The Big Thaw (43 page)

Both men were given two Kevlar vests, the outer one with plates, to protect them as well as possible from any shots fired at them during their mission. They also wore large orange life jackets. We almost had to lift them into the boat.

Volont issued the order to have half the FBI TAC team sharpshooters become visible to those on the boat, and to let them see the rifles with the scopes before they settled into a shooting position on the roof and the dock-side. The four of them were each accompanied by a spotter, with a fairly large scope mounted on a tripod. About half a dozen state troopers and four of our deputies were also made prominent, with rifles. The message to the suspects on the boat was pretty clear. Try to take a shot, and see what happens to you. It was the best we could do.

“All shooters have a green light,” said Adams over the once-secure radios. “Anybody on the boat with a gun, take him out. Spotters, if a shot is fired, give the location to everybody on the radio, not just to your shooter.”

We watched as the iceboat’s prop revved up, and it slid off the ramp and began to move toward the
Beauregard
. The original plan had been to carry the cable to the
Beau
, attach one end, and then move back to shore, and attach the other end to the big yard engines. That was changed, when it was pointed out that if they were shot after attaching the cable to the gambling boat, we’d lose them, the cable, and any other chance of towing the
General Beauregard
to shore. It was also determined that we could begin to tow immediately when the cable was attached to the boat, if it was attached to the yard engines beforehand.

Consequently, with the cable already attached to the yard engines, the iceboat crabbed slowly toward the stricken
Beauregard
, trailing cable over the side. It seemed to take forever, with the DNR officer exposed by sitting in front of the huge propeller cage, and the trooper on his knees in the open bow, cable in hand.

“All shooters, if anybody tries to detach the cable after it’s in place, take them out.” Adams was talking his sharpshooters through the scenario.

The iceboat moved steadily on, with the trooper in the bow occasionally looking over his shoulder to see that the cable paid out properly. I could feel my pulse in my neck.

When the iceboat was about ten feet away from the tow ring on the
Beau’s
bow, the secure radio crackled to life.

“Alpha Two Spotter has a masked subject with a long gun. He’s, uh, on the main deck, and he’s behind the glass, just right of center.”

I couldn’t see him, as there were lots of reflections in the glass.

“And Alpha Two Spotter has the same subject moving to the shore side of the boat, and, and … He’s coming out onto the deck…”

I saw the glazed door open, and a man step out onto the deck with what looked like an AK-47 in one hand. He was in a green coverall and was wearing a dark ski mask. He started toward the bow of the
Beau
, about twenty feet from him. He brought his other hand to the rifle, and began to bring it to his shoulder.

“Shoot,” said Adams. Very calm, very matter-of-fact.

I didn’t hear a thing, but the man with the rifle just suddenly fell off the deck into the icy water, as if he’d been backhanded by a giant.

The iceboat edged closer to the bow of the
Beauregard
. All of a sudden we could see a myriad of small splashes erupt in the water around the small craft, and a twinkling from the boat. Automatic rifle fire, and a large bit of it.

“Let’s suppress the fire, people,” intoned Adams. “Get all of ’em. There’s at least one shooter on the river side of the deck … Suppress that asshole…”

An occasional star appeared in the glazed area of the
Beauregard
, but I couldn’t see anything else happening. The sharpshooters were having a hell of a time getting a clean shot at any shooters on the boat, because the passengers were bunched up all over the place. The firing at the iceboat did seem to slacken off, though, and it kept edging closer and closer to the bow. When it got within about ten yards, it should be concealed from the shooters by the bow of the riverboat. A safe zone, although temporary. It slid up to the bow, and we all let out a little cheer.

“Let’s not get happy, people,” said Adams into his radio. “They gotta get out of there, too. Find the shooters. Take your best shots, but be careful.” He said to me, as an aside, “We gotta make a decision as to whether or not to accept collateral damage. We hold a shot to save a passenger, we could lose several hundred in return…”

He seemed awfully calm, for all that to be going on in his head. My respect for him went up another notch.

We watched as the trooper clambered back to the front of his boat, grabbed the towing ring of the
Beauregard
with one hand, and the cable with the other. Surely, and with what appeared an easy motion, he drew them together, and began to fasten the cable to the ring.

“He makes it look easy,” said George.

He did, too. Slicker than hell.

We all began to make noises of relief, when there was another explosion on the
Beau
, throwing up a gout of water, oil, and mud.

“There she goes!” hollered Olinger. “Damn it, they’ve sunk her for sure now!”

True enough, the
General Beauregard
began to settle noticeably, and by the stern.

“Get those fuckin’ yard engines moving!” hollered Lamar. “Now, now!”

As the
Beau
started for the bottom stern-first, the yard diesels began to slowly take up the slack on the cable. Too fast, and they’d tear the towing rig right off the bow. Too slow, now, and they’d lose some 650 people to the icy water.

“Fast as they can,” muttered Lamar.

The DNR iceboat accelerated rapidly, and came flying onto the concrete ramp at about 30 mph, lofting and skidding up the concrete slab for about 100 feet, before coming to rest behind a tin shed. The sense of relief was enormous, if fleeting.

As the
Beauregard
took on more and more water, her weight increased. As she settled deeper and deeper, the drag on the hull also increased. I was beginning to wonder if the yard engines were gong to be able to pull her in at all. So was Captain Olinger.

“It’s gonna be goddamned close,” he said.

As we watched, she began to glide toward us, but it was pretty obvious that she was going to be down a good amount before she got anywhere near the shore.

The hatchway doors along the lower deck began to open up, and passengers began to stream out toward the upper decks.

Suddenly, there was a belch of smoke from the two yard engines, and they began to move rapidly up the railroad tracks, being very careful not to gain speed too quickly. A few moments later, and the
Beau
had developed a noticeable movement. She was coming in.

She was also going down. The main deck was nearly awash for its full length, and the increasing angle at the stern had caused water to lap onto the rear portion of the second deck. It was going to be awfully close.

“If she strikes the bottom with her stern,” said Captain Olinger, as much to himself as anyone, “I don’t think the yard engines will be able to overcome the drag…” He looked at Lamar and said, “If that happens, we’ll lose her.”

The gunfire from the
Beauregard
seemed to have stopped completely, and many firemen were converging toward the area where it looked like she’d beach, if she was lucky.

“Do we have any fire trucks with really long extension ladders?” asked Adams. “She’s pretty close now…”

“Nope,” I answered. The tallest occupied structure in Nation County was three stories tall. Hook and ladder trucks weren’t available.

Suddenly, the
Beauregard
seemed to lurch, and swayed over to her left, before righting herself. I could see some ten or fifteen passengers lose their footing, and slip and slide into the water.

“Fuck!” Lamar yelled at Sally to get the rescue crews into the water with whatever boats they had available.

“Struck the bottom,” said Olinger, “but she bounced a bit.”

The bow of the
Beauregard
was about 25 feet from the ramp, and the emergency personnel were beginning to prepare plank, netting, and a short section of floating dock that they’d detached from a long, beached dock about 50 yards from the water. The
Beau
was also way down at the stern, with water beginning to lap around the glazing at the rear of the third deck.

Suddenly, both the
General Beauregard
and the yard engines stopped, with the tension causing the bow cable to sing.

“Back the engines down!” hollered Lamar, into his walkie-talkie. “She’s stuck … stop…”

Before he could finish, the cable snapped clear of the bow ring on the
Beau
, whipping and snaking through the air, flashing toward the yard engines. It struck one of the fire trucks near the ramp, rocking it, and throwing an extension ladder into the air.

Then, stillness.

The
General Beauregard
was stopped about ten feet from the end of the concrete boat ramp. We’d won.

“Let’s go,” said Hester, as she and Art grabbed a stack of papers.

“What are those?” I asked, heading for the door right behind them.

“Xerox photos of Gabriel, to hand out to the troops. We don’t want Gabe to slip by us, they gotta know what he looks like,” said Hester.

I figured Volont wouldn’t be too pleased. What the hell.

We ran all the way from the pavilion to the dock area.

Fire, rescue, and boat security personnel were busy preparing the portable ramps to carry the passengers to the dockside, and most of our officers were getting ready for a fight in case the suspects were crazy enough to resist. I was still very worried about that. Smart money would just surrender. But, then, smart money wouldn’t necessarily have tried to rob the damned boat in the first place.

As the passengers were being very professionally handled by the boat staff and the rescue people, cops were everywhere, armed with their photocopies of Gabriel, and trying to scan every person who left the
Beauregard
. Just as Shamrock had reported, our suspects, who had originally been in coveralls, had removed them and their ski masks as soon as the one who ventured out on deck had been shot. They were mingling with the crowd, and it was pretty impossible to identify them in the rush, but at least twice we were aided by irate and frightened passengers who helpfully pointed out suspects. Nice work. They’d be reexamined in the holding areas.

We also had a woman blackjack dealer point one of the robbers out to us. It was kind of funny, really. She just grabbed his nylon windbreaker, and wouldn’t let go. All the way down the ramp.

“Here’s one! I’ve got one here!”

He was afraid to hit her with all the cops about. We scarfed him up and got her into a secure area for a statement.

Still no Gabriel.

I did see Nancy and Shamrock come down a ramp on the other side of the bow from me. They looked all right, but Nancy seemed to be a little wet. I waved. She glared back, and then grinned. One of the additional DCI agents, who’d arrived within the last couple of hours, came running over. He talked to Art and Hester for a second, and then they gave us the news.

The same kid who’d surrendered the stretch van had started to talk. We’d cleared an auditorium in the pavilion, and some DCI and FBI agents were doing the post-arrest interviews there. One of the questions the prisoners were all asked was “And when was the last time you saw Gabriel.” They couldn’t incriminate themselves no matter what the answer, because they’d all come directly out of the van. They were, as we say, caught in the act. Gabriel’s last appearance in itself didn’t affect their individual fates at all. Armed robbery was armed robbery. Or, as Sally would have said, piracy was piracy.

Anyway, when he was asked, he said, “Yesterday.” The next question was directed at Gabriel’s current whereabouts. The answer? “At the bank.” So much for name, rank, and serial number.

Hester and Art went to the auditorium, and did the questions. She came out after about two minutes, at pretty close to a dead run. When she got across the street to where I had just been joined by George and Volont, she said, breathing hard, “He says that Gabriel wasn’t on the boat. He says Gabriel is at the bank.”

The other agent had said that the surviving suspects from the bank had said that Gabriel was on the boat. At first, they’d just thought that the two groups had their stories co-coordinated to confuse the cops. It looked to Hester, though, that both groups thought they were telling the truth.

“That’s impossible. If he wasn’t in the van, wasn’t on the boat, and sure as hell wasn’t in the bank…” said George, “where the hell is he?”

Our first thought was that we had missed him as they disembarked from the
Beauregard
. Then a state trooper came over, with a paper in his hand. He stood politely by, not wanting to butt in.

“Excuse me, sir?” Directed to me. I was pleased.

“Yeah, what you got?”

“The guy in this picture … are you sure he was on the boat?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, just before they went out with the cable, I could swear I saw him leave the parking lot over there in an old, beat-up green Chevy. It was weird, it caught my eye, because he was talking on a cell phone, and, well, he nearly fit the profile for a drug dealer, so I noticed him…”

Everybody was listening intently before he was finished.

He indicated the parking lot behind and offset to the left of the pavilion. “Right back there.”

Well, sure. Of course. Right in front of us all the time. Well, more behind, actually. Right where he could see into the back windows of the DCI office, and also part of the boat, and part of the bank. He’d been there all along. Had to have been. Complete control, close contact, and concealed by being obvious. Son of a bitch.

We put out a message for anybody who saw a car matching that description to merely report it and give us the location and direction of travel. One of those “Do Not Stop” bulletins. Advisedly so.