“I agree, Doctor.” Sam nodded. “Plan on taking the XO and Seaman Lopez with you. XO, I want the Puma to do a security sweep and then maintain an overwatch while you guys are ashore. I don’t expect trouble, but I’m into playing it safe these days. Once you’re done, it can continue the recon. When we break up here, please sit down with Hoppy and Fritz and gin up one of your geeky-mathy optimized Op Plans for tomorrow. I’m sure the Doctor here would appreciate our trying to make up some time we lost today.”
“That I would. Thank you, sir.” Simmons smiled.
“Okay, this was quite a day.” Sam sat back, scratching his close-cropped hair. “XO, before you get head-down with Ops and Air, I’d like you to do a wellness check of the rest of your boarding party. The adrenaline’s worn off by now, and they might be a touch wound up. I’d do it, but the only answer I can get when I ask how someone’s doing is ‘Awesome, sir!’ I figure they’ll be a little franker with you than they’d be with the Old Man.”
“Yes, sir.” Ben nodded.
“Holler if I need to pitch in.”
“Awesome, sir!”
“Dismissed, wiseass!” Sam threw a crumpled ball of paper in Ben’s direction as he and a grinning Simmons stepped out the door of the cabin.
13
Reconnaissance—Sea
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, Gulf of Mexico, Off Resolution Key, Florida
0756 EST, 17 January
Kauai idled a quarter-mile off the northern tip of Resolution Key, with Lee putting in a turn as the OOD. The driving was dull this morning, occasionally goosing the idling engines to hold position and heading in the calm air and slow current. A small shack and beat-up old pickup truck were visible on their arrival. An older man in a straw hat had emerged carrying fishing gear when the Puma completed its circuit and assumed overwatch. The man waved on seeing the cutter, then settled on the chair to fish. Satisfied there was no apparent hazard, Sam had green-lighted the launch of the RHIB to put Ben, Simmons, and Lopez ashore for an investigation.
Bondurant was the coxswain of record this morning, but Jenkins breaking in for landing operations. Landing operations could be tricky, and Bondurant would never pass up an opportunity to give his junior boatswain hands-on training. Ben, Simmons, and Lopez were sitting forward, ready to jump off when it nudged the shore. They were landing 100 yards from the shack, to avoid disrupting its resident’s fishing and get a look at the ground. Bondurant whispered coaching instructions as Jenkins steered into a soft bump when the prow touched bottom. The three passengers turned and, getting a thumbs up from Jenkins, jumped into the shallow water. The boat floated free, and Jenkins backed it off the beach.
As they waded ashore, Simmons said, “Your man is settling down nicely. That was only the second most thorough safety brief I’ve ever had.”
As both the coastguardsmen smiled, Ben replied, “Yes, we’re riding the asymptote down to the ‘Yeah, blah-blah, don’t get hurt,’ version.”
Simmons chuckled and then stopped, scanning at the sand inland of the high tide ridge. “Hang on a minute, guys. Check out these impressions.” He crouched down and peered hard, tilting his head back and forth. “What do you think?”
Ben shrugged silently, but Lopez spoke, “The track is too wide for that Toyota.” He nodded toward the pickup truck. “More like a big SUV or Hummer. They dismounted there and walked to the tide line. From the tracks, I’d say two, maybe three guys.”
“Yes, indeed!” Simmons responded with Ben looking at Lopez in surprise. “Notice the vehicle tracks move inland instead of toward the shack. Let’s file that one away.” He turned and continued toward the shack, Ben and Lopez following.
“Lope, I never considered you as the Sherlock Holmes type,” Ben said.
“You should update yourself, XO. Doyle’s great, but Deaver and Cornwell are the thing for modern detecting. Back in LA, a police detective took me on in the Big Brother program. He turned me on to the books and took me on some ride-alongs. It stuck.”
“Steer me to some good ones when we get back to Miami.” Ben nodded as they walked along.
“Gud’day fellers!” the old man said with a smile as they approached. “Whadda y’at?”
“Um, good morning, sir,” Ben began as he tried to place the accent he heard. “I’m Lieutenant Junior Grade Ben Wyporek, U.S. Coast Guard, and these are my associates: Seaman Juan Lopez and Investigator Jim Pearson. We’re investigating a boat accident that happened around here a week ago and were wondering if you might have seen anything.”
“Oh, I bin round since just after Boxing Day.” The older man nodded. “I always come down dis time a’year to warm up in me pally’s place here. Pally and me swap—he comes up for a break in me cabin when it’s burnin’ hot down here, and I come down when it’s cold enough to skin ya up home. Yup, I was out here a week back, didn’t see nuttin’. A few fish cops come round in a big SUV, but dem’s the only folk I seen. No boats no time except yours dare,” he said, nodding toward Kauai.
“Sir, you’re from Canada, I take it?”
“Newfoundland, ‘Olyrood.” The man huffed up.
“Sorry, sir, no offense meant. Do you mind if I see your passport, please?”
“It’s on de cuddy inside de door.” The man pointed. “I hopes you don want my arse outta dis nice chair right now?”
“No, sir, if you don’t mind, Seaman Lopez will peek in and grab it for you,” Ben nodded at Lopez. He ducked into the shack, returned with the booklet, and handed it to Ben. The photo inside was a cleaner, slightly younger version of the older man. Ben read aloud, “William Witson, 23 MacKenzie Ave, Holyrood, Newfoundland and Labrador. Did I say that correctly, sir?”
“That’s Newfound-LAND, son, spot-on wi tother.”
“Thanks, Mr. Witson. Is that truck a rental or on loan from your friend?” Ben noted the entry stamp in the passport dated December 27th.
“Ya can call me Bill if ya like. Dat’s my pally’s truck. He loans it t’me when I comes down. Ya can look round it if ya likes.”
“You don’t mind?” At his nod, Simmons turned and walked toward the vehicle.
“Naw, anyting for the law.” Turning toward Lopez, he continued. “I’m ‘bout to have an eye-opener, son. Care to join in?” He reached for a beer in the cooler beside the chair.
“Thank you, sir, but it’s a little early for me.” Lopez smiled back. “Besides, I don’t want to be drinking in front of the Lieutenant.” He winked conspiratorially.
“Ha! I dies at you. Where you from, son?”
“East Los Angeles, sir.”
“Cally-fornia? I bet it never gets cold dare.”
“Not like Newfound-Land.”
The light conversation continued while Simmons searched through the truck and shack. As he returned, he caught Ben’s eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Ben nodded, equally subtly, and then brought the conversation to a close. “Sir, thank you very much for your time and cooperation. I wish you a pleasant visit and good luck with the fish.”
“Tanks, Leftenant.” Witson smiled and nodded. “You take care, and long may your big jib draw.”
Ben called for the RHIB as they walked down toward the pickup point, and it nosed in as they arrived. Lopez held the bow just short of grounding while the other men climbed in, then he pushed off and swung up. Jenkins backed the boat off, turned, and headed for Kauai. Ben turned to Simmons, speaking loudly over the engine, “Wow, that was some accent. I could barely make him out. I usually have more trouble telling someone’s Canadian.” He waived when he noticed the older man watching them.
Simmons smiled. “They’re rather insular in Newfoundland. It wasn’t even part of Canada until 1949. Still, you probably wouldn’t have noticed with someone younger.”
“Nothing interesting with the pickup or shack?”
“Nothing I could see. The truck is registered in Hialeah. It’s big enough to carry the wire reel, but there’s no evidence of it—only some receipts for food and beer. I go
t the registration information and VIN. Only clothes and junk in the shack.”
“I’ll send that and the passport info in and see if we get any hits, but it looks like a bust.”
“Perhaps.” Simmons paused and glanced back at the shack receding in the distance. “Still, I’m keeping this one in my pocket while we check the others.”
From the shade of his makeshift porch, “Old Bill” watched the RHIB make its way toward the patrol boat and raised his beer exaggeratingly in return of the wave from the young lieutenant. He smiled again and returned to fishing.
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, Gulf of Mexico, 24 nautical miles east-northeast of Key West, Florida
1732 EST, 17 January
Kauai sped westbound for a return for refueling in Key West. The remaining survey areas were completed by launching both Pumas on independent flight plans with staggered launch and recoveries. Simmons and Deffler had worked a double shift pre-processing the data for the image analysis to follow.
The crew cycled through an exquisite meal, by patrol boat standards, consisting of Mahi Mahi with coconut rice and mango salsa, prepared by Hebert as the catch of the day. During the Puma sorties, the lookout spotted a floating raft of seaweed. Bondurant recognized the opportunity and persuaded Sam to stop for an impromptu fish call. As Bondurant expected, the area under the floating tub and seaweed raft teemed with dolphinfish that began a feeding frenzy when the first line hit the water. Within 30 minutes, Hebert had a dozen large specimens and dived in at once.
Ben sat across the table from Drake and Simmons, the latter shaking his head in wonderment. “My God, this is incredible. How do you keep this man? I couldn’t get a meal like this for under a hundred bucks back home.”
“In a big, fancy restaurant, he’d just be another guy at the stove, working under a puffed up asshole. Here, he’s the king and gets to work a machine gun in his spare time. The skipper and Chief keep him fixed up with all the fancy spices and tools he needs,” Ben said, holding up a piece of the fish. “He’s also seriously appreciated.”
“He damn well better be!” Simmons responded. Catching Hebert’s attention, he said, “C’est fameux, Maître Cuisinier. Je me regale!”
“Merci beau coups, Monsieur Professeur!” Hebert mocked a sword salute with his spatula.
Simmons renewed his attack on the helpless fish. Ben glanced at the other end of the table where Hopkins, Deffler, Lee, and Williams were dining and sharing relaxed conversation. Williams, as usual, expounded on a perceived atrocity of modern government with Lee nodding and Hopkins patiently waiting for her chance for rebuttal. Deffler sat quietly and seemed to have his attention more focused on Hopkins than the conversation going on around him.
“Now, Hoppy. I think providing free school meals, that is, taxpayer-funded meals encourages poor behavior. I mean, if you’re not held responsible for providing for your own kids, where does it stop?” Williams said.
Hopkins shook her head sadly, as she often did during similar table debates. “Joe, it isn’t a question of trying to hold parents responsible. I doubt the decision would affect someone like that either way. You have to think if they’re letting their kids go hungry, it’s because they can’t do anything about it, or they don’t care. The government won’t change that behavior by withholding food. It comes down to stopping children from going hungry. I’m sorry, but I just can’t get worked up against stopping that.”
“Aw, c’mon, Hoppy.” Williams turned to Deffler. “Hey Fritz, help me out here.”
Deffler smiled but continued gazing at Hopkins. “Sorry, sailor, can’t help you outta this one. A guest like me should maintain a strict non-interference policy regarding the hosts.”
“Airedales!” Williams scoffed, shaking his head.
Ben chuckled and returned to his conversation. He looked across at Drake and asked, “Chief, what happens with you, I mean after we decommission? Are you going to move on to the Fast Response Cutters?” He referred to the new class of patrol boats replacing the one-tens.
“No, XO. I’m a PB guy to my bones. Not interested in Mini-MEs.”
Ben’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Mini-MEs? Where’d that come from?”
Drake sat back, signaling the delivery of some deck-plate philosophy. “Think about that boat—four officers, so full of electronics and other gear, you can’t even turn around. They jammed everything electronic you’d find on a two-seventy into a hull half the size—like they were going for a miniature Medium Endurance Cutter. Thus, Mini-ME.”
Ben guffawed. “Chief, is it that bad? Wouldn’t you like not needing to grind out replacement parts after every patrol? You’d have more than three guys working for you and not have all the EO paperwork.”
“XO, I enjoy having a nice tight engine room crew that I can run. And as for paperwork, that’s why I have you, sir!” He paused while the other two men chuckled then continued. “Naw, this is my twilight tour. I reckon I’ll go out with the old girl and maybe hire on at a marine repair shop.”
“Yeah, I don’t doubt it. Just don’t bail before I move along, please. You know, it’s all about me.”
“Don’t I know it, sir.” He turned to Simmons. “So Doc, any luck with finding the space rock?”
Simmons swallowed. “Alas no, the quest for the Holy Grail continues. I’m hoping this last batch of imagery will bear fruit for us.”
“I don’t get it. A rock ginormous enough to cave in a boat ought to be easy to see.”
“On the contrary, Chief. The impactor is likely quite small. Remember, speed is the big part of the kinetic energy of an object. An impactor ten feet across hitting the Earth at a typical meteor’s speed would produce an explosion comparable to the Hiroshima atomic bomb. We’re lucky most burn up in the atmosphere. I believe the water kept it from vaporizing, but whatever was left probably shattered. No, we’re searching more for the effects of the impact, breaks in the patterns of the shore and seabed. That’s why we crank the imagery through computer algorithms. They can pick up on anomalies too subtle for humans to see.”
Ben hated the deception Simmons perpetrated on Drake, despite complete understanding and agreement of the necessity. Still, he had to admire the skill Simmons displayed in his almost casual obscuration of the genuine nature of their mission, at least, as he saw it. Ben tried not to think of how the crew would react if they learned the truth. He glanced at his watch. “Sorry, guys, gotta shove off for the entering-port brief.”
Simmons turned to him. “As many times as you’ve been to Key West, you still need detailed briefings?”
“Doc, every mooring is unique. Tides, currents, lighting effects can change daily or hourly. Try figuring things out while bearing down on the dock, and you add another dent on the hull. Chief wouldn’t like that.” He nodded to Drake.
“No, that wouldn’t make my day.” The look Drake gave told Ben the older man knew he was not hearing the truth, at least the whole truth. Ben kept his face impassive and nodded to Hopkins, inducing her to excuse herself from the table and follow him forward.
14
Parting
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, Gulf of Mexico, 24 nautical miles east-northeast of Key West, Florida
1812 EST, 17 January
Having wrapped up the brief, Ben had started his usual mental preparation for the ship-handling effort to come in two hours when Sam beckoned him over. “Our guest has requested a confidential meeting to discuss the next steps. Meet you in the cabin in five minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, Sam, Ben, and Simmons were sitting in their usual places in Sam’s cabin with the door closed. Sam looked at Simmons and said, “OK, Doctor, you have the floor.”
Simmons nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Image processing is continuing, but we have done about all the seaborne reconnaissance we can. I need to get with my people to coordinate some deeper dives on land. If you don’t object, I’ll be moving ashore when we return to Key West.”
Sam glanced at Ben, then back to Simmons. “Am I to infer that our role in this mission is ending?”
“No, sir. We know that craft landed in the water, although not where yet and that it hasn’t moved ashore. Until we are sure they have left, there’s still an important maritime part to this effort. I have to ask you to stay nearby and available.”
“Very well, Doctor. Until our orders change, we’ll continue on the mission. What do you envision us doing?”
“I need you to be the maritime response force in the event we locate the target. It’ll mean being underway in a standby position north of the Keys. We can work out a geographic point that would allow the best average response time.”
Sam nodded. “That’s doable, provided you remember this is a patrol boat, not a large cutter and that after three days underway, I need to go in for a fuel break.”
“Understood. This should be resolved by then. There’s one more thing.” He looked at Ben. “I’d like to take Ben with me to serve as an advisor.”
“You’re joking!” Sam said with astonishment. “Do you realize what you’re asking? What if we end up tangling with your visitors or the TCO thugs? You want me to risk going into a fight without my GQ OOD?”
“Hear me out.” Simmons held up his hand. “It’s a lot to ask, but consider the risks if I have to decide about your role without your knowledge or experience. No one on my team understands Kauai’s capabilities and limitations. I could easily put your guys, my guys, or both in unnecessary risk through sheer ignorance. Wouldn’t it be better to avoid a jam than fight our way out of one?”
Sam shook his head. “Even if I were to agree to that view, even if I believed I could assume that risk for my crew and ship, what about Ben? He’s not trained for this kind of work. You cavalierly hung his ass out before without a by-your-leave or apology.”
“Captain, I take exception to your characterization of that event. We had the risk under control. Now we have three teams available in support instead of one. And that’s just my guys. I’ve heard the FBI, DEA, and ATF are moving in now that we’ve got terrorists, drugs, and bombs in play. We’re covered far better than before.” He paused, glancing at Ben. “I understand what I’m asking of you, and I wouldn’t just throw you in the blades. Too much has happened on this trip,”
Engage at Dawn: First Contact Page 13