Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (34 page)

 
          
“Give
me a call if you got a tape or a trace.”

 
          
Davidson
put in a call to the Air Division to set up a call to the platform where
GefiFar and her people were staging. It would take several minutes to put the
call through; communications out to the platform were shaky at best. Never
mind, it smelled bogus anyway.

 
          
Hammerhead One Platform

 
          
“They’ve
got a fast-moving jet making a drop to four vessels in Cay Sal Bank—sounds like
a taxi dance to me.”

 
          
Hardcastle
called up snapshots of past area maps—the computer could store several days’
worth of images in its memory. He went back as early as when the four vessels
appeared at Cay Sal, then back-tracked those four vessels as they made their
way north. “Those guys first appeared from
South America
. Can’t see a positive origin but definitely
South America
. Not
Cuba
. Not west of
Panama
, either.”

 
          
He
studied the four ships as they passed through the Yucatan Channel between
Mexico
and
Cuba
. “Look—there’s more than four ships here.
There’s six, maybe eight. All traveling together.” He forwarded the screens one
at a time, using computer-generated markers to keep track of each vessel.
“Here—breaking oflf, going past Cay Sal. Dropping oflf four. These guys heading
toward the Archipelago de Sabana ...”

 
          
“Mayberry,”
GefiFar said. “Four smugglers station themselves at Mayberry, four more at Cay
Sal.”

 
          
“There’s
lots of other clusters of boats out there,” Long observed. “Too many to get an
accurate fix.”

 
          
“Accurate
enough,” GefiFar said. “Eight smugglers deployed in organized clusters,
stationing themselves and waiting for a drop by a high-speed plane. It’s enough
to order more aircraft.”

 
          
“I’ll
get some Coast Guard vessels underway too,” Hardcastle said. “It looks like a
party tonight.”

 
          
“Don’t
have them converge on Cay Sal,” Geffar told him. “Have them report in to us.
We’ll try to position them in the path of that plane near some of the boats
sitting out there and see if they can get within range of a drop. We’ll pick
the ones that scatter after the plane passes overhead and try to intercept
them.”

 
          
“
Omaha
Four-Zero is three minutes away from
intercept,” Long reported. “Target still proceeding north. Almost to Elbow Cay.
Target showing three hundred feet and descending. He’s coming up on that
cluster of boats.”

 
          
“I’ve
got a Navy Pegasus hydrofoil from
Key West
on the line,” Hardcastle said. “We’re
putting a Coast Guard crew on board. The Pegasus can be in the area in ninety
minutes. I suggest we put the Pegasus unit between the Keys and Elbow Cay. If
those guys in the boats make a break for the Keys, we can try to intercept.”

 
          
“Three-Four
should be able to keep an eye on them.” Geffar turned to her communications
console and touched the screen. “Three-Four, this is Hammerhead. What have you
got?”

 
          
On Board
Omaha
Three-Four

 
          
“Hammerhead,
this is Three-Four,” Hoey reported. “We’re taking up an orbit position near
Mayberry. We have radar contact with suspects. We are descending to get a clear
infrared picture of the suspects. Out.”

 
          
Ron
Gates was clutching onto the armrest of his seat as the Nomad’s motion took
hold of him. Was this trip necessary?

           
They were in a descent and turning.
Not just the plane but his stomach too. Hoey had announced a high-speed plane
that seemed to have just made a drop very close to their position—below them
actually. She kept the telescopic infrared camera on the plane while at ten
thousand feet above the water. There were four boats. Several large boxes were
spotted in the water, and boats waiting for the delivery were hauling them on
board their vessels. The plane that made the drop was heading southeast, no
doubt to make more drops to prepositioned boats up and down the
Bahamas
. It was a very major delivery . . .

 
          
Hoey
was excited and understandably so. She could hardly sit still in her seat.
“Hammerhead, this is damned amazing. They’re making a major delivery—we’re
going to need all the boats and choppers you can get out here—”

 
          
“We
copy all, Three-Four. Stay with them as long as you can. Keep feeding up
position updates after they break off and run.”

 
          
“Copy,
Hammerhead.”

 
          
“Be
advised, Hammerhead,” a specialist reported as he finally began to get a
clearer picture on his infrared scanner, “we see at
least
fifteen big cases being dropped in the water, cases large
enough to be two-hundred-pounders. Can’t get an accurate count yet but there’s
at least fifteen . . . my God ...”

 
          
“Keep
those reports coming, Buff.” Geffar turned to Hardcastle. “You guys airborne?”

 
          
“Three
Falcons and two Island-class boats out of
Miami Beach
. I’m getting more. We’ve got Customs units
assembling. They’ll be ready to deploy as soon as we get a clear picture on
where these guys go.” “Admiral Hardcastle,” one of the young Coast Guard techs reported,
“DIAMOND has picked up another air target. Sixty miles southeast of MAYBERRY,
another fast-mover—preliminary velocity estimate says five hundred knots.”

 
          
“Five
hundred?”
Hardcastle switched to that
screen and found the highlighted radar return. The radar aboard the Coast Guard
aerostat vessel had assigned the new target a confidence of 1, the highest
factor—this was no stray return. “Got an origin on this guy?” “Negative.
Appeared on radar well offshore, though. Not out of
Holguin
or
Camaguey
.” Those two areas were large Cuban Air
Force bases with sophisticated air-defense units at both locations.

 
          
“This
better not be the Cuban Air Force moving in on this.” “They’ve launched
fighters at us before,” Geffar said, “but never from the interior bases—it’s
always been from
Havana
...”

 
          
“Sandra,”
one of the Customs investigators manning the phones called out, “Message from
Homestead
. Intelligence got an anonymous tip about
Gates ...” “Hammerhead, this is Three-Four.” It was Drury on the radio a few
minutes later. Sweat was pouring from his neck, his gloved hands were hot and
damp. “Where is that guy? What’s his position? Talk to me . . .”

 
          
“Three-Four,
turn right thirty degrees, vector for traffic at your
nine o’clock
, ten miles,” a controller on the Hammerhead
One platform ordered. “Advise when you have visual on him ...”

 
          
“Negative
visual, Hammerhead,” Drury said. The strain in his voice was palpable. “I don’t
see any lights. Flight visibility is about five miles. He must not have his
lights on. I’m in a right turn.” They could hear Drury’s copilot broadcasting a
warning on the GUARD emergency channels, trying to order the intruder to stay
away.

 
          
“Definitely
a pickup, Hammerhead,” Specialist Buff LaMont reported from the Nomad. “We
count at least eight strings of large boxes with flotation gear being picked
up, at least three big boxes on each string. All the boxes are roped together.
Estimate each box to weigh around two hundred pounds, maybe more.” The image
from the infrared scanner showed the scene below with graphic clarity. “It
takes two guys to lift each box. Wait... I count four boxes altogether. Four
boxes, over two hundred pounds each on each string.”

 
          
“I
still don’t see that plane, Hammerhead,” Drury yelled over the radio. “Where in
hell do I go now, dammit?” “Three-Four, turn left, maintain your altitude,” the
controller replied to Drury. “Target is at your
twelve o’clock
and above you . . . roll out, maintain
heading and altitude . . . target passing off your
nine o’clock
, two miles.”

 
          
“It
has to be the Cubans—who else would have a plane that can go so fast and who’d
be harassing American Customs Service planes?” Geffar said.

 
          
“Almost
a thousand pounds of drugs for each boat,” Hardcastle said. “A big drop. If
they made a drop that size over Mayberry—” “And if they make more drops near
those other places near Andros Island and Exuma Cays where we saw those other
boats sitting,” Geffar said, “this guy is carrying a huge load.
Much
bigger than a little prop job.” She
paused, then looked at Hardcastle with a startled expression. “A fast
transport, faster than the Shorts you shot down ... flying all the way from
South America
to the
Bahamas
with a huge load. A big civil transport ...
or a
military
flight . . . ?”

 
          
“Military
. . .” If that’s a
military
cargo
plane”—they stared at the magnified view around the Nomad, which was still
trying to maneuver away from the unidentified newcomer—“then that guy might be
military, too ... a military jet . . .
fighter
. . . ?”

 
          
Geffar
scrambled for the touch-screen. “Three-Four, break off from your surveillance.
Head for
Marathon
or
Key West
at best possible speed ...”

 
          
“The
boats are heading west, Hammerhead,” Drury told her. “If we’re clear of that
traffic we’ll continue our surveillance—”

 
          
“Never
mind the surveillance, break off and head north
now.
”

           
“Tell him to stay low,” Hardcastle
said. “Maybe the guy will leave him alone. Keep broadcasting on all emergency
frequencies. I’ll try to get my headquarters to raise the State Department.”

 
          
“Target
at Three-Four’s
six o’clock
,
three miles,” Long reported. “What the hell is he doing? Playing tag? Is he one
of your guys, Hardcastle?” Still suspicious of the Coast Guard, like a good old
Customs true-believer.

 
          
“Crew,
we’re breaking off surveillance,” Drury announced. “We got some plane chasing
us out of the area—”

 
          
He
never finished the sentence.

 
          
A
loud, animal-like screech erupted from the radios, followed by a hiss of static
and muffled bangs. Geffar grabbed onto the console, thinking that something had
hit the platform. Hoping that . . .

 
          
“Fire!”
someone shouted in the command center of the Hammerhead One platform. “There’s
a fire on board the Nomad! ...”

 
          
A
column of flame leapt out from underneath the radar console in the Nomad,
spreading directly into Jacqueline Hoey’s lap. Her scream was nearly drowned
out by shouts from inside the cabin. Lamont was there with a fire extinguisher
but seemed unable to keep his balance—he seemed to be floating around in the
cabin as if weightless. Suddenly both he and Hoey were thrown against the
ceiling.