Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (14 page)

 
          
“He
scored five direct hits on that freighter, at night, without using one piece of
electronic fire-control gear,” Hardcastle said, voice tight. “He made
mathematical calculations in his head that you or I couldn’t do in a week or a
year with a computer—”

 
          
“Meanwhile
his ship is taking on water and he’s thirty minutes away from being on the
bottom of the
Gulf
of Mexico
.”

 
          
“He
made a decision to stop a felon and aggressor from escaping.”

           
“Escaping? That freighter wasn’t
going anywhere. We had the patrol cutter
Mcinitou
only three hours away. We could have run that old tub down—”

 
          
“Maybe
so. But he couldn’t know that.”

 
          
“Ian,
there were crewmen that didn’t even know what was happening up on deck until
several minutes after the attack. Just possibly three of the dead might have
survived if the proper actions had been taken. McConahay was up there taking
pot shots with the 3-incher instead of directing matters on his foredeck.”

 
          
He
noticed Hardcastle’s shocked expression. “Relax, I’m not going to put that in
my report. But this isn’t war, when
maybe
such actions might be in order. This is peacetime. Look it up. Whoever is in
charge of a Coast Guard vessel is first responsible for his crew and his ship.
One man doesn’t keep shooting when his shipmates are lying dead and wounded
around him. But I agree, young McConahay’s been through enough without laying a
review board on him. When the shouting dies down and he gets off convalescent
leave I’ll recommend that he gets a detailed briefing on the appropriate
procedures in such circumstances—including the fact that your crew and your
ship comes first. We’ll call it counseling or reorientation. His permanent
record won’t be touched. Satisfied?”

 
          
“I
agree, his record shouldn’t be affected.”

 
          
“Admiral,
you are a damned hardhead. Which isn’t exactly big news.” And then, as though
feeling the need to explain himself further: “Whipping out a gun and shooting
at the bad guys isn’t always the most appropriate action to take in an
emergency. We lost a helluva lot of valuable evidence because you shot down
that Shorts 330 instead of trying to force it down or trail it on radar to a landing
zone.”

 
          
“We’ve
gone over this, sir ...”

 
          
“Well,
it’s the same with McConahay shooting at the smugglers.” Hardcastle pointed up
to the deck of the
Numestra,
where
Customs Service agents were hauling hand trucks full of plastic bags up onto
deck. The bags, each the size of a refrigerator, contained cash, American
currency in bills no larger than one hundred dollars—most in fives and tens.
Customs had already stacked dozens of these bags on deck.

 
          
“Look
at that. This freighter was a floating smuggler’s warehouse,” Hardcastle said.
“I’m told each one of those bags contains one hundred thousand dollars in small
bills. They estimate they’ve got
tons
of
cash below decks—not just millions,
tons.
Not to mention hundreds of pounds of cocaine and heroin and another hundred
tons of marijuana. Customs says this ship alone could have hauled several such
loads of cash out of the country already. Plus, they found automatic weapons,
bazookas, LAWS rockets, mines, high explosives, even Stinger anti-aircraft
missiles.”

 
          
“I
know all that—what’s your point? What’s that got to do with McConahay?” Knowing
full well the answer.

 
          
“Well,
you’re saying that the
appropriate
action for McConahay was to disengage, look after his ship and let a smaller,
less capable patrol boat like the
Manitou
go after those guys. I say that would have been a mistake. Frankly neither the
Resolute
nor the
Manitou
are well equipped to handle this kind of action, but the
Manitou
would have had
no
chance—these guys could easily have
sunk the
Manitou.
I’m saying,
Admiral, that maybe McConahay did the right thing by hitting back at those
smugglers. If those guys sailed away scot-free and then were chased by other
Coast Guard or Customs forces we could have lost a lot more men. McConahay
should be recognized as a hero, not as a junior officer who did an
‘inappropriate’ action.”

 
          
Cronin
privately not exactly disagreeing, but not able to say so, let it pass.

 
          
“Anyway,
we’ve got a bad situation on our hands, Admiral,” Hardcastle pressed on. “This
is the second incident—third, if you count the Falcon attack and the attack on
Geffar’s unit separately—where smugglers have used heavy weapons to attack
law-enforcement units in American waters, on American soil or in international
waters. These aren’t terrorist or military attacks—but they have elements of
both. Their primary purpose is to defend their drug smuggling, plain and
simple. Except their tactics aren’t so simple . . .”

 
          
“Well,
each Coast Guard station will be briefed in detail about these activities,”
Cronin said. “Priority messages have been sent to each District. We’ve
requested additional personnel for your District and for Admiral Kellerman's
Eighth District as well, along with more air and surface units—”

 
          
“Then
I’d like to detach a unit and set it up specifically for handling this
situation, Admiral. We need a unit that is specially trained and equipped to
handle these guys.”

 
          
“I
don’t think that’s really necessary, Ian. I can’t approve of McConahay’s
response last night, but at least it showed these smugglers that we’re able to
respond with force—”

 
          
He’s
talking out of both sides of his mouth, Hardcastle thought. Cronin wasn’t a man
who did that . . . unless he was less sure of his ground than he sounded . . .

           
“I disagree, sir. In both situations
the smugglers got the best of us, they had a Customs Service assault force and
a Coast Guard cutter beaten. They suffered a loss of personnel and equipment
because of some . . . unorthodox responses by myself and a green Ensign
McConahay who didn’t know the rules said not to shoot back.”

 
          
“So
what the hell are you suggesting, Ian?” Cronin retorted. He chomped down on the
cold cigar, then tossed it at the rust-orange side of the
Numestra.
“We start blasting away at every unidentified aircraft
and vessel in American territory? We’re the United States Coast Guard, not the
old East German Border Guards. It’s a damned frustrating job, for sure. There
are risks, yes—lots of them. Each man and woman on those ships knows that, but
they go out there, it’s their duty—”

 
          
“But
it’s crazy to have them go out there unprepared for the—” “Then we start
sending them out better prepared. Better weapons, better training, more
backups, a greater show of force . . .”

 
          
“I
agree,
sir,” Hardcastle said quickly.
“Yes. Send out a ship or an aircraft better prepared and better armed for such
a conflict.
But not a Coast Guard ship.
”

 
          
“I
don’t get it,” Cronin said, shaking his head. “Who else do we send? The Navy?
The Air Force? The Coast Guard has armed vessels, radar planes, trained seamen
...”

 
          
“But
do we send out a Coast Guard crew armed and loaded for bear on every mission?
Seventh District vessels participated in over fifteen
thousand
law-enforcement missions last year. True, most were
routine searches and boardings. We did a few hundred smuggling intercepts,
those were in the minority. It’s dangerous and impractical to load up
essentially a life-saving and search-and-rescue crew with heavy weapons and
send them out on routine patrols. They’ll be likely to come out shooting when
they pull over a fishing boat for a minor infraction. And if they
don’t
treat every mission as a dangerous
intercept they’ll be unprepared when the shooting starts.”

 
          
Cronin
kept silent, Hardcastle pressed what he hoped was an opening.
⁴
My
people are already loaded up with duties, Admiral. We are the only agency in
the country that’s supposed to enforce international, federal, state
and
local laws all at the same time. The
pressure’s really on every time they go out on patrol. Now, we give them a new
tasking—the next freighter or fishing boat you stop may blow you out of the
water with a LAWS rocket. Check him for lifejackets, flame arrestors, expired
flares, Stinger missiles and, oh yes, drugs, and don’t get killed while you’re
at it.”

 
          
“I
am familiar with your sortie rate and with the responsibilities of the men
under your command. I am also familiar with their duties and the pressures of
the job. I don’t need a damn lecture.”

           
“Sorry, sir, I was trying to make a
point ...”

 
          
Cronin
was looking toward the docks of Coast Guard Station Mobile. Ahead, at the
Resolute
's berth, the docks and
breakwaters were crowded with reporters and onlookers, all being held back by
Coast Guardsmen and Louisiana State Police.

 
          
“Who
the hell let those reporters on my station?” Cronin said under his breath. “I’m
gonna stretch the sonofabitch who authorized that ...”

 
          
As
the
Resolute
approached, Cronin and
Hardcastle could see four vehicles moving through the crowd, red lights
flashing, cameras swinging in their direction. Slowly the four ambulances made
their way to the docks and stopped. The crowd surged toward them to get into
position to see into them. The emergency medical technicians swung open the
rear doors and awaited their grisly cargos.

 
          
At
that moment the steel doors leading to the
Resolute
's
helipad opened. Cronin and Hardcastle moved aside, rendered salutes as the
bodies of the ten Coast Guardsmen killed in the
Numestra
attack, including those of Commander Ehrlich and
Lieutenant Commander Applegate, were wheeled out of the
hangar-bay-turned-morgue and brought up to the quarterdeck for transfer to the
ambulances. Hard- castle’s eyes narrowed as he noted that not all of the dark
plastic bodybags were normal man-sized—several were hardly more than shapeless
heaps . . .

 
          
Cronin
dropped his salute as the last gurney was brought past. “Damn it all to hell,”
he said under his breath. He glared at the cameras on the docks, which had
begun to zoom in on the bodies, and body parts, being rolled out on deck.

 
          
“Sir—”

 
          
“Yes,
Hardcastle?”

 
          
“I’m
sorry this happened, Admiral. More than I know how to say

 
          
Cronin
turned away from the onlookers and reporters and stared at the
Numestra
for a few silent moments. Then:
“I know.” There was a long pause. The tugs maneuvered
Resolute
into its berth, and line handlers began securing the
damaged cutter and the disabled freighter.

 
          
“Ian,
write up your recommendations. Develop your plan for this new security unit you
talked about. If I can approve it, I’ll make it part of my report to DOT, Coast
Guard headquarters and the Joint Chiefs. Hell, maybe it’s time for some
real
action. Maybe we’ll be able to make
a
real
difference.”

 
 
          
Homestead
AFB,
Florida

 
          
Two Days Later

 
          
Hardcastle
found her at the Homestead Air Force Base shooting range in the early morning
sun. Sandra Geffar was at the one-hundred-yard range, with an amazing array of
weapons in the gun rack beside her—handguns, including her .45, .380 and nine
millimeter automatics; a standard Customs Service issue Browning twelve- gauge
full-choke pump shotgun; a Steyr automatic rifle; an M-16 automatic rifle; and
an Uzi submachine pistol. Sandbags had been set up to help her sight in each
weapon, and she had a set of gunsmith’s tools to adjust the sights, trigger
pull and safeties of each weapon. Boxes of ammunition lay strewn around her,
along with magazine clips. Several more boxes of ammunition had been emptied.
She had also been trying several types of holsters and shoulder rigs for each
weapon, and a spotting scope was set up on a tiny tripod next to her right
elbow.