Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (48 page)

 
          
The
landing at the headquarter’s landing pad went smoothly except for a bit of
uneasiness a few seconds before touchdown. Ambulances, rescue trucks and
crewmen from Geffar’s helicopter rushed to the Sea Lion when they heard the
engine begin to wind down, and within moments an unconscious Fontaine was on a
stretcher and being loaded into the ambulance. Hardcastle’s crewmen had stopped
the bleeding and treated his wound. Geffar briefly checked on Fontaine then
returned to the Sea Lion’s starboard side door as Hardcastle was helping Daniel
down out of the plane. They were staring silently at a large tear in the back
padding of the seat Daniel had just vacated—a spot where the bullet that had
entered the cockpit had come through, inches above Daniel’s head. The bullet
that had almost killed Fontaine had also almost killed Daniel Hardcastle.

 
          
Daniel
looked ashen. He was staring at the jagged hole in the seat. Hardcastle
appeared drained; his hair was matted down, his flight suit soaked with sweat.
Daniel looked chilled right down to the bone in spite of the layers of life
jacket, body armor and clothing. “I’ll drive you two and the other crewmen over
to the clinic in Key Biscayne to get you checked over,” Geffar said.

 
          
Hardcastle
nodded, realized the two had never met. A helluva way to make introductions, he
thought as he put an arm around his son’s shoulder and led him to a waiting van
for the ride to the hospital.

 
          
As
they went to the van Geffar grabbed a flashlight from its holder beside the
starboard cargo door of the Sea Lion and inspected the right wing. The blast
damage was severe—Hardcastle had taken a chance bringing the aircraft all the
way from
Boca
Raton
overwater to
Alladin
City
. The drive train running through the wing
was intact but badly damaged—even with the cross-connect mechanism working, the
drive could have failed, which would have meant a water landing at night. It
was a risky decision to make, especially with live weapons and a passenger—his
son, no less—on board . . .

 
          
At
Key
Biscayne
Community
Hospital
a team of doctors and nurses checked over
each man, and each was found fit for duty. Except, of course, Fontaine, who had
suffered a concussion along with traumatic shock and would be hospitalized for
several days.

 
          
Geffar
brought the crew back to the headquarters building, where they met up with Brad
Elliott and Patrick McLanahan. The Hammerheads’ commander let them make phone
calls and talk to their families, ordered them hot meals from a local
restaurant, then separated them into individual offices and had them prepare
statements on what had occurred from their point of view. Daniel was given the
same.

 
          
When
the crew members were settled and working, Elliott brought Hardcastle into his
office. “This is a little unusual, isn’t it, Brad?” Hardcastle said after the
door was closed. “Reports are usually filled out as a crew, not separately.
This begins to look like an inquisition.”

 
          
“Hardly
that, but it won’t be SOP, either. This is the first time we’ve fired on a
vessel. Since we didn’t have a very good tactical picture of the incident I
want individual statements from the crew. We’ll also debrief you as a crew.
Hardcastle nodded, but didn’t like it. Elliott noticed electronic messages were
queued up on his computer terminal, several marked IMPORTANT. As he read the
electronic messages he asked, “Why did you go on this flight tonight, Ian? You
were off-duty, in civilian clothes, and had your son with you. Not exactly what
I’d call mission-ready.”

 
          
“Daniel
and I were out at the hangar. I was showing him around. When the crew responded
on standby I learned that Sandra wasn’t going to launch aircraft to chase down
that Cigarette boat—”

 
          
“That’s
right,” Geffar said. “That guy cleared Customs in
Freeport
. We tracked him as soon as CARABAL picked
him up. He was clean when he left the
Bahamas
and according to the radar no other vessels
rendezvoused with him. We didn’t have the qualified crews or the assets to do
an intercept so I turned it over to Customs.”

 
          
“If
he was inspected in
Freeport
where’d he get the automatic rifle?” Elliott pressed.

 
          
Geffar
spread her hands. “Who knows? Maybe he bribed some inspectors, maybe he sneaked
it on board. The point was that we knew the boat was clean and we knew it
wasn’t involved with any major smuggling—”

 
          
“So,
why not send a unit to intercept him? We’re a border security unit, we don’t
selectively stop some and allow others to pass—”

 
          
“That’s
not what we did, sir. We didn’t have the air assets to do a full intercept, the
crew here, Fontaine’s crew, wasn’t qualified to—

 
          
Hardcastle
interrupted. “Then why are we putting unqualified crews on alert like this? We
should be flying them every night to get them qualified—”

 
          
“We’ve
been flying them,” Elliott told him. “Fontaine and his crew flew this
afternoon, just before their shift.”

 
          
“You
know what the training schedule is like, for God’s sake,” Geffar added. “We
barely have enough crews to go around as it is. It takes time to qualify in a
complex aircraft like the Sea Lion. And lowering the sortie count to qualify
more crews in my opinion is
not
the
answer. We need to be more selective about which targets we intercept, involve
seaborne assets more instead of unqualified air assets. That means Customs, the
Coast Guard and our shore-based patrols. That’s who I had on the intercept and
that’s all I wanted . . . Ian, I understand, developed this whole deal, but I’m
operations here . . .”

 
          
“Sandra,
I heard the report on the target. I’m qualified on night intercepts. I made the
decision to do the intercept . .

 
          
“Maybe
not such a hot idea, Ian,” Elliott said.

 
          
Hardcastle
frowned. “It was my decision as the senior officer . . .” “A reporter contacted
the switchboard just after the intercept began,” Elliott said quietly. “Since
all the radio transmissions were generally in the clear and reporters seem to
be adept at tracking our movements, the press has a pretty good picture of what
happened tonight... This reporter
says
he saw you at a restaurant this evening, and that you had a drink at the bar
before dinner and wine at dinner. Any comment?”

 
          
“Sure,
it’s true. I won’t deny it—I don’t
have
to deny it. It sure as hell didn’t impair my abilities or judgement—”

 
          
“Would
you submit to a blood test?”

 
          
“What?
Are you asking me to?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Then
I’ll do it. You didn’t think I would, did you?”

 
          
“Come
on, Ian, when you think about it you’ll realize I’m asking this for the good of
us all, for
your
Hammerheads. I don’t
like the P.R. stuff but it’s my job, at least for now ...”

 
          
Hardcastle
hated the idea but knew he was right. He also still thought he had taken the
proper action and said so.

 
          
“What
happened after I said to disengage from the intercept?” Geffar asked him.

 
          
“Hey,
what is this, tag team interrogation?”

 
          
“Please
answer it,” Elliott said.

 
          
The
sudden edge in Elliott’s voice surprised Hardcastle. He took a deep breath,
choking down his anger. “I disengaged. We climbed to a thousand feet and kept
the light on the target. But Five-One radioed us and said he didn’t think
they’d catch him before he reached the Boca inlet. We responded by descending
back down and flying north of him, trying to get him to turn towards the SES.
He maintained his course. When he didn’t respond we launched a warning rocket
across his bow. He opened fire. A few shots hit us, and one damn near killed
Fontaine. I took the aircraft and climbed to three thousand feet.”

 
          
“How
did you get so much damage?”

 
          
“I
was ready to return to
Fort Lauderdale
to get attention for Adam but then I saw that son of a bitch right
underneath me, speeding along like nothing happened. The guy was shaking a fist
at me. I knew Petraglia would turn to assist and that this guy would get away.
I admit, it was too much to accept. I turned, descended and attacked with the
Chain Gun and a Sea Stinger. I got a little too close after the rocket attack
and took some collateral damage. Then I headed south to recover.”

 
          
Elliott
shook his head. “I understand, but I also think you should have left it to Petraglia
on the SES and Customs—”

 
          
“I
disagree. I was in a position to assist, Fontaine’s wounds weren’t critical—”

 
          
“He
has a concussion—” Geffar broke in.

 
          
“We’re
supposed to be out there keeping these people away from our shores. We’re
supposed
to be using our assets, not
withholding them or turning the job over to Customs. That’s what Hammerheads is
about. What if the guy got away? More, what if he killed someone in the harbor?
What if he was carrying explosives—”

 
          
“Ian,
you launched when you should have stayed on the ground,” Elliott said,
interrupting. “You attacked when you should have stayed away. You pressed the
attack when you should have withdrawn. You exposed your crew, your aircraft and
a civilian to unnecessary danger, and the Hammerheads to a lot of potential
lousy publicity—bad for you, for all of us.”

 
          
“Not
true! I did it because it’s my
job.
”

 
          
“Not
for the next forty-eight hours, it isn’t. You’re off-duty. Someone will take
you to the Coast Guard clinic on
Miami Beach
and well get a blood test. After that he’ll
take you home. Tomorrow morning you report here for duty. Stay incommunicado
until I say otherwise.”

 
          
“This
is crazy, Brad, we don’t have time to—”

 
          
“Dammit,
I can make it an order. Is that what you want?”

 
          
Hardcastle
shut up, pounded a fist on his desktop, turned and went out of the office.

 
          
He
met Daniel in the crew lounge, sitting on a sofa, staring at the report form he
had been told to fill out. When he saw his father, there was a new look in his
eyes. It made Hardcastle very uneasy. Was this the same young man he’d seen
only hours earlier on the baseball diamond and in the restaurant, exchanging
confidences man-toman?

 
          
A
pilot was standing in the hallway waiting for Hardcastle. “We’re taking my son
home first.”

 
          
“My
orders are—”

 
          
“Screw
your orders.” He led Daniel to the door. Behind him, Geffar watched as
Hardcastle shoved past the pilot and stormed away. It was a bad scene.

 
          
Outside
at least a half-dozen news cameras and a dozen reporters crowded around the
other gate that surrounded the Hammerheads headquarters building, pushing and
shoving each other to get a better shot. Hardcastle pulled his son quickly
along, shielding him as best he could from the crowd of cameras only a few feet
away.