Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (46 page)

 
          
Near
Delray Beach, Florida, about fifteen miles north of where the chase was
beginning its final leg, a fifty-foot cabin cruiser motored slowly, traveling
right at the edge of the recognized three-mile limit of unrestricted coastal
waters. It carried several high-powered transceiver antennae arranged all along
its deck plus a small satellite transceiver located in a protective fiberglass
“golf ball” on top of the main cabin.

 
          
Down
below in the main galley a pair of dividers walked across a chart of
Florida
’s eastern coast. Several penciled marks on
the chart depicted the course of Canseco’s rakehell dash from Bimini to
Florida
. The marks on the chart were made with the
practiced skill of an experienced sailor and navigator—small, precise and as
neat as a draftsman.

 
          
“They
are still not using their secure radios,” someone said to the man with the
navigator’s dividers. The second man, the cruiser’s master, popped open a can
of beer and poured half of it down his throat before continuing: “There must be
something wrong with their radios.”

 
          
“The
secure system is limited in range and effectiveness,” the first man told him in
Spanish. “Besides, Canseco knows they have found him, and they know that their
target has spotted
them.
Secrecy is
no longer necessary.” He plotted Canseco’s last position and penciled in the
point at which the chase aircraft had made contact.

 
          
“What
sort of aircraft is out there?” the second man asked.

 
          
“They
call it a Sea Lion,” the first man replied. “A sophisticated aircraft, faster
and larger than a helicopter but able to hover like a helicopter.”

 
          
“It
carries weapons?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes,” the first man replied. “The Hammerheads will use them, too—this Bravo,
Admiral Hardcastle, has an itchy trigger finger. Canseco must be prepared to
stop if they press the intercept. They will open fire if he does not respond.”
He tapped on the chart. “The Sea Lion had trouble finding Canseco . . . Both
the platform radars and CARABAL must be ineffective at this range.”

 
          
“What
was that you said?” the second man asked.

 
          
“It
doesn’t matter. Canseco has earned his twenty thousand dollars tonight. I think
he may have found the Hammerheads’ vulnerable spot.” “Okay, Adam,” Hardcastle
said to Fontaine. “The SES is still pretty far out, and this guy ahead of us
might be able to get around him— he’s hitting forty knots now. We’ve got to get
him slowed down so the
Sea Hawk
can
move in. I’m worried about that rifle I
think
I see, we’ve got to do this carefully. We’ll close our range gradually on him
and move in to about one hundred yards’ range, then hit him with the ID light.
If it doesn’t slow him down, back off and we’ll reevaluate.”

 
          
“What
the hell does that mean? Reevaluate?”

 
          
“That
means,
” Hardcastle told him, “that
we begin getting lined up for a shot across his bow if he decides not to stop.”
Fontaine did not reply; he only gripped the collective tighter.

 
          
“Two-Three,
this is Five-One,” the skipper of the
Sea
Hawk
reported, “we have radar contact on you at this time. We should be in
position to see your target shortly. What’s his position?”

 
          
“He’s
about three hundred yards in front of us, heading west at almost forty knots.
We re going to move in to try to slow him down.” “We’ll be in position in five
minutes,” Petraglia reported. “Be advised, we now have positive radar contact
on your surface target. You can break off close pursuit at this time.
Two-Three.”

 
          
Fontaine
seemed to relax at that last transmission, but Hardcastle replied, “Negative,
Five-One. We’re moving in. Stand by.”

 
          
Sandra
Geffar tensed as she listened to that last interchange. She knew Hardcastle
would move in, knew he would press the engagement no matter where the
surface-effect ship was.

 
          
Annette
Fields was thinking the same thing as she turned and looked up at Geffar. “He’s
the on-scene commander,” Geffar told her. “It’s his action. If the target gets
by the SES he’s in the best position to take over.”

 
          
Fields
paused for a moment, then said, “He’s got a civilian on board.”

 
          
“What?
Who?”

 
          
“His
son Daniel. He brought him on board when—”

 
          
“He’s
bringing his own son into a firefight?” She calmed herself down as the others
in the platform’s command center turned to watch her, then told Fields, “I want
him to recover that plane as soon as possible,” she said in carefully
controlled words. That passenger is my responsibility too ... he must be
protected as much as possible . . .”

 
          
By
then Fontaine had taken the Sea Lion to within a hundred yards of the speeding
yacht and down to fifty feet above the ocean. Hardcastle retracted his FLIR
visor and with the infrared tracker still locked on, activated the NightSun
identification light.

 
          
The
five-thousand-watt searchlight flooded the area around the yacht with brilliant
white light, and for the first time they had a good eyeball on their target. The
two men on the yacht were clearly in view, as was, in stark clarity, the huge
automatic rifle one of the suspects had aimed at them.

 
          
“Shark,
this is Two-Three,” Hardcastle radioed. “We have visual contact on the evading
target vessel. We have two male Latinos on board the target vessel. One is
carrying a military-style rifle, probably an AK-47. Five-One, how do you copy?”

 
          
“Five-One
copies,” Petraglia replied. “We see your ID light and we have a visual on the
target. We can take over from here, Bravo.”

           
“Shark copies all, Two-Three,”
Fields radioed from Hammerhead One. “Alpha requests you take all efforts to
protect passenger and RTB. Acknowledge.”

 
          
Hardcastle
looked at Fontaine, then back over his right shoulder at Daniel. He hit the
mike button: “Say again, Shark?”

 
          
“In
consideration of passenger safety, Alpha requests you RTB.” Hardcastle shook
his head but nodded at Fontaine. “You heard, Adam. Give me a thousand feet.
We’ll keep the light on this bozo from high altitude until Petraglia catches
him,
then
head on back.” On the radio
channel he said, “Roger, Shark. Two-Three will monitor the intercept from high
altitude, then RTB. Over.”

 
          
“Copy,
Two-Three. Will advise when situation under control. Out.”

 
          
Aboard WSES-2 Sea Hawk

 
          
“All
hands report to LE stage-two stations,” Petraglia announced over the ship’s
intercom from the bridge of the
Sea Hawk.
“This is not a drill.” Four miles ahead of them, just visible in the glare of
the Sea Lion’s searchlight, was their quarry thundering through the swells and
heading for the shore at full speed.

 
          
“Port
and starboard M-60’s manned and ready,” the officer of the deck, Janet Cirillo,
reported to Petraglia. Under law-enforcement readiness conditions, everyone on
board—including the cook—had deck duties. Cirillo picked up a phone on the aft
bulkhead of the bridge, listened for a few moments, then dropped it back into
its holder. “Crew reports ready at LE two, sir.” Although the vessel and her
crew were officially with the Border Security Force and techni cally had no
military rank, the former Coast Guard vessel and her crew automatically
reverted to their military training and experience in such situations. Their
lifejackets and body armor displayed the “flying shark” insignia of the
Hammerheads, but right underneath the stick-on patches they read “U.S. Coast
Guard.” It would take time for allegiances to shift completely.

 
          
“Range
three miles now and closing slowly,” the radar operator on the bridge reported.
“Recommend heading three-three-zero to intercept in three point four miles.”

 
          
“Make
it so,” Petraglia ordered. He scanned both sides of his bridge to check on his
crew. Surface-effect ships were much more stable at high speeds than the
Cigarette racing yachts—while their target was being pounded by the short
choppy waves the
Sea Hawk
was gliding
on a thick bubble of air with amazing stability for such a large craft. Even
so, Petraglia checked his people to make sure they were moving about on deck
and ready to engage the target.

 
          
“Sir,
we might have a problem,” the radar operator said. “We’re approaching five
miles to the shoreline and we’re on course to intercept in three and a half.
We’ve got a cut-off, but it’s not much. He could reach shore before we catch up
to him if he doesn’t slow down. If he turns farther north, we might lose him.”

 
          
“He’s
got to slow down,” Cirillo said. “There are boats all over the place along the
shore—”

 
          
“I
don’t think this guy gives a rat’s ass who’s in his way,” Petraglia said. “This
guy just wants to reach shore, period. If he gets close to shore or cuts into
the
Intracoastal
Waterway
through
the
Boca
Raton
inlet, he could kill a lot of people damn quick.” He reached up and grabbed the
radio microphone. “Two-Three, this is Five-One.”

 
          
“Go
ahead.”

 
          
“Bravo,
our radar tells us we’re going to intercept in a little under four miles at
this speed,” Petraglia told Hardcastle. “This could turn into a tail chase, and
then we’ll be out of position. If you could get him turned or slowed down, we
could catch him farther out from shore. Please advise. Over.”

           
“Copy that, Five-One,” Hardcastle
replied. He had seen the developing chase and had come to the same conclusion
as Petraglia—they might catch the guy but not before he blasted very close into
shore. “We’re maneuvering to intercept. Stand by.” He turned to Fontaine. “Take
us back down to one hundred feet and move in to one hundred yards. Crew, stand
by for intercept.” His adrenaline was really pumping.

 
          
Daniel
found his breath was short, he felt frozen. The two gunners in the cargo bay of
the V-22 Sea Lion had reloaded the starboard rocket pod with four live Sea
Stinger missiles, leaving two warning flares in place. They had double-checked
the feed mechanism of the Chain Gun in the port-side pod and prepared a second
hundred- round magazine. Out the starboard windscreen Daniel could see the
starboard pod with its deadly load motored back out into the slipstream. When
it was locked into place the crewmen adjusted body armor and strapped
themselves into their seats. They did not speak to Daniel, but one of them
reached over to touch his holster pistol. He did not look too reassured.

 
          
Hardcastle
was running down the checklist with Fontaine, whose attention seemed fixed on
the brilliantly lit speedboat ahead of him. Then, as if jerking himself out of
a trance, he forced his eyes to scan his instruments and around the cockpit.
Hardcastle performed the checklist functions he could do and notified Fontaine
of items that only the pilot in command could handle.

 
          
“Crew
notified,” Hardcastle read. “Fuel quantity and feed, checked on AUTO, looks
like another two hours’ worth. Fuel pressurization to AUTO. Generators checked,
warning lights out. Hydraulics, primary and secondary, checked, warning lights
out. Seat straps, shoulder harnesses, emergency equipment, checked and set.
Flight controls checked, pilot and copilot.” Fontaine had again focused on the
racing yacht. “Adam, bring your power back a notch.” No reply. “Adam?” Fontaine
snapped his head, nodded and complied. He leveled off at one hundred feet as
the radar altimeter warning light blinked at him, but he was still reluctant to
decrease the range. “Move in another sixty yards,” Hardcastle prodded.