Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (21 page)

 
          
“But
where did it come from?” Geffar asked. “We’ve got patrols out this way every
night and we’ve never received reports about it.”

 
          
“It’s
been docked in
Fort Lauderdale
for several months,” Hardcastle said, “ever since we got it from the
Air Force last year. Hammerhead One is a registered seagoing vessel—we had it
towed out here and set up just yesterday. It has three retractable legs that
anchor it to the sea bottom and jack up the platform above water level. Once
it’s moved into position it can be set up in a matter of hours—you can even
leave a full complement of personnel on board while it’s being towed into
position and keep working while the thing is being moored into place. They’ve
even launched and recovered choppers on it while it was being towed out here.”

 
          
Hardcastle
turned to the radios. “Hammerhead One, Lion One- One is five miles out.”

 
          
“Lion
One-One, Hammerhead One, roger,” a voice responded. “Radar contact. Clear for
visual approach, west helipad one. Winds two-three-zero at ten gusting to
fifteen, altimeter two-niner-niner- zero.”

 
          
“Lion
One-One copies,” Hardcastle replied. “We’ll be orbiting the pad once or twice
before landing.”

 
          
“Copy
that. Hammerhead One out.”

 
          
Hardcastle
turned to Geffar. “You’ve been cleared to land, go for it.”

 
          
“Me?
Now you want me to
land
this thing? I
need a checkout before I fly a plane, Hardcastle. I’ve already violated my rule
once.”

 
          
Hardcastle
shrugged, moved to put his hands on the controls. “If you’re afraid to give it
a try . . .”

 
          
She
understood what he was doing but still reacted. “Never mind,” she said quickly,
and began transitioning to vertical flight. And feeling very damn good about
it. She reduced throttle, feeding in more and more vertical nacelle angle to
decrease both vertical descent rate and airspeed at the same time.

           
“Take it around the platform at few
times,” Hardcastle said, “get a feel for the winds and gusts out here before
you land.” GefiFar nodded, began a slow orbit of the huge platform, decreasing
her range to the main deck on each orbit.

 
          
“You
know,” Hardcastle said as they completed their first turn around Hammerhead
One, “we can set up full working dock space below to service vessels of almost
any size We can also have fully automated electro-optical, chemical and manual
inspection facilities to check containerized cargo or large cargo spaces. A
complete inspection can be carried out on two full-sized freighters at once or
we can conduct more abbreviated inspections in preparation for thorough Customs
inspections in port.”

 
          
He
pointed out the radar arrays on one corner of the platform. “With a complement
of Sea Lion aircraft, interceptor vessels and other reconnaissance and
interceptor assets deployed on these platforms we can control the waters for
hundreds of miles in all directions, intercept intruders—”

 
          
“Or
destroy them?” Long put in.

 
          
“Or
destroy them,” Hardcastle acknowledged. “We’re talking about
real
security of
America
’s borders. Closing off drug-ingress routes
is the best way to begin to get control—”

 
          
“Put
a Sea Stinger right through them?” Long asked. “What, sir, if you find a
grandfather and his two grandkids in a little fishing boat? What if you blow
them to pieces with one of those missiles back there?”

 
          
“If
that
alleged
grandfather refused to
stop, refused to respond to signals from a interceptor vessel or aircraft, yes,
right. I’m out to make this project work, Agent Long. How about you? Tough
times, tough solutions.” Hardcastle turned back to watch Geffar’s approach to
the platform. “Get used to it.”

 
          
“How
many rounds of thirty-millimeter gunfire does it take to sink a couple of kids,
sir . . . ?”

 
          
“Knock
it off, Curt,” GefiFar interjected, although she didn’t entirely disagree. She
had slowed the Sea Lion to a few knots forward speed and had rotated the
nacelles back to the vertical for the descent.

 
          
“Hey,
that platform sure looks small all of a sudden,” GefiFar said as she began her
approach descent. A crewman on the platform’s deck ran out to helipad number
one and held aloft a pair of flags, waiting to help in the landing. “It’s like
trying to land on a postage stamp.”

 
          
“Relax,
you’re doing fine,” Hardcastle said. “Remember, your power controls are very
sensitive because the computer augments your inputs. Keep your descent rate
under five-per-second—the display will change to feet-per-second when you get
down below fifty feet. Keep an eye on the computer monitors. They’ll advise you
on where to put your throttles and nacelles and compute drift and descent rate
for you. Just take it nice and easy.”

 
          
As
GefiFar scanned the edge of the huge platform she noticed the unusual markings
on the helicopter parked on the other side of the platform. It was a UH-60
Black Hawk helicopter with Marine Corps markings, but the lower half of the
chopper was dark green, the upper half near the engine nacelles white. As she
flew closer to touchdown, she made out the words painted on the sides of the
UH-60 helicopter ... “ ‘
United States
of Ameri...’ Hardcastle, that’s not a UH-60
Black Hawk helicopter.”

 
          
“Thirty
feet to go,” he called out, reaching forward and flipping a circular switch
full down, checking for three green “gear down and locked” light indications.
“Gear down and locked. Looking good.”

           
“Dammit, that’s a VH-60. It looked
like Marine One ...”

           
“Marine Two,” Hardcastle
deadpanned. “I forgot to tell you, that’s the Vice-President’s helicopter. The
Veep and Secretary of Defense are both on board Hammerhead One.”

 
          
“What?”
The Sea Lion did a slight swerve to the left as GefiFar stared at Hardcastle.
“I’ve flown this thing for a grand total of twenty minutes and now I’m supposed
to land it on a postage stamp with the Veep watching?”

 
          
“Watch
your vertical velocity, Inspector,” Hardcastle said. “Forget Vice-President
Martindale, concentrate on your deck crew.” GefiFar took a firm grip on the
throttle control and gave it a power burst to arrest the fast sink rate.
“You’ve got a ten-knot wind from your right so don’t forget to watch the drift,
but don’t overcompensate. Main trucks first. . . lift the nose a bit... a
little more ...” They felt a solid bump as the main gear landed. The deck
crewman confirmed the main wheels were down, then guided her in to a gentle
nose-wheel touchdown.

 
          
“Just
excellent,” Hardcastle told her as deck crewmen placed chocks and cable
tie-downs on the V-22C Sea Lion. “I’ve got the brakes. Throttle to idle—we
don’t want to blow the Vice-President’s hat into the water.” GefiFar retarded
the throttles to idle, and Hardcastle began shutting down the electrical
systems and the engines. “Welcome to Hammerhead One, gang. Doors are clear to
open.” “You S.O.B.,” GefiFar said as she pulled oflF her helmet and stared at
Hardcastle. For a moment he was worried she was really sore at him, but it
seemed more a sense of relief, and accomplishment, than anger. “This was a
set-up. Why? To embarrass me? Discredit the Customs Service? Get me fired? What
the hell?”

 
          
“You
know it’s none of the above,” Hardcastle said. “If you’d had any trouble
landing the aircraft I have taken over. I didn’t think that would happen and it
didn’t. I wanted you to fly the Sea Lion so I could get you involved in joining
up in this project.”

 
          
“You
mean you want me to participate in a Coast Guard project to fly armed
helicopters and tilt-rotor aircraft off oil platforms—” “This is
not
a Coast Guard project, damn it. I’ve
tried to tell you that before. I’m trying to create a whole
new
organization, separate from
both
the Coast Guard and Customs. But I
want and need your participation, cooperation. We have to create a
united
front . . »” “Well, I need to
know a lot more.”

 
          
Unlike
the President, who was just over sixty years of age, Vice President Kevin
Martindale was a youngster of forty-six. An ex-Congressman, Martindale, unlike
his predecessor, turned out to be a bulldog in the White House and on Capitol
Hill, more than willing and able to engage in the back-room and cloakroom
trench warfare to get the President’s proposals, and some of his own, heard by
the Congress. One of Martindale’s major projects was drug control, and he was
an outspoken advocate of tough-line responses to the growing drug problem in
the
United States
.

 
          
It
was a surprise for Geffar to find him on an oil platform forty miles off the
southern coast of
Florida
, but it was no surprise that he would be involved with something like
this.

 
          
“Inspector
Geffar is our top Air Division officer,” a man standing beside Martindale said,
and Geffar realized with a shock that it was Joseph Crandall, Commissioner of
the U.S. Customs Service. “She’s been head of the country’s number-one drug
interdiction unit for two years now.”

 
          
“And
a pistol champion,” the Vice President added. “Fra aware of Inspector Geffar’s
background. You made the landing, right? And this was your first flight in one
of those things, right?”

 
          
“That’s
right, sir. Did it show?”

 
          
“No.
But it’s a move that old sea dog Hardcastle would pull.” He turned as
Hardcastle came around to greet him. “When you throw a party, Admiral, you
don’t mess around. Impressive display, impressive. Inspector Geffar’s landing
was right on the dot.”

 
          
“She’s
the best pilot on this platform, sir.” They shook hands, and Hardcastle also
greeted Commissioner Crandall, Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston, Admiral
Cronin and Secretary of Transportation Edward Coultrane. “I’d also like to
introduce Agent Curtis Long, one of Inspector Geffar’s deputies, and of course
General Brad Elliott, U.S. Air Force, the chief design engineer and consultant
on this project, and his project officer, Major Patrick McLanahan.”

           
“Brad Elliott,” the Vice President
said as they shook hands. Geffar was surprised—the Vice President seemed really
impressed, respectful, as he shook Elliott’s hand. Who
was
this guy . . . ? “It’s good to see you. The President sends his
regards.” He turned to McLanahan, and they shook hands as if McLanahan was
something special too.

           
"Major, I want to offer my
condolences for the loss of your friend, Lieutenant Luger. We’ll have to talk
about your . . . your incredible flight. I’d like to hear more about it.”

 
          
“Thank
you, sir.” McLanahan said. Hardcastle, Geffar and Long looked at the Air Force
officers for some answers to all this but got nothing. Who the hell were they?
What had Elliott and McLanahan done . . . ?

 
          
Finally
the Vice President turned to Elliott. “So, General, you’re the one who’s
responsible for a lot of the toys on this platform, and for this beautiful
aircraft here.”

 
          
“I’m
here to get Admiral Hardcastle’s brainstorms off the drawing boards and into
action,” Elliott said. “But I confess the Sea Lion
is
my pride and joy.”

 
          
“Then
show her to me,” the Vice President said.

 
          
“Happy
to, sir,” Elliott said.

 
          
Hardcastle
excused himself and headed off toward the elevators to go below deck, Geffar
and Cronin following. They were met by Commander Mike Becker at the entrance to
the elevator, who greeted Hardcastle as they entered the elevator.