He prayed the rain would return.
Inexorably, he felt the Shockwave begin to lift.
______________
Master Chief Ramirez waited, eyes straining. Then the left earpiece of his headset beeped once. Then again. Ramirez swiveled his head to the left. Both earpieces beeped at the same volume. Increasing the magnification of his headset, he finally detected a very faint smudge on a wavetop 700 meters to the west.
“Captain, I have a faint heat smudge at 700 meters, bearing 270 degrees,” he reported.
“Well, dammit, shoot the smudge!” the Captain snapped.
He pressed the firing stud. The electric-driven chain engaged and sixty high-explosive incendiary rounds spat out, arced through the night sky and…flew just over the top of the go-fast boat.
Cursing, Ramirez corrected the targeting laser onto the smudge, then fired again. Thirty-four rounds sped through the night and hammered into the target, which immediately disappeared.
“Target is out of sight, but I hit it!” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Captain O’Brien angrily waved away the medic fussing over her. “Pilot, how is she doing with these waves?”
“Nothing we can’t handle, ma’am,” replied Petty Officer First Class Foster. “I’m getting eighteen knots out of her and could coax another knot or two if we need it.”
“Maintain speed, but turn us to 270 degrees. They’re running for the coast, perhaps to meet another boat. Let’s keep the pressure up.” O’Brien turned back to Master Chief Ramirez. “Master Chief, you are weapons free for the next fifteen minutes. If you get a clear view of them, take them.” She shook a finger at him. “But don’t you shoot up a lobster boat or some sorry-assed freighter trying to make port.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ramirez replied, smiling.
______________
Arturo was gone.
One moment he was standing by his beloved machine gun, the next he was a blood-red mist blown away by the wind. The force of the shell that killed him was enough to rip him out of his boots, which were still on the deck where he had been standing.
Pablo was screaming and rolling around on the deck, blood pumping out of the bloody stump where his right arm had been. Mateo looked down at his own chest and saw several large splinters sticking into him like knives, and as he looked the pain hit him and blood suddenly flowed down his chest. Panic flared up for a moment, but he pushed it aside. They were still an hour to the coast and then another half hour or more to the small cove where they would off-load the drugs.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned back to the wheel and, throttles to the stops, ran the Shockwave westward as fast as he could, praying to the Blessed Virgin to keep him alive a little while longer.
He never noticed that the spray system had been shot away and that the heat from his 650-horsepower engine clung to the boat like original sin.
______________
Master Chief Ramirez kept his eyes on the west. God alone knew how much damage he did to the smuggler’s boat with his last burst. The drug smugglers would run for it now, he felt. He kept the Bushmaster up and ready, watching for any sign.
For several minutes, there was nothing. The rain still held off, but the dark clouds scuttered low against the sky and Ramirez knew the rain would return. And when it did, it would mask the thermal signature of the smuggler’s go-fast boat.
He watched. He waited. He desperately wanted to itch the itch in the middle of his back, but he knew – he knew– that if he took his finger off the Bushmaster’s trigger for even a second, the damn go-fast boat would appear and then disappear for good.
And then it was there, on top of a steep wave 2500 meters away, the engine cowling glowing red in his thermal sights.
He mashed down the trigger. The autocannon spat out forty rounds, then another forty, then twenty more.
The smuggler’s boat vanished from sight.
“Hit on target!” he called out excitedly.
But no one replied. He looked around and for the first time saw that while he had been focused on the drug boat, people were gathered around the Captain and lifting her onto a crash cart. The medic was performing CPR on her and screaming for someone to get the goddamned defibrillator and some blood expander from sickbay.
“Master Chief!” the XO’s voice rose above the din. “Do you have a fix on the target?”
“No sir,” Master Chief Ramirez answered.
The XO turned to the Pilot. “I am terminating the mission. Get us back to shore the quickest way possible! Move!”
In all the commotion, Master Chief Ramirez didn’t even think to get back to the autocannon and hunt for the smugglers until it was far too late.
______________
The heavy Bushmaster slugs tore through the Shockwave’s fiberglass hull as if it were tissue paper. One round caught Pablo as he was struggling to his feet. The round went through his chest and then punched through the control panel and traveled most of the way to the bow before it stopped. A second round hit something metallic; exploding and spraying splinters through the open cockpit and peppering Mateo’s face, neck and chest, knocking him to the deck. He sprawled on top of Pablo, whose dead eyes stared at him reproachfully.
Mateo struggled to his feet and caught the steering wheel, screaming as he tried to hold the wheel with his right hand, which had a six-inch splinter stuck through his thumb. Somehow, he managed to turn the boat, preventing it from broaching before the oncoming wave. Despite the carnage, the GPS unit was still working and he brought the Shockwave about to a heading of 260 degrees. He didn’t know how far away the Coast Guard cutter was, but he knew the only thing that might save him was distance. Distance and rain.
“Pablo?” he called to his childhood friend. “Eh, Pablo?”
But Pablo just lolled in a puddle of water stained with blood.
Mateo shook his head in resignation. “A fucking pig of a night, man,” he whispered. The rain started again, heavy and thick, cold enough to mask his engine’s thermal signature. He advanced the throttles a notch and continued westward.
West, to safety. West, to fulfill his duty to the Cartel and bury his friend.
______________
From the command trailer, Finley listened as the Executive Officer of the Vigilant reported in to the Rockland Coast Guard Station.
“We have one dead and two injured, including Captain O’Brien,” Lt. Commander Hillson reported. “We need to have a medivac helicopter waiting at the dock. The Captain has lost a lot of blood. Our medic has put an Israeli field bandage on it and is giving her blood and plasma intravenously, but her blood pressure is low and irregular. The medic thinks there is probably internal bleeding.”
“Big Eyes, this is Home Base, should we send a copter to pick up the Captain at sea?”
The XO grimaced. “Negative, Home Base. The sea state is terrible with high winds, heavy rain and bad seas. I think the risk is too great. Our medic advises she is in critical condition, but as stable as he can make her. We think we can be in North Harbor in ninety minutes or less.”
“Mr. Hillson, this is Commander Mello. We can land a chopper at the Bass Harbor ferry landing, which is a bit closer to you and is on the mainland. We can land the chopper in the parking lot and pick up Captain O’Brien, then fly her directly to Blue Hill Memorial or, if she is stable enough, to Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor. EMMC has a good trauma unit if we can get her there.”
The XO checked the charts. Bass Harbor was much closer and had the advantage of being on the mainland. If the weather closed in and the copter couldn’t fly, they could take Captain O’Brien by ambulance. “Sir, that sounds good. We will proceed to Bass Harbor and meet you at the ferry landing. Advise to have an ambulance on hand in case the weather closes in.”
“I am scrambling the Jayhawk with a medical team now,” Mello said. “It will be waiting for you at the ferry landing. Home Base out.”
In the command van, Honeycutt turned to
Finley. “What the hell happened out there?”
Finley shook his head.
Honeycutt frowned. “What do you think, do we drive over there and talk to the XO when the boat arrives?”
Finley thought about it. “It’s a ninety-minute drive from here in good weather, but we can ask the Vigilant to wait for us. We should notify the police departments on the coast to keep an eye out for the go-fast boat. They’ve got to put in somewhere.”
Ten minutes later, they were in a four-wheel drive Ford Interceptor, lights and siren on, speeding along Rte. 175 north.
Chapter 25
Home From the Sea
At Elm Tree Cove, just where Rte. 15 passed between Elm Tree Cove on the north and Holt Pond on the south, Chief of Police Michael Corcoran sat in his squad car, sipping coffee and listening to the rain hammer on the roof. He had four men with him in two other cars: Higgins, Burrows, Wolf and Alisberg. They were handpicked men, all trustworthy, all hungry for some cash and not fussy about what they had to do to get it.
He also had Bruno Banderas, sitting in the front seat beside him, scanning the night with a pair of very expensive Generation 4 ATN night-vision goggles.
“Relax for Christ’s sake,” Corcoran told him. “It’s too soon for him to be here yet.”
“What if the Coast Guard got them?” Banderas asked.
Corcoran shook his head. “If they’d gotten the boat, we would have heard about it.” He squirmed in his seat to get more comfortable. “No, they’re out there, still playing hide-and-seek. Besides, this weather sucks; it’s going to slow them down for sure.”
“They haven’t radioed in,” Banderas said. Corcoran had never seen him so nervous.
“And if they’re smart, they won’t. Coast Guard and DEA will be monitoring all radio signals in this area. If the boat calls in, they’ll nail it.” He glanced at Banderas. “We’ve just got to wait. They’ll come.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Corcoran sighed. “Listen, I gotta tell you, they shot up the Coast Guard ship, killed one of the sailors and fucked up some others. Every swinging dick for one hundred miles around is going to be hunting your boys. That’s bad, real bad. Bad for you, bad for me. Very bad for your bosses in Mexico.”
Banderas shrugged noncommittally. It was a tough business; these things happened.
“When your guys finally come in tonight, they have to disappear, understand?” Corcoran continued. “You have to get them across the border into New Hampshire and take them somewhere they can’t be found. Absolutely can’t be found.”
Banderas said nothing. Corcoran was telling him what he already knew, but this wasn’t what the real message was, and both men knew it. The real message was that if the men were wounded and couldn’t be moved, or if they needed a doctor or, God forbid, a hospital, well… The bosses had to be protected.
It was a tough business.
______________
At one point, Mateo crossed only a mile behind the Coast Guard Cutter Vigilant, but neither ship saw the other. The Vigilant turned due north to reach Bass Harbor and care for its wounded, while Mateo turned the Shockwave due west to weave his way through the islands to Elm Tree Cove, in North Harbor.
Barely able to stand, weak from blood loss and in intense pain, Mateo carefully guided the go-fast boat south of Black Island, then Johns Island and a little further south of Lazygut Island, then northwest around Whitmore Neck and finally turning into Inner Harbor and the welcome calm of Elm Tree Cove.
There was a little beach on the north side of Rte. 15, where the bridge divided Holt Pond from the Cove. Mateo slowly brought the boat around and, too exhausted to do any fancy maneuvering, just ran it onto the beach. The engine sputtered for a moment, then coughed and died. He just stood there, bloody, numb, and spent, the captain of a dead ship and its dead crew.
He had given all he had to give, there was nothing left.
There were three cars in the parking lot. Men climbed out of the cars and stood there, looking at him, but not approaching. Then Banderas got out of one of the police cars and slowly approached.
“Eh, Mateo,” Banderas called.
Mateo looked at him, not really understanding.
“Bruno?” he asked hoarsely.
“Sí, amigo. Mateo, where are Pablo and Arturo?”
Mateo looked at him with stricken eyes. “Pablo is dead,” he whispered. “They shot his arm off. Arturo…Arturo is gone. The Yankees blew him up with their cannon. He’s gone.”
Banderas blinked, but his expression did not change. He still had his job to do. “Mateo, ¿tienes el paquete?” Do you have the package?
Bruno was closer to him now and could see the splinters sticking out of his body. He was covered with them. Some were six inches long and looked like spikes that had been hammered deep into his flesh.
Mateo considered the question for a long moment, struggling to remember. Then he nodded haltingly. “We have it, Bruno. Hicimos nuestro .” We did our duty.
Bruno looked at him sadly. “I know you did, brother. I know you did.”
Tears began to cover Mateo’s cheeks. “They killed us, Bruno. Couldn’t get away from them. They have this big gun.” He turned his face up to the night sky, letting the rain cleanse his tears. “They just killed us.”
Bruno began to draw his pistol, but a shot rang out, then three others and Mateo’s chest blossomed in red and he spun to the ground.
Enraged, Bruno spun around to confront Michael Corcoran.
“Wouldn’t work for you to shoot him, Bruno,” Corcoran explained calmly, not pointing his gun at the man, but not pointing it away, either. “Forensics. They will perform an autopsy on your man. It has to be a police bullet that killed him, or it wouldn’t look right.”
Corcoran motioned to his men. “Find a gun on board and put it next to this guy, and get the bag of dope. We just caught a boat load of smugglers trying to bring heroin into the State of Maine and we’d better have some proof.” His men scrambled on board the Shockwave.
Banderas once again turned to Corcoran, who shook his head.
“We’ve got to take it, Bruno,” the Police Chief told him flatly. “We’ve got a shot-up smugglers boat and two shot-up smugglers. If we don’t seize the dope, there’ll be questions. Questions I don’t have answers for. Count your blessings, my friend. All the witnesses who could link this to you or your bosses are dead. You’ll just have to find another way to get the dope into Maine.”
______________
Not far from where Mateo picked up the bag of dope from the freighter, a white, fifty-pound package hovered twenty feet below the surface of the water. It hung there motionless for a time, then it was caught by the Eastern Maine Coastal Current, which began to drag it slowly southwest.
Towards North Harbor.
Chapter 26
Saturday
The smuggler’s go-fast boat looked like it had been through a war.
Which, in a manner of speaking, it had.
Huge chunks of the cabin area were missing, blown away by the force of the Bushmaster’s shells. The radar was gone, as was the radio mast. Half of the windshield was torn off – not simply splintered, but completely torn away. A body had been found on the deck of the pilot area, missing an arm. The arm was nowhere to be seen. A pair of sea boots belonging to the third smuggler were found, but the seaman was gone. Blood splattered the entire inside of the boat. Most of the instrument panel did not work, dials shattered and inoperative.
Finley nodded to himself. “Do not fuck with the U.S. Coast Guard,” he murmured.
He was standing in a vehicle shed used by the Police Department to store trucks. The storm had passed and the sun was shining. As far as he knew, Police Chief Corcoran did not know that he had spent the previous evening in the DEA command trailer, monitoring the Coast Guard’s search for the smugglers through the night.
He had been with Honeycutt in the trailer when Corcoran’s voice came over the radio, alerting all of the law enforcem
ent in the area that the North Harbor Police Department had intercepted the smugglers as they tried to come ashore in Elm Tree Cove. There had been a gunfight; the only surviving smuggler had been killed. A large bag of dope had been seized.
Finley and Honeycutt had exchanged an incredulous glance and Honeycutt had left to go to Elm Tree Cove. Finley, who wasn’t supposed to be on duty, let alone with the DEA, had gone home to preserve his cover.
Saturday morning, he had gotten calls from two other police officers, both excitedly telling him what had gone down the evening before. Both of them essentially said the same thing: “Can you believe it? In North Harbor? Nothing ever happens here!”
All that was left intact of the smuggler’s boat was the GPS, the steering wheel and the engine. When they started the engine, it chugged for two minutes, then ran out of gas and stalled. It was a remarkable feat of seamanship that the last smuggler had managed to elude the Coast Guard and reach Maine, then actually find the Elm Tree Cove in pitch darkness, during a storm, when there were at least four dozen other inlets, coves, nooks and crannies in the immediate area.
Finley pursed his lips. It was even more remarkable that Chief Corcoran and his four men had been waiting at the Cove when the smuggler brought his boat in. What were the odds of that?
Why shoot the smuggler who had reached shore? He’d have to check with Honeycutt to see if the guy had been badly wounded. He was still trying to work it out when he heard footsteps and looked up to see Chief Corcoran walk into the shed.
“Finley! What are you doing here?” Corcoran barked, looking annoyed.
“Just wanted to see what was going on, Chief. Must have been quite an exciting night.”
“Well, you are not on the investigation, Finley, so get out of here.” The Chief frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be picking up some forensic reports in Augusta?”
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