by Alan Lee
“Darren—”
“Keep up the good work, August. Maybe you’ll get through this alive. Kiss that baby for me.”
He hung up.
I glanced at my speedometer.
I was going over a hundred.
Wednesday Night
Manny
The Sikorsky MH-60T Jayhawk assigned to the Coast Guard station at Cape Charles reached its destination two miles off shore, near Virginia Beach. The powerful engines decreased power and the helicopter began hovering twenty feet above the calm surface.
It was after midnight.
Visible a mile distant, the tramp steamer Maryland Victory was bearing down at twenty knots through the easy swell.
NSA cyber analyst Noelle Beck, strapped into the passenger bay, was wearing a headset and she shouted into the mic. “Bingo! We’re here!”
U. S. deputy marshal Manny Martinez wore a corresponding headset, but he was leaning from the open bay door and staring down at the Atlantic. The ocean was black, not even visible as a reflection of blinking helicopter lights—the Sikorsky was flying dark. When rotor wash tore the tops off gentle waves, only then could Manny see the surface clearly.
“Ay, es una pasada, I love this county,” he said.
Lieutenant Gibson, a Coast Guard specialist in maritime security operations, crouched beside him. He gave the deputy marshal credit—the man seemed fearless. However, this VBSS (Visit, Board, Search, Seizure) seemed unnecessarily complex. Two Coast Guard cutters waited at Cape Henry, he knew, ready for their signal. His headset was alive with MSO chatter.
When asked why didn’t they board the tramp steamer via the cutters, Sinatra—the only name he knew Manny by—said, “We need to catch the culprits red-handed. In the act. After the bricks hit the water, the wrong party gets the bill.”
It had to do with politics, Lt. Gibson was sure. Something he hated. But orders had come from high up the chain. Even his superior officers seemed stunned. Someone with clout had made it clear—do whatever Sinatra and Beck say.
Lt. Gibson released the helicopter’s payload. A large package detached from their underbelly and the aircraft jolted. The package hit the water. Air canisters unloaded their charge, and the inflatable boat quickly became rigid. The beacon went active.
“Boat’s wet,” said Gibson.
“Good luck,” called Beck. She’d spent the day searching for better options and couldn’t—the time for caution and argument was past. “See you in two hours.”
Sinatra gave her a thumbs-up. He took off his headset, and so did Gibson. They tossed buoyant backpacks, aiming for the boat, and then they jumped into the dark.
Feet first into the Atlantic. Despite the cold water wetsuit, Manny lost his breath. The ocean’s temperature was forty-nine degrees off the coast of Virginia.
Mierda! Aye dios mio!
This was a terrible idea!
The Sikorsky banked away, leaving them in a black and gasping silence. Dim lights on their vests flickered on. Manny slithered aboard the little boat, where Lt. Gibson was already unpacking an outboard motor. It was electric and rigged for silence, but only gave them thirty minutes of juice. After that, they had small paddles.
The Maryland Victory was scheduled to reduce speed in ninety minutes at the pilotage near Cape Henry Lighthouse, where a speedboat would run the harbor pilot out. All inbound cargo ships did this, and that was the point at which the cocaine bricks would be tossed over the opposite side, where they’d bob until plucked by a waiting boat.
Tossing bricks over the side wasn’t a foolproof plan. The drug cartels never intended it on this trip, but the MS-13 didn’t care about potential losses—they had no financial liability. This was pure theft, made possible by Darren Robbins, an inside informant. If MS-13 lost some of the bricks, or even most of the bricks, it was no skin off their back; they would’ve dealt their rivals a vicious blow either way.
Tonight they’d gotten lucky—the ocean was calm.
During the Coast Guard’s hasty prep, Rocky Rickard had played his part well, as the shocked and accommodating owner, willing to act as the liaison between the government and the ship. Maryland Victory’s skipper understood he would be boarded an hour before reaching the pilotage—he was to reduce power at the prearranged time for ten minutes, allowing federal agents to board in secret, and then steam on.
Manny knew the skipper was on the Kings’ payroll, and he had to be near panic, despite Rocky’s reassurances.
Secrets within secrets.
If this went well, the Kings wouldn’t lose a fortune; Rocky wouldn’t be forced into hiding; MS-13 would be implicated and saddled with the ire of the drug cartels and the justice department; Manny and Beck would be safe and given insight that could help Mackenzie.
Manny grinned to himself as their small boat turned south toward the Maryland Victory and packed on speed.
What a ridiculous plan.
What a night to be alive.
What a great country.
The lights of Virginia Beach gave the eastern horizon an electric glow. It was after midnight.
The tramp steamer grew in size like a colossus. Maryland Victory wasn’t one of the world’s largest cargo freighters, which were sometimes stacked twenty-four containers wide and fifteen containers high, holding over ten thousand total. Rocky’s ship held less than a thousand, but still Manny had never felt so small. Her lights towered above them like the distant stars.
Lt. Gibson waited in her path and kept time on his watch. At 12:45 a.m. the engines of the Maryland Victory coughed and her speed slackened. Their cue. The little boat’s engine kicked into high gear, knifing toward the steamer’s stern. Manny bounced along without comment, clicking off their beacon light and cinching his backpack tighter.
Even with reduced speed, the Maryland Victory felt like a barreling planet. Unbelievable in size and momentum. A hatch was open near the waterline, and a rope ladder dangled.
Manny had a moment of vertigo and disorientation as their little boat took a parallel course and drifted nearer the massive hull. Lt. Gibson increased speed to battle the current created by Maryland Victory, as it sucked water along. The noise was overwhelming.
Carefully he nudged his boat’s rubber hull against the bigger ship, and Manny clipped a personal safety line onto the rope ladder. During a storm, this operation would be close to impossible. He pulled himself up and clipped another line, securing the little inflatable boat to an eyebolt, an arrangement that would last mere seconds once Gibson abandoned the tiller.
Manny climbed the rest of the ladder and perched on the landing, which was empty. Only the captain knew they were here.
Gibson steadied the inflatable boat and quickly stepped onto the rope ladder. He clipped himself in and released the boat’s tether before the swirling vicissitudes could destroy it. Their little inflatable boat nosed away and disappeared into the black.
They were aboard.
Maryland Victory was a large vessel with a crew of twenty. No one had detected their arrival, as most crewmen were worried with the sudden engine hiccup, a hiccup the skipper had faked.
Manny and Gibson crouched in the dark and waited. This close to the engine room, their compartment rang with noise, and the air stank of diesel and bilge water. They shrugged off the backpacks and zipped out of their wetsuits. Each removed a radio and satellite phone from their backpack and stuffed them into a pants pocket, though first Gibson communicated their successful boarding to the Coast Guard cutters. Each clipped a Glock onto his belt.
A few minutes later, the engines revved to a normal level and the Maryland Victory surged forward. The hiccup was resolved. One hour before they reached the pilotage.
The ship’s skipper, an American who would face no backlash from ‘unwittingly’ transporting smuggled cocaine, had suggested the federal agents quickly move above deck and hide between the containers. Though the cargo hold was open and illuminated with lights, that area wouldn’t be patrolled during this part of thei
r voyage. Surprise was essential, after all.
This particular ship continually circulated from Baltimore to the Port of Santos in Brazil, stopping at Caracas, Panama, Houston, and Miami, and the crew was diverse. Rocky and the skipper had examined the Maryland Victory’s manifest. Of the crew, three were American, four were Norwegian, three Scandinavian, three Mexican, two Honduran, two Guatemalan, and three from El Salvador.
Most likely, Darren Robbins’ contact had been communicating with the three from El Salvador, the original home of MS-13. Those three were deck ratings, and assisted with navigation, deck maintenance, and cargo operations.
Manny and Gibson reached the cargo hold and moved aft, away from the bridge’s prying eyes. The containers created canyons and hiding was easy. The steel deck thrummed beneath their feet.
Forty-five minutes until the ship reached the pilotage.
The blue container, ARUT 991254, was close. The manifest said it was stacked second, near the rear of the ship, port side. Manny could reach it in under two minutes. But not yet.
He wished Beck was with him. He knew Gibson was better suited. But still.
They waited. Either the gang had already begun to unload cocaine bricks from the hidden compartment, or they would soon.
Manny’s plan would work better if the skipper had camera surveillance on that part of the cargo hold, but he didn’t. It was a guessing game, catching them in the act with no time to prepare.
Manny maintained a partial view of the starboard gangway, leading aft.
Gibson, the port.
Thirty minutes remained. Their predetermined time to move. Gibson raised his radio.
Manny stopped him. He’d seen something. Using basic infantry hand signals, Manny indicated one enemy walking.
A crewman on the starboard gangway, walking aft, toward the rear of Maryland Victory.
They waited one minute. Manny nodded.
It was time. The Coast Guard was ready and waiting to intercept. The ship’s captain was prepared to radio for assistance.
Gibson raised the radio. Whispered.
“Echo team to Alert.”
In their earpieces, a reply. “Go ahead, Echo.”
“Echo team moving. Request assistance.”
“Roger that, Echo. Assistance inbound.”
Manny moved, Glock ready. He and Gibson walked the container canyon to the end. Cleared fore and aft, and turned to the rear of the ship, which had taken on a slow pitching motion.
They had to move quickly. The Sikorsky and two cutters were inbound from three miles out. In two minutes, the captain would receive a call from the Coast Guard, ordering him to cut his engines. The captain would then call for general quarters and the saboteurs would guess the game was up.
Manny had three minutes, maybe four, to catch them in the act.
He and Gibson moved down rows of forty-foot containers, clearing each but seeing nothing.
Ay de mí, what if he’d done this wrong?
They peaked around the next row.
Nothing. Moved on.
They peaked around the next row.
There.
Three men were kneeling on the deck. Above them, stacked second, was a blue intermodal container. The men were up to their elbows in cellophane. Packs the size of bricks and shoeboxes were piled knee-high in a mound.
The men were Hispanic. Dark haired. Light skin.
In an instant, Manny saw their plan in full. They had a gallon of the ship’s paint and were giving each brick a quick swipe. The paint was reflective, making pickup easier in a dark ocean. The waiting boat, probably a raft, would use a flashlight and chase down reflections.
These three crew members weren’t missed by the others yet. No one knew they were here. They’d be done in under ten minutes. One guy would remain and chuck bricks off Cape Henry. Simple. And it would probably work. Or it would have.
Gibson acted first—he was jumpy. Glock up. He advanced on the stunned trio.
“Coast Guard! Hands behind your head! Lay on your faces! Now! Now!”
Manny translated, following, scanning the long corridor of containers. “Policía! Pon tus manos detrás de tu cabeza! Acuéstate boca abajo. Ahora!”
“Now!”
“Ahora!”
Overhead, the ship’s speakers blared to life—a series of beeps, followed by the captain issuing orders that Manny ignored.
One of the men laid down immediately. He laced his hands behind his head. He’d done this before.
The other two remained. Frozen or running through their options.
Manny raised his pistol at an angle and fired into the night. A loud crack, shockingly loud. Gibson started.
“Ahora! Pon tus manos detrás de tu cabeza!”
More orders from the speakers. Everything happening fast.
A second man laid down.
The third bolted. He shouted something Manny couldn’t understand and fled.
“Hey! Lay down! Hold it!” Manny’s partner Gibson moved after him.
“Gibson, no,” shouted Manny. “Wait for your amigos. Where’s he going to run?”
A fourth guy—a fourth; Manny and Gibson had anticipated only three—was above them. He’d been small enough to slither into the hidden compartment of the blue intermodal container, and he was still there when Gibson had first shouted.
He emerged now and he held an old Taurus 9mm.
Manny noticed the movement. Gibson didn’t; he was running.
“Gun!” Manny moved for cover, raising his own pistol. “Gibson, gun! The container!”
The MS-13 gangster fired twice from his superior vantage. The gun flashed and the container near Manny sparked. The shooter missed both, but the second round ricocheted cleanly off the corrugated steel and caught Manny in the right shoulder. Blood spattered against the container behind. The round didn’t penetrate deeply, but the impact spun him around.
The shooter, desperate and unthinking, turned his weapon on Gibson. He fired twice and connected with the second. Like Manny, Gibson was wearing light Hesco body armor, made buoyant for the Coast Guard. Like Manny, he got unlucky. The shot entered below the armor, into his hip.
Gibson fell and wildly returned fire.
Manny had transferred the Glock from his right hand to his left. He aimed. The shooter was pinned between containers, above them. Manny could see the old Taurus, an arm, a shoulder, and part of the guy’s head.
Manny inhaled. Held it. Compensated for the sway of the deck.
He fired.
His round caught the shooter in the back, where the shoulder connected to the spine. Probably shattering the scapula.
The shooter screamed and his gun fell. He disappeared between the containers.
More orders came through the loudspeakers, echoing off bulkheads. So did the thumping of a helicopter. It’s powerful searchlight hitting Maryland Victory.
Manny’s right shoulder feeling like it’d been struck by a hammer.
Gibson was putting pressure on his hip.
The man who’d fled was back. He had very few good options, and attacking the wounded Gibson was one of the best, to an uneven mind. Gibson didn’t see him—the crazed man, who’d probably indulged in some pure coke, was about to attack Gibson from behind and wrest free the pistol.
Still with his left hand, Manny got a bead on him.
He fired twice. Both rounds caught the attacker in the chest, puckering his shirt and knocking his feet out. His body issued a sucking groan. He collapsed with mere seconds to live—he’d been shot in the heart and lung.
“Stay down! Quédate abajo!” Manny shouted at the two men on deck.
They did.
Manny kept his gun trained above. He moved sideways until he could see the shooter. The shooter had fallen and was kinda stuck in the dark between containers. He would probably bleed to death before help could reach him.
Gibson was snarling into his radio.
Manny paused by the cellophane mound. Ay caramba, that was
a lot of cocaine.
The two men quivered, lying on their stomachs. They could see their dead amigo. Manny told them, “No te muevas. Tienes la oportunidad de vivir.”
Don’t move and you get to live.
Manny knelt beside Gibson. Using his injured right hand, he removed the small first aid pack from the pocket of his vest. Jerked free a compress and pressed it against the top of Gibson’s thigh. His hand shook.
“Dammit. Fucker got me,” said Gibson. His teeth were clenched. “It was my own fault damn it.”
His radio was quietly squawking. Manny didn’t hear it over the pounding in his ears.
“Be proud of the wound, amigo,” said Manny. His voice was steady.
Mostly steady.
“Fuck you, Sinatra.”
“Ay! You’ll live. And you were shot for America, señor Gibson, single-handedly taking down the biggest cocaine bust in years.”
“Single handedly.” Gibson said it with a grim chuckle. He felt like a hot iron was pushing into his hip.
“I was never here,” said Manny. “Part of the deal, sí?”
“I don’t know who you are, Sinatra, but you’re an impressive son of a bitch.” His teeth were still gritted and his face was pale.
Overhead the Sikorsky thundered into view. Beck was aboard, watching.
The fingers of Manny’s right hand were going numb. His shirt sleeve was crimson and sodden.
Beck was going to give him hell for that.
Well. Beck would give him heck.
And after, they would be banging on Rocky Rickard’s door. About that favor.
He grinned. Weary.
Hot on the trail of Darren Robbins.
For America and freedom and Mackenzie August.
Thursday Morning
Mackenzie
Sheriff Stackhouse slapped a paper on my kitchen counter, Thursday morning.
“There,” she said. “Twenty-three little airports in the Carolinas and northern Georgia, near the coast.”
“Twenty-three.” I set down my coffee and looked at the list. “That’s more than I anticipated.”