Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “Shark, this is Two-Three,” Hardcastle radioed. “We’ve sustained damage to the cockpit and right engine. Right engine is shut down and we are in emergency cross-over mode. We are declaring an emergency. We will attempt recovery at Alladin City and keep you advised. Over.”

  Geffar’s was the next voice on the channel: “Copy all, Two-Three. We will notify ATC of your emergency and your intentions.” She was about to ask how the Sea Lion could be so badly damaged after she had just said to bring the Sea Lion back, but no good to press it now. “Break. Five-One, what’s your situation?”

  “Five-One is in the green, approaching the suspect vessel now,” Petraglia replied. “We have Two-Three visually. He is currently heading south just off the shoreline, estimated altitude five thousand feet. We see no smoke or fire on board but he was very close to the target just before ... he encountered damage.”

  “Is this an open channel?” Geffar asked Fields on intercom.

  “Yes, the secure channel is unreliable. We’ve been on the open VHF aerostat relay all night.”

  That was the reason for Petraglia’s cryptic replies, Geffar realized—half the state of Florida must be listening in on this. “Understand, Five-One. What’s the status of the target?”

  “We are in sight of the target. He is dead in the water, possibly with a small fire in his midsection and is listing by the stern. We are three hundred yards away and closing. I see one person in the cockpit waving his arms. I see no weapons but we are proceeding with caution under LE two.”

  “Roger, Five-One. Stand by.” To Fields, Geffar said, “Launch a Sea Lion to support Five-One. I want a Dolphin on deck with a rescue crew to escort Hardcastle and assist in emergency recovery. I’ll be riding along with the Dolphin.” Geffar logged off her computer console and headed to the hangar deck.

  They caught up with Hardcastle’s Sea Lion just over Virginia Key five miles before landing at the Border Security Force’s headquarters area. It was creeping along at only forty miles an hour on account of the shattered right windscreen and because it reduced the strain on the left engine. By flying in close formation on the right side Geffar could see the missing right cockpit glass panel and the streaks of oil and other evidence of blast damage on the right engine nacelle.

  “How’s it handling, Ian?” Geffar radioed over on the secure radio frequency.

  “It’s fine. I’ve locked the system in full vertical flight mode to keep the nacelles and wings from shifting. I get overspeed warnings past eighty-five percent power but no unusual vibrations and no control problems.”

  “All right,” Geffar told him. “If you won’t have any trouble landing bring it in at headquarters. If you think you might have trouble take it over the Rickenbacker Highway to Key Biscayne and land it in the Crandon Park golf course. We have rescue vehicles standing by. You can follow their truck lights to the touchdown point.”

  The landing at the headquarter’s landing pad went smoothly except for a bit of uneasiness a few seconds before touchdown. Ambulances, rescue trucks and crewmen from Geffar’s helicopter rushed to the Sea Lion when they heard the engine begin to wind down, and within moments an unconscious Fontaine was on a stretcher and being loaded into the ambulance. Hardcastle’s crewmen had stopped the bleeding and treated his wound. Geffar briefly checked on Fontaine then returned to the Sea Lion’s starboard side door as Hardcastle was helping Daniel down out of the plane. They were staring silently at a large tear in the back padding of the seat Daniel had just vacated—a spot where the bullet that had entered the cockpit had come through, inches above Daniel’s head. The bullet that had almost killed Fontaine had also almost killed Daniel Hardcastle.

  Daniel looked ashen. He was staring at the jagged hole in the seat. Hardcastle appeared drained; his hair was matted down, his flight suit soaked with sweat. Daniel looked chilled right down to the bone in spite of the layers of life jacket, body armor and clothing. “I’ll drive you two and the other crewmen over to the clinic in Key Biscayne to get you checked over,” Geffar said.

  Hardcastle nodded, realized the two had never met. A helluva way to make introductions, he thought as he put an arm around his son’s shoulder and led him to a waiting van for the ride to the hospital.

  As they went to the van Geffar grabbed a flashlight from its holder beside the starboard cargo door of the Sea Lion and inspected the right wing. The blast damage was severe—Hardcastle had taken a chance bringing the aircraft all the way from Boca Raton overwater to Alladin City. The drive train running through the wing was intact but badly damaged—even with the cross-connect mechanism working, the drive could have failed, which would have meant a water landing at night. It was a risky decision to make, especially with live weapons and a passenger—his son, no less—on board . . .

  At Key Biscayne Community Hospital a team of doctors and nurses checked over each man, and each was found fit for duty. Except, of course, Fontaine, who had suffered a concussion along with traumatic shock and would be hospitalized for several days.

  Geffar brought the crew back to the headquarters building, where they met up with Brad Elliott and Patrick McLanahan. The Hammerheads’ commander let them make phone calls and talk to their families, ordered them hot meals from a local restaurant, then separated them into individual offices and had them prepare statements on what had occurred from their point of view. Daniel was given the same.

  When the crew members were settled and working, Elliott brought Hardcastle into his office. “This is a little unusual, isn’t it, Brad?” Hardcastle said after the door was closed. “Reports are usually filled out as a crew, not separately. This begins to look like an inquisition.”

  “Hardly that, but it won’t be SOP, either. This is the first time we’ve fired on a vessel. Since we didn’t have a very good tactical picture of the incident I want individual statements from the crew. We’ll also debrief you as a crew. Hardcastle nodded, but didn’t like it. Elliott noticed electronic messages were queued up on his computer terminal, several marked IMPORTANT. As he read the electronic messages he asked, “Why did you go on this flight tonight, Ian? You were off-duty, in civilian clothes, and had your son with you. Not exactly what I’d call mission-ready.”

  “Daniel and I were out at the hangar. I was showing him around. When the crew responded on standby I learned that Sandra wasn’t going to launch aircraft to chase down that Cigarette boat—”

  “That’s right,” Geffar said. “That guy cleared Customs in Freeport. We tracked him as soon as CARABAL picked him up. He was clean when he left the Bahamas and according to the radar no other vessels rendezvoused with him. We didn’t have the qualified crews or the assets to do an intercept so I turned it over to Customs.”

  “If he was inspected in Freeport where’d he get the automatic rifle?” Elliott pressed.

  Geffar spread her hands. “Who knows? Maybe he bribed some inspectors, maybe he sneaked it on board. The point was that we knew the boat was clean and we knew it wasn’t involved with any major smuggling—”

  “So, why not send a unit to intercept him? We’re a border security unit, we don’t selectively stop some and allow others to pass—”

  “That’s not what we did, sir. We didn’t have the air assets to do a full intercept, the crew here, Fontaine’s crew, wasn’t qualified to—

  Hardcastle interrupted. “Then why are we putting unqualified crews on alert like this? We should be flying them every night to get them qualified—”

  “We’ve been flying them,” Elliott told him. “Fontaine and his crew flew this afternoon, just before their shift.”

  “You know what the training schedule is like, for God’s sake,” Geffar added. “We barely have enough crews to go around as it is. It takes time to qualify in a complex aircraft like the Sea Lion. And lowering the sortie count to qualify more crews in my opinion is not the answer. We need to be more selective about which targets we intercept, involve seaborne assets more instead of unqualified air assets. That means Customs, the
Coast Guard and our shore-based patrols. That’s who I had on the intercept and that’s all I wanted . . . Ian, I understand, developed this whole deal, but I’m operations here . . .”

  “Sandra, I heard the report on the target. I’m qualified on night intercepts. I made the decision to do the intercept . .

  “Maybe not such a hot idea, Ian,” Elliott said.

  Hardcastle frowned. “It was my decision as the senior officer . . .” “A reporter contacted the switchboard just after the intercept began,” Elliott said quietly. “Since all the radio transmissions were generally in the clear and reporters seem to be adept at tracking our movements, the press has a pretty good picture of what happened tonight... This reporter says he saw you at a restaurant this evening, and that you had a drink at the bar before dinner and wine at dinner. Any comment?”

  “Sure, it’s true. I won’t deny it—I don’t have to deny it. It sure as hell didn’t impair my abilities or judgement—”

  “Would you submit to a blood test?”

  “What? Are you asking me to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll do it. You didn’t think I would, did you?”

  “Come on, Ian, when you think about it you’ll realize I’m asking this for the good of us all, for your Hammerheads. I don’t like the P.R. stuff but it’s my job, at least for now ...”

  Hardcastle hated the idea but knew he was right. He also still thought he had taken the proper action and said so.

  “What happened after I said to disengage from the intercept?” Geffar asked him.

  “Hey, what is this, tag team interrogation?”

  “Please answer it,” Elliott said.

  The sudden edge in Elliott’s voice surprised Hardcastle. He took a deep breath, choking down his anger. “I disengaged. We climbed to a thousand feet and kept the light on the target. But Five-One radioed us and said he didn’t think they’d catch him before he reached the Boca inlet. We responded by descending back down and flying north of him, trying to get him to turn towards the SES. He maintained his course. When he didn’t respond we launched a warning rocket across his bow. He opened fire. A few shots hit us, and one damn near killed Fontaine. I took the aircraft and climbed to three thousand feet.”

  “How did you get so much damage?”

  “I was ready to return to Fort Lauderdale to get attention for Adam but then I saw that son of a bitch right underneath me, speeding along like nothing happened. The guy was shaking a fist at me. I knew Petraglia would turn to assist and that this guy would get away. I admit, it was too much to accept. I turned, descended and attacked with the Chain Gun and a Sea Stinger. I got a little too close after the rocket attack and took some collateral damage. Then I headed south to recover.”

  Elliott shook his head. “I understand, but I also think you should have left it to Petraglia on the SES and Customs—”

  “I disagree. I was in a position to assist, Fontaine’s wounds weren’t critical—”

  “He has a concussion—” Geffar broke in.

  “We’re supposed to be out there keeping these people away from our shores. We’re supposed to be using our assets, not withholding them or turning the job over to Customs. That’s what Hammerheads is about. What if the guy got away? More, what if he killed someone in the harbor? What if he was carrying explosives—”

  “Ian, you launched when you should have stayed on the ground,” Elliott said, interrupting. “You attacked when you should have stayed away. You pressed the attack when you should have withdrawn. You exposed your crew, your aircraft and a civilian to unnecessary danger, and the Hammerheads to a lot of potential lousy publicity—bad for you, for all of us.”

  “Not true! I did it because it’s my job. ”

  “Not for the next forty-eight hours, it isn’t. You’re off-duty. Someone will take you to the Coast Guard clinic on Miami Beach and well get a blood test. After that he’ll take you home. Tomorrow morning you report here for duty. Stay incommunicado until I say otherwise.”

  “This is crazy, Brad, we don’t have time to—”

  “Dammit, I can make it an order. Is that what you want?”

  Hardcastle shut up, pounded a fist on his desktop, turned and went out of the office.

  He met Daniel in the crew lounge, sitting on a sofa, staring at the report form he had been told to fill out. When he saw his father, there was a new look in his eyes. It made Hardcastle very uneasy. Was this the same young man he’d seen only hours earlier on the baseball diamond and in the restaurant, exchanging confidences man-toman?

  A pilot was standing in the hallway waiting for Hardcastle. “We’re taking my son home first.”

  “My orders are—”

  “Screw your orders.” He led Daniel to the door. Behind him, Geffar watched as Hardcastle shoved past the pilot and stormed away. It was a bad scene.

  Outside at least a half-dozen news cameras and a dozen reporters crowded around the other gate that surrounded the Hammerheads headquarters building, pushing and shoving each other to get a better shot. Hardcastle pulled his son quickly along, shielding him as best he could from the crowd of cameras only a few feet away.

  “Admiral Hardcastle, can you tell us what happened tonight?” one reporter called out. “We understand one of your pilots is dead—”

  “No one is dead. ”

  That short answer only intensified the reporter’s efforts. “Who is that with you, Admiral? Is that a suspect?”

  “Were you drinking before shooting at that boat tonight, Admiral? Were you drunk?”

  The babble was shut off as they got into the sedan and closed and locked the doors, but Hardcastle knew that the nightmare had just begun.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zaza Airfield, Verrettes, Haiti

  Two Weeks Later

  The room broke out into applause as young Carlos Canseco entered the main briefing room.

  Salazar joined in as Canseco limped up to the stage, stood before him and saluted. Most of Canseco’s handsome face had been badly burned in the attack and the fire, and he had suffered more burns on his back and legs. Doctors in Miami had treated his burns and had even performed skin grafts to repair some of the damage. Considering his condition, he had been placed under light guard in the hospital, which allowed him to slip out a third-story window and make his escape. He had stolen a boat and sailed it to Andros Island, where he arranged for a pick-up.

  Salazar returned the young man’s salute, then carefully wrapped his arms around him. Actually, Salazar wished Canseco was still in American custody—he would not betray the Cuchillos, and that way he would be a useful martyr to invoke. Still, his escape was a morale booster for the Cuchillos.

  “The actions of Canseco deserve the highest praise. Attention to orders.” The crewmen came to attention. “As of this day Private Canseco will be promoted to the rank of lieutenant of aviation. His deeds made in the name of the Cuchillos should inspire us all.”

  Canseco saluted again with a bandaged right hand, then limped off the stage.

  “Thank you for the honor you gave young Canseco, sir,” Trujillo told Salazar as they began their meeting. “It means a lot to all your pilots, especially the young ones."

  “He showed guts,” Salazar said idly. “Still, what did he tell us? What did we learn from this?”

  “We have plotted out the effective ranges and the response times of much of the Border Security Force’s assets in southeastern Florida, sir. Their strength is formidable, they have significant firepower and are able to use it.”

  “Canseco almost made it,” another senior pilot said. “He came very close ...”

  “But his boat was destroyed by a Sea Lion tilt-rotor aircraft,” Trujillo said. “He could have opened fire much earlier. A slower vessel might not have gotten as far.” Trujillo turned to Salazar. “In my opinion, we should stay away from south Florida as much as possible. The Border Security Force has concentrated most of their efforts in this area. After this incident it will be even g
reater.”

  “But most of the Cartel’s distribution network operates out of that region,” Salazar said. “The Cartel will pay less for shipments directed anywhere else.”

  “Perhaps so, sir, but we run significant risk by operating in that area. The Cartel should be advised of this. We should exploit new openings in Mexico and in the southwest United States as soon as possible before the Border Security Force closes in on these areas as well.”

  Valdivia, Columbia

  Later That Day

  “It was a stupid plan, Salazar,” Gonzales Gachez was saying over the phone in his office at his main production plant. He got to his feet, squeezing an autographed baseball in one fist. “Why are you telling me this? What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that I cannot risk my people trying to deliver your product into your established drop points. If you want your shipments brought into Florida or the northern Bahamas area it will cost you extra—ten thousand dollars a kilo. Half up front, half on delivery—”

  “Ten thousand? Are you insane? This is almost the full retail price of a kilo of cocaine—”

  “Then the price goes up, senor,” Salazar said. “The Border Security Force is real, Gachez. This is no paper tiger. It will cost you ten thousand dollars a kilo. End of negotiations.” And the line went dead. Gachez slammed the phone down. “Damn him, I should have him killed.” He turned to one of his lieutenants. “Salazar wants ten thousand dollars a kilo to deliver product to Florida. He says the Hammerheads are so strong it is too risky.”

  “He is trying to blackmail you, Senor Gachez,” his assistant said. “Don’t deal with him. Let him come to us.”

  “And what do you suggest I do with two thousand kilos of cocaine in our warehouses? Not to mention the rest of the Cartel. This threatens my position in the Cartel, Juan. The Cartel might even negotiate with Salazar directly.”