Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “Why are you wearing guns?” Hardcastle asked.

  “We’re the police!” the chief shouted, wincing at the pain.

  “What axe firemen doing with guns?” Geffar asked. “That’s dangerous and stupid—”

  “Not half as stupid as what you two are doing. This is private property, you can’t come to this airport without permission—”

  “We have authority to go to any airport in the country ...”

  “Not without probable cause you don’t.”

  “Van Nuys entered the country without Customs clearance. He was flying in restricted airspace without permission. We have authority to pursue any airspace violators.”

  “Van Nuys had clearance and a flight plan filed and executed,” the chief said. “I verified it with the FAA myself when he called it in from Freeport. As for crossing restricted airspace—well, he was radio-out, an emergency aircraft can deviate in an emergency. Besides, all this Border Security Force is a crock . . . you people have no authority over land.”

  A white-haired mustachioed man appeared from the crowd that had gathered. “I’m Fred Weintraub, chairman of the homeowner’s association. What’s going on?”

  “We’re from the United States Border Security Force,” Hardcastle told him. “Your fire chief, or police chief, whichever, was uncooperative, he’s being detained—”

  “Detained? Assaulted, you mean.”

  “He was reaching for a weapon—”

  Just then they heard the sound of a Dolphin helicopter approaching. The yellow chopper sped overhead, completed an orientation circle over the center of the runway, then landed a few dozen yards from the growing knot of people at the edge of the runway. Two Border Security Force personnel hopped out of the right-side door wearing sidearms and carrying fire extinguishers.

  “Margaret, Jack, keep everyone away from the Cessna here,” Geffar told them. “No one go near it until Customs arrives. When they get here give me a buzz on the radio.” They nodded and placed themselves between the airplane and the crowd. “Looks like we stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Geffar said as an aside to Hardcastle.

  “Something’s strange here,” he said, holstering his sidearm. “All this local security, all this crap about us invading them . . . Why?”

  Border Security Force Area Headquarters, Alladin City, Florida

  Four Hours Later

  The new Border Security Force headquarters was located in Aladdin City, about fifteen miles southwest of Miami. It was located on a U.S. Coast Guard communications reservation, where a huge labyrinth of antennas had been erected over several dozen square miles to allow Coast Guard vessels across the southeast United States and the Caribbean region to link up with their Miami headquarters. It was also the location of the former joint Coast Guard and Customs Service surveillance and command and control center known as C-3-I, an abbreviation for Command, Control, Communications, and Intelligence. C-3-I was the nation’s most sophisticated command post, an electronic hub that combined radar data from several different sources—civil, federal, local, military, and intelligence sources— plus worldwide communications facilities into one building. When the Border Security Force was established, control of C-3-I transferred immediately to the new organization; with its sophisticated security setup, remote yet accessible location, and the nearby New Taimiami Airport, which was large enough to handle military aircraft, it was the logical place to set up a base of operations for the Hammerheads.

  The facility was quickly expanded to handle the Border Security Force, with administrative facilities, even more advanced security and communications setup, and expanded access and capacity near Taimiami Airport to handle the unit’s manned and unmanned tactical aircraft. The new base was soon nicknamed the “Zoo,” because of the headquarter’s location—the Border Security Force’s headquarters was less than a mile from the Miami Metro Zoo.

  “Your little episode at the Sunrise Beach Club was about as well- received as a stripper at a funeral,” Brad Elliott said with a weak smile. He was meeting with Hardcastle and Geffar at the Border Security Force’s headquarters later that same day. They were in the intelligence operations center, an enclosed, electronically sealed room just off the master control center. Beyond the one-way windows in the front of the room, they could see the three twenty-foot square computer monitors from where the entire southeast United States, and soon the entire nation, was kept under constant watch by the Border Security Force. Those three screens displayed combined radar and sensor images from dozens of different sources, and so complete was the picture on those screens that virtually every aircraft and vessel flying within two hundred miles of America’s shoreline was constantly being plotted and tracked by the Hammerheads.

  Geffar was pacing around near the office’s windows, her flight suit clinging to her body. Hardcastle sat on one of the sofas.

  Hardcastle protested. “We were doing what we’re supposed to be doing . . .”

  Elliott held up a hand. “I know, I know, and you were right... well, dropping the police chief wasn’t such a hot idea ...”

  “I saw his gun and reacted,” Hardcastle said. “He was reaching for it, had his hand right on it . . .”

  “Dammit, Ian, no one’s accusing you. The chief will get a very detailed explanation of the authority and responsibility of the Border Security Force. But you know the press and the investigators will focus in on what you did, not on what he did to promote it.”

  “He didn't even seem like a fire chief to me,” Hardcastle went on angrily.

  “We pulled his files. He was voted in three years running. Ex-Dade County deputy sheriff.”

  “Ex?”

  “Resigned after eight years on the force. No explanation given, none required. Most likely a BBD.”

  “What’s that? Bad Boy Discharge?”

  “Bigger and Better Deal.”

  Hardcastle shook his head. “He just . . . hell, I don’t know. He seemed wrong, that’s all. Everything seemed wrong. What was with all that foam? They covered everything on that plane.”

  “He said he saw smoke and ordered the foam applied,” Elliott said, flipping through a folder with Hokum’s accident reports. “He says he was concerned with the safety of the eminent Maxwell Van Nuys, wasn’t thinking about any investigations. He thought the foam was the best and most immediate option—”

  “Well, who the hell uses foam any more?”

  “Just because the military doesn’t use it doesn’t mean it’s not effective,” Elliott replied. “He says his responsibility is to the residents who—”

  “Still doesn’t wash,” Hardcastle muttered.

  “What did Customs find on Van Nuys’ plane?” Geffar asked. “Plans for a new hotel on Grand Bahama Island, souvenirs, a case of Diamond Plantation rum. It looks like a short-circuit in his alternator caused the radio blackouts and the smoke in the cockpit.” “What about his flight plan and Customs clearance?”

  “We found it in the system,” Elliott said. “He had a defense VFR flight plan from Freeport to Sunrise Beach, including a Customs advisory and declaration. There’s some question about when it was filed—the chief logged it in one hour before takeoff, but our records didn’t show it in the system until he crossed into American airspace. Someone slipped up in there somewhere. We’re investigating. And, yes, he declared the rum.” He paused, then added, “It was a good sortie. Completely justified and authorized If anyone’s to blame for what happened it’s Hokum, he should have backed off—”

  “What about Van Nuys?”

  “He claims exactly what Sandra suspected,” Elliott told them. “He lost his navigation radios, found the platform and used it as a landmark to find Key Largo.”

  “But what about entering the country without a flight plan or permission to enter?”

  “He had a flight plan . . .”

  “Not a valid one,” Hardcastle said. “Not one filed before takeoff or approved by us.”

  “He did request a waiver of normal Custo
ms inspection procedures for this trip along with the flight plan, but again, the request was never processed.”

  “So he skates, is that it?” Hardcastle said.

  “Well,” Elliott said, “the man loses his radio and can’t communicate—”

  “Funny thing about that. He can hear but can’t talk. His IFF goes out, too. Pretty damned convenient. Enough to claim he was lost but not enough to risk getting his ass shot down.”

  “We’ll backtrack to see if Van Nuys tried to enter the country without filing a flight plan,” Elliott said, “or maybe tried to file one after the incident, when he got caught. But I can’t promise a lot even if we find out he tried to enter without permission. Van Nuys cuts a popular figure in Florida, is well respected. He’s already donated the salvageable parts of the wrecked Cessna to the Customs Service— that’s worth almost thirty grand right there. Besides, the man’s in the hospital with neck injuries. I agree it’s a little fishy, Ian, but actually, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Like getting the Border Security Force to be a Cabinet-level department. There’s opposition, as we knew there would be. See if we earn it, the opposition keeps saying. Hell, if we don’t have Cabinet status we won’t have some of the clout we need to show our stuff.”

  “Wonderful,” Geffar said. “Politics. If we’re successful, they’ll be shoving to get their mug-shots with us. If we fail they’ll be shoving to be the first to pull the plug.”

  “There’s another interesting topic being circulated—decriminalization. Rumor has it a measure might be proposed that would virtually legalize marijuana and mandate only rehabilitation for possession of amounts of cocaine less than fifty grams.”

  “That’s incredible!” Geffar said, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s just perfect. Here we are, risking our butts like this, and it all might go for nothing.”

  “Equally incredible, the congressional leadership has decided not to comment on the rumor as of yet,” Elliott continued.

  “There’s a strong precedent to decriminalize certain drugs, Sandra,” Hardcastle said. He smiled, knotting his fingers together. “It’s amazing how history repeats itself sometimes. Back during Prohibition, it took the advent of groups such as the first Hammerheads before most persons started to think that maybe alcohol wasn’t so bad and the amendment should be repealed. They found out then that if the people want alcohol, they can get it. No amount of strong-arm tactics were going to stop them.”

  “Narcotics are different,” Geffar said. “The drug problem is affecting the youth of this country. Entire cities are under siege by gangs trafficking in drugs ...”

  “It was no diflFerent back then,” Hardcastle insisted. “There were lots of alcoholic kids, infants born alcoholic, gangs running liquor, shoot-outs in the streets between gangs vying for the black market liquor trade—remember Capone? Bathtub gin? Speakeasies? Alcohol was liquid poison back then, just as drugs are considered now. But Prohibition was still repealed, and alcohol was legalized. They found that society can police itself better than the government can police society.”

  “You surprise me every damn day, Hardcastle,” she said. “Here I thought you were some kind of one-man crusader, launching off in your whirlybird to fight the forces of evil. Hey, my main reason for getting up in the morning is to see what the hell you’ll do or say next . . . Anything else for me, Brad?”

  “I guess not . . .”

  She nodded and headed for the door. “I’m going down to the Sunrise Beach Community Hospital to have a talk with Van Nuys.” Hardcastle got to his feet. “I’ll fly you—”

  “I have a car, I’ll drive. When I’m done I’ll go over to Homestead and catch a ride back to the platform.”

  After she left there was silence in the office for a long moment. Then, Elliott said: “How are you two? Things going okay?”

  Hardcastle shrugged. “Fine . . . we really haven’t been working together much until today. And we don’t always see eye to eye on everything. But you’ve known that since the beginning. I disagree with her w?anting to limit the operational radius of Seagull drones until the data-transmission problem is solved. I’m not interested in how the public feels about seeing a drone parachute into the water. She is, and I understand why. I still . . .”

  Elliott nodded. “Good. Well, I’m going to spend the weekend in Key West, then head back to Washington. If you need to reach me

  “I understand,” Hardcastle said. “Don’t.”

  Sunrise Beach Community Hospital, Key Largo, Florida

  Two Hours Later

  Sandra Geffar had taken just enough time to change into slacks and a linen jacket—which was loose enough to hide her .45 caliber automatic in its shoulder rig—before leaving her headquarters building and starting the drive to Key Largo.

  At the hospital she found Van Nuys on his feet, pacing around the room near the window. A neck brace sat on top of broad shoulders, and his movements were very stiff.

  “Mr. Van Nuys, I’m sorry to disturb you but—”

  “Miss Geffar, what a surprise.” Van Nuys moved toward her. Geffar extended a hand but he took both of hers. “A very pleasant surprise. Please, come in.” He tried to settle in the chair but an obvious spark of pain caused him to sit upright.

  Geffar, without thinking, took a pillow from the bed and placed it behind him. “Much better, thank you. You’ll make some man very happy. Or are you—”

  “Divorced.” Personal biographies weren’t why she was here, she tried to remind herself. “I need to ask you some questions about this morning.”

  “Of course,” all affably. “I thank the Customs Service investigators for being brief with their questions. I’m afraid I wasn’t very helpful. My doctor pumped me full of pain-killers.”

  “I understand you didn’t have your shoulder harness on.”

  He looked at her in some surprise. Which hardly matched hers that she’d said it. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “. . . Your injuries are common for people who are unrestrained and try to brace themselves against the force of an impact. I’ve been there.”

  “I’m sure you have,” smiling.

  “Yes, well, I understand you filed your flight plan by phone to Chief Hokum here at Sunrise Beach. “Why? Why not file directly with the FA A?”

  “By speaking directly with the Chief I was able to accomplish several things. I not only transmitted my flight plan to him but he was notified of my ETA and other messages I had him deliver for me. Chief Hokum cooperates nicely in such matters.”

  That all checked with her information from past FAA records, which showed Hokum had filed flight plans for Van Nuys and other Sunrise Beach tenants at various times. It seemed a strange way of filing a flight plan, but on the other hand trying to file a flight plan through Bahamian air traffic control or long distance to Miami Flight Service could result in lost plans.

  “Am I going to be charged with a crime?”

  “Technically, you’re in violation. The Border Security Force’s fine is a minimum of ten thousand dollars and confiscation of your aircraft, unless there are mitigating circumstances. Next trip I’d suggest contacting the FAA directly instead of going through Hokum. If he loses your flight plan you’re still responsible. Turning over the salvageable parts of your plan to Customs, well, I doubt Hammerheads will levy a fine, this time. But the decision will come from Washington.”

  “The 210 was old and not my favorite plane for overwater trips ... You mentioned the Hammerheads. Exactly who are the Hammerheads?”

  “It’s our nickname for the Border Security Force. We’re not very big yet, but we can secure the whole southeast United States from unauthorized intrusion and we’ll soon be able to cover the entire southern flank.”

  “Hammerheads . . . Like the shark, eh? Sounds very military. What’s a beautiful woman like you doing—?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” She didn’t add a “thanks” for the compliment, but she had to admit it registered. “Let’s talk about why
you didn’t fly the entry corridor after discovering you were radio-out.”

  “What?”

  “According to your flight plan you were filed VFR from Freeport to Opa-Locka, stopover for inspection, and then VFR to Sunrise Beach. Yet when you lost communications just before entering the ADIZ you were detected flying several miles off course directly for Sunrise Beach. Why?”

  Van Nuys shrugged. “I suppose I panicked a bit... I thought I was on course but I found myself drifting south of the corridor. When I saw your platform I knew where I was and decided to go directly back to Sunrise Beach instead of going through the Miami terminal control area radio-out.”

  Geffar nodded. He was smart. It was the correct reply—the only correct reply. Flight through a terminal control area as busy as Miami’s was never recommended for radio-out aircraft unless he was on instrument flight rules. Unless it was the only option, the preferred course would have been to land at an airport not inside a TCA, and since Sunrise Beach was his final destination it was the logical choice . . .

  “Since you had deviated from your flight plan,” Geffar went on, “rescuers would have had a hard time finding you if you had gone down in the ocean . . . And making an approach at an uncontrolled airport with no radios isn’t a good idea. But under the circumstances, your decision did make sense . . .” Was she being turned around easy? No, she didn’t think so. Come on, Geffar, stop the two-bit selfanalysis . . .

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t too concerned about Customs at that particular moment,” Van Nuys said, looking earnest, “and Hokum did know I was arriving. One pass over the field without a call to UNICOM would have alerted him that I was having difficulty. But I take your points. There were other options that I no doubt should have considered. But I never expected what greeted me. You made a very impressive show in your flying machine out there, Sandra Geffar.

  Was that a V-22 you were flying?” She nodded. “The one with the missiles and guns on board?” A half nod. The smile was back. “Well, I’m very glad you people didn’t open fire, but Fm also glad I did what I did—it got me a chance to meet you. ”