Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  The Vice President looked at Elliott. “Brad?”

  “I agree. They could be behind the ring that shot down the Customs helicopter in Louisiana. We shouldn’t wait.”

  Martindale stared out the observation window. “Relations with Central America and the Caribbean basin are pretty sour these days. They act like the Border Security Force is a smokescreen to cover U.S. ambitions for hemispheric military domination. Can you believe it? Well, we retain access to most of the ports in the Caribbean but only because most are still British crown colonies or commonwealths—the rest of them are reducing cooperation, denying port access and even restricting passage. We’re being asked for hands off until things calm down some. He looked at Elliott. “The President went to you through JCS Chairman General Curtis about that Kavaz- nya thing, didn’t he?”

  Elliott’s eyes narrowed as he remembered “that Kavaznya thing,” the flight of the B-52 bomber they called the Old Dog... never mind what it did to him personally, it had turned U.S.-Soviet relations to dead ugly . . . Now in just two short years it was some nebulous “thing.”

  The Vice President seemed to understand Elliott’s silence. “It was a remarkably incredible feat, Brad, amazing—even more amazing was how the whole thing was kept so quiet. Do you think you can come up with something to find out what’s going on in Haiti quietly, without attracting attention?”

  “I don’t think that’s a job for this outfit,” Elliott said. “We’ve got a lot on our plate, the CIA or DEA should run an operation like that—”

  “And the Strategic Air Command should have conducted that bombing raid into the Soviet Union. Instead you and Patrick and a group of engineers and lab types did it. Not only did you accomplish the mission but to this day the public doesn’t know what happened, except by rumor and innuendo.”

  “That was different,” Elliott said. “We’d been testing gear for the B-l bombers. We knew all there was to know about the mission ..He paused when he saw McLanahan’s expression. Patrick looked like he was already at the computers and chart table drawing up this mission.

  “An AV-22 Sea Lion could make it in and back using a ferry-fuel configuration,” McLanahan said. “Otherwise we’d have to get landing rights in the Bahamas or the Dominican Republic—”

  “That would be very, very tough,” the Vice President said. “It would take several days and we’d have to go through channels. State Department channels.”

  It was obvious the Vice President wanted to handle this mission himself, with as little interference from outside as possible.

  “I agree with you, Brad, up to a point. I don’t want any Border Security assets used in this operation. If something goes wrong I don’t want Haiti or anybody else pointing fingers and saying we’re trying to bully the Caribbean countries—”

  “So what assets are we supposed—?” Finally the light dawned and Elliott understood. So did McLanahan, who grinned at him. “You mean, use aircraft from Dreamland?”

  “Yes . . . No one knows what you guys have out there,” the Vice President said, “hell, I don’t even know. But stage the mission from there, get in, get out and return to Dreamland. Nobody would know what the hell happened. It has to be dead-bang classified and totally deniable. If this leaks out the smugglers will go underground and the bad publicity could wipe out the Hammerheads and maybe Dreamland too. You’ve got to shelter the White House from all. . . involvement.”

  Elliott sat back in his seat, wearing a pained expression, then shook his head. “To tell you the truth, sir, I’m a little tired of sheltering the White House. If you want to stage an operation out of Dreamland, fine, but let’s document the . . . thing. I don’t want to end up like North and Poindexter.”

  “North got in trouble because he exceeded his authority and used bad judgement,” Martindale said. “I trust your judgement, Brad. So does the President. He’s authorized me to get things moving in the Border Security Force, to do everything we can to make this unit more effective and head off any negative sentiment. If there’s a smuggling ring operating out of Haiti that’s responsible for killing those kids and bringing drugs into Florida we need to know about it. Okay, I’ll even put this in writing and copy your office with a classified memo, but you don’t want to wait for all the damn T’s to be crossed. I want results, and I want them right away. I figure you and yours do too. Find out all you can about this private airfield, do it without attracting attention and involving the Hammerheads. That’s it, that’s the job.”

  The atmosphere had chilled. Martindale had always shown Elliott and McLanahan a huge amount of respect, even deference, on account of what they had done during the Kavaznya “incident” with the Soviet Union. The Vice President had been virtually cut out of the decision-making process on that one. Now, when he wanted the same kind of action, he wasn’t about to let Elliott pull in his horns.

  McLanahan couldn’t believe what he now heard from his boss. “When I receive your classified memo I’ll run it through my staff, formulate a plan and advise you of it. When I receive final authorization to act I’ll execute the plan—”

  “General, there will be no goddamn plan, no authorization, no staff, no exchange between you and me. Just do the operation and get it over with.”

  Elliott snapped back. “Sir, you may think this is exciting, going out there, being the behind-closed-doors maverick with the bombers and missiles and guns. You may think you have the authority to call up some super-secret spy plan to bust in and get the pictures and to hell with the consequences but that’s not the way it works and it’s not the way I work. I get my orders direct from the President on everything my Dreamland group does, which is the way it was with the Kavaznya mission. I’m not running a bunch of damned mercenaries. If you want me to set up this operation for you, Mr. Vice President, put it in writing and I’ll staff it. I can get an answer for you in twelve hours.”

  “Don’t get big-headed about your importance to the White House, Brad . .

  “That goes for you as well, sir.”

  Martindale’s eyes blazed. “You are still in my chain of command—”

  “True, and I’ll do what you want, and I’ll do it right. I’ll plan a helluva mission, but I want the right authorization first. For me, yes, and for my people. If I don’t get it we tangle and the whole thing gets backburnered. You can fire me if you want, but we both lose out— and I think we’re both working toward the same objective.”

  The Vice President gripped the armrests of his seat, his jaw muscles tight. He hit a call button on his right armrest. “Todd, get in here. Bring a notebook.”

  His aide appeared, closed the curtain behind him, braced himself on the bulkhead against the gentle sway of the Black Hawk and got ready to take dictation. “Classification: secret, my office as OPR. Date, place, time, persons present. Subject: Special reconnaissance mission. The Vice President of the United States hereby authorizes Bradley J. Elliott, chief, Border Security Forces, add office and identification number, to undertake covert operation to collect information vital to border security operations. Objective: information on possible narcotics smuggling operations by unknown individuals in or near town of Verrettes, nation of Haiti. Funding through NSC file one-one-nine dash J, limits as specified in file. Time limit, none. Coordination through my office only in accordance with contingency operations master regulations special use section eleven—research the proper ones and add applicable paragraphs. Add my name. Copy through distribution list Echo. Print that out on the teletype, send it out on the satellite right away, get me all the acknowledgements, make three copies and bring them to me.” The aide added the names of the three men present, glanced at his watch to note the time, turned and departed.

  “Distribution Echo,” the Vice President told Elliott, “the NSC, Joint Chiefs . . .”

  “Departments of Defense, State, CIA, and DIA,” Elliott finished for him. “All more or less directly accountable to the President of the United States.”

  “You sound lik
e you disapprove. You want me to get on the radio and broadcast it on your AM dial?”

  “No.”

  “My NSC action file specifies no more than twelve hours before I brief the President, and seventy-two hours before I brief the rest of his staff. Once I get approval from the President he can authorize immediate execution. That’s what I expect. I expect you, Brad, to be airborne ten minutes after that. Which means I want a plan on my desk in eight hours.”

  “It’ll be ready.”

  They flew on in silence. Several minutes before landing at Miami International Airport the Vice President’s aide entered the tiny office and handed him a red-covered folder with several sheets of paper in it. He gave one to Elliott. “Satisfied? Orders, funding, distribution records, receipts. Paper trail.”

  “Thank you,” Elliott said, and handed his copy to McLanahan without looking at it. McLanahan held onto the classified document as if it would leap out of his hand.

  After Marine Two landed in Miami, Elliott and McLanahan were told to stay in their seats until the Vice President left and the press had been cleared from the ramp area. The Vice President shook hands with them both, telling Elliott, “I’ll contact you soon through your office here in Florida. I assume you’ll direct the operation from there.”

  “Right, and if I’m not there my office will patch the call through to Dreamland or wherever in between.”

  “Good.” He allowed a smile. “We’re counting on you, Brad. Do it.”

  Border Security Force Headquarters, Aladdin City

  Two Hours Later

  Two hours after the Vice President’s departure from Hammerhead Two, Maxwell Van Nuys met Sandra Geffar outside the Aladdin City headquarters of the Hammerheads in his Jaguar XJ-7. He looked very much what he intended .. . the sophisticated Italian race car driver. He greeted her and settled her into the passenger seat. He moved into the sedan and roared out of the Border Security Force parking lot.

  They drove along in silence until reaching the Florida Turnpike, where the pace improved on the open highway. “So how was the visit to the new platform?” he asked once they were established in the fast lane. “Was the Vice President impressed?”

  Geffar had resisted meeting him, but also argued with herself that she was entitled to some life outside the service ... “I think so,” she said. “I just really wish Congress would make up its mind to support the Border Security Force all the way.”

  “What do you mean? Sounds like they’re supporting you all the way. A new platform, new aerostat units. Are they deactivating some of your installations?”

  “No, they’ve even recently activated a new radar installation.” “That’s great,” Van Nuys said. Be careful, now, he told himself. Be cool ... “I think I heard about that proposal from someone at a Customs party a few weeks ago. The base in Arizona, right?”

  “No, Arkansas. Someplace . . .” She paused, thinking twice and thrice about saying any more. “Someplace you never heard of.” Arkansas? He had heard nothing about a radar site in Arkansas. But it wouldn’t do to push for more right now. She’s smart enough to get suspicious about being pumped for information. “In any case, it sounds promising. Congress won’t give up on you now . . .”

  “Especially not if the smugglers keep using children to try to protect themselves from attack. It was the most obscene thing I’ve ever seen ...”

  “I couldn’t believe it either,” Van Nuys said. Which was the truth— until Hokum and the other gangsters had given him his so-called options—go along or go down. They were capable of anything.

  “Well, I don’t think that will work again,” Geffar went on. “Hardcastle was always in favor of attacking the smugglers, and he very well may get what he wants. The Vice President has more or less left it to the discretion of the on-scene commander ...”

  At Geffar’s request they drove into Key Biscayne to her apartment so she could change out of her uniform overalls into a dinner outfit for the evening. She left to take a shower and get dressed.

  When he heard the water running and the shower door open and close he went to the cabinet where she kept her service pistols, unlocked the door with her keys, retrieved her Smith and Wesson .45 and ejected the seven-round magazine with a push of a button.

  He had taken a major risk, but of all the things she wore or took with her regularly, her .45 automatic was the only thing he could recognize that she had with her most of the time. Some women wore the same bracelets, or earrings, or the same shoes most of the time or at work—not Geffar. Her pistol was the only accouterment she consistently brought along, so it was the obvious—if the most dangerous—thing to be bugged.

  She used to take frequent trips to the shooting range at Homestead Air Force Base to hone her already considerable marksmanship skills but rarely had time to do that any more. Her work on the Hammerheads’ first air staging platform gave her little time for any actual field work, so the risk of her actually using her weapon was low.

  He flipped out the first three bullets and inspected them. The top bullet was a powerful miniaturized antenna-and-transceiver unit, tuned to a precise high-frequency, low-power setting; the second bullet was a battery that powered both the receiver and the third bullet, which was a digital microchip recording unit. The transceiver unit picked up impulses from a remote microphone—in this case, one of several tiny buttons and bugs attached to Geffar’s flying boots, clothes, telephones, office furniture and around her apartment— encoded the impulses into scrambled digital bits and recorded them on the microchips in the third bullet.

  The bugs were the latest sleeper technology units, activated only by voice; otherwise they were shut off so as to be undetectable by conventional bug-sweepers. The information recorded by the bugs would be stored and transmitted to the receiver in short bursts whenever they were in close proximity to each other, which significantly reduced the chance of anti-eavesdropping or bug-sweeper devices from detecting them.

  Van Nuys quickly retrieved all three bullets, replaced them with real shells, quietly snapped the magazine in place, and put everything back exactly the way he had found them. He knew very well that ultimately this was the wrong way to play this. He would, after all, be on the hook to the drug-smuggling ring no matter how useful his information was, would be exposed or killed at any time it suited his blackmailers. Sooner or later he would be caught or compromised . . . He knew that his only real chance to recoup from this disaster and save his skin would be to cut a deal with Geffar, the Border Security Force, the Feds. In exchange for immunity from prosecution and protection in the federal witness-protection program he could let them in on any meets, inform them of what the smugglers were going to do and help set up an arrest. He didn t know much about the smugglers that had him against the wall—not yet, anyway—but he should find out more while he got his affairs in order before going to the feds, which meant playing this game a bit longer. After carefully and quietly relocating his assets in offshore banks, he could afford to go underground.

  For now, though, he had no choice but to continue spying on Geffar for these Colombian animals.

  Verrettes, Haiti

  Two Days Later

  “They have almost succeeded in closing off all of Florida to air and sea traffic,” Field Captain Enrique Hermosa said. He used a large chart of the Caribbean basin as he spoke, indicating points on the chart with a wooden pointer.

  It was Salazar’s weekly situation briefing, a carry-over from his days as an operational Cuban Air Force squadron commander, when he insisted on an overview of force deployments, order of battle, command setup, and intelligence updates. The atmosphere was deadly serious. For the first time in the Cuchillos’ short life they were facing an enemy that, it seemed, had more firepower than themselves.

  One of the flight commanders asked, “What parts do they control in Florida? Are you saying they control the entire southeast side of Florida?”

  “No, lieutenant,” Hermosa told him, “they control all of Florida. The coas
tline of the entire state. In fact, they may control most of the southeast United States itself.”

  Colonel Agusto Salazar wreathed himself in a cloud of Cuban cigar smoke, not pleased with what was being presented to him, and ten of Salazar’s Cuchillo flight commanders uneasily studied the chart. Salazar told Hermosa, “It is impossible to completely control such vast territory. There has to be a weakness.”

  “Sir, I am giving you information passed along by our intelligence operatives and by our informants in Florida, including information from Maxwell Van Nuys,” Hermosa said. “It is not my analysis. Would you like me to continue?” The chief of the exiled Cuban smuggling ring waved a hand impatiently to indicate that he did. .

  “They have activated the new landing platform off the coast of Sarasota,” Hermosa went on. “The aerostat radar unit had been active at that location for several months, but now it is capable of launching their Sea Lion aircraft, unmanned drones and standard helicopters. This new platform is only fifty miles from our new ingress route to the Ten Thousand Islands area of Florida. Many of our carriers and agents in that area were killed or arrested during our last drop there. It is inadvisable to use that corridor for deliveries for the next few months. This Border Security Force, Hammerheads, has reinforced its small base at Key West, taking over interdiction duties from the Coast Guard, and our informants tell us that their aircraft have staged out of Freeport on Grand Bahama Island. Of course they have had an operational aerostat unit on Grand Bahama Island for years.”

  He motioned to his chart and placed a clear plastic sheet over it, which laid colored circles around each Hammerheads base in the southeast United States. “In summary, sir, American Border Security now has the capability of electronically patrolling the entire southeast United States,” Hermosa said. “They have tied together radar sites from Wilmington in the state of North Carolina all the way to Brownsville, Texas. This means they can fly one of their drones from takeoff points in Florida all the way to one of these places, and they can maintain contact with their forces. Also, Van Nuys reports to us something about a new radar installation, a long-range radar located within the United States. We have no more details on this.” Another angry burst of blue smoke from Salazar. Hermosa hurried on. “Their air fleet is small but building. They can launch drones from only four Florida bases—the new platform near Sarasota, Key West, the platform south of Miami, and their headquarters in south Florida. But once launched the drones can fly for several hours and can be controlled from long distances through their radar network. Both of their model drones can be armed with air-to-air and air-to-surface weapons but they usually aren’t because of their unreliability—” “Where is the command point for these drones?” Salazar said. “On the first air-staging platform, Hammerhead One. Although we believe any launch base can control them at any time, and that they may even be controllable from other aircraft, our intelligence indicates that the drones are controlled strictly from Hammerhead One and that the other installations are used as command relay points. The aerostat radar units act as radio command relay stations.