“Do you think he can see us?” Joel asked.
“All he has to do is turn around,” Owen shouted back.
Joel put the goggles back onto his face. The bright green haze from the lit cigarette obscured his view of the operator’s face. Then, without warning, the goggles lost their definition and both eyepieces burst in a blaze of brilliant green light. Joel removed the glasses just as the halogen spotlights warmed up to full capacity. The halogens were mounted to movable bases. Each one could rotate three hundred and sixty degrees independently of each other. Small remote control panels were mounted on either side of the Stinger’s helm. The lights were the brainchild of ACR electronics, a Fort Lauderdale company that prized its reputation on inventing the energy-saving personal flashlights credited for saving the lives of NASA’s Apollo 13 crew.
Both spotlights were pointed forward and were brilliant with penetrating light. Between the lights, next to the radar array, a small blue beacon sent out its signal. A blue sweep of light pulsed across the Indian’s bow and the transom of the target.
It took a fraction of a second for the target to realize he had been caught. The captain banked his vessel to the right, heading for the dark waters of the Gulf Stream.
“He’s trying to make it back to the islands,” Joel yelled over the seventy mile per hour wind blowing between the two.
Joel put the Indian into an equally tight starboard bank, maintaining his distance of thirty yards.
“Papa 1925 Sector,” Joel said, radioing C3I.
“Not yet!” Owen barked, putting his hand in front of his partner.
“Papa 1925 Sector. Standby.”
Another abrupt starboard turn took place. This time Joel cut the wheel even tighter, laying the Indian on its side, beating the radius of the target’s turn by twenty yards. The Indian now rode alongside the equally long Stiletto. Blue flashes of light splashed the white hull as it bounced through the four-foot chop. Owen rotated the port halogen spot, moving it ninety degrees and illuminating the side of the Stiletto.
It was clear now that Joel had been made a fool of. They were alongside Mark West’s 38-footer, the boat he had helped launch just hours before. Mark West gave the two a wave as he pulled back on the throttles.
“You knew all along didn’t you?” Joel asked.
“Hey, look, you needed the practice…Okay?”
“Yeah, well, I really thought we had something there.”
“When it’s real, kid, you’ll be glad we did this.”
“Shit! I thought that Owen was driving!” Holmes yelled.
“Hey Porky! I had you dead cold man,” Joel boasted, feeling proud of himself.
“Okay…well on that note, my hydraulic steering is low on fluid. You’re lucky I didn’t smear you in the side on that last pass,” West said.
“Promises, promises,” Joel yelled back sarcastically.
“Oh yeah, Kenyon…Jordan Cheney has put out a BOLO on you, something about destruction of federal property,” Holmes laughed. “Well, I’ve got to make a court appearance in the morning, I’d love to stay and chat, but...”
“We’re not far behind you,” Owen answered.
“Hey Owen, before you go, check out Molasses Reef. I saw our friend on the Vibrations heading that way. I’d sit it out but I really don’t have the time. Besides, I’m heading back to Tavernier Creek. Wrong direction.”
Owen acknowledged with a nod. Both captains started their engines. In seconds, West’s white-hulled Stiletto shot into the air over a series of waves and was off into the dark night.
“You did pretty good Kenyon,” Owen said. “Be careful of those tight turns. If you get too much air into the props, they will lose traction like street tires on a gravel road and the boat will lose speed. And don’t get so attached to the night vision. Did you see what happened when I flipped on the overhead lights? It’s a total green-out. Oh and Joel, one more thing. We don’t actually call Holmes Porky to his face.”
* * * * *
Ablaze
At an altitude of forty-five hundred feet and an accompanying air speed of one hundred and forty knots, two Air Force E-2s stood perplexed, gazing out the rear of their C-130’s open bay door. As the cold wind rushed below their feet, the plane followed its flight path over the reef line of the Upper Florida Keys. The view was nearly unobstructed with the exception of a few lingering clouds. From their vantage point, the reef line looked serene and peaceful. Small flashing dots of white and red light blinked on and off periodically. Long trails of phosphorescent phytoplankton stretched behind three different boats crossing from the Bahamas toward Miami and the Keys. Green embers stayed alit hours after the boats passed, like the tails that follow a comet. Miles above the C-130, special C3I satellites monitored the green trails with tuned focal lenses trained on the incoming boats.
Behind the men, stacked in twelve rows of three, thirty-six H-57 starburst flares stood atop their stacking crates, ready for the drop. As the plane approached Alligator Reef in Islamorada, a red light accompanied by a loud shriek sounded within the plane’s intercom system alerting the crew that they were nearing the drop zone.
The DZ was to extend from Pickles Reef off Tavernier to a non-descript point three miles north of Molasses.
Minutes later, the fifteen pound flares were falling from the platform, one every five seconds. The flares manufacturer, Olin Ordinance of St. Marks, Florida, had originally designed the starburst H-57 for the Vietnam conflict for which the devices were used to illuminate the dark jungles during routine confrontations with the North Vietnamese. They were compact, easy to handle and came equipped with an eight second delay igniter and a small ballistic charged parachute. The entire drop took three minutes, the exact time it took the C-130 to fly from Pickles off Tavernier to Molasses Reef. After leaving the plane, the flares burst into a blazing ball of brilliant light, illuminating the water below up to a mile away. From the island of Key Largo, it looked like an oversized string of Christmas lights being strewn across the reefs by some five-thousand-foot-high benevolent giant. The flares stayed suspended by the small parachutes, keeping the starbursts aloft for over ten minutes.
What was once a dark, concealed ocean became an area of confined artificial sunlight. The mission was a success. Not that this was a priority action; it wasn’t, just a show of force and more political propaganda for the taxpayers on the shores of Key Largo, Tavernier and Islamorada. Soon the cool waters of the Gulf Stream would douse the flares and their mission would be complete as their fiery signals would be snuffed out and the reef line would return to its previous state of darkness.
By the time the Customs’ 41-foot white Indian arrived over Molasses Reef, Roberto Alazar and his crew knew to expect company. Alazar tracked the bullet-shaped craft over ten miles as it headed north, making its way up the Hawks Channel then heading out to the reef line some two miles parallel to the original course. Everyone on the boat assumed their position as most simply maintained a wet fishing line while sipping on a cold beer. Del cleaned a small grouper he caught earlier, filleting the white meat clean from its long thin bones.
Owen knew his way around the barrier reefs of the Keys. He was an experienced diver and had spent enough time both under and on top of the water to know the sub-oceanic terrain. One of the boats Owen Sands usually piloted through these waters was a 53-foot U. S. Customs Hatteras called Frankly Scarlet. It drew significantly more water than the Indian go-fast, ensuring the courses he took would be more than adequate for the sleeker, shallow-drafted 41-footer. Still, the Fiberglas hull of the Indian, as tough as it might have been, was no match for the razor sharp projections of the barrier coral reefs. The wet rocks were like barbs waiting to split open such a passing boat.
Thanks to the falling flares, Owen could see the entourage arranged at the reef. The brightly lit aft deck of the Vibrations was the first to draw his attention as he slowed the boat to an idle. As the boat came into view, he could see a man standing on the aft deck with a full bea
rd and plump belly. Roberto Alazar hadn’t changed a bit, Owen thought to himself. Joel circled once. As the Indian passed the transom by twenty yards, Alazar caught Owen’s stare and the two stood in a trance, their eyes fixed on each other. Joel watched, seeing there was more going on here than he was ready to understand. No one spoke. The only noise that was present was the harmonic rapping of the boat’s engines. Joel observed as Owen’s whole mood changed. He seemed less confident, even the boat moved differently. Something had changed. Owen stepped over, pushing Joel away from the wheel and then steered the boat away from the Vibrations, heading towards the shore.
“What are we doing?” Joel asked.
“We’re going in. I want to check the Cross Key Cut and then switch to a different boat.”
“What about these guys?”
“They’re not going to let us catch them. They’ll drop their load mid ocean before we would even get close. Trust me,” Owen answered.
“I disagree, I think we should wait it out…Go inland and watch the radar,” he said pleading his case.
“It’ll never happen; they’re too smart for that.”
“Yeah but...”
“Not gonna happen Joel, now hold on,” Sands said as he powered up the Indian. The boat climbed over the waves as it left the reef line.
* * * * *
Apparition
Randal Albury stood watch behind the console of his 25-foot open powerboat. Rigged with two high-powered outboards, it was fast and dependable, giving Albury the acceleration he needed in unruly times of crisis. He ran the chase boat and his job was to maintain a stealthy anonymity until the transfer was made when his mission would then became creating a simple distraction. He usually did so by attaching a hexagonally-shaped radar reflector to the boat’s VHF antenna mast. This technique would draw most of the “brilliant” attention of the radar screens in Miami and those afloat on patrol boats in the area. This in turn handed the ball of stealth to the boats laden with their heavy loads. Albury would make an obvious high-speed course for the mainland, and distract all those watching in the process.
Albury was proud of his boat. He bought it at a Florida Marine Patrol surplus auction held periodically at the Port Everglades shipping terminal in Fort Lauderdale. It was there that the general public had the opportunity to purchase surplus boats, trailers and other marine equipment.
Albury saw the 25-footer for the first time propped up on cinderblocks, sitting on dry land. It was colored in a drab gray finish. Its former name, Florida Marine Patrol, was painted over with a can of household spray paint and the interior and engines were stripped. Gaping holes remained where instrument panels were once attached. The only thing that even resembled a civilian craft was the boat manufacturer’s nameplate on the aft side, Mako, with a small silhouette of a shark swimming about the letters. The Mako had a good reputation for being a sea boat. Built in Miami, the craft was a legend in the fishing industry. Albury purchased the hull at a fair price, twenty-seven hundred dollars, and brought it back to the Keys where he completely overhauled her. With new engines, paint and rigging, the boat was one of the finest around. Her color remained the drab gray, painted new with a glossy polyurethane. This time, DuPont Imron, the type of paint used to coat commercial jet liners, was used instead of the original faded Fiberglas gelcoat. From a distance, the craft still looked like Florida Marine Patrol property. Her gray silhouette with a black welded aluminum and canvas top along with the standard equipment of a Raytheon sixteen-mile radar, VHF marine transceiver, CB, and two-meter radios, made her aptly equipped. A parabolic listening hailer completed the package giving Albury listening capabilities of approaching craft. The radar and side-mounted speakers for the hailer only added to its appearance, giving her even more of an official impression.
By the time Albury had arrived at the reef, Chino and Alberto had already anchored the La Pinta and had four fishing lines out, trolling through the awkward current. To the south, the Vibrations rolled back and forth in the incoming swells. Albury made sure not to come too close. A triple “click” on the radio acknowledged his presence. Both boats responded with similar transmissions, as they would operate on CB Channel Seven tonight.
Albury had watched as Red and Stump’s blue-hulled 26-foot Chris-Craft arrived thirty minutes after the Cho Chos and were firmly anchored in position. The broad-beamed Chris took the waves with the stability of boats twice its size.
The crew of the Chris-Craft was notorious. Red and Stump were two local boys who went to high school with Albury. That was all they had in common though. Albury was extremely studious during his teenage years, unlike Red and Stump who ran with a dangerous crowd of kids who always got caught smoking pot in the bathroom or defying the law by riding their motorcycles without helmets. They were labeled as heavy metal headbangers who lived life with half the brain cells they were granted at birth. Albury figured they did their job though, and that was all that mattered. Besides, they had grown up hating cops, politicians, and all other figures of authority. They were the type of people who wouldn’t make a deal with the Feds if they were ever caught.
“Slingshot this is Crossbow over,” Gordo said over the specially rigged Icom 28 radio transceiver.
The Icom 28 was manufactured by Icom Electronics Corporation of Japan and was imported through Gene Latrell’s spy shop in Miami. The device was not only the most powerful two-meter transceiver on the market but also the most versatile. With the removal of one single diode, the radio increased its transmit and received ranges by almost two hundred percent. Simply put, the frequency ranges designated for two-meter amateurs were 138 megahertz to 148 megahertz. By eliminating diode twenty-one, the radio could then transmit and receive on an expanded frequency range of 138 to 172 megahertz. The U.S. Customs Service operated on a frequency range of 162 to 166 megahertz.
The Customs Service utilized transmissions that were encrypted and “private line” coded, meaning that the two stations communicating back and forth could only decipher their own encrypted transmissions. Anyone who would listen in on the traffic would only hear gibberish. The PL coded transmissions were more public and basically enabled two stations to communicate on a given frequency, without being interrupted by other stations and distant interference. Therefore, without the proper PL codes, one could transmit on the same frequency as the U. S. Customs Service without them knowing. This, of course, did not preclude people listening in on normal household police scanners because they heard everything that came across the frequency. For this reason, Alazar and his men operated on the Icoms using the same numbers and terminology as the Customs Service. Nicknames like Slingshot, Crossbow, Bow and Arrow, and Striking Arrow were common code words on the Customs’ channels.
“Crossbow this is Slingshot, go ahead.”
“I’m about ten miles out from your position, do you copy?” Gordo replied.
“10-4, Crossbow, proceed as planned,” Del replied.
To those who listened on their scanners from Radio Shack and Sears, it sounded like a simple transmission on 165.235 megahertz, the government’s official general working frequency. To the Customs Service who actually used the channel, it registered as static because their radios were set up to transmit and receive only their transmissions, blocking out all stray noises and other interference called skip. Since this was their own channel, the Customs Service didn’t include it in the menu of frequencies they routinely scanned while on patrol. It was an ingenious way for the Alazars to communicate long distances without detection.
For short-range communications, the crew used simple, automotive low power CB radios. The sets were tuned down so the wattage was only transmitting one or two watts, enough to communicate up to a mile over water without the entire mainland community listening in. This jargon sounded quite a bit different.
“Dr. Pepper,” Alazar said, speaking into the mic of the CB this time.
“Go ahead Pepsi,” Albury replied.
“Wash your hands, it’s time for din
ner.”
“Roger that,” Albury responded, this time with more enthusiasm.
It was these names that gave the Alazar crew their unofficial name: The Soda Pop Gang.
Albury tuned in his hailer, listening carefully to the noises of the ocean ahead. He was adrift now, having retrieved the anchor from the coral bottom. In the distance he could hear the synchronized rhyme of Gordo’s outboard engines turning through the waves. Albury powered the boat forward, keeping a keen eye over the reef into the blue water ahead. Blue water in the daylight, it now appeared as black and bottomless as any dark caldron.
Gordo approached the reef, cutting the Stiletto’s engines back to an idle. Hot steaming water and exhaust vapors spat out the four outboard motors bolted to the boat’s transom. Gordo jockeyed the boat with its bow into the wind and oncoming waves. Alberto and Chino were the first to lie on the side of the much larger vessel, tucking fenders in between the boats to prevent “freighter burn.” These deep abrasions to the boat’s hull were telltale signs that the boat had been involved in something illicit, not to mention the fact that Gordo took a lot of pride in his small fleet of boats. Scratching them was completely out of the question.
“One, two, three…” Gordo counted as he passed the seventy-pound burlap cubes over to the other boat. Chino received, maintaining a count on his own, while Alberto placed the bales strategically around the boat, distributing the weight evenly.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” Gordo declared.
“Thirty,” Chino acknowledged with a push. The smaller vessel drifted away from the Stiletto. Alberto finished placing the rest of the load while Chino powered up the one running engine. The La Pinta departed and headed northwest.
Alazar, Del and Gus Greico watched from the aft deck of the Vibrations some two hundred yards away. All was going smoothly as a light rain started to fall. The inclement weather posed some significant advantages and some disadvantages. The line-of-sight vision of the patrol crews coupled with the decrease in radar acuity due to rain clutter were present, but this also held true for Alazar who was now peering through the hood of Vibrations’ radar screen.
Mid Ocean Page 13
