Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  Owen took the passport and opened it to the front page. The laminated section sealed the page from the wet ordeal and was easily legible.

  “Sector, Papa 1903…”

  “Go ahead Papa 1903.”

  “10-4, we are 10-38 on a life raft, possible signal thirty-one traffic. Our P.O.B subject name Ralph Linez, common spelling. Run an FCIC and NCIC. Also check FAA files for flight ratings.”

  “How did you get so beat up from a boat sinking?” Joel asked.

  “I tried to climb onto the Crocker light. A wave washed me off and the barnacles scraped me pretty bad.”

  “Papa 1903, Sector…”

  “1903 here, go ahead Sector.”

  “Negative warrants. No file found with the FAA. Negative EPIC file.”

  Linez looked relieved as Joel thought. He was sure this was their man. How could it be just a coincidence? Owen looked at his suspect and smiled as he removed the raft case identification panel from his pocket. Linez’s eyes grew larger as he watched in disbelief. Then Owen walked to the back of the boat where Joel had secured the raft, comparing the serial number sewn into the case panel to the one embossed onto the raft. AVN 6238-83P was a perfect match.

  “Arrest Mr. Linez, please,” Owen instructed as he smiled at the now confirmed pilot.

  Linez slumped into the seat at the back of the Indian’s cockpit as Joel applied a pair of stainless handcuffs.

  “Do you require any medical attention sir?” Joel asked.

  “No, I’m okay. Where’s the stuff?” Linez asked.

  “Right here,” Owen said, pointing to the front cabin.

  “What do I have to do to get it back?” Linez asked.

  “Well, I guess you could kill us and take our boat.”

  * * * * *

  Range

  An electronic buzzer sounded as the two entered the front door of the L and L Electronics store in Miami.

  “I’m coming,” yelled a voice from a back room.

  Owen and Joel waited patiently at the front counter as Gene Latrell, the store’s owner, finished zipping his pants.

  “Damn prostate. What’s up Owen?” he asked.

  “I got a message that the Gen 2 night vision was fixed and needed to be picked up.”

  “Sure is chief. These things are so new, we don’t know how to service them yet. I had to send it off to the factory in Oshkosh.”

  “No big deal, just as long as it works,” Owen said.

  “It should be fine this time. I don’t think it will act up anymore.”

  “Hey, I salvaged this radio. Do you know anything about these?” Owen asked, pulling the radio that he had salvaged from the Island Girl out of a paper bag.

  “That, my friend, is an Icom 28, the Cadillac of two-meter rigs. Very versatile.”

  “Versatile? How?”

  “Give me a second and I’ll show you,” Latrell said, removing a Phillips-head screwdriver from underneath the counter.

  “It was underwater for a while,” Owen explained as Latrell removed the radio’s protective case exposing diode-covered circuit boards and a multitude of wires.

  “I see that. Not very long though,” he said. “You see this diode? Number twenty-one? Cut it and this radio has no limits.”

  “No limits? What does that mean?” Joel asked.

  “The radio was designed as a two-meter ham radio for amateur buffs like myself who are into this kind of thing.”

  “What type of thing is that?” Joel asked.

  “Talking a lot on a radio,” Owen answered sarcastically.

  “Alright, smartass,” Latrell said with half a smile. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Two-meter ham operates on the frequencies 144 to 148 megahertz in the same way the FM radio in your car receives 88 to 108 megahertz. You following me?”

  “Yeah, but the two-meter receives and transmits.”

  “Right kid, both transmit and receive. By cutting diode twenty-one, this radio is capable of full operation from 138 to 172 megahertz.”

  “Okay, you lost me.”

  “Our working frequency is 165.235 Joel,” Owen interjected.

  “Right, Customs is 165, DEA is 166, FBI, 171.”

  “Okay, so they can talk to us. What’s the big deal?” Joel asked.

  “We spend countless hours listening to marine VHF, CB, two-meter, and shortwave radios, trying to intercept the transmissions between the crossing boats and the locals. This is how we know something is going down. With this radio, they can talk to each other on our own frequency.”

  “But don’t we obviously listen to our own frequency?”

  “You do and you don’t,” Latrell said. “The stuff you hear on that radio attached to your hip is filtered.”

  “Filtered?” Joel asked, looking down to the walky-talky clipped to his belt next to his Beretta nine-millimeter service weapon.

  “These sophisticated radios use, what we call in the business, PL tones, or private lines. Every time you key that mic, a microburst of sound, a code, opens a receiver on the other radios in your network. Without the PL tones, the other radios in your network won’t hear a thing.”

  “What’s the benefit?” Joel asked.

  “With all the radios operating, especially here in South Florida, there is a lot of chatter on these frequencies. We are figuratively, running out of room. People are talking on top of people and messages run together. The results can be disastrous.”

  “So this is a way for us to talk amongst ourselves without all the interference,” Joel said.

  “Where did you find this one?” Latrell asked, pointing at Joel.

  “He’s a stray,” Owen answered.

  “The only way you would be able to hear these guys is with a simple police scanner and therein lies the rub. The runners would have to use similar jargon, sounding like, well, you guys. Kinda ironic, isn’t it?” Latrell explained. “These guys have probably been heard by every tow truck driver, volunteer fireman…”

  “Diner waitresses,” Owen interjected.

  “Half the civilians out there have these scanners these days and most of them don’t have a clue as to what they are listening to.”

  “This sounds pretty sophisticated. Are these runners really that smart?” Joel asked.

  “Son, with all the drugs that come into the country, it’s estimated that you guys, with the power of the entire government behind you, are getting a mere ten percent. What do you think?”

  * * * * *

  Arraignment

  With twenty-one days left until Christmas, the staff of the Nineteenth District Federal Court was anxious to get started. The sooner Judge Franklin Rubis’s docket commenced, the sooner his staff would be free to do their much-needed shopping. Because of this, they went as far as foregoing the standard one hour lunch break, cutting it back to fifteen minutes. The shopping lines in the malls were unbearable by six and if all went well, they would be done by three.

  “In the Seventeenth District Federal Court, the Honorable Judge Franklin D. Rubis presiding, all stand,” said a suit-clad U.S. Marshall from the corner of the bench. With gray hair and a matching beard, a flowing black robe and an armful of manila file folders, Rubis entered the courtroom taking his seat behind the bench. Following his lead, everyone else in the courtroom took their seats.

  Rubis was well admired in the federal system, and, in turn, he had an uncanny respect for the court and those who worked hard to uphold its authority. While he tried to follow the letter of the law, Judge Rubis was known to read between the lines on occasion. This stemmed from the fact that he had little tolerance for bureaucracy and even less for the manipulations that many in the federal court system were known to inflict. He was quick to call his court to order and had been known to reprimand his share of defense lawyers.

  Rap-Rap-Rap

  “All come to order please. For God’s sake, let’s see if we can get out of here at a decent hour. My secretary has a desperate appointmen
t to keep with Toys-R-Us and if she misses it, I’ll never hear the end of it,” he announced as the courtroom erupted with laughter and he thumbed through the docket.

  “Marlene,” Rubis said, directing his beaming voice to a small petite woman who sat off the side of the bench.

  “Yes Judge, USA v. Linez, it’s a drug trafficking arraignment and we have witnesses standing by,” she replied.

  “Okay we’ll handle this one first,” Rubis said, receiving the court file.

  “USA v. Ralph Linez, will parties approach the bench please.”

  On one side stood Andrea Manardi, a junior U. S. Attorney with just six months on the job and no trial experience to speak of. This was her third arraignment this week. Standing opposite to her was the defendant, Ralph Linez, and next to him, Stephen Portman, a Coral Gables attorney who specialized in pricey criminal cases.

  “Stephen Portman for the defense, Your Honor.”

  “Andrea Manardi for the U.S. Government, sir.”

  “So noted,” Rubis acknowledged.

  Owen Sands and Joel Kenyon sat quietly in the gallery. Manardi’s office had called them to standby in case the defense posed any significant argument to the bail set. The serial numbers matching the raft to the case in the downed plane made this an open and shut case for sufficient probable cause. Despite the impeccable case record of Stephen Portman, a mounting defense was unlikely. For now, he was simply to intercede with damage control. All involved expected a plea bargain. Ralph Linez would admit to a lesser charge and spend a fraction of the time he already faced or he would be sentenced to an alternate diversion program.

  “Ms. Manardi, I seem to be missing the complaint,” Rubis said holding the file before him.

  “I apologize Your Honor, we had to amend the complaint. I think I have a copy here someplace…”

  “Pssssst,” Owen made the motion attracting Manardi’s attention and handing her a copy of the amended complaint from his own case file.

  “Here you go sir,” she responded, handing the stapled pages up to the elevated bench.

  Rubis thumbed through the pages before putting them into the file.

  “Mr. Linez, sir, you’re charged with trafficking in a controlled substance, over fifty grams. How do you plead sir?” Rubis asked.

  Portman stepped up to the bench, but not before straightening a small wrinkle from his pinstriped suit.

  “Mr. Linez pleads not guilty your honor.”

  “Very well Mr. Portman, do we want to set a separate bail hearing or are we ready to do it here and now.”

  “The government has no objection Your Honor.”

  “No objection, Your Honor,” Portman added.

  “Very well, opening remarks please, Ms. Manardi.”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Linez is suspected of attempting to smuggle a large amount of a controlled substance, cocaine, into this country. The aircraft he was flying was modified for such purposes. It was equipped with extra fuel tanks and a special side cargo door that could be opened in-flight, making the ejection of its load possible. Mr. Linez has no substantial ties to this community and he is a pilot with international connections, mainly in Central and South America. We have also learned that Mr. Linez was a former pilot with the Cuban Air Force. We categorize him as a major flight risk. The people request bail be set at three million dollars,” Manardi said.

  In the back of the room, five rows behind Owen and Joel, sat Gus Greico. He remained quiet and unnoticed by anyone around him. A conservative pair of tinted bifocals and a long gray overcoat aided his stealthy appearance.

  “Your Honor this is preposterous. Mr. Linez has no record, and certainly no history of ever being involved with illegal drugs. He owns a house in North Miami and is prepared to face the charges brought against him. The evidence is merely circumstantial. My client was operating a fishing boat when the vessel was overcome by a large wave. He floated towards shore in a life raft until our friends at the U. S. Customs Service retrieved him. It is merely a coincidence that my client was in the same general area as the downed drug plane.”

  “And what about the corresponding serial numbers?” Manardi added.

  “Another coincidence, the possibility exists that the life raft case could have floated into the open plane. There is no case here. We plead the court for R and R,” Portman concluded, stepping back to Linez’s side.

  “Coincidence or not, it’s the only thing that ties the defendant to the plane. The guy who thought of that deserves an atta-boy. Bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars,” Rubis announced, pounding his wooden mallet to the bench. Stephen Portman met with the clerk of the court to assure the payment. A courier from the attorney’s Coral Gables office delivered a cashier’s check drawn through the Pan American Bank of Miami for the bail amount of two hundred thousand dollars. The remitter was Portman himself. The two walked from the courthouse past several sidewalk hot dog venders and to the curb where a string of taxis waited. Portman’s instructions to Linez were clear. Take a cab to the Topless Donut Shop in Fort Lauderdale where a ride would be waiting. In less than a minute, Linez was gone, leaving Stephen Portman to ponder the chain of events that had just transpired.

  The funds to secure Linez’s provisional release were wired from a Cayman bank that received its funds from a shelter corporation based in Reno, Nevada. The cashier’s check from Pan American drew the money directly out of the Portman Law Firm’s escrow account. There was no cash deposited stateside, therefore no IRS cash disclosure was filed.

  Linez rode in the backseat of his cab, stuffing the remainder of a kosher frank into his mouth.

  “Topless Donut Shop, Fort Lauderdale, Seventeenth and Federal,” he said, still swallowing.

  “It’ll cost ya,” the Haitian cabbie warned.

  “Here,” Linez answered, placing a hundred dollar bill through the metal and Plexiglas partition separating the two. “This ought to hold you over for awhile.”

  They sped out into the passing traffic and soon were heading north on Interstate 95 away from Miami. The Topless Donut Shop had become an institution to the regulars of Fort Lauderdale. Half naked women served two dollar donuts and croissants to crowds of mostly men, keeping hours that corresponded to the multitude of fast food places across the street. The shop, despite the objections of the city fathers, had become a landmark appearing in Playboy, Penthouse and other men’s magazines.

  Once inside, Linez admired the youthful young breasts bouncing around the small restaurant, most of which belonged to college-aged girls who supplemented their incomes with the lucrative tips they earned. There would be nothing like this where he was going. After a quick walk through the shop, Linez exited a side door on the opposite side where a forest green Jeep Cherokee was waiting, its engine running with Gus Greico behind the wheel.

  “Get in,” he said, rolling the window down just far enough to let himself be heard.

  Linez climbed into the backseat attaching his seatbelt. A habit he acquired as a pilot.

  “Did anyone follow you?” Greico asked.

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “We’re gonna take the long way around. Sal wants to see you before you go,” Greico said as Linez nodded. After traveling west almost ten miles to Sunrise Boulevard, the two looped back east then north to Commercial Boulevard and the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. After parking the Cherokee, Greico led his passenger into the building to a large conference room. Sal Alcone sat at the end of an oversized oak table browsing through some papers.

  “Ralphy, I was starting to worry, I mean two hundred grand. It’s not that you’re not worth it but…” Sal joked as the three started to laugh. “You have done a good job my friend, and for that you will be rewarded. But from here, there is no turning back. I want you to understand this,” he continued with a more serious tone.

  “Yes sir, I can’t risk going back to prison, not again.”

  “Just so we’re on the same page, so they say in this town.”

  “We are
, Sal,” the pilot answered.

  “I have set up a condo for you in downtown Belize City. There are plenty of young tourist women to keep you busy. You have two weeks to get settled then we can talk over plans for the future.”

  “Yes sir, thank you sir.”

  “No Ralph, thank you. Now let’s get you out of here before anyone realizes what’s going on. There is a new Turbo Commander out on the tarmac. I bought it ten minutes ago. It needs to go to Rio to receive an avionics package. There’s only one problem. We can’t find a…”

  “Pilot?” Linez interrupted. “I’m on it boss.”

  “That’s the spirit, my friend,” Sal said standing, patting the pilot on the back. “Get used to her. She will be issued to you after the trip to Rio. It should be a big improvement over that piece of shit you lost in the Keys,” Sal said, leaving the room.

  “Before you go, you’ll need this,” Greico said, handing him a manila envelope with five thousand dollars in hundreds. “That should hold you over until we can make more permanent arrangements.”

  Linez walked through a brisk breeze over the tarmac to the nose of the fresh airplane before him. The Turbo Commander was an Israeli-built plane and it differed from the others because of its high wing design. Its twin turbine power plants were fast, smooth and fuel-efficient. Sal must have parted with a pretty penny for this one, he thought to himself. The craft was white with conservative gold and burgundy executive stripes running the length of the plane. She had already been prepped and fueled. Customarily, Linez made his own preflight, a task he trusted to no one. Ten minutes later the whining turbines were blowing moist air past the Executive Airport offices as the plane made its way down the taxi path.

  •

  Greico joined Sal out by the Cherokee.

  “Do you think he’ll fit in down there?” Greico asked.

  “I don’t know, but we can’t take any chances. Linez spent the better part of his life in a Cuban dungeon. A man like that will do anything to keep out of jail.”