we’ll use to get pictures from the scene are newer and larger high-definition monitors, with better resolution and higher quality than the regular big-screen TVs we had before. Up here are the commander’s and deputy’s seats ...”
“Where’s General Elliott and Major McLanahan?” Geffar interrupted.
“Called to Washington,” Hardcastle told her. “None of the HAWC people are here. They gave my people a quick lesson in how to use this gear—most of it is computerized and highly automatic, thank God. The Sky Lion drone is on board but we won’t use it unless absolutely necessary ...”
He punched a button on the commander’s console, and the left large-screen monitors changed to show a well-lit hangar. In the center of the hangar floor was the V-22C Sea Lion tilt-rotor aircraft. “As you can see, we have the V-22 on board as well, and we can have it on deck in five minutes.”
“Is it armed?”
Hardcastle nodded.
Masters looked at Geffar. “Armed? That V-22 is armed?”
“The V-22 carries heat-seeking missiles,” Hardcastle said, “capable against either aerial, ground or sea targets. It also carries a M230 Hughes Chain Gun.” Even Rushell Masters raised an eyebrow at that.
Geffar quickly added, “We won’t be using the V-22 tonight.” Masters looked at the image of the V-22 with a mixture of amazement and delight—obviously the thought of using an armed aircraft against smugglers appealed to him. And as Geffar and Hardcastle watched him, with his horrible burns and scars, they could understand why.
“On the right-hand screen is the radar display from Diamond,” Hardcastle said, “a Coast Guard cutter-based aerostat unit. We have him stationed just east of Cay Sal Bank in the Santaren Channel, about fifty miles southeast of our position. Diamond has been reprogrammed to scan for both sea and air targets, so we have no E-2 or E-3 radar planes in on this operation—the weather’s a bit marginal anyway, and I think the Air Force is a little skittish about putting an E-3 in the area after that Coast Guard Falcon was attacked. We can keep Diamond on station for four days—after that it’s scheduled to go back to Miami Beach.”
Hardcastle motioned to the commander’s high-backed seat, similar to the chairs found on the bridge of Navy warships. “Yours, Sandra. Want to take over now?”
Geffar looked at him. “Jumping the gun, aren’t you? As of the moment I’m the Customs Service task force commander, and this is a Customs surveillance and interdiction operation with Coast Guard support. The difference is we’re fifty miles closer to the action, thanks to this platform. We’re not Hammerheads yet.. .” But we’re getting there fast, she thought.
“We have Omaha Three-Four, the Nomad radar plane, heading south to take up a position north of Veradero, Cuba. He’ll be leapfrogging with Omaha Three-Five as his fuel status changes. We’re the forward unit, Omaha Three-One. We have one backup chopper, Omaha Three-Two, but he’s also scheduled for another ongoing mission so he may or may not be available.” Geffar turned to Hardcastle. “Do you have a map of the area?”
He entered commands on the commander’s console keyboard and instantly a full-color map of the south Florida and Caribbean region snapped onto the left HDTV monitor. Hardcastle handed Geffar what looked like a small pen and showed her how to use it. She touched the fourteen-inch screen on the commander’s console with the soft tip of the pen, and an arrow appeared on the left screen pointing to the spot she touched on her screen.
Geffar shook her head. “Okay. Mayberry point is right . . . here.” She hit a button that allowed her to draw a spot where drug drops were usually made. “Ten miles northeast of Veradero military base, just inside Cuban waters.” She drew a line across the Nicholas Channel, through Cay Sal Bank and across the Santaren Channel and the Great Bahama Bank toward Andros Island. Hardcastle hit a button and the computer drew the present position of the Coast Guard aerostat cutter Diamond just a few miles north of where Geffar had drawn her line.
“This is the usual track intelligence says these boats take after
rendezvousing at Mayberry. They usually divert a little south, down along Anguilla Cays at Cay Sal Bank, then in a zigzag pattern toward Andros Island. We’re not sure where they’re headed until they’re well into the island. This time, though, we’re going to find the bastards and nail ’em.
“They could move north, up Cay Sal to Elbow Cay, then in toward the Keys,” Geffar went on. "It looks like Diamond may not be in position to track them if they move north or if they try to send some decoys—they won’t move further west toward Key West, we know that ...”
"Send the Nomad after anything moving north,” the deep voice of Rushell Masters suggested. “The aerostat can help us track whatever, moving toward the Bahamas. We have a FLIR on the Black Hawk—that’ll help us too.”
“Agreed,” Geffar said. “We’ll commit the Nomad to track anything heading northbound. If they use more boats—well, we’ll just have to do the best we can.” She glanced at Hardcastle.
“The Sky Lion drones easily track any stragglers or decoys,” he said.
“We’re not authorized to use the Sky Lion, Admiral . . .”
“We can data-link through the Nomad and run an automatic intercept,” he said. “If we lose the Nomad we can run the Sky Lion out on a data-link from Diamond until the drone’s sensors pick up.”
“Admiral, you gave me the cap. Well use our assets, period . . . That’s the plan, then. We’ll be on for the next twenty hours, and then rotate with Curt’s crew. Now we wait until the Nomad gets something for us. You can look around the platform but be ready to go when we page you.”
Hardcastle and Geffar sat at the command console and watched Diamond’s radar display on the right-hand HDTV.
“How do I talk with the Nomad crew?”
“Comm screen is here,” Hardcastle told her, pointing to a smaller ten-inch screen to the left of the main monitor. The screen had four columns of rectangles with a label and frequency for each box. Hardcastle handed Geffar a lightweight headset. “All the channelized freqs for this mission are displayed on this screen. You just touch the screen to talk. Touch this button in the low'er right corner to call up more frequencies—air traffic control, NORAD, the sherifFs department—we’ve got five hundred different UHF, VHF, HF, CB and FM frequencies programmed into the computer.”
Geffar touched the rectangle labeled “NOMAD OMAHA 34.” She watched as the rectangle blinked a few times and a message on the top of the screen flashed, “SECURE SYNC,” indicating that the secure frequency circuits were locking in to the other receiver. When it changed to a solid white, she spoke: “Three-Four, this is Three- One.”
She heard the soft squeal and hiss as the other transmitter completed its own security synchronization, then: “Three-One, this is Three-Four. Go.”
Geffar was about to ask for their position, but one glance at the left HDTV told the story—when the Nomad crew keyed their microphone a tiny green square and data block on the area map blinked on showing the Nomad’s location to be about twenty miles north of Veradero, Cuba—along with its altitude, airspeed, and heading. “Say status,” she said instead.
“In the green,” the Nomad’s pilot reported. “Preparing to enter orbit now.”
“Move farther north out to the edge of your scanning radius,” Geffar said. “If Gomer shows up he’ll be able to pick you up on his radar. We’ve got a pretty good eyeball on Mayberry.”
“Okay. Three-One. We’ll move up to BRONCO and set up shop there.” Point BRONCO was Elbow Cay. It was a perfect position— the Nomad’s SeaScan radar would fill in gaps between Hammerhead One’s limited radar to the northeast, the Coast Guard aerostat Diamond to the east and southwest, and the aerostat unit at Key West to the west, and it could still watch Cuba’s northern coast for signs of any activity.
Geffar sat back and studied the display as the Nomad aircraft moved north to its new orbit. She then hit the comm button labeled SLINGSHOT. “SLINGSHOT, this is Omaha Three-One, radio check.”
“Three-One, this is SLINGSHOT.” A data block appeared over Miami on the map. “Read you loud and clear. Ident and say position.”
“Three-One is not airborne,” Geffar replied. “We are presently secure at Hammerhead One awaiting traffic.”
“Say again, Three-One?” the controller at SLINGSHOT radioed back. “You’re where?"
“Hammerhead One.” There was a long pause on the radio. “Those turkeys,” GefiFar murmured to Hardcastle. “They were briefed on this platform . . .”
“Three-One, authenticate Whiskey for me.”
“For God’s sake.” GefiFar sighed, touched the screen. “Three-One authenticates one-niner-niner-five. Get with it, guys—you were briefed this morning.”
The pause was a bit shorter this time: “Good authentication, Three-One. My mistake.” He still didn’t sound too sure but was willing to trust anyone who gave him the Air Branch commander’s coded reply. “Negative traffic at this time. Will advise. Over.”
“Roger. Three-One out.” GefiFar then checked in with Diamond. Everything seemed to be working well.
“Anything we’ve overlooked?” Hardcastle asked as he and Geffar settled in front of their electronic “eyes.”
“I don’t think so. We could alw ays use more choppers out here but we’re committing all of the Miami Air Branch's Black Hawks on this one operation. We’re maxed out.” She took a sip of coffee. “Everything’s in place. Now we sit and wait.”
Valdivia, Colombia
The Next Morning
Salazar’s arrival in Valdivia the previous evening created a stir anything but pleasing to Gachez and the other Cartel representatives. Instead of the usual flight of three or four small- to medium-sized cargo planes that usually touched down on Gachez’s private runway, only one arrived this time—but it was by far the largest aircraft that had ever landed in Valdivia.
It was an Antonov-12 cargo plane, the largest Soviet-made turboprop aircraft available for export to other countries. It had been repainted in dark camouflage green with a small Cuban flag on its vertical stabilizer. The huge cargo plane made a picture-perfect touchdown on the Valdivia runway, stopped short of midfield and taxied into a large parking area at the edge of the secluded airfield.
Gachez watched in silence as Salazar and his aide Hermosa exited the plane. Salazar, wearing his typical riding outfit, all but swaggered over to where Gachez and his bodyguard were standing and waved the Cartel chief a casual salute with a leather riding crop.
“What’s this, Salazar? What in hell is that?”
“That, senor, is your salvation.” Salazar motioned toward it just as a group of his soldiers deplaned carrying dark green camouflage netting and erector poles. They began stringing the netting over and across the plane. “My pride and joy and the solution to your problems. A recent acquisition from my former colleagues in the People’s Republic of Cuba. We will deliver as much product as you like on board and deliver it anywhere within fifteen hundred kilometers.” “That monstrosity can be detected on radar hundreds of kilometers away,” Gachez said. “It’s an easy target—”
“It is also the only way you will get any product delivered in the near future. The American Coast Guard has established a picket across the Straits of Florida and the western Bahamas—”
“That’s why you make the drop in Cuban waters,” Gachez said. “We enjoy protection in Cuban waters—”
“But your product will go nowhere,” Salazar said. “They can concentrate firepower in one area, possibly two or three different areas. The best chance we have to beat their cordon is to make several drops in numerous locations at the same time, and the only aircraft that can haul the quantities you need and make the trip is this one.” Gachez was still fuming—Salazar seemed out of control. Out of his control, anyway ... A car drove up to take Gachez and the others to the administration center, but it was clear that the drug kingpin wasn’t ready to leave. “What do you mean, several drops? You don’t make the plans here, Salazar. / do.”
“But it is
my men that fly the planes,” Salazar said. “It is my men who will suffer if they are caught. I bring you the best way to do the job, Senor Gachez. If you do not want my help, I will take my soldiers and my plane and leave.”
It was true, Gachez thought grimly. Salazar clearly was tired of playing messenger boy and was trying to take control. But at least for the moment he felt he still had the upper hand. “All right, tell me your grand idea.”
“Very simple, senor,” Salazar said, and motioned to Hermosa, who took out a chart from a briefcase and spread it on the hood of the car, then shined a flashlight on it. “Instead of one drop at the usual point in the Archipelago de Sabana, we stage several drops.” He indicated the marked points on the map. “First, we make the usual drops along the Camaguey and the Sabana, as planned. This may draw off any Coast Guard patrols waiting for us along the north coast of Cuba. I then take the shipment toward Cay Sal Bank. We set up three drop points there. After that, drops along Andros Island, Ragged Island Range, Mayaguana Passage, Great Inagua Island and Silver Bank Passage. When the shipment is depleted I recover in Verrettes.”
“Ten drops?” Gachez said. “All in one night?”
“The Coast Guard will be confused,” Salazar said, waving a hand at Hermosa to take the chart away. “Even if they have the ability to catch one or two of your men, the rest will slip away. Instead of the measly twenty- or fifty-kilo containers we normally carry on the smaller planes, you divide your shipment into ten loads and divide each load into one-hundred-kilo parcels with flotation and recovery gear—”
“One hundred kilos!”
“Your men should be able to handle that size container even in a small racer,” Salazar said. “In a larger vessel, a freighter, it will be a simple matter. Our plane will not circle any area to make drops. We make one run in the designated area and leave.
Gachez’s anger was slowly running out. The idea had merit. “I will need to contact my men and position them for the drops. It may take several days.”
Salazar shrugged. “Take your time. The longer you wait, the more likely that the Americans will relax their pickets.” He laced his fingers behind his head and put his feet up on Gachez’s desk. “I would also investigate your organization for an intelligence leak or informant, senor. The Americans have obviously received information that a drop was imminent.”
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