Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (31 page)

 
          
“I
heard,” Hardcastle replied, taking a mug of coffee. “The Secretary of the Treasury
and
the Customs Commissioner
resigned. Who’s going to take their place?”

 
          
“Last
word I got was Geraldine Rivera, the OMB director, was going to be nominated
for Treasury,” Geffar said, “and Ron Gates was first choice for Customs
commissioner. I talked him into riding along with us one of these nights—he’ll
be aboard the Nomad tailing anyone heading north out of
Cuba
. It’ll be his first real mission with
us—it’s like he suddenly got religion.”

 
          
As
they were hanging up their coats, Geffar picked up Hardcastle’s cap and
examined the insignia on it. The peak had a vertical profile of a hammerhead
shark on it in black, with the large eye stalks on the head at the bottom and
the large fins at the top. Extending horizontally from the shark was a pair of wings.

 
          
“Someone’s
been doodling, I see,” Geffar said.

           
“Just an idea I had,” Hardcastle
said.

 
          
Hardcastle
reached up into an overhead cupboard and removed another cap—this one bore the
gold scrambled-eggs oak leaf on the brim signifying a vessel commander. He
handed it to Geffar. “This one’s yours.”

 
          
Sandra
took the cap, examined it, then without a word hung her blue Customs Service
cap on a hook, put her back-pocket crush on the brim of her new cap and slipped
it on.

 
          
Hardcastle
motioned the newcomers up five steps onto a higher tier. “As you can see, and
for the benefit of you who haven’t been on board before, we’ve done a little
remodeling in this control center. The primary operations and UAV control
consoles are down there. We’ve got two Coast Guard technicians manning the
consoles now. The screens we’ll use to get pictures from the scene are newer
and larger high-definition monitors, with better resolution and higher quality
than the regular big-screen TVs we had before. Up here are the commander’s and
deputy’s seats ...”

 
          
“Where’s
General Elliott and Major McLanahan?” Geffar interrupted.

 
          
“Called
to
Washington
,” Hardcastle told her. “None of the HAWC
people are here. They gave my people a quick lesson in how to use this
gear—most of it is computerized and highly automatic, thank God. The Sky Lion
drone is on board but we won’t use it unless absolutely necessary ...”

 
          
He
punched a button on the commander’s console, and the left large-screen monitors
changed to show a well-lit hangar. In the center of the hangar floor was the
V-22C Sea Lion tilt-rotor aircraft. “As you can see, we have the V-22 on board
as well, and we can have it on deck in five minutes.”

 
          
“Is
it armed?”

 
          
Hardcastle
nodded.

 
          
Masters
looked at Geffar. “Armed? That V-22 is
armed?”

 
          
“The
V-22 carries heat-seeking missiles,” Hardcastle said, “capable against either
aerial, ground or sea targets. It also carries a M230 Hughes Chain Gun.” Even
Rushell Masters raised an eyebrow at that.

 
          
Geffar
quickly added, “We won’t be using the V-22 tonight.” Masters looked at the
image of the V-22 with a mixture of amazement and delight—obviously the thought
of using an armed aircraft against smugglers appealed to him. And as Geffar and
Hardcastle watched him, with his horrible burns and scars, they could
understand why.

 
          
“On
the right-hand screen is the radar display from Diamond,” Hardcastle said, “a
Coast Guard cutter-based aerostat unit. We have him stationed just east of Cay
Sal Bank in the Santaren Channel, about fifty miles southeast of our position.
Diamond has been reprogrammed to scan for both sea and air targets, so we have
no E-2 or E-3 radar planes in on this operation—the weather’s a bit marginal
anyway, and I think the Air Force is a little skittish about putting an E-3 in
the area after that Coast Guard Falcon was attacked. We can keep Diamond on
station for four days—after that it’s scheduled to go back to
Miami Beach
.”

 
          
Hardcastle
motioned to the commander’s high-backed seat, similar to the chairs found on
the
bridge
of
Navy
warships. “Yours, Sandra. Want to take over
now?”

 
          
Geffar
looked at him. “Jumping the gun, aren’t you? As of the moment I’m the Customs
Service task force commander, and this is a Customs surveillance and
interdiction operation with Coast Guard support. The difference is we’re fifty
miles closer to the action, thanks to this platform. We’re not Hammerheads
yet.. .” But we’re getting there fast, she thought.

 
          
“We
have
Omaha
Three-Four, the Nomad radar plane, heading
south to take up a position north of
Veradero
,
Cuba
. He’ll be leapfrogging with
Omaha
Three-Five as his fuel status changes.
We’re the forward unit, Omaha Three-One. We have one backup chopper, Omaha
Three-Two, but he’s also scheduled for another ongoing mission so he may or may
not be available.” Geffar turned to Hardcastle. “Do you have a map of the
area?”

 
          
He
entered commands on the commander’s console keyboard and instantly a full-color
map of the south
Florida
and
Caribbean
region snapped onto the left HDTV monitor.
Hardcastle handed Geffar what looked like a small pen and showed her how to use
it. She touched the fourteen-inch screen on the commander’s console with the
soft tip of the pen, and an arrow appeared on the left screen pointing to the
spot she touched on her screen.

 
          
Geffar
shook her head. “Okay. Mayberry point is right . . . here.” She hit a button
that allowed her to draw a spot where drug drops were usually made. “Ten miles
northeast of Veradero military base, just inside Cuban waters.” She drew a line
across the Nicholas Channel, through Cay Sal Bank and across the Santaren
Channel and the Great Bahama Bank toward
Andros
Island
. Hardcastle hit a button and the computer
drew the present position of the Coast Guard aerostat cutter Diamond just a few
miles north of where Geffar had drawn her line.

 
          
“This
is the usual track intelligence says these boats take after rendezvousing at
Mayberry. They usually divert a little south, down along Anguilla Cays at Cay
Sal Bank, then in a zigzag pattern toward
Andros
Island
. We’re not sure where they’re headed until
they’re well into the island. This time, though, we’re going to find the
bastards and nail ’em.

 
          
“They
could
move north, up Cay Sal to Elbow
Cay, then in toward the Keys,” Geffar went on. "It looks like Diamond may
not be in position to track them if they move north or if they try to send some
decoys—they won’t move further west toward Key West, we know that ...”

 
          
"Send
the Nomad after anything moving north,” the deep voice of Rushell Masters
suggested. “The aerostat can help us track whatever, moving toward the
Bahamas
. We have a FLIR on the Black Hawk—that’ll
help us too.”

 
          
“Agreed,”
Geffar said. “We’ll commit the Nomad to track anything heading northbound. If
they use more boats—well, we’ll just have to do the best we can.” She glanced
at Hardcastle.

 
          
“The
Sky Lion drones easily track any stragglers or decoys,” he said.

 
          
“We’re
not authorized to use the Sky Lion, Admiral . . .”

 
          
“We
can data-link through the Nomad and run an automatic intercept,” he said. “If
we lose the Nomad we can run the Sky Lion out on a data-link from Diamond until
the drone’s sensors pick up.”

 
          
“Admiral,
you gave me the cap. Well use our assets, period . . . That’s the plan, then.
We’ll be on for the next twenty hours, and then rotate with Curt’s crew. Now we
wait until the Nomad gets something for us. You can look around the platform
but be ready to go when we page you.”

 
          
Hardcastle
and Geffar sat at the command console and watched Diamond’s radar display on
the right-hand HDTV.

 
          
“How
do I talk with the Nomad crew?”

 
          
“Comm
screen is here,” Hardcastle told her, pointing to a smaller ten-inch screen to
the left of the main monitor. The screen had four columns of rectangles with a
label and frequency for each box. Hardcastle handed Geffar a lightweight
headset. “All the channelized freqs for this mission are displayed on this
screen. You just touch the screen to talk. Touch this button in the low'er
right corner to call up more frequencies—air traffic control, NORAD, the
sherifFs department—we’ve got five hundred different UHF, VHF, HF, CB and FM
frequencies programmed into the computer.”

 
          
Geffar
touched the rectangle labeled “NOMAD OMAHA 34.” She watched as the rectangle
blinked a few times and a message on the top of the screen flashed, “SECURE
SYNC,” indicating that the secure frequency circuits were locking in to the
other receiver. When it changed to a solid white, she spoke: “Three-Four, this
is Three- One.”

 
          
She
heard the soft squeal and hiss as the other transmitter completed its own
security synchronization, then: “Three-One, this is Three-Four. Go.”

 
          
Geffar
was about to ask for their position, but one glance at the left HDTV told the
story—when the Nomad crew keyed their microphone a tiny green square and data
block on the area map blinked on showing the Nomad’s location to be about
twenty miles north of Veradero, Cuba—along with its altitude, airspeed, and
heading. “Say status,” she said instead.

 
          
“In
the green,” the Nomad’s pilot reported. “Preparing to enter orbit now.”

 
          
“Move
farther north out to the edge of your scanning radius,” Geffar said. “If Gomer
shows up he’ll be able to pick you up on his radar. We’ve got a pretty good
eyeball on Mayberry.”

 
          
“Okay.
Three-One. We’ll move up to BRONCO and set up shop there.” Point BRONCO was
Elbow Cay. It was a perfect position— the Nomad’s SeaScan radar would fill in
gaps between Hammerhead One’s limited radar to the northeast, the Coast Guard
aerostat Diamond to the east and southwest, and the aerostat unit at
Key West
to the west, and it could still watch
Cuba
’s northern coast for signs of any activity.

 
          
Geffar
sat back and studied the display as the Nomad aircraft moved north to its new
orbit. She then hit the comm button labeled SLINGSHOT. “SLINGSHOT, this is
Omaha Three-One, radio check.”

 
          
“Three-One,
this is SLINGSHOT.” A data block appeared over
Miami
on the map. “Read you loud and clear. Ident
and say position.”

 
          
“Three-One
is not airborne,” Geffar replied. “We are presently secure at Hammerhead One
awaiting traffic.”

 
          
“Say
again, Three-One?” the controller at SLINGSHOT radioed back. “You’re
where?"

 
          
“Hammerhead
One.” There was a long pause on the radio. “Those turkeys,” GefiFar murmured to
Hardcastle. “They were briefed on this platform . . .”

 
          
“Three-One,
authenticate Whiskey for me.”