Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (56 page)

 
          
“Hey,
Admiral, how’s she going?”

 
          
Hardcastle
looked at him, offered a wary smile. “All right. Watched the launch on the
monitors. Your crew is really humming. Got it off under five minutes this
time.”

 
          
“Yeah.
Thanks. Remember just a few weeks ago when we thought launching one under ten
minutes would be impossible? Now we do one under five and they think it’s no
big deal.”

 
          
“You’ve
done a great job with the drones and the crew,” Hardcastle said.

 
          
“For
an Air Force jock, you mean?”

 
          
“You’d
make a pretty good sea-dog, too.”

 
          
A
few beats of silence, then McLanahan said, “How are things really going with
you?”

 
          
Hardcastle
stared straight ahead, his lips taught, his eyes hard. “You know they changed
the designation of the Sea Lion, don’t you? It s officially an A V-22, an
attack
plane.” McLanahan had indeed
heard—it had come up in Congressional testimony about the offensive way this
“rescue” aircraft had been used.

 
          
“I
don’t know why you’re beating yourself up like this,” McLanahan said. “It was a
good bust, a good intercept. Bringing Daniel on the flight, flying after
drinking—”

 
          
“I
was
not
drunk.”

 
          
“I
know
you weren’t. I’m just saying
maybe that peripheral stuff wasn’t so hot, but damn it, you did the job, just
the way she wrote . . . the way
you
wrote it.”

 
          
“I
was disappointed in Elliott, I thought he—”

 
          
“Admiral,
let me tell you something about Brad Elliott. You know him on a higher level
than I do, but I think I maybe know him better than you do. We’ve done some
flying together, and I can tell you that like you, Brad would rather be up
there flying than in this big-deal executive job. But he took it on because the
Hammerheads are on the cutting edge of something, and that’s what he likes. Me
too. Frankly, I guess we’ll both be happier when we get back where we came from,
to Dreamland and Brad’s toys. Meanwhile, though, I guarantee you that inside
he’s really on your side. But he has to do some of this p.r. stuff to keep the
wolves from the door and he’s doing it. Sorry, sir, end of speech, but I
thought I should—”

 
          
“Hardcastle
looked at him, half-smiled. “You make a pretty good case, Patrick, and I
appreciate it, but damn it, I still hate this inaction, and I feel left out.”

 
          
“Admiral,
you
can’t
be left out. Sandra Geffar
is the commander of this platform, and she does a real good job, but everybody
knows you’re the heart and soul of the Hammerheads. You made all this happen.
You took on the big shots and the old-line people in Customs and Coast Guard.
We all got in this because of the challenge and excitement that you gave it. We
believe in what you believe in. So, if you don’t mind, sir, please keep that in
mind when you’re feeling all low and lonely.”

 
          
“They
say I screwed up, that—”

 
          
“That’s
bull too. We know that kid in the racing yacht wasn’t going to turn around for
nobody, especially Fontaine. You stopped him from getting through. You took it
by the balls and got the job done. As far as having Daniel on board, well,
maybe not such a hot idea, but it’s no big deal. They bring reporters and
politicians within a thousand miles on actual intercepts.”

 
          
“What
am I
supposed
to do, Patrick?”
Hardcastle asked him, turning and pounding a fist on the railing. “Hey. I
screwed up. I gotta take my lumps ...”

 
          
“That’s
bullshit too, Ian, and you know it,” Patrick told him. “We know that kid in the
Cigarette racing yacht wasn’t going to turn around for nobody, especially
Fontaine. You stopped him from getting through. You took the initiative and got
the job done. As far as having Daniel on board, it’s no big deal. You Coast
Guard guys bring reporters and politicians and every bigwig within a thousand
miles on actual intercepts, and I know Customs does it as well.” Patrick
studied Hardcastle for a moment. “What else is bugging you, man? There's
something else on your mind.” He waited, watching the pain twist through
Hardcastle’s face; then, he said, “Daniel. Something’s wrong with Daniel . . .
?”

 
          
Hardcastle’s
face turned stormy and dark, and he turned away from McLanahan. “He won’t talk
to me, he won’t listen to me any more,” Hardcastle said. “He doesn’t return any
of my calls. His mother tells me he’s quit the baseball team. It’s like he
freaked out or something.” McLanahan had no reply. Hardcastle continued: “It
started when we left the headquarters building, surrounded by all those damned
reporters. He was shaking so hard after I got him into the car, I thought he
was injured. He said he felt like a criminal, like I murdered that kid on the
boat and he was a witness to it. His mother said he stayed home from school
after he heard his name on the news the next morning. I haven’t seen him that
scared in fifteen years.”

 
          
“Hey,
Ian, try not to worry,” McLanahan said, trying his best to console him. “He
went through quite an ordeal, but he’ll snap out of it . . .”

 
          
“Patrick,
that was
three weeks
ago,” Hardcastle
said. “I haven’t seen my son in three weeks. Either I get a message from him or
a message from my ex-wife, telling me he can’t make it for a weekend or for a
holiday. I know his grades have slipped, and I know he either hangs out in his
room by himself or stays out late at night, but I can’t help him. He won’t let
me get close to him again.”

 
          
McLanahan
reached out and put a hand on Hardcastle’s shoulder. “I know you’re going
through hell right now, Ian,” he said. “My dad was a police officer back in
California
. He worked his butt off for years, first on
the force and then at his tavern. It was hard to get close to him because he
worked so hard, but I didn’t learn until later that he worked so hard because
he cared for us and wanted us to have everything possible. I didn’t understand
that until too late. It’s not too late for you, Ian.”

 
          
The
PA system on the upper deck crackled to life: “Mr. Hardcastle, Mr. McLanahan,
to the command center, please.” McLanahan stepped towards the elevators, but
Hardcastle caught his arm as he walked past.

 
          
“Thanks
for listening, Patrick. You’re all right . . . for an Air Force puke.”

 
          
At
the command center they found the image of a twin-engined plane in the main
high-definition monitor. “There’s our boy,” Geffar said as Hardcastle logged
back onto his terminal. “Cruising right along. No reply to any of our calls.”

 
          
Hardcastle
put up a chart of west
Florida
and then placed the target’s data block on it. “Seventy miles from
shore—about thirty minutes till he reaches landfall. Well inside the ADIZ. And
he’s staying low. This guy must have been out of town for the past ten
months—like
Antarctica
.”

 
          
Meanwhile
McLanahan had moved over to the drone-control panel and called up the Seagull’s
status readouts. “Seagull Six-One in the green,” he reported. “Four hours of
fuel left at this speed. Good data-link signal from KEYSTONE.”

 
          
“We’re
plotting seven vessels in his flight path that he could be setting up for a
drop,” a controller reported. “He’s only ten minutes away from the first
target.”

 
          
“Let’s
launch the Sea Lion from
Homestead
, then. And have a Sky Lion from
Alladin
City
airborne as soon as possible to assist in
case he tries a multiple drop.”

 
          
“He
won’t have time,” Hardcastle said. “The first bale that goes out the door, he’s
ours.” A few of the controllers in the command center nodded their pleasure at
that ominous prediction.

 
          
“Six-One
is two miles from the target,” McLanahan reported. “Closure rate forty-five
miles per hour. Intercept in three minutes.”

 
          
“Continue
broadcasts on all frequencies,” Geffar coached her controllers. “Get that guy
to turn around, at least.” The warning messages were transmitted through the
aerostat transceiver, unit, KEYSTONE, and through the Seagull drone. No response.
The twin-engined aircraft continued on as before, staying only a few hundred
feet above the water and well off any mandatory entry corridors. No attempt was
ever made to contact Border Security or air traffic control.

 
          
"One
minute to intercept,” McLanahan announced. “Six-One’s in the green. Auto
switchover to high sensitivity intercept autopilot. Auto breakaway enabled.”

 
          
“He’s
staying where he is,” Hardcastle said.

 
          
“Thirty
seconds to intercept. Looks like a Piper Cheyenne in cargo configuration. Pretty
good deflection on his horizontal stabilizer—it might mean he has long-range
fuel tanks or he’s loaded down pretty heavy. I think I can pick out a few
letters of his registration number— nope, disregard. He’s painted over them.”

 
          
“He's
dirty for sure,” Hardcastle said. “Definite smuggler’s profile.”

 
          
“He’s
five miles from passing overhead the first sea target,” a controller reported.
“He’s altered course toward it. I think he’s going for the first sea target.
Designating as target two.” The right monitor that had been scanning the area
for surface targets now merged with the main display showing only the
twin-engine plane, so that both targets were on the main screen at once. Data
columns showed the distance and time between the two targets and how far the
Hammerheads assets were to each.

 
          
“I
agree,” Gelfar said. “Have Shark Two-Five stay on target number two. Get an SES
headed north to intercept, but the Sea Lion may have to launch a boat.” Until
the Hammerheads had more seagoing vessels in their active inventory they were
now carrying RHIBs, Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats, on every AV-22 Sea Lion
aircraft sortie. In calm seas the Sea Lion aircraft would land on the water and
the RHIB would be launched off the rear cargo ramp. The twenty-foot- long boats
had a sixty-horsepower outboard motor that could drive three to five intercept
officers across to a vessel at nearly thirty miles an hour. Along with the
AV-22 hovering or floating nearby with its weapons at the ready, the intercept
crew could keep small- to medium-sized vessels under surveillance or arrest for
several hours until more help arrived.

 
          
“Coming
up on the intercept,” McLanahan announced. “No registration numbers visible but
we’re running down the configuration through EPIC”—the
El Paso
Intelligence
Center
, which was the central information center
on all drug-related activities.

 
          
“Move
out and let’s get a look at the pilot, and let him see us,” Geffar said.

 
          
“Moving
out,” McLanahan acknowledged. His controller issued the commands and the Seagull’s
autopilot commanded a slight left jog, a turn back to course and an
acceleration past the target’s nose. As it made its side-step maneuver its TV
camera widened its field- of-view and began to sweep along the entire fuselage,
letting the tense but excited crewmembers in the Hammerhead One command center
get a good look at the smugglers and their cargo.

 
          
“Three
minutes to contact with target two,” the controller reported.

 
          
The
camera swept across to the first set of windows on the left side of the twin-engined
plane, and found the window blocked off by what appeared to be cases or boxes
made of fiberglass or smooth wood. “Looks like floating drop cases to me,”
Hardcastle said. “They’re definitely making a drop.” The camera continued to
pan forward a few feet until it came to the plane’s cargo door, unlatched and
partially open, flapping in the slipstream.