Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (16 page)

 
          
Hardcastle
had actually taken out a notepad and had started taking notes.

 
          
“All
right, Admiral, just what’s going on?” Geffar said.

 
          
“I’ll
come clean. I’ve been tasked to provide input, like they say, for a project
I’ve had in mind the past few months, and more so since what’s happened
recently. It’s only supposed to go as far as my Atlantic area headquarters, but
I’m betting, hoping, it’ll go all the way to the top—even to the White House.”

 
          
Geffar
looked at Hardcastle for a long moment, skeptically at first, then with growing
interest. She motioned toward a shady picnic area far from the parking lot.
When they got to a table she lowered herself slowly, trying to will away the
pain in her aching muscles and joints. “Okay, Admiral . . .”

 
          
“Ian.”

 
          
“Okay,
Ian. And you can call me Sandra if it’ll take that shit-eating grin off your
face. So what’s this big project of yours?”

 
          
“Actually,
it’s all about what you’ve just been saying. There are too many fingers in the
pie. There’s no orderly chain of command, no continuous line of authority
throughout what the computer boys call the smuggler’s profile. We have no good
way to prevent the smugglers from coming onshore, and most important . . .
there’s not enough
commitment
—political,
monetary—to the whole deal. We’ve got talk, summits and czars coming out of our
ears. But real commitment? That takes making tough, maybe politically unpopular
decisions to pursue drug smugglers
and
the organizations that finance them all over the world—not just near our own
shores.”

           
“You sound like a politician
yourself, Hardcastle. You plan on running for something?”

 
          
“I’m
not a politician, I’m a Coast Guard officer. No one would vote for me anyway.”

 
          
“You
got that right.” Geffar paused, shook her head. “I still don’t get where you’re
coming from, Hardcastle.”

 
          
“Look,
how much of the drugs entering the
U.S.
come in by air?” “One-third, maybe forty
percent. The rest by sea or cargo containers—”

 
          
“So
if we closed down the air route that might result in at least a thirty percent
drop-off in available drugs—”

 
          
“Wrong,”
Geffar interrupted. “It might result in a
temporary
reduction but that’s all. As the price rises more players get involved and they
find other ways of getting it into the country. The percentage of air-imported
drugs would decrease but other avenues would take up the slack.”

 
          
“But
if more drugs were coming in by cargo container, and you
anticipated
that, you could head it off. step up inspections of
containers—”

 
          
“But
we’re stretched to the limit as it is. There are over three hundred cargo
containers entering
Florida
every day. Every damn day. A real good inspection team, beefed up with
National Guard or Reservists, can inspect one container in about two hours.
Customs is lucky if it inspects twenty percent of all the cargo containers
coming into this country—”

 
          
“You’re
missing the point. Our goal was to close off the air route. Where it drives the
smugglers after that—well, we deal with that next. But at least we deny the
smugglers the easiest way to get their product into the country—by air.”

 
          
“So?
You still haven’t explained how. How are you going to stop drugs from being
smuggled in by air?”

 
          
“We
have almost complete radar coverage of the southwest
U.S.
We have computers that can match radar
targets with flight plans, integrate data, isolate violators . . .”

 
          
“Okay,
so you see ten targets that are unidentified, planes that are buzzing around
offshore that might be making drops, planes that might be heading north. Out of
the dozens, sometimes hundreds of air targets out there, you see maybe two
dozen a day that are suspicious. Then what?”

 
          
“Go
after them.”

 
          
“With
what?”

 
          
“Feel
up to a little flying this week?”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
“I’ve
arranged for a little demonstration of a new technology that might be able to
help us out. I’ll meet you here at seven Sunday morning. That’ll give you a few
days to rest up—”

 
          
“What’s
going on, Hardcastle? You trying to involve me in some stupid plan to get more
juice for the Coasties?”

 
          
“This
isn’t a Coast Guard project. Matter of fact, I have my doubts about what
exactly the Coast Guard’s role
is
in
drug interdiction. I’ve been in the Coast Guard a long time, and frankly I
don’t think that chasing drug smugglers is a logical part of its job-description.
Sure, it’ll always have a role in drug interdiction, but I believe it’s a waste
of time and money to send Coast Guardsmen in Falcon interceptors and
Island-class cutters out looking for drug smugglers . . .
We need a drug interdiction organization, specially formed, tasked, and
equipped for drug interdiction
—”

 
          
“And
that’s the Customs Service—”

 
          
“I
don’t think so. You said it yourself—Customs doesn’t have the juice to do the
job. You’ve got too many restraints. Before Customs can act you’re forced to
wait until the bad guys get over land or open ocean and drop their load. After
that, the odds of you making a clean bust nose-dive.”

 
          
“But
what if we were to stop every damn vessel entering or heading for American
territorial waters? Funnel each vessel through mandatory checkpoints, like
border inspection stations? What if we inspect
before
they enter American waters?”

 
          
“That’s
impossible—”

 
          
“It’s
not. How about we require positive identification of each and every aircraft
entering
U.S.
airspace . . . ?”

 
          
“We
already do.”

 
          
“But
what if we deny entry of any aircraft that is
not
positively identified?”

 
          
“
Deny entry?
What does that mean? If he’s
unidentified, he’s trying to evade Customs or law-enforcement. . .” She looked
at him in surprise. “You mean . . .
shoot
him down?”

 
          
“Detect
at sixty miles, track at fifty, communicate at forty, intercept at thirty,
communicate at twenty, warn at fifteen, open fire at ten,” Hardcastle said.
“Standardize air-defense-intercept parameters—except air defense doesn’t apply
the rule to light aircraft on smuggling profiles. Now,
we
apply the rule. We deny the airspace to all unidentified
aircraft. Period. If they don’t respond to radio, light or visual symbols,
they’re denied entry. The same for vessels on the high seas. If they fail to
stop or fail to identify themselves, they’re intercepted and stopped.”

 
          
“You
say that nice and easy,” Geffar said. “You’re also going to have some innocent
people crashing into the ocean if you implement such a plan—”

 
          
“What
I’m trying to
do
is keep illegal
narcotics, weapons, money and other contraband from entering the
United States
. You know it, I know it . . . our current
so-called system isn’t working. I’m trying to create a system that
works.
Sure, loss of innocent life would
be disastrous, but fear of that shouldn’t paralyze us. We’d put safeguards in
the system to prevent attack against people who do comply with the rules.”

 
          
“You
can put all the safeguards in place you want, Admiral, but you and I both know
that’s not a guarantee. The first family of four you strafe will erase years of
work and billions of dollars of manpower and equipment. It could set drug
interdiction back twenty years.”

 
          
“As
I recall, those were
the
same
arguments used when the Customs Service Air Branch went operational,”
Hardcastle said. “I know it’s the same argument they used when
we
started air-interdiction operations,
when we announced that a big three-engine jet plane would fly a few dozen feet
behind your plane to read your registration numbers. Families would be
splashing into the
Caribbean
, they said. Well, neither one of us has
killed any civilians in almost thirty years and we’ve done a lot of good. Now
it’s time to do more, much more ...”

 
          
She
didn’t seem to be buying it. “I think I can prove it would work,” Hardcastle
said, “if you’re open-minded enough to see for yourself.”

 
          
“Hey,
I don’t have anything to prove to you. I’m doing my job

 
          
“Then
what are you afraid of?”

 
          
“Nothing
that
you
could come up with.”

 
          
“Then
it’s settled. Sunday morning. I’ll meet you at your headquarters at seven.”

 
          
“I’ll
be there. But this better be good, Admiral,” Geffar said. “You can expect zero
out of me or my people until I’m convinced that your big idea won’t end up a
fiasco.” Or a way to ace out Customs, she silently added.

 
          
Brickell
Federal
Building
,
Miami

 
          
Several Days Later

 
          
UNDER fingers more
accustomed to
wrestling with helicopter cy- clics and aircraft throttles than tiny buttons,
things tended to disappear off the computer screen for Hardcastle, never to
return. So he relegated the squat, boxy-looking computer with its
rodent-looking pointing device to a small desk in a corner and kept the old
reliable Selectric on the typing table near his desk.

 
          
The
sight of Hardcastle hunting and pecking his way through his report would
normally have seemed funny to Coast Guard Commander Michael Becker,
Hardcastle’s aide, except it was now well after nine o’clock in the evening.
Becker, who with his horn-rimmed glasses and necktie (a rare sight in humid
Miami
) looked more like a young ensign than a
veteran cutter skipper and station commander, grimaced at his boss’ painful
tapping. Like a Chinese water torture, he thought.

 
          
Finally,
he could stand it no longer. “Admiral, I’d be more than happy to do that for
you . . .”

 
          
“You
already offered, Mike. I told you, I can’t do dictation. Never have. And it
would take you longer to decipher my notes—if I ever bothered to write them out
for you. I’ve got to do this part myself. Why don’t you head on home?”

 
          
“I
know you’re under some pressure to get this report done,” Becker said, “and I’d
like to help—”

           
“Then shut up and let me work.”

 
          
Becker
nodded and slumped back in his chair.

 
          
“Has
General Brad Elliott called to confirm his arrival time?” Hardcastle asked
Becker as he continued his maddening hunt-and- peck. “We need his equipment for
this weekend’s presentation. He has to know how important his organization’s
involvement is.”

 
          
“I
think he understands, Admiral. He called from
Fort Lauderdale
. He arrived early this afternoon with his
project officer. I met him just after he arrived—”

 
          
“He’s
here already?”

 
          
1
knew you were busy so I didn’t want to disturb you. He’s ready to meet with you
as soon as you’re free. But in any case he’s ready to go.”

 
          
It
was the first time in a long while that Becker had seen his boss looking
optimistic about anything. “What’s Elliott like?”

 
          
“Late
fifties, thin, kind of hyper. Gutsy and regular Air Force all the way. You’ll
like him, though. The scoop is he’s his own man. His project officer looks
young, early thirties max.”

 
          
Hardcastle
looked up from his work. “I hear Elliott is an idea man . . . That’s good for
our side.”

 
          
“He
also has an artificial right leg. Did you know that?” Hardcastle didn’t.

 
          
“He
calls it his stump but I hear it’s a pure bionic limb, not a prosthesis. Works
like a regular leg—ankle, knee, even the ball of the foot fully articulated.
He’s fully cleared for flight duties, though. I checked. He was the one who
flew the V-22 in. Dropped it right on Gorilla One.”

 
          
“You
know how he lost his leg?”

 
          
“I
couldn’t find out,” Becker said. “There’s a lid on that from the Pentagon to
Nevada
.”

 
          
“The
guy gets more interesting every time I hear about him.” Hardcastle turned
toward a photograph on the wall of an unusual aircraft, a machine that looked
like a cargo plane but with twin helicopter-like rotors on its wings. “How’s
the Sea Lion look?” “Awesome. You’re scheduled for your first flight tomorrow
morning. It’ll blow your mind.”

 
          
“Then
I’d better get this report done . . . Oh, the drones? All set to go?”

 
          
“Elliott’s
project officer, a Major McLanahan, has the Seagull and Sky Lion drones ready
to go,” Becker reported. “The Sky Lion’s been deployed on Gorilla One, along
with the control consoles and data- link equipment. The Seagull will launch
from
Marathon
Airport
— there’s just not enough time to set up its
launch-and-recovery gear on the platform.”

 
          
“Well,
I’m surprised these guys got it all together, got all this gear in place so
fast,” Hardcastle said. “It was worth all the hassles and hoops we had to jump
through to get this mysterious HAWC agency to help us out. The Air Force keeps
such a tight lid on HAWC’s existence, I’m surprised we got anything.’

 
          
Becker
got up, waited until Hardcastle rolled another page out of the old Selectric.
“Four hundred and nineteen pages. Think you’ll be done soon, sir? This is
setting a world’s record.”

 
          
“Four-fifty,
max,” Hardcastle said, rubbing his eyes. “Not including indexes, glossaries,
maps, slides.”

 
          
“Four-fifty.
That’ll piss off ATLANTCOM
for sure,” Becker said. The draft proposal of the new unit Hardcastle was
creating had already gone through ATLANTCOM, the Atlantic Area Commander’s
office, three times, and had been kicked back with pages of suggestions and
directed changes. Once, Admiral Cronin had flown down to
Miami
unannounced to argue over a particular
point that Hardcastle had been adamant about keeping intact. Cronin had also
been shocked at the length of the document, saying that the sheer size of the
thing would almost guarantee that no one in the White House or Capitol Hill
would read it.

 
          
“But
it’s not the length of the thing that the admiral doesn’t like,” Hardcastle
said. “He still doesn’t know whether or not to back this project.”

 
          
“You
mean back
you
or not.”

 
          
“Maybe.
He’s already played out a lot of line on this project, but he’s also known for
supporting his people. Besides, it’s only natural that he’d have some
reservations about an ambitious project like this. Fact is, I’m damn glad I
have an Admiral Cronin around. Another area commander might leak some details
of the project to give himself a little advance publicity. This commander won’t
turn on or undercut his own people.”

 
          
Hardcastle
had begun his painful typing again when he heard the knock on the door.

 
          
“Daniel!
C’mon in.”

 
          
Daniel
Hardcastle, Ian’s youngest son and secret favorite, was seventeen years old,
blond, tall and wiry and more like his father than Hardcastle’s
twenty-six-year-old Roger, who was the image of his mother.

 
          
“Working
late again, huh?” Daniel said and came over to give his father a hug. The
Admiral gave Becker a look, one that apparently Becker had been waiting for.
“If you’re sure you won’t need me, sir, I’ll take off,” the aide said.
Hardcastle nodded, grateful for Becker’s insight.

 
          
“How’d
you get here?” Hardcastle asked, checking his watch as Becker departed. “It’s
pretty late. Did your mother—?”

 
          
“Hitched.”

           
“At nine, on a school night?”

 
          
“All
we have tomorrow is graduation rehearsal,” Daniel said quickly. “My first class
isn’t until nine—”

 
          
“You’re
not going to your graduation rehearsal?”

 
          
“We
went over this, Dad.” Daniel tried to shut it off, staring at a picture of a
V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft on the wall.

 
          
“All
right, all right,” Hardcastle said, immediately sorry he had brought the whole
thing up. Yes, they did discuss it
—argue
about it would be more accurate. Rather than subject either of his estranged
parents to the uncomfortable scene of showing up to a graduation ceremony
together, Daniel had conveniently arranged an interview with the baseball coach
at the
University
of
Miami
on his graduation day. That had not helped
things between Hardcastle’s wife, Jennifer, and himself, but Hardcastle had
chosen not to interfere with Daniel’s decision. That decision not to interfere
had angered his wife even more. “Hey, no more hitchhiking, all right?”
Hardcastle said. “There are guys out there that’ll pop you just because they
don’t like the shirt you’re wearing. Or because they
do
like it. Know what I mean?” “Sure, Dad. Okay. No more hitching.”
Daniel came over to his father’s desk and casually peeked at the stack of
papers on the desk. Hardcastle slapped a red plastic cover over them. “Still
working on your top secret project?” he asked. You’ve been hitting it awful
hard lately, dad.”

 
          
“This
is pretty important.”

 
          
“What’s
it about?”

 
          
“If
I told you it wouldn’t be secret.”

 
          
“Well,
can you at least tell me the unclassified version, or do I face a firing squad
if I bug you about it?”

 
          
Hardcastle
nodded, shook his head. “It’s an anti-drug program. That’s about it for now.”

 
          
“I
figured as much,” Daniel said. “Why not legalize it?” Hardcastle rubbed his
eyes wearily. “Can we talk about this some other time?”

 
          
“Sure.
Sorry to rock the boat, no pun intended.”

 
          
“Knock
it off, Danny. We’ve been round and round on this one. Booze and coke
aren’t
the same. And marijuana, nobody
knows the long-term effects. But hell, you know the arguments.”

 
          
“Well,
I see you knocking yourself out night and day trying to solve this thing, and
the way I see it you’re trying to swim up
Niagara Falls
.” When he got no rise out of his father
from that he looked up again at the picture of the Osprey on the wall. “That
V-22 is awesome. You figuring on catching the bad guys with it?”

 
          
Smart
kid, Hardcastle thought. Especially for one who pulled so many dumb stunts. “No
fishing. Join the Coast Guard, go to the Academy and find out all about it.”

           
“I’m thinking on it.”

 
          
“You’re
really thinking about the Academy?”

 
          
“Sure.
How can I
not?”