Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “They say I screwed up, that—”

  “That’s bull too. We know that kid in the racing yacht wasn’t going to turn around for nobody, especially Fontaine. You stopped him from getting through. You took it by the balls and got the job done. As far as having Daniel on board, well, maybe not such a hot idea, but it’s no big deal. They bring reporters and politicians within a thousand miles on actual intercepts.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Patrick?” Hardcastle asked him, turning and pounding a fist on the railing. “Hey. I screwed up. I gotta take my lumps ...”

  “That’s bullshit too, Ian, and you know it,” Patrick told him. “We know that kid in the Cigarette racing yacht wasn’t going to turn around for nobody, especially Fontaine. You stopped him from getting through. You took the initiative and got the job done. As far as having Daniel on board, it’s no big deal. You Coast Guard guys bring reporters and politicians and every bigwig within a thousand miles on actual intercepts, and I know Customs does it as well.” Patrick studied Hardcastle for a moment. “What else is bugging you, man? There's something else on your mind.” He waited, watching the pain twist through Hardcastle’s face; then, he said, “Daniel. Something’s wrong with Daniel . . . ?”

  Hardcastle’s face turned stormy and dark, and he turned away from McLanahan. “He won’t talk to me, he won’t listen to me any more,” Hardcastle said. “He doesn’t return any of my calls. His mother tells me he’s quit the baseball team. It’s like he freaked out or something.” McLanahan had no reply. Hardcastle continued: “It started when we left the headquarters building, surrounded by all those damned reporters. He was shaking so hard after I got him into the car, I thought he was injured. He said he felt like a criminal, like I murdered that kid on the boat and he was a witness to it. His mother said he stayed home from school after he heard his name on the news the next morning. I haven’t seen him that scared in fifteen years.”

  “Hey, Ian, try not to worry,” McLanahan said, trying his best to console him. “He went through quite an ordeal, but he’ll snap out of it . . .”

  “Patrick, that was three weeks ago,” Hardcastle said. “I haven’t seen my son in three weeks. Either I get a message from him or a message from my ex-wife, telling me he can’t make it for a weekend or for a holiday. I know his grades have slipped, and I know he either hangs out in his room by himself or stays out late at night, but I can’t help him. He won’t let me get close to him again.”

  McLanahan reached out and put a hand on Hardcastle’s shoulder. “I know you’re going through hell right now, Ian,” he said. “My dad was a police officer back in California. He worked his butt off for years, first on the force and then at his tavern. It was hard to get close to him because he worked so hard, but I didn’t learn until later that he worked so hard because he cared for us and wanted us to have everything possible. I didn’t understand that until too late. It’s not too late for you, Ian.”

  The PA system on the upper deck crackled to life: “Mr. Hardcastle, Mr. McLanahan, to the command center, please.” McLanahan stepped towards the elevators, but Hardcastle caught his arm as he walked past.

  “Thanks for listening, Patrick. You’re all right . . . for an Air Force puke.”

  At the command center they found the image of a twin-engined plane in the main high-definition monitor. “There’s our boy,” Geffar said as Hardcastle logged back onto his terminal. “Cruising right along. No reply to any of our calls.”

  Hardcastle put up a chart of west Florida and then placed the target’s data block on it. “Seventy miles from shore—about thirty minutes till he reaches landfall. Well inside the ADIZ. And he’s staying low. This guy must have been out of town for the past ten months—like Antarctica.”

  Meanwhile McLanahan had moved over to the drone-control panel and called up the Seagull’s status readouts. “Seagull Six-One in the green,” he reported. “Four hours of fuel left at this speed. Good data-link signal from KEYSTONE.”

  “We’re plotting seven vessels in his flight path that he could be setting up for a drop,” a controller reported. “He’s only ten minutes away from the first target.”

  “Let’s launch the Sea Lion from Homestead, then. And have a Sky Lion from Alladin City airborne as soon as possible to assist in case he tries a multiple drop.”

  “He won’t have time,” Hardcastle said. “The first bale that goes out the door, he’s ours.” A few of the controllers in the command center nodded their pleasure at that ominous prediction.

  “Six-One is two miles from the target,” McLanahan reported. “Closure rate forty-five miles per hour. Intercept in three minutes.”

  “Continue broadcasts on all frequencies,” Geffar coached her controllers. “Get that guy to turn around, at least.” The warning messages were transmitted through the aerostat transceiver, unit, KEYSTONE, and through the Seagull drone. No response. The twin-engined aircraft continued on as before, staying only a few hundred feet above the water and well off any mandatory entry corridors. No attempt was ever made to contact Border Security or air traffic control.

  "One minute to intercept,” McLanahan announced. “Six-One’s in the green. Auto switchover to high sensitivity intercept autopilot. Auto breakaway enabled.”

  “He’s staying where he is,” Hardcastle said.

  “Thirty seconds to intercept. Looks like a Piper Cheyenne in cargo configuration. Pretty good deflection on his horizontal stabilizer—it might mean he has long-range fuel tanks or he’s loaded down pretty heavy. I think I can pick out a few letters of his registration number— nope, disregard. He’s painted over them.”

  “He's dirty for sure,” Hardcastle said. “Definite smuggler’s profile.”

  “He’s five miles from passing overhead the first sea target,” a controller reported. “He’s altered course toward it. I think he’s going for the first sea target. Designating as target two.” The right monitor that had been scanning the area for surface targets now merged with the main display showing only the twin-engine plane, so that both targets were on the main screen at once. Data columns showed the distance and time between the two targets and how far the Hammerheads assets were to each.

  “I agree,” Gelfar said. “Have Shark Two-Five stay on target number two. Get an SES headed north to intercept, but the Sea Lion may have to launch a boat.” Until the Hammerheads had more seagoing vessels in their active inventory they were now carrying RHIBs, Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats, on every AV-22 Sea Lion aircraft sortie. In calm seas the Sea Lion aircraft would land on the water and the RHIB would be launched off the rear cargo ramp. The twenty-foot- long boats had a sixty-horsepower outboard motor that could drive three to five intercept officers across to a vessel at nearly thirty miles an hour. Along with the AV-22 hovering or floating nearby with its weapons at the ready, the intercept crew could keep small- to medium-sized vessels under surveillance or arrest for several hours until more help arrived.

  “Coming up on the intercept,” McLanahan announced. “No registration numbers visible but we’re running down the configuration through EPIC”—the El Paso Intelligence Center, which was the central information center on all drug-related activities.

  “Move out and let’s get a look at the pilot, and let him see us,” Geffar said.

  “Moving out,” McLanahan acknowledged. His controller issued the commands and the Seagull’s autopilot commanded a slight left jog, a turn back to course and an acceleration past the target’s nose. As it made its side-step maneuver its TV camera widened its field- of-view and began to sweep along the entire fuselage, letting the tense but excited crewmembers in the Hammerhead One command center get a good look at the smugglers and their cargo.

  “Three minutes to contact with target two,” the controller reported.

  The camera swept across to the first set of windows on the left side of the twin-engined plane, and found the window blocked off by what appeared to be cases or boxes made of fiberglass or smooth wood. “Looks like floating drop cas
es to me,” Hardcastle said. “They’re definitely making a drop.” The camera continued to pan forward a few feet until it came to the plane’s cargo door, unlatched and partially open, flapping in the slipstream.

  “Not being too subtle about it, are they?” Hardcastle said.

  “Let’s fry these turkeys,” one of the seagull drone controllers said.

  “Hold your positions,” Geffar ordered. “We make sure the pilot knows we’re here and we give him a chance to bug out. We don’t open fire until I give the word.” ,

  Now under manual control the camera continued to pan forward to the first set of windows forward of the left cargo door. What they saw in the window amazed them all.

  There, framed in the small oval window, waving at the Seagull drone, was a young girl—no more than three or four years old. They could see her in detail... dark hair, big dark eyes, a wide happy grin. She continued to wave at the drone as it cruised on ahead of the plane.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” GefiFar breathed, “they brought a child . . . a little girl.” She reached over to the communications screen and punched up the AV-22 aircraft that was in pursuit. “Shark Two-Five, this is Alpha. Acknowledge this transmission. Do not lock weapons on target one. Over.”

  “Two-Five copies, do not lock weapons on target one. Acknowledged. What’s the problem?”

  “Never mind, ensure weapons on safe and stand by.”

  The camera moved toward the cockpit windshield and they saw the pilot, a Latino about twenty years of age wearing “aviator” glasses and laughing at the camera on the Seagull. With him was a young boy ten or twelve years old. The boy, too, laughed at the drone, even gave the camera the finger.

  “What are we going to do?” a controller asked.

  “We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Hardcastle said.

  “We’ll send the Sea Lion after any boats they make drops onto. We’ll keep the Seagull on the plane and track it back to its home base.”

  “Track it?”

  “What do you suggest, Admiral?”

  “Drop in progress,” a controller broke in. Several of the fiberglass cases were flung out the partially opened entry door on the left side of the plane, each with lifejackets tied to them.

  “Mark and record drop coordinates and transmit to the AV-22.” The controllers called up the smuggler’s exact location as plotted by the aerostat’s radars, which coordinates would be transmitted to the AV-22 Sea Lion’s navigation system for the intercept.

  “We can launch a Sea Lion and intercept the plane,” Hardcastle said. “The Chain Gun can be targeted accurately enough to hit noncritical parts of the plane—”

  “We’re not shooting at him with a Chain Gun—”

  “Then put someone with an M-16 in the cargo door of the AV-22 and have him shoot at the rudder or at the nose. He doesn’t have to try to disable it. A few bad holes in him might convince the pilot to surrender—”

  “We can’t direct any kind of fire on a plane with children on board—”

  “If we don’t do something that same pilot is going to be back tomorrow with a bigger plane and another load and more kids. If they know they can get away with this they’ll do it again and again until we act. We need some kind of response now—”

  “Two-Five is two minutes to the drop point,” the controller reported. “Target one has not reversed course. He’s continuing toward shore.”

  “He’s making multiple drops,” Hardcastle said. “A couple more over the ocean, a few on land—we won’t be able to cover all of them—”

  “Launch the Sky Lion from Alladin City to cover any other sea drops. Have them get a Customs enforcement team airborne to intercept any ground targets. Get another Sea Lion airborne from Homestead.”

  Hardcastle got to his feet, reached up to remove his headset. “I’ll take one of our Sea Lions—”

  “No. ” It was as if Geffar’s word had sucked the air out of the whole command center—the place went abruptly silent.

  “There’s a major delivery going down in west Florida, Sandra,” Hardcastle said, trying to keep his voice under control. “It’s happening a hundred fifty miles from here. We’re chatting on the radios, slinging orders, launching aircraft in several different directions at once with no on-scene commanders. It’s no way to run an operation—”

  “I know that . . .”

  “We’re wasting valuable time. I say you get on that aircraft and take charge of this mission, or I will.” He lowered his voice as he said those last words.

  Geffar slammed a fist down on the commander’s console, got to her feet and logged off her computer terminal. “I’ll do it. Take command of the platform. Prepare to launch support aircraft as necessary.”

  Hardcastle moved to the commander’s chair and entered his password into the computer terminal, logging on as commander of Hammerhead One. “I’ve got command of the platform,” he announced as Geffar ran for the exit.

  As she went through the door to the elevator she heard Hardcastle say, “All right, people, we’re behind enough as it is. Prepare Shark Two-Eight on deck ASAP. Get me a tactical display of the area. Get a line open to Customs, ask them where their Black Hawk crew is. Move it. I want this leak plugged right now. ”

  Geffar continued out through the door and toward the life-support shop to get suited up for her flight. How do you tell a twenty-year Coast Guard veteran, who at least was every bit as qualified to take action as she was, not to do anything?

  Shark Two-Five was in the drug-drop area five minutes later. “Shark base, this is Two-Five. We’ve made contact with target two. We have a thirty-foot Chris Craft sport fisher departing the area. Name on the stern removed but we might be able to read the outline of the removed letters. It has a flying bridge, color white, no flags, estimated speed twenty knots, heading east toward Ten Thousand Islands. Four persons in sight on board. We’ll try to get a registration number. Stand by.”

  The AV-22 tilt-rotor swooped lower toward the retreating vessel, flashing its intercept lights and NightSun spotlights to get the attention of the vessel's master. With the engine nacelles in full vertical position the Sea Lion smoothly nestled down to one hundred feet above the water and maintained a distance of about three hundred feet astern and to the left of the vessel. From that distance the Sea Lion crew could see three crewmen on the boat cutting the rope that tied the four fiberglass cases together. They didn’t seem worried about discovery—they opened the cases right out on deck in full view of the Border Security crew.

  “Shark, they have opened the fiberglass cases on deck ... I see . . . Shark, there are several packages inside the cases that sure look like narcotics ... brown shapes wrapped in plastic. They opened the cases right up on deck and—”

  The copilot making the report stopped, lowered his binoculars, and looked at his pilot in stark disbelief. He raised them again and stared hard to confirm his own shocking observation: “Shark, they’re unloading those cases and giving the drugs to a bunch of kids. They have children on board that boat helping them unload ...”

  On board Hammerhead One Hardcastle could hardly believe what he had just heard. “Target two has kids on board too? So they figure they’ve found the perfect way to keep us from attacking—give us a target we can’t shoot at . . .”

  “Shark, this is Two-Six. Beginning engine-start sequence.”

  Hardcastle hit his transmit button on the communications screen. “Roger, Two-Six. Be advised, Two-Five reports that target two is also carrying children on board. How copy?”

  Silence for a long moment, then just before Hardcastle was going to repeat his message Geffar replied: “Copy, Shark. Break. Two-Five, this is Alpha. Do not lock weapons on target two. Track and monitor. Acknowledge.”

  “Two-Five acknowledges. Target two heading toward shore. We are in pursuit.”

  “Two-Six,” Hardcastle radioed, “we have no sea or shore assets in position. We must use the air assets to stop these targets or they’ll get away—”r />
  “Get assistance from Customs to handle the shore targets,” GefiFar said from the AV-22. “Continue to track and monitor the sea targets but do not open fire on them. Broadcast those orders to all Hammerhead units.”

  Hardcastle paused, the anger swelling up. On the intercom, he said, “Ed, broadcast to all air units, do not open fire on the sea targets. Track and monitor.” “ ‘Track and monitor’,” the pilot of Shark Two-Five, Eric Whipple, muttered on interphone. “What a waste.” He was flying his AV-22 Sea Lion several hundred yards behind the speeding Chris Craft sport-fisher, maintaining an altitude of two hundred feet. He was flashing the NightSun searchlight at the vessel, trying anything to get the boat to stop. Nothing was working. The vessel continued its steady trek eastbound for the Everglades.

  “This is bullshit,” Whipple’s copilot, an older pilot named Hardy, added. “This is supposed to be a war. In war innocents get hurt . . . including my in-laws in Naples. These druggies will be cruising right by my nieces and nephews. They get a pass, then they push their drugs to my relatives and kill them. We got the stuff to stop these people, and they won’t let us.”

  Whipple nodded, clicked on the radio channel. “Shark, this is Two- Five. We’re right on these turkeys. What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  Hardcastle looked at the right large-screen monitor, which was focused on the launch pad as Shark Two-Six, GefiFar aboard, was just lifting off. He stabbed at the transmit button on the communications screen. “Two-Five, this is Shark. Maintain radio discipline. That’s an order.”

  “Fine, fine, I’ll talk nice and pretty for you if you tell me what we’re supposed to be doing I have these guys only six miles from shore. We got any backup on the way?”

  “Customs is. ETA to the shore position, twenty minutes.” That was only an estimate—in fact, the Customs tactical team, which were supposed to make arrests on land or in port, had not yet left Homestead. It would take them twenty minutes at max speed just to reach the general area where the smugglers would go ashore; then, they had to find the smugglers and get in position to drop in on them. The bottom line—these smugglers were going to get away if the Hammerheads didn’t stop them.