PING!
“I’ll bet it’s stuck on the north side of Richs Ledge,” St. Clair mused. “Storm a couple of days ago could have driven it right up on it and wedged it in tight.”
LeBlanc nodded. Good a bet as any. He turned to Banderas and his brother, Jacques. “I’m going in to look for it. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Keep the radar on and tug on my safety line if there is anything I should know about.”
Jacques LeBlanc nodded. “What about Rosie’s Pride?”
“Call them, tell them to go to the north end of Isle Au Haut and call us again on the walkie talkie,” LeBlanc said as he quickly stripped out of his clothes. With his brother’s help, he struggled into the wetsuit, scuba tanks and regulator. He pulled on the hood and gloves – hypothermia would kill him as certain as a bullet in this water – and pulled on the various other pieces of gear: weight belt, flotation device, flippers, mask and 1,000 lumen waterproof flashlight. Jacques snapped a safety line to his harness and gave him the thumbs up.
Awkward in the flippers, LeBlanc walked to the stern of the Celeste and plunged into the water.
The rain started and visibility abruptly dropped to no more than a football field.
______________
On the view screen, the image of the two lobster boats suddenly faded.
“Cloud burst,” Finley muttered.
“Going to infrared,” Gardner announced. The screen went blank, then came back with two bright patches where the boats were. She zoomed in and out to get the best perspective, but it soon became apparent that the boats were just sitting there, not moving.
Honeycutt pursed his lips. He thumbed another mic and spoke into it. “Vigilant, this is Gollum. Are you getting this?”
Eight miles to the south, plodding along at five knots, the Coast Guard Cutter Vigilant was doing its best to look like a very large fishing trawler headed for harbor before the storm hit. “Gollum, we see it,” said Captain O’Brien. “Looks like they found something.”
______________
LeBlanc swam underwater towards the north edge of Richs Ledge. The percussive thrum of the waves enveloped him like a living thing, each large wave vibrating inside his chest. He moved carefully, playing the powerful flashlight along the rocky ledge, gradually rising along the incline as the ledge erupted toward the surface.
He would never admit it afterwards, but he was so preoccupied with searching the rocky bottom that he did not see the third package of heroin until he swam into it, banging his head. Startled, he backpedaled furiously, half expecting to see some sea creature from the Deep, all teeth and tentacles and ugly disposition. Instead, the third package floated placidly in front of him, twenty feet beneath the surface, just as it had been designed to. Strapped to its side was a transponder, dutifully replying with a ‘PING’ every time the search unit sent out its query.
For a moment, LeBlanc just hovered there, incredulous that he had actually found it. He reached out tentatively and touched it, just to confirm it was real. Then he unclipped the safety line from his harness and clipped it onto a loop on the package. With the package secure, he propelled himself to the surface with one powerful kick and waved to the ship.
Now came the hard part.
______________
“Wind is getting worse. I have to get some altitude or I might lose the drone,” Gardner warned.
The video screen showed little more than thick mist and water droplets on the camera housing. The infrared camera showed two indistinct red blobs, now moving north and gathering speed.
“Okay, take it up,” Commander Mello said. “Three thousand feet. How is your fuel?”
“Good for two hours and change under present conditions,” Gardner replied. “Getting worried about the wind, though.”
On the screen, the two red shapes reached the top of Isle Au Haut and were joined by a third. They all turned to a northeast heading and sailed in formation.
Honeycutt studied the screen, then looked at a nautical chart pinned to a dry board. “Where the hell are they going now?” he muttered.
Finley and his brother-in-law crowded in for a better look.
“You know, better lighting in this trailer wouldn’t hurt any,” Dumas noted sourly. “Feels like a fucking church in here.”
“Wait ‘til we light the incense,” Gardner smirked.
“They could be going just about anywhere north of here,” Finley said. “Blue Hill, maybe even Mt. Desert Island. Hell, they could run north a bit then turn northwest into the Eggemoggin Reach, stop in at Brooklin, or go into Benjamin River up to Sedgwick. All sorts of roads run near the water up in the Reach, it’d be easy enough to get the drugs to shore anywhere in there.”
“Fuck,” Honeycutt swore. Finley glanced at him in surprise; Honeycutt rarely swore.
“Nah,” Dumas said cheerfully. “LeBlanc and that whole crew are local boys. There’s a storm outside and the weather forecast just said it’s going to get worse before it gets better. LeBlanc will think about his three boats, want to keep ‘em safe. He’ll want three things: a sheltered spot, in local waters, and not too far away. If we can use that fancy drone of yours, we can follow him pretty well. As he gets closer, we can start making educated guesses about where he’ll go.”
“But what direction will he go?” Honeycutt demanded. There was uncharacteristic worry in his voice. Worry…and frustration. “The entire coastline around here is filled with little hideaway places he could use.”
Dumas shook his head, smiling. “You’re not thinking like a fisherman, Mr. Honeycutt. You work a desk. You don’t worry about storms and wind and weather, or your very expensive boat sinking beneath you. LeBlanc does. LeBlanc is going home. He’ll head for North Harbor.”
Chapter 49
Thursday Night – Contemplations
Chief of Police Michael Corcoran sipped his coffee and pondered his situation.
He was on the take from a Mexican drug cartel.
He was an accessory to at least two murders.
The Coast Guard was now patrolling the waters off North Harbor.
The Federal Drug Enforcement Agency was investigating drug smuggling in the North Harbor-Stonington area.
The Maine State Police were looking into whether “heroin” seized from the go-fast boat had been replaced with baking powder, and the North Harbor police were suspect.
Tonight, he and his handpicked men were to provide security for the drug cartel and a bunch of lobstermen while they made a delivery of one hundred and fifty pounds of heroin.
The heroin was worth at least $30 Million.
In the darkness of his office, Corcoran grinned a predator’s grin. Thanks to the money from the Cartel, he was wealthier than he ever had been, but it was peanuts compared to what was on those lobster boats. Meanwhile, at least two different enforcement agencies were sniffing around, and his luck couldn’t hold forever. It was time to get out, but to get out, he needed money – a lot of money.
And tonight was his chance.
If he was ruthless enough.
Corcoran laughed, the deep, contented laugh of a man happy with the world and his role in it.
Life was so sweet.
Chapter 50
Thursday Night – Moving Pieces on the Board
Storms are noisy things. The wind howls, the ship’s rigging thrums a deep harmonic, the rain pounds and pounds against the roof, the ship’s engine screams. And the ocean, well, the ocean roars like a lion sitting at the foot of your bed, just letting you know it’s there, and that now it is going to eat you.
On the Celeste, Bruno Banderas made his calls and lined up his men. Outside the pilothouse the rain lashed down and the wind snatched at the wave crests, flinging them like shards against the Celeste’s windows. The wind was from behind, and the following seas swarmed over the open stern and flooded the work area, then poured back out into the ocean, and then crashed back in again.
Jean-Philippe LeBlanc stood at the wheel, his feet wide apart t
o brace himself. He had been in storms like this hundreds of times, and every time he wondered if this would be the one to kill him. He smiled grimly. “Can’t have me today, you ugly bitch,” he told the ocean. “Not today.”
“What, boss?” one of the sternsmen asked, shouting over the cacophony.
“Nothing,” LeBlanc said curtly. “Dial up the weather and see if they’ve changed the forecast.”
Banderas leaned closer and spoke in his ear. “I’ve got to tell my men where we’re putting in.”
LeBlanc had already picked a location. It wasn’t perfect because he could get bottled up there if the Coast Guard followed him in, but there was no sign of the Coast Guard and the weather would mask his movements. He checked his gauges and saw he was making six knots. His destination was a bit more than eight nautical miles.
“Tell them to meet us where Rte. 15 crosses over Holt Pond and separates Holt Pond from the Elm Tree Cove,” he told Banderas. “We’ll be there in an hour and a half. We’re bringing in three boats, each carrying one of the parcels.”
“That’s where we met Mateo and the go-fast boat,” Banderas said uneasily.
“Yep,” LeBlanc agreed. “It’s sheltered from this storm, got water deep enough for our boats, wide enough so we can bring all three boats in, it’s right next to Rte. 15 so your boys can get the goodies and get out fast, and there’s only one house that has a view of the beach where we’ll land. We’ll go in dark, nose up to the beach, throw out the parcels and leave. The drop shouldn’t take more than five or ten minutes, tops.”
Bruno Banderas was many things, and one of them was superstitious. He had killed a man there, a man he had known all his life. Banderas didn’t exactly believe in ghosts and supernatural vengeance…but he didn’t exactly disbelieve, either.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
LeBlanc glanced at him, then returned his attention to not letting the boat breach in the storm. “Well, Bruno, that’s too fuckin’ bad. This storm was supposed to be a little squall, but it’s gotten bigger than that and it is slowly coming around to the southeast. There are other places we can put in and meet your boys, but a lot of them aren’t sheltered and there’s a good chance we wouldn’t be able to make the drop.”
“What about the harbor?” Banderas demanded. He was not accustomed to having people argue back to him. Not infrequently, when someone argued back, he shot them.
LeBlanc snorted unpleasantly. “Well, see, you’ve only got two harbors to choose from. The first is Stonington Harbor, but it is full of rocks and, worse, it is exposed to the southeast, so the harbor will have more waves in it than usual. Worse yet, there are a bunch of warehouses, packing buildings and bars all throughout the harbor area. And restaurants for the tourists. Night like this, can’t go for a pretty stroll along the harbor, so the bars and the restaurants will be full. Full of witnesses, Bruno. The odds of someone seeing us unload three parcels into a truck are pretty good.”
LeBlanc’s lip curled. “Oh, and did I mention that there is a police substation right in the harbor? And a harbormaster?”
Banderas could feel the heat rising in his face. He needed this man, needed him badly, but the time would come when he didn’t need him, and then…
“What about the second harbor?” he reminded LeBlanc. “You said there are two harbors.”
“Yeah,” LeBlanc nodded agreeably, enjoying himself. “North Harbor. It’s a bit more sheltered, but it has a lot of people in it. Not so many fancy restaurants, but my goodness we got a lot of bars in that harbor, and they’ll be busy tonight. Plus, the harbormaster is the brother-in-law of Frank Finley, the guy you tried to kill, but didn’t. And the harbormaster knows young Jacob Finley works on this boat, so you think he might notice when we all pull in and maybe, just maybe he might call his brother-in-law the cop?”
“Hijo de puta!” Banderas scowled.
“So my recommendation,” LeBlanc continued pleasantly, “is that we go all the way around Coles Point and turn northwest, then slide down into the Inner Harbor and in towards Holts Pond. Once we round Coles Point the seas will be calmer and the peninsula will block the wind a bit. Won’t be no problem putting into the beach by Rte. 15. We dump the goods, back off the beach and head out.”
“I want to put all the parcels on one boat,” Banderas abruptly demanded.
LeBlanc shook his head. “Too late for that. Next stop for us is the Rte. 15 overpass at Holts Pond. If we try to pull the boats in close together for a transfer in this shit, next thing you know is one boat will be sitting atop the other and they’ll both sink. Nope, Bruno, we are all on the roller coaster now. Nothin’ to do but enjoy the ride.”
______________
In the stern of the Celeste, Jacob Finley stood knee deep in freezing water, hoping to hell that the little shack wouldn’t rip off the boat and tumble into the ocean. As the Celeste rolled and wallowed in the waves, Jacob was hurled first against one wall of the shack, then another, like he was the pinball in a demonic pinball game.
Another wave slammed him into a wall, where he thudded head first. Exhausted, cold and bleeding and unable to help himself, he screamed.
And screamed.
No one heard him.
Chapter 51
Thursday Night – Convergence
On Little Deer Isle, five miles north of North Harbor, eight men carrying duffle bags got into three cars and began driving slowly towards Rte. 15. When they reached it, they turned south, towards North Harbor.
Each duffle bag contained a loaded pistol with extra ammo and an AK-47 with a collapsible stock. They didn’t really expect trouble, but it was best to be prepared.
______________
At the Settlement Quarry Preserve in North Harbor, two cars pulled up. Six DEA agents got out, nodded to the two Coast Guard men guarding the command trailer and knocked on the door.
Howard Honeycutt opened the door and glanced at them. “Good. We’ve got two State Police Drug Task Force agents on call, once we know where we’re going.”
One of the DEA agents looked around. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What about backup from the local cops? Or the State Police SWAT teams?”
Honeycutt frowned. “That would be problematic. I checked with the State Police in Portland and Bangor, but their SWAT teams are already committed to a raid on a white supremacist group today, so no help there. And it’s not a good idea to involve the local police.”
The DEA agents exchanged wary glances. “Are they dirty?”
“We think so, but we have no hard evidence,” Honeycutt told them.
“And if they show up?” the agent pressed.
Honeycutt sighed. He had struggled with this. If the drugs landed in North Harbor territory, the local cops had every right to be involved. He could try to claim jurisdiction, but the fact was he would not be able to insist they leave.
“If they show up, we will have to be careful,” he told the agents. It wasn’t much of an answer, and from the sour looks on the agents’ faces, they knew it.
“And the role of the Coast Guard?” one of them asked.
Now Honeycutt had something to smile about. “The Coast Guard is working closely with us. They give us one huge advantage.”
One of the agents frowned. “You mean the drone?”
“No,” Honeycutt replied. “The Coast Guard has really big guns. And knows how to use them.”
______________
Four miles behind the three lobster boats, the Coast Guard Cutter Vigilant slowly steamed northeast. Captain O’Brien kept her eyes on the video screen streaming the display from the LUNA drone. The three boats were making steady headway through the gale. She figured they were going to go around the little archipelago that stood off the Stonington and North Harbor coast, which was full of jagged rocks and sandbars and other things that can ruin a lobsterman’s day. If she was right, they’d go north a bit, then turn west northwest. The big question was whether they would turn west at Lazygut Island, which would take them
in towards the town of North Harbor and a twisting, turning set of coves, harbors, inlets and fuck all, or whether they would continue north, past Lazygut Island, which would take them up the Eggemoggin Reach. That way could take them a bunch of places, more than she cared to think about.
If they went into the North Harbor area, the bad news was that the Vigilant would not be able to follow them all the way in, not in this storm and at night. Too easy to run aground on a sandbar or, worse, a nice sharp rock. The good news was if they went into the North Harbor area, the lobster boats would have to pass by the Vigilant when they came out. If they went for Eggemoggin Reach, it was anybody’s guess where the hell they’d end up, and in the cluttered waters of Eggemoggin Reach, she could lose them.
But these guys were local boys and knew the local waters. She was betting on North Harbor.
She opened a channel to the command trailer. “Pilot, this is Big Eyes, fuel status?”
______________
In the command trailer, Rachael Gardner was fighting to pull the drone out of a nose dive. A wind gust had snapped the drone’s twelve-foot wings over and it had tumbled a thousand feet before she had gotten control. Now it was under control, sort of, but pointed straight down. Gently, patiently, she eased it into horizontal flight and peeked at the altitude gauge. Nine hundred feet. Not bad, but not good, either. Another gauge showed wind gusts over forty miles per hour.
Definitely not good.
“Commander Mello,” she called out. “Request permission to abort and return to base. The wind gusts are now significantly above my authorized flight parameters.”
Mello stepped beside her. “How bad?”
“Like one more gust like the last one and she’ll crash for sure,” Gardner replied, tight lipped.
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