“NAPALM, this is Lion Two-Two on ten-ten,” Hudkins radioed. “If you read me go ten-ten. Over.” No response.
“What are we going to do, Mick?” Hudkins asked. “We don’t have the gas for a long overwater chase like this. We go bingo in five minutes and we’re three hundred miles from a non-liquid runway.”
“Masters said these guys shot up one of their choppers,” McCauley said. “We’ve got a bead on him—I’m not going to let him go. These guys are smugglers. Their buddies on the ground shot down a Black Hawk helicopter, a Customs chopper. You were in Customs, Hudkins
“What if they’re carrying children—?”
“They’ll kill them anyway. We’re not responsible for what they do. They committed the crime. I’ll chase this guy until we got to turn back.”
Hudkins kept trying to reach someone on the radios. As she did, she watched as McCauley deployed the Sea Stinger missile pod. “Hank ...”
“I’m going to fire a warning shot,” McCauley said. “Keep trying to reach someone.” As he talked she could see him slowly moving in position to align the port-side-mounted missile pod with the cargo plane’s starboard engine nacelle. He had not yet selected any missiles or armed the fire-control system.
Once he was in position, he again punched up the navigational display. They were almost equidistant from the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, Florida, Cuba and the Mississippi Delta; at least three-hundred miles separated them from any sizeable landfall. They were at least forty miles off the nearest trans-Gulf airway and well out of UHF and VHF radio range of any shore stations.
“We’re bingo, Hank,” Hudkins said. “We should start heading back. The weather’s pretty bad north of us. Let’s head east toward St. Petersburg or Miami. We’ll have a little tailwind that way.” McCauley continued on course, directly behind the cargo plane. “Hank . . . ?”
McCauley looked at Hudkins, then back at the cargo plane “Get me the approach plate for St. Petersburg out of the FLIP bag. It’s in the lower storage compartment behind my seat.”
“Hank . . .”
“We could all use a cup of coffee, too ...”
“Hank—-’’
“Cream and sugar for me.” He turned, lowered the targeting-and- attack visor over his eyes and powered up the targeting-and-attack display system with the pilot’s night vision sensor computer and the Sea Stinger missile pod.
Border Security Force Headquarters, Aladdin City
The ROTH radar had been tracking the chase every moment. Elliott and Drug Czar Massey were watching the center computer monitor, waiting for contact with the pursuing Sea Lion aircraft.
“No response yet, Brad,” the controller reported. “The NAPALM aerostat’s been lowered to five thousand feet because of high winds. Two-Two’s at NAPALM’s extreme range now.”
“You can’t talk with your crew up there?” Massey asked.
“The high-frequency radio was our only hope, but there seems to be a lot of interference,” Elliott said. “He’s in the radio dead zone of the Gulf right now—out of range of just about all our line-of-sight radio stations. The new air-staging platform west of Naples can’t reach him.”
“Will the AV-22 follow that plane all the way to its landing base?”
“He’s got to be low on fuel,” Elliott said. “He might hang on for a couple more minutes but then he’s got to break off.”
“So . . .” Massey said unhappily. “One helicopter destroyed, six dead and the smugglers get away . . . ?”
“We got the drugs, we got several of the smugglers. This isn’t a matter of an eye for an eye, not yet, anyway. It’s—”
Suddenly the data block surrounding the escaping smuggler’s radar icon began to blink. The controller called out, “Altitude alert on target one, sir,” he told Elliott. “Groundspeed zero, altitude . . . rapidly decreasing altitude . . . contact lost, sir. Contact lost with the target.”
“What about Two-Two?”
But they could see for themselves—Lion Two-Two, which had been within a mile of the suspect only a few seconds earlier, was now turning eastbound and heading for Florida. “Dammit, what happened?” Elliott demanded, although he already knew.
Massey studied the big screen for a moment, then turned to Elliott. “I think it’s obvious,” he said in a low voice. “It appears your pilot decided not to let this one get away.”
Hammerhead Two Air Staging Platform
Two Weeks Later
Sixty miles southwest of Sarasota the green Black Hawk helicopter with the distinctive white top called Marine Two, escorted by two AV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft belonging to the Border Security Force, churned the still morning air with their cacophony. The low, sleek chopper flew at high speed directly to its destination, a huge flat- topped sea platform that resembled an iron-covered island surrounded by a sea of blue.
Marine Two stayed at eight thousand feet until just three miles from the platform, then swooped in, flared a few feet above the landing area and hit the steel deck of the platform hard—because of terrorist threats surrounding the visit to the platform by the Vice President of the United States they were not bothering to perform a slow leisurely approach to landing, nor would there be any orientation orbits of the huge facility.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Martindale,” Elliott greeted the Vice President.
“From what little I’ve seen, Brad, this platform is amazing.” “Mostly what’s different from Hammerhead One is the size. She’s a beauty though, I agree.”
Martindale noticed Sandra GefiFar and Ian Hardcastle nearby and greeted them. He shook hands with Hardcastle. “How are you, Ian? Excited about this? You’re seeing your plan swing into full throttle today.”
“I think it’s great, sir,” Hardcastle said. The interchange was short, rehearsed, and a bit strained. Martindale then took GeflFar’s hand warmly.
“I want to let all of you know right away that the President sends his best on the opening of your second air operations facility. He recognizes what you’ve all done and what you’re going through, and he sends his congratulations on this next important step in the building of the Border Security Force as a major national defense and law-enforcement unit.”
Elliott smiled appropriately. “The platform crew is assembled in the briefing room on the third level. Please follow me.*” “The opening of Hammerhead Two, the Border Security Force’s newest air operations platform,” the Vice President told the audience assembled in the platform’s briefing theater, “is a time of celebration. The American people are proud of you, of the Hammerheads. Because of your efforts, we are really beginning to win the war on drugs. The opening of this base, and the opening three months from now of platform number three oflf the coast of Mobile, Alabama, is an endorsement of you and your efforts.
“Your unique mission and reaction to the challenges you face were outlined in reports when the idea of this unit was conceived nearly two years ago. Ian Hardcastle predicted some opposition, distrust, even animosity. Some of it exists today. But Hardcastle and GefiFar have had and have an answer. Remember why you are here ... to protect the United States from intruders, to control access to America’s frontiers, to seek out, identify, and intercept suspected criminals and terrorists, and to defend those frontiers with military force if necessary. Remember that America’s borders were once weak, virtually defenseless, wide open to smugglers and murderers. Drugs flowed across our borders, in spite of the efforts of those of you who were once Coast Guardsmen or Customs Service investigators or Drug Enforcement Agency agents. Because of your efforts, that’s no longer true. America is in your debt ...”
There was a programmed pause in the speech, planned for applause, but there was nothing but a few murmurs from the audience. The Vice President pushed his speech aside and moved to the front of the podium.
“Well, that’s the official word. Now let me just talk with you. First, I want to extend my condolences to the family and friends of the men lost in the battle in Louisiana. It was the first
major head-to-head between law-enforcement agents and smugglers in two years. It highlighted what these smugglers are feeling. They’re still testing our resolve, arming themselves like regular armies, and still willing to shoot at us.
“Are you making a difference out here? Damn right. The drugs found in the Louisiana raid amounted to less than thirty kilograms, but according to the FBI the street value of that shipment alone was three million dollars—that’s one hundred thousand dollars per kilo. The DEA analysts told me that the cocaine found in that raid was no better than forty percent pure. The users are paying more and getting less. The cartels are importing garbage and, for the moment, getting top dollar for it. But the market, even in drugs, can take its revenge on bad supplies. For example, on the upside is the increase in attendance at drug rehab programs, public and private, and a greater public awareness of drug therapy versus incarceration. Judges are taking the users who want or need help out of the jails and prisons, putting them in hospitals and treatment programs, and handing out community service sentences rather than jail time in jails that don’t exist. One gram of cocaine, equal to half the weight of a paper clip, costs one hundred dollars on the street. It’s far less expensive to attend a drug rehabilitation clinic than it is to buy cocaine. This new attitude of helping the user rather than punishing him at huge costs to society has made more room in our prisons for the really hard-core dealers and suppliers. Several states have adopted life sentences and even death penalties for violent habitual dealers and suppliers.
“America is in a state of transition. In a way, we’re going through a sort of drug-dependency withdrawal. There’s pain and fingerpointing, and some of it is directed against you ... but let me tell you something, what’s happening in the country, including these gang wars and complaints and crowded jails and treatment centers shows that you are doing your job. You’re fighting and I believe you’re winning this fight.
“More than any other organization, the Hammerheads have proved their worth. Let the politicians fight each other—you fight the smugglers. If illegal activity is taking place, the government expects the Border Security Force units on the scene to take appropriate action—including the use of deadly force ... Look, the bottom line is this: do whatever you can to avoid killing innocent persons. Try not to kill anybody. But if you’re positive that the suspects understand your orders and are deliberately disobeying them, and you’ve done all you can to warn them, then remember that you do have the authority to act with, as I say, deadly force if necessary. Stay within your guidelines, use a generous amount of common sense and what I believe you call situational awareness, and I guarantee that the White House will support your actions. I hope that’s clear enough.” The applause from the crewmen showed that it was.
Hardcastle’s office on Hammerhead Two was on a new third floor of the central maintenance facility. From there he had a spectacular, commanding, three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the entire flight deck of the platform. The only building taller than the three-story office was the platform control tower to the south and the thick steel-and-nylon tether for the aerostat radar balloon, which stretched skyward like Jack’s bean stalk. The Vice President tried to look up the cable and spot the aerostat balloon itself but could not—it was flying at almost fourteen thousand feet and all but blended in with the brilliant blue sky.
“Very nice, Ian,” the Vice President said. “A real sea dog’s roost ... Three months ago you wouldn’t have had an office. Congress was ready to feed you to the lions—”
“I know that, sir.”
“I told the President that everybody was overreacting to what you did. You don’t deserve a dog house, you deserve a command of your own. The President agreed. The downing of that Customs helicopter in Louisiana a couple of weeks ago and the atrocities of the smugglers have stirred up the public in support of the Hammerheads. The President might even have approved an air strike against the smuggler’s base, if we were sure where it was—”
“We know where it is, sir.” McLanahan couldn’t let it go by. “Both smuggler’s planes headed for the same place after making their drops—Haiti. Their base of operations is in central Haiti—”
“The report I read said the smuggler’s plane that carried the children crashed just across the coast,” the Vice President said irritably. “It didn’t land at any airfield.” He glanced at Elliott. “And we all know that the second plane never made it even close to any airfield
“That’s true, sir,” McLanahan said, “but we assumed that both planes were taking a direct course to their destinations when they crashed. Extending their projected flight path, we’ve found several possible landing sites—none was in Cuba. Both planes were heading to Haiti. I checked our records for possible landing sites large enough to accommodate planes the size of the cargo plane that was detected out of Louisiana and came up with only one real possibility. It’s a placed called Verrettes, a deactivated World War II military installation, deserted and now in private hands. This data matches up with radar-data records I pulled from the computer—”
“That’s not enough to go on,” he said. “It’s not enough for a DEA or CIA investigation, let alone some kind of a full-scale military operation—”
“Then let us expand our surveillance in this area,” Elliott said. “I think Patrick’s right, but we also need more information. Our radar coverage of Haiti and the Dominican Republic is spotty because of the unreliability and occasional interference of our aerostat unit at Guantanamo by the Cuban government. If we could get permission to station an aerostat unit on Haiti or the DR, or station an aerostat vessel in the Windward Passage we would know for sure.”
“Haiti, Cuba, and the Turks and Caicos Islands claim our radar balloons interfere with commercial aviation, communications, television reception, military flights, free passage, commercial fishing, even tourism, for God’s sake,” the Vice President said. “They’re saying we can’t allow our radar energy to cross their precious borders without their permission. It’s bull, of course, but we’ve got to play along until we can come up with a bigger bargaining chip.”
“It’s garbage,” Elliott said. “The poorest and still the most corrupt country in the hemisphere lets smugglers use them and we can’t do anything?”
“It’s the way it is, for the moment. We’re working on it, State is. That’s it. And in case you’ve forgotten, people, I’ve managed to keep a lid on the . . . incident over the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Pilot McCauley still denies hitting the cargo plane, sir,” Elliott said. “He says he made repeated radio calls, made his presence known by direct visual contact and fired a single warning shot—” “Don’t try to con me, Brad. I’ve seen the tapes of the ROTH radar data. There’s no question what really happened up there.” He paused, staring out the windows. “McCauley and Hudkins are out, I’m sorry to say. Hammerheads can’t afford . . . mistakes like this, Brad. Plenty of old-timers in Congress are waiting for such an incident to shit-can this organization. You make your friends look bad, including the President and me. Anyway, here’s the new poop . . . The President wants you to develop procedures for dealing with suspect aircraft that have already entered the country legally, or have been allowed to enter the country. I want a defined set of rules for intercept crews to follow if they’re in pursuit of an aircraft that has entered U.S. airspace but is believed to be involved with a drugsmuggling operation. You follow me, Brad?”
“But we’ll still have authority to intercept and attack aircraft or vessels observed to be involved in a drug operation?”
“Yes—under careful guidelines. The intercept or attack, for now, has to be in American territory or airspace, not in open ocean or international airspace. The suspect has to be observed and recorded dropping or delivering drugs. You have to verify that the object dropped from the suspect plane was in fact the same object recovered, and it has to be found that that object contained illegal substances.”
“And all this has to be done before the guy le
aves U.S. airspace?” Hardcastle said.
“That’s it. The Cabinet and some Congressional leaders really got upset over the recent . . . incident. They say they don’t want the Hammerheads ranging all over the northern hemisphere shooting down planes or blowing up boats in international territory . . . The pressure’s on, my friends. I grant you, it’s a hell of a way to do business, but that’s the way it is. Follow the rules or we’ll all be out of a job. Hang in there.”
Elliott, Hardcastle and Geffar followed along as the Vice President headed for the exit, but just before leaving, he turned to Elliott and McLanahan. “Take a ride with me, you two.”
Aboard Marine Two, the converted UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, Martindale crunched a few pork rinds, washed them down with juice and looked at McLanahan and Elliott. “What about this base in Haiti, Patrick?”
“Verrettes. I need detailed intelligence on what’s going on there. I know it’s an old World War II British commando base, and it was used by various branches of the military for years before being sold to a private corporation. There’s a lot of air activity out of that base, some of it fast and heavy. I need to know who’s there, what they’ve got and what they’re doing.”
“It’s not the Haitian military?”
“From everything I can find out it’s an inactive militia training base, but Haiti has no air force except for a few single-engine jobs and a few cargo planes.”
“You really think this is some kind of smuggling ring?”
“I think this is the smuggling ring. I also think they’re the ones responsible for killing those children ...”
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