by Glenn Trust
*****
Commander Hunt banked the HC-144 to the south and flew another five minutes before taking an easterly course. A few minutes later they were back on station crossing the target area, heading northeast.
“What do you have, Chief?” he said into the intercom.
“Trawler is still circling, holding position. Target two, the container ship is approaching what would be the intersection point of their courses … steaming at twenty knots … If they don’t change course or speed, they will hit the intersection in two-and-a-half hours.”
“Okay. Keep me advised of any changes.”
“Aye, Skip.”
Hunt craned his head to look out of the cockpit window. The stars were putting on quite a show. He wondered what the night was like below on the trawler.
51.
One Crazy Fuck
“I don’t see how we can do it,” Esteban Moya said, peering over the steering wheel of the rental sedan.
Garza had refused to allow him to drive his royal blue Hummer with chrome spinner wheels, which was an annoyance. Subtlety was necessary, Garza reminded him. It was a word that held more nuance than Moya’s mind could grasp. Fuck subtlety. He squirmed in the hard, threadbare seat. Subtlety should be more comfortable.
“We will do it.” Garza turned his eyes on Moya. “Patience and attention to detail … those are the keys to success. Two qualities that I find lacking here.”
“I’m patient,” Moya began. “I just don’t see why …”
He stopped mid-sentence. You must be truly tired tonto—fool, he thought, conscious of Garza watching him. He added, “Sorry. Your ways are new to me. I apologize. I only want to make sure we are successful.”
“We will be.”
They had been sitting across from Senator Sillman’s high rise since the early morning hours. It was time to plan the next stage of their mission.
“There,” Garza said pointing. “That car. Follow it.”
“Sillman is not in that car.” Moya shook his head. “That is a cop car … the detectives who were at the building earlier. They are leaving, that’s all.”
“Everything is connected. That car connects us to Sillman.” Garza nodded, eyes focused straight ahead as Moya pulled into traffic and followed the Crown Victoria, staying a block back.
“As you say,” Moya said with a shrug, careful to keep the skeptical look from his face.
The detectives’ car wound through the streets for several minutes before entering the parking lot of a building Moya knew only too well. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator.
“Careful,” Garza ordered. “Do nothing to draw attention to us.”
Through sheer will power, Moya forced the muscles in his legs to relax. It was against all of his instincts. For a lifelong criminal, passing by the Atlanta Police Criminal Investigations Division building made about as much sense as walking by a tiger’s den with a T-bone steak tied around your neck. It was insane.
Garza turned to watch the car as they drove past the lot. Moya kept his eyes focused on the asphalt ahead, hands clenching the steering wheel, knuckles white. At any moment, he expected a swarm of police cars to come swooping around the corner to arrest them for the murder of Wilson Bettis. Except, he knew they would not arrest Garza. Elizondo’s henchman would fight it out with the police, and such a fight could only end in one way. They would go down in a blaze of gunfire, Garza loyal to Bebé to the last, Moya a victim of Garza’s blind devotion but dead just the same.
To his complete surprise, they made it to the next corner without being surrounded by police cars. Moya stopped at the traffic signal, eyes fixed straight ahead, not daring to look at Garza who might next order him to drive into the parking lot and pull up beside the detective car.
“Go back to Sillman’s building,” Garza said, calm and in control.
“Back? But …”
“We have learned what we needed.”
“Mind if I ask what that is?” Moya asked, immediately regretting the sarcasm in his tone, fearful he had gone too far.
Fortunately, the sarcasm was lost on Alejandro Garza who lacked the ability to detect the nuances in words and inflection. He said what he thought and assumed the same of others.
“We have identified the car connected to Sillman,” he replied.
“How?” Moya asked. “It’s a police car. The kind the detectives drive … all of them.”
“Yes, but only one has this license plate on the back and this car number painted on the rear.” Garza held up his hand. He had printed the detective car’s tag and unit number in ink on his palm. “Take us back now to the building, and we will watch.”
Moya turned at the corner to make his way back to Sillman’s high rise. He wondered if Garza was as smart as Bebé thought or just one crazy fuck. Follow the cops to eyeball their license plate close up? Haven’t you ever heard of binoculars, cholo?
52.
Ready for the Big Show
The phone chimed as Travis pulled the Crown Vic off Peachtree Street into the parking lot outside APD’s Criminal Investigations Division building. John Sole recognized the number and answered.
“What’s up?”
“You up for a little trip?” Bill Lance asked.
“Depends. Where to?”
“How about to parts unknown in the middle of the Atlantic?”
“They’re headed out?” Sole felt his adrenalin surge.
“They are. The Sara Jane left St. Mary’s in the last hour. Our guys saw them pass down the channel. Tully Sams waved at them from the deckhouse. There were two unknown crewmen on the boat. They looked Hispanic.”
“Damn right, I’m ready. Where and when.”
“Now, as soon as you can get here. Fulton County Airport. We’ll chopper to Brunswick then transfer to a Coast Guard bird to take us out to the cutter they have on station offshore. They’ve already got a fixed-wing aircraft watching from high altitude. Once the air surveillance spots suspicious activity, the plan is for the cutter to come in from over the horizon, sending the assault team and chopper ahead. We’ll be on the cutter when they interdict the trawler.”
“On the way. Be there in thirty.”
The call ended. Travis looked at Sole’s grinning face. “Don’t tell me,” he said, with a disgusted smirk. “You’re going out to sea.”
“Yep.” Sole grinned. “Get me out to Fulton County Airport.”
“On the way.” Travis made a U-turn and wheeled from the parking lot. He glanced over at Sole, the excited grin still wide on his face. “You don’t have to gloat.”
“Don’t feel bad, partner. If this works out, you’ll be making another visit to the Sillman penthouse … this time with a warrant.”
“True. That is some consolation.”
“Actually, I wish I could be there to see it.”
“I’ll take pictures for you.”
Twenty minutes later, Sole along with Bill Lance and Chuck Rayburn sat inside in a Bell 206 helicopter with a Georgia State Patrol pilot at the controls. Assorted gear, weapons, and communications equipment filled every available space and made the four-seat chopper feel cramped.
The nametag on the pilot’s uniform read ‘McGuinn.’ For ten minutes, McGuinn was all business as he went through the pre-flight checklist. Then he settled the headset over his ears, punched the intercom button, and leaned back grinning over his shoulder at his passengers.
“Let’s hope I can get this piece of shit off the ground.”
Sole and Lance grinned back.
Chuck Rayburn scowled and muttered, “That’s not funny.”
McGuinn had the chopper cruising along the runway just above the surface to increase speed as the engines revved up and the rotor gained enough lift to get the maximum capacity load into the air.
Under his breath, he sang an old Mamas and Papas song. “McGuinn and McGuire couldn’t get much higher, but that’s what they were aimin’ at …”
The runway disappeared. They skimme
d over the grass at the end of the airfield, gaining speed. Trees loomed ahead. McGuinn pulled up on the collective control.
Somehow, they cleared the trees walling in the end of runway. Engines roaring at full power, they rose like a man with a heavy load on his back until they reached two thousand feet. Then, with a momentary dip that had their stomachs in their throats, they leveled out and McGuinn set course for the Brunswick Coast Guard Station two hundred and forty miles away.
Estimated flight time was two-and-a-half hours. They relaxed and settled in for the ride. Chuck Rayburn looked around the small cabin and spoke into the headset mic he wore.
“Only one pilot?”
“Yep, just me,” McGuinn answered.
“Who flies this thing if something happens to you?”
“God,” McGuinn said in a serious tone. “Hope you’re all prayed up for the week.”
“Fuck me,” Rayburn muttered.
“What’s the matter, Chuck?” Bill Lance chided. “Not prayed up, or just afraid of flying?”
“Not much of a praying man,” Rayburn replied craning his head to stare down at the city lights below. “And I’m not afraid of flying. I’m afraid of crashing.”
“Okay to use my cell phone?” Sole asked the McGuinn.
“Sure. These aren’t the friendly skies.” He paused then added for Rayburn’s benefit, “In fact, I encourage all my passengers to call home and make their peace with the world … you know just in case.”
Rayburn scowled. The others laughed. Sole punched in Shaye’s number on his cell phone.
“Hey, babe what’s up?” she asked, without preliminaries. In the background, he heard the kids arguing about something. Shaye lowered the phone and barked at them, “Quiet you two! Your Dad’s on the phone.” She raised the phone again. “Sorry. So, what’s up?”
“Gonna be late. Just wanted you to know.”
“How late?”
“Tomorrow … probably. Might take all day. Something came up. I have to be there.”
“What’s that noise? Where are you? In a plane?”
“Helicopter, but I can’t say any more than that for now. I’ll fill you in when I get home.”
“All right.” Shaye had been down this road before. He would not call her unless there was something important happening—something that carried an element of risk. She added, “Be careful, John. Come home safe.”
“Always. No need to worry. I’m just along for the ride. I’ll be in the background where it’s safe with lots of firepower up front.”
“If you say so, but if you’re lying, I will beat your ass when you get home.”
“I’m sure.” He smiled. “Trust me. I’ll be fine … just an onlooker.”
“All right, babe. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended. Sole looked up to see the grins on the faces of the others.
“What?” he asked.
“That was sweet,” Chuck Rayburn chortled.
“Yeah,” Bill Lance said, nodding. “Touching.”
“You’re just jealous.” Sole smiled and tucked the cell phone in his pocket. “No one gives a shit what happens to either of you.
“You’re right about that.” Rayburn nodded soberly, peering through the plexiglass at the ground below.
McGuinn set the State Patrol chopper down on the helo pad at the Brunswick Coast Guard Station on time. Five minutes later, he lifted off for the trip back to Atlanta, his three law enforcement passengers transferred to a Coast Guard chopper tasked to take them out to the cutter, patrolling on station, out of sight of the Sara Jane.
“Another helicopter?” Rayburn’s eyes widened as they trotted across the apron to the Coast Guard MH-60 Jayhawk.
“What’d you think?” Lance said, grinning. “Swim out to the cutter?”
“Fuck,” Rayburn replied, using the word he had used several dozen times in the last three hours to emphasize his feelings about helicopters.
“What’s the matter,” the chopper’s crew chief asked as he got them aboard and strapped in.
“Nervous flyer.” Lance nodded at the Atlanta narc detective, huddling as far away from the open door as possible.
“Understandable,” the crew chief said, his face dead-pan serious. “This machine is nothing but a flying brick.” He shook his head. “No aerodynamics at all. Just that big ass rotor overhead to keep us in the air. If it comes off … well, it wouldn’t be pretty.”
Rayburn made a point of trying to ignore the banter about aerodynamics and flying bricks.
The crew chief would not be denied though and continued. “You see there’s just this one nut at the top of the whole damned thing.”
“A nut?” Rayburn was paying attention now.
The crew chief nodded. “Yep, one nut holds the rotor assembly on top. If that nut comes loose, the rotor goes flying off into space, and we make a big splash in the ocean.” He maintained his serious tone, adding, “Funny thing is, you’d think falling into water wouldn’t be so bad … like jumping into a pool from the high dive, but if we fall into that big ocean from five thousand feet, it’ll be like hitting concrete. Chopper … and us … smashed into a million pieces.”
“You done?” Rayburn glared at the Coast Guardsman who was having a grand time entertaining the others at his expense.
“Yeah, I suppose so.” The crew chief shrugged. “Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Glad to hear it,” Rayburn snapped back.
The chief continued unperturbed. “Yep. I tightened that nut myself … just to be sure. It’s one of my jobs as crew chief on this bird. Want to know what we call it?”
“Call what?” Bill Lance said when Rayburn pretended to ignore the chief.
“Glad you asked,” the chief said, grinning. “We call it the Jesus nut because if it comes off, that’s what we are all going to be screaming on that long drop to the ocean.” He raised his hands, a mock look of terror on his face. “Ohhh …. Jeee … sssuusss!”
Laughter erupted from the Jayhawk’s other crewmen. Even the pilot and copilot chuckled over the headsets. Sole and Lance grinned.
“Fuck,” Chuck Rayburn muttered, drawing his knees up and pushing his back hard against the wall.
A moment later, the Jayhawk’s engines throttled up, and they jumped into the air. Banking as it gained altitude, they were over the ocean in seconds. The trip to the cutter forty miles offshore took twenty minutes. Sole, Lance, and Rayburn dropped five feet from the hovering chopper to the ship’s helipad where the cutter’s crew hustled them below as the helicopter roared away.
The silence after the chopper ride made their ears feel as if they were full of cotton. After a minute, they picked up the noises of the cutter—the sea swells breaking against her hull, engine humming through their feet, officers shouting orders.
A crewman escorted them to the bridge where Gene Cusins greeted them. He had been out with the cutter all day, coordinating the interception plan.
“Welcome aboard.” Cusins grinned at the three new arrivals, noting Rayburn’s gray complexion. “You don’t look so good, Chuck.”
“Shut up,” Rayburn said wrapping a big hand around a steel bulkhead door handle to steady himself.
Sole nodded at the activity on the deck below where crewmen checked weapons and readied the interceptor boats that would deploy from the cutter’s rear launch ramp. “Looks busy.”
“It is. Everyone getting ready for the big show.”
53.
Little Fish and Big Fish
The Sara Jane crept forward in the dark. Tully Sams leaned out of the deckhouse door, one hand on the wheel, peering into the black. Julio stood beside him, watching the readouts on his GPS device and digital compass. He tapped Sams on the shoulder.
“Here.”
Sams turned to look at the display. “Okay.”
He shifted the engine into neutral, disengaging the prop while the engine idled. According to Julio the pontoon raft loaded with c
ocaine was waiting for them at this precise point on the water. Julio’s head jerked from side to side in panic, eyes wide, peering into the dark. He began muttering something in Spanish. Sams thought it sounded like a prayer.
The sea was calm, but there was more wind than the night of the first shipment. Drift was to be expected, but Julio was not a seaman. He had no understanding of the effects of wind, tide, and ocean currents on any floating object, even a seven ton floating object. In the time they took to arrive at the drop point, it could have drifted a mile or more.
Sams wondered what penalty Moya, or the one they called Bebé, would impose for losing one of the cocaine rafts. Julio leaned over the side and retched. Hermie said something in terse Spanish to settle their terrified navigator.
“Calmate. ¡Haz tu trabajo! Encuentra el faro.” Calm down. Do your job. Find the beacon.
“Sí claro.” Yeah, right.
Julio nodded, took a deep breath, and wiped the sweat from his eyes to study the GPS device. It lit his face with a ghostly pale blue radiance that made him look even sicker than usual.
Hermie and Paco scanned the night with handheld lights. They knew Elizondo’s team placed an electronic beacon on each raft. Without it, the freighter might as well have dumped a billion dollars of Bebé’s cocaine into the deep.
The beacon transmitted its location every thirty seconds. A minute passed, then two. Hermie and Paco stood fore and aft with their flashlights, shining into the dark.
Five minutes into the search, Julio motioned and pointed. Sams made a slight turn of the wheel, adjusting course.
A minute later, Paco called out. “¡Aquí!” Here!
Sams inched the trawler forward until Hermie and Paco secured a line to the raft. The load transfer began without a hitch. Sams leaned back in his seat to watch and smoke a cigarette, relaxed and content, riding the swells, surrounded by the black night.
Light exploded in their faces, blinding white so that even with eyes clenched shut, the glare made its way through their eyelids, pinkish red and painful. Sams’ muscles jerked reflexively like a man awakened too fast from a deep sleep, his heart pounding in his chest. Hermie and Paco stood erect on the deck, stunned, eyes wide, a look of fear mingled with resignation on their faces. Julio leaned out of the deckhouse and vomited, then ran into the galley retching as he went.