Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (33 page)

 
          
Salazar’s
eyes widened at the pilot’s words. “What did you say, Jose?”

 
          
“I
was just remembering back to
Angola
, sir,”
Trujillo
said. “Flying escort missions for
Luanda
’s government, such as it was. All we had
were MiG-17s and a couple of MiG-23s, but it was the best flying we’ve ever
done. Wide open skies, easy ground targets—”

 
          
“Fighter
escort ...” Salazar said. “Send a fighter to accompany a drug shipment?”

 
          
Trujillo
’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “It
would be easy to plan. We have our two training MiG-21s. But we have no
external fuel tanks and no weapons for them except a few hundred rounds of
ammunition for the cannons—”

 
          
“We
can get weapons, spare parts and fuel tanks through the Haitian government,”
Salazar said. “As military commander of the central district I have the
authority—and with our offshore accounts, the transactions will be untraceable ...
Yes, you have given me the answer. I think I now have a way our shipment can be
made with safety ...”

 
          
Hermosa
had been ignored, overlooked in the exchange that followed, standing
inconspicuously nearby, waiting for orders, pouring beer and tequila for the
group. But his ear was tuned, and his busy mind was taking it all in . . . Use
fighter planes as escorts for drug shipments? Shoot down Customs planes?
Colonel Salazar was becoming obsessed with power. The integrity of the
organization was threatened . . .

 
          
What
to do? Save him from himself. Tip oft” the Coast Guard and Customs . . . ?

 
          
Hammerhead
One Staging Platform

 
          
Later That Evening

 
          
Geffar
settled into her seat and activated the communications monitor. It was getting
easier to operate the system now after three days working with it. On the
screens before her were aircraft and ships with tiny highlighted data blocks
belonging to Customs Service and Coast Guard aircraft operating in their
region. Three days ago it was confusing; now her fingers danced across the
console keyboard, retrieving bits of information and swapping screens between
the high- definition monitors and the regular screens to give herself the best
possible view.

 
          
“
Omaha
Three-Four is airborne,” Mike Drury, the
pilot aboard the Australian-built sea surveillance airplane, radioed in. Geffar
checked that his data block was transmitting—isolated thunderstorms in the area
were interfering with some transmissions.

 
          
“He’s
thirty minutes late,” Hardcastle said.

 
          
“Gates
must’ve been delayed,” Geffar told him. Gates, the new Customs Service
Commissioner, had been sworn in earlier that morning. He had decided to fly on
the night’s mission anyway.

 
          
Geffar
shook her head in amazement, Coast Guard and Customs working together. “Why
can’t we work like this all the time?” “That’s what we’re trying to get
Congress to buy off on—” Hardcastle said, “You’ve got to have one commander,
one person with the authority to move all the vessels, aircraft and men under
his command to support an operation. I don’t have the authority to launch your
Nomad or your Black Hawks, and you don’t have the authority to position my
aerostats. Only a federally mandated unit with one commander in charge of all
drug-interdiction assets can get this kind of support. McDonough didn’t
understand that.”

 
          
Geffar
nodded, feeling more than before that the Hammerheads would work and Hardcastle
was right.

 
          
She
called up the main SLINGSHOT composite radar screen of the whole south
Florida/Florida Straits/Bahamas region. As she touched the transmit button on
the touch-screen monitor, the data block belonging to Customs’ Nomad
surveillance aircraft highlighted itself, and an additional data printout
reported its exact position, flight parameters and estimated fuel endurance.
“Three-Four, status check.”

           
“Three-Four in the green,” Agent
Mike Drury aboard the Nomad cargo plane replied. “We’ve got a VIP on board
tonight.”

 
          
Geffar
smiled and nodded to Hardcastle, who was in the seat beside her. She clicked
the channel open. “Roger that, Three-Four. Pass my congratulations to
Commissioner Gates.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Sandra,” the new commissioner said over the radio.

 
          
In
the dark interior of the Nomad, Gates could be seen under the glare of subdued
cabin lights. His life jacket was askew, his headset was pushed too far forward
on his head, but his hair was neat and undisturbed. He was wearing a blue nylon
windbreaker with a large Customs Air Branch patch over the right breast. The
Nomad’s two sensor operators—Jacqueline Hoey, working the SeaScan radar, and
“Buffalo Bill” Lamont, operating the Westinghouse WF-360 infrared scanner—were
bathed in the greenish glare of their sea-mapping scopes.

 
          
Hardcastle
was staring at the Diamond-towed aerostat unit’s radar display. The controllers
aboard the cutter had highlighted a target several times in the last few
minutes. The target, represented by a red square, was just off the northern
coast of
Cuba
heading northwest at almost six miles per minute according to the
aerostat radar’s readouts. Hardcastle touched Geffar’s shoulder. “We might have
something here.”

 
          
Geffar
checked the HDTV displays. “Fast-moving, flying right on the edge of the Cuban
waters—he’s going over three hundred fifty knots ...”

 
          
“Altitude
five hundred feet,” Long reported, now on one of the lower-deck consoles. “A
military flight?”

 
          
“Could
be.” Hardcastle punched commands into the keyboard, telling the computer to
display any military air-traffic-control radio beacons from any aircraft. The
radar display flickered once as the computer quickly redrew the screen, but
there was no change. “No squawking military codes. He might be military but I
doubt it.”

 
          
“One
of ours?”

 
          
“No
way,” Geffar said, “unless I don’t know about it. Could it be a Coast Guard
Falcon?”

 
          
“We’d
be picking up his beacon if it was,” Hardcastle said. He punched in more
instructions, displaying a short list. “Aircraft, Seventh District, Flight
Status.” A map of the southeast
United States
came on one of the large screens, and
flashing data blocks indicated the location of each aircraft.

           
“Three Seventh District aircraft are
up, and one is operating near the Bahamas,” Hardcastle reported, “but no one is
anywhere near Cuba.” It could be a bizjet from Puerto Rico or the eastern
Caribbean hot-dogging around Cuba—some pilots like to stay as close to shore as
they can in case they get an engine problem. It could be a military flight with
an inop transponder. Or . . .”

 
          
“Or
it could be a new player,” Geffar said. “Making a drop.” She magnified the view
of northern
Cuba
. The image showed only a few sea targets sailing along the coast in the
path of the plane. “Altitude down to three hundred feet,” Geffar said. “He’s
making a drop, I know it.”

 
          
“But
he’s a fast-mover, not a bug-smasher,” Long said. “Doesn’t make sense ...”

 
          
“Sense
or not, the guy’s heading for Mayberry.” The fast-moving target was on a direct
course for the yellow-highlighted area where drops had been made in recent
weeks. Two vessels were inside that area, another a few miles away. “He’s down
to one hundred feet and slowing—now down to two hundred knots and decelerating.
He’s making a drop for sure.” She turned to Hardcastle. “We have any planes in
the area?”

 
          
He
rechecked but he knew the answer. “The Nomad is the closest airborne. The Black
Hawk is the only other that’s closer . . . unless ... the Sea Lion can make the
intercept faster than the Black Hawk.”

 
          
“We’re
not authorized to use it. Not yet, anyway. Launch a plane from
Homestead
and put him on the guy. We’ll keep the
Nomad in place in case any vessels head north toward the Keys.” Hardcastle
called up his own communications screen and contacted the Customs Service Air
Branch to launch a Citation chase plane.

 
          
Geffar
opened the secure channel to the Nomad. “Three-Four, this is Hammerhead One. We
think a drop is going down at Mayberry. We’re watching a fast-moving aircraft
on a drop profile. Stand by.”

 
          
“Roger,
Hammerhead,” Drury replied. “We’ve catalogued four vessels on station at Cay
Sal Bank. They might be players too.” Geffar put a magnified view of the Cay
Sal Bank on a monitor. There were four vessels within a mile of each other. The
computer reported each target had remained in the same relative position since
first catalogued by the preceding Nomad flight earlier in the day.

 
          
“Hammerhead
One, this is SLINGSHOT,” the joint Customs Service-Coast Guard radar ground
controllers radioed. “Be advised,
Omaha
Four-Zero airborne.” A blinking indicator
over Homestead AFB in southern
Florida
on the larger scale map confirmed the call.

 
          
“Hammerhead,
this is Three-Four.” It was Jacqueline Hoey, the SeaScan radar controller on
board Nomad. “Target coming off Mayberry, turning north. Projecting flight path
directly toward Cal Say Bank area, ETA six minutes.”

 
 
          
GefiFar
touched her light pen on the digital blip representing the Citation Hardcastle
had just ordered be launched from
Homestead
and drew a line between it and the radar
target of the fast-moving newcomer heading north. “If that guy continues north
we should watch him. If he turns tail and runs we might not.”

 
          
“He’s
heading right for the four vessels that have been sitting on Cay Sal Bank all
afternoon,” Hardcastle said. “He’s a player, all right. Whoever’s in charge of
this one, they got some serious wings on their side now.”

 
          
Customs Service Air Branch Headquarters,
Homestead AFB,
Florida

 
          
The
duty officer heard the ringing and picked up the phone on the intra-agency
direct line from
Miami
headquarters. “
Homestead
. Davidson.”

 
          
“Chuck,
this is Willy at
Brickell
Plaza
. I received an anonymous call. Claims
Commissioner Gates is in danger and should leave the drug-drop area near
Cuba
soonest possible.”

 
          
Davidson
responded with the universal cop’s first line of any investigation: “Say that
again.”

 
          
“I
said, guy claims that the Commissioner is in danger on that Nomad flight. He
was on the horn for only about five seconds but he said Commissioner Gates’
plane may come under attack.”

 
          
“Where?
When . . . ?”

 
          
“Nothing
else. Can you get hold of GefiFar and let her know?” “Sounds like a crank to
me,” Davidson said. But he had been in the Service long enough to know never to
ignore even the most far-out calls. “I’ll pass it along. Do you have a tape of
the call or a tracer?” “It came through the switchboard. I’ll ask. And I didn’t
make a tape. I just came in for a minute, thought the call was from my old
lady.”