“Well, it was owned by Morada Boat Leasing.”
“Now we’re getting someplace,” Joel said with satisfaction.
“It gets better. I searched both within the Florida and the National Crime Information Center. They came up cold. Even the El Paso Information Center was a dead end. But when I cross-referenced the names with the Coast Guard’s National Vessel Documentation Center I got a hit. Morada Boat Leasing just purchased a 96-foot yacht, the Jolene Marie out of South America. Four days later they filed with us to bring it into the U. S.”
“But we don’t know where…do we?”
“My guess is Miami or Fort Lauderdale. A yacht like that would stand out down here.”
“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down Owen,” Joel reasoned before hearing a sharp banging sound that came from the side of the large motor home. “What the…” he asked, opening the side drapes that obscured the windows.
“Right or left?” Owen asked with his eyes partially closed, relaxing in the oversized easy chair.
“Right or left? Some guy is trying to steal our fuel. He’s putting a garden hose into the tank.”
“Right or left kid?” Owen repeated, opening his eyes.
“Right!” Joel whispered as loud as he could, putting a hand on his holstered gun.
“This is the Keys. Everybody’s a pirate. If he’s on the right, it’s no problem, sit back down.”
“Owen, he’s got the hose in his mouth and he’s trying to start a siphon.”
“Joel, the fuel tank is on the left, along with the water and the electric.”
“Then what…?”
“Sewage holding,” Owen announced with a smile. “The Jolene Marie will have to call in to our inspection division upon their entry.”
“Phone it in? Can they do that?”
“Yep, and we don’t have the personnel to check every one, so chances are they will arrive and never see a Customs inspector,” Owen said as Joel watched the fuel thief try to start a siphon, sucking in the first shot of toxic sewage to his mouth.
“Holy shit!” Joel exclaimed. “You were right, he’s giving up!”
“Focus Joel. They will call and we will have half an hour at best to reach their location, assume a vantage point, and wait for them to offload.”
“That doesn’t give us a lot of time,” Joel remarked.
“No it doesn’t, but it can be done,” Owen said, pointing out the RV’s side window towards the red IROC. “So, how are things going between you and Tessa?” he continued.
“Great, why do you ask?”
“We need to talk Joel.”
“This doesn’t sound good.”
“No son, it’s not like that. Look, you are different and I’m smart enough to see that. You won the heart of my daughter and that’s no easy task. I guess that makes us connected.”
“Thanks Owen. You don’t really talk about personal things so I didn’t know how you really felt about our…situation.”
“It’s okay. Having said that, I want you to be careful. I can protect you while you’re with me but should your assignment change…well, let’s just say there are a lot of dangerous influences in our office...”
“Influences? What kind of influences?”
“I haven’t been the father or the agent that I should have been over the last few years and a lot of people have taken advantage of that. They think I don’t notice, but I do.”
“What are we talking about here Owen?”
“Floaters. You have yet to participate in a real chase, but when we go after these guys, they dump their loads into the ocean. When I first got here from Panama, there was stuff everywhere. It was commonplace to see bales and duffel bags piled up on the waterfront.”
“I haven’t seen anything like that.”
“My point exactly. Soon after Leslie’s death, it was like someone flicked a switch. Not that I was paying much attention at the time…”
“What do you think happened?”
“Someone, perhaps on the inside, is scooping the stuff up.”
“Coast Guard…Marine Patrol?”
“I don’t think so. We would see the money, and these guys are as poor as they come.”
“Since you mention it, how much are you bringing in a year?” Joel asked.
“What? Why would you ask that?”
“I’m just saying Owen. I would never think that you were into anything illegal but if anyone else looks around…well…you have a lot of extra cash.”
“I’ve made some mistakes but I’ve never taken a payoff or stolen a dumped load.”
“Mistakes? Look, you put up your mother and pay for her care. Tessa says your house is paid off and you’re building another one down the street. I’m on your side man, but sooner or later, someone’s gonna ask.”
“You see that coin hanging on your neck?”
“What, this doubloon we found on the Elbow?” Joel asked, touching the gold piece below his chin.
“I have a lot more where that one came from. I guess you could say I hit the mother load.”
“Shit Owen! How much?”
“A lot! Jordan helped me sell some of the stuff but we had to be careful.”
“Careful? Why?”
“It’s a Florida state thing. For some unholy reason they think the state is entitled to ninety percent of any treasure that’s found in their waters. Shit man, ninety percent! I can’t afford that.”
“I get it, but that still doesn’t solve the problem that you’ve got a ton of unexplained cash and there’s a volatile network operating right under your nose. Did you forget? You’re second in command down here.”
“You’re preaching to the choir kid.”
“This case - the Jolene Marie. We’ve got to make this work for you. With a big bust under your belt, they won’t be able to touch you.”
“I think you’re being naive, but it’s worth a try.”
* * * * *
Deployment
Gene Latrell proceeded down the dusty dirt road toward his destination just south of the Tamiami Trail, deep in the heart of the Everglades. At twenty-four-feet wide, the road he was taking was larger than most. It had to be since most of the vehicles that used it were large off-road dump trucks, the majority of which were twenty-feet-high, sixteen-feet-wide and weighed three hundred tons. The road was an artery connecting a large natural sandstone deposit and a series of canal-front barge docks that were closer to the main road. At the source was the dragline called the pit-monster, a hundred foot tall crane capable of swiveling three hundred and sixty degrees. The crane manhandled a large bucket the size of two city buses put side by side. Each scoop filled one of the oversized dumps to capacity before returning to the muddy water for more stone. The material was used for roadbeds and commercial landfills, over garbage dumps and wetlands. It was desired by Florida contractors because it was dense and therefore heavy and packed well, making a tight foundation for whatever was to be built over it. The recession of the early 1980s though, made work at the pit sporadic at best and this week’s work had stopped altogether.
Latrell had visited the pit a month earlier to install a new radio system linking the home base, security shack, the dragline, and the four oversized dump trucks. It was here that Latrell gathered his thoughts to produce the power for his havoc.
The pit-monster was diesel-powered, or at least that’s where the raw energy originated. Like locomotives, diesel-powered submarines, and conventional cruise ships, the actual engines were electric, drawing their power source from diesel generators. The power was in three phases, which by residential standards was the size of a twenty-story condominium. This was the power Latrell needed to carry out his task.
He drove his large white paneled van through the gate at the pit, past the security guards who knew him well, talking back and forth on radios he had supplied, and onto the base of the pit-monster. The day was bright and clear. The fresh air was rejuvenating and Latrell took in more than his share as his wind incre
ased climbing the vertical span of ladders that got him to the power plant of the dragline. With the tools stowed in his belt pouch, he removed the access panels to the power grid and started to connect the extra wires he would need.
It took four hours but in the end he had accomplished the bulk of his tasks. When he was finished, the power grid of the dragline had been tapped into, drawing from it eight hundred volts of power. On top of the engine deck he mounted a sixty-inch satellite transmitting antennae with reinforced transmitting capabilities. Every connection was double checked and secured with a heat-shrink sheath of insulation. All the wires were bundled and tie wrapped together, making this the pinnacle installation of his enduring career.
A few hours later at noon, a simple bedside digital clock set off a quiet audible alarm followed by a transmission of electrical current to a high capacity solenoid. This triggered an even bigger solenoid that started the diesel generating motors. Ten minutes later another digital clock alarmed, this one sending an identical surge of current to yet another set of solenoids and it was this power that amassed to form a surge, violent and combustible, captured and directed, leaving the earth in a form too large for any satellite to handle; a surge so powerful that all radio transmissions within a thirty-mile radius were temporarily interrupted with a shrieking whine of noise.
Satcom-Seven received the untoward transmission at exactly 12:11 p.m. From one end of the fragile craft, the receiving wings, some forty-eight-feet long, absorbed the raw energy, and like the Christmas tree in Times Square being lit in November, Satcom-Seven sparked and fizzled, starting at the base and working its way to the top of the craft until the massive ship was irrevocably dead.
•
The radio operator at C3I felt a strange buzz come from the console followed by an ear-shattering shrieking tone that startled everyone in the command center. All of the meters with needles dancing about indicating healthy transmission and audible voice levels dropped to zero. The system was down.
“Sector East to Sector West,” she called. “Sector East to Sector West,” she tried again in vain.
“I need the watch supervisor please!” she yelled from her Plexiglas cubicle.
Satcom-Seven floated lifeless thirty miles in space. Every circuit had been violated in such a way as to make the craft temporarily useless and obsolete. It was up to the ship’s earth counterparts to re-task its operations, but this would take some time. The ship was responsible for communications for the Treasury Department. Besides Sector and C3I, the vital communications for the Secret Service’s security details including that of the President and Vice President of the United States, was completely interrupted.
Commercial concerns were also affected. Like an office building, Satcom-Seven leased its vital space to several different communications firms. A company called MUZAC that provided perpetual elevator music to offices and shopping malls across the globe was knocked out as well as the newly-installed Playboy Channel, disappointing thousands of faithful subscribers who were now looking at television screens filled with random static.
“I just got a priority call from Justice. We are to try to locate two of our agents from the Tavernier office. Papa 1903 and 1925, ASAP,” said the pacing supervisor.
“No-can-do sir. This system is down,” she replied.
“Try again,” he said frantically. “This is top priority.”
“Yes sir,” she answered.
* * * * *
Interdiction
The sharp bow of the 210-foot United States Coast Guard cutter Dauntless sliced through the rolling twelve-foot seas as it tried to catch up to its next target. From a distance, the ship had a distinctive look with its all white hull and superstructure to the bold orange stripe that rose from the water line marking the forward quarter. The ship’s motto was Sin Miedo, which in Spanish meant “without fear.” This was evidenced by the forty-one marijuana leaf decals that adorned the vessel’s tall smoke stack. Each leaf represented a drug bust, like red Japanese flags on the side of a World War II fighter signifying an enemy kill.
Based out of Galveston, Texas, the Dauntless was manned with young men and women who were from all over the U.S., mostly kids who desired travel, adventure, and a college scholarship.
“Bridge to radar station one, bearing update.”
“Bearing North 015 degrees, moving at twenty-one knots. Two knot closure.”
“Roger that.”
“Bridge to Intercept Alpha-three.”
“Alpha-three, Bridge, go ahead.”
“Alpha-three, standby to engage target. Two knot closure, making contact in thirty.”
“Alpha-three, team assembled and ready to launch.”
“Bridge to forward watch.”
“Forward watch here, go Bridge.”
“Do we have a clear shot of the transom?”
“Roger that. She’s the Jolene Marie, flying a U. S. flag.”
“Bridge to position report.”
“Position report, sixty-seven miles due East of Cozumel Island. Confirmed international jurisdiction.”
“Bridge to all stations, commencing a case.”
“C-624 Sector…”
“Sector on HF, go ahead. Be advised our sat systems are down. Remain on HF for now please.”
“C-624 at position report six-seven miles due East of Cozumel Island initiating a case on U. S. vessel Jolene Marie.”
“WMEC-624, be advised, doc center advises 96-foot Broward Yacht, year of build, 1978, Jolene Marie newly registered to Morada Boat Leasing, 611 White Street, Key West, Florida. No warrants or holds.”
•
A tropical storm named Oliver had passed through the area, leaving in its wake bands of thunderstorms and seas that were approaching twenty feet. The Jolene Marie plowed through the waves, taking massive amounts of spray over her bow. Regis manned the helm while Tony and Del grasped a hold of the handcrafted grab rails that ran around the yacht’s wheelhouse. With each wave, the 96-foot vessel pitched and pulled back and forth, each time straining her overbuilt hull while the twin sixteen-cylinder diesels pounded under the deck.
Tony had tried to find a contact that was in their vicinity on his radar. The spinning bar above though needed a stable plane in order to project a readable image. The seas, estimated at twenty to thirty feet, were throwing the vessel everywhere. One minute the radar would show straight ahead, then it would be bombarded with clutter as its pattern shot straight down the side of the boat into the rolling waves. The radar itself, a hybrid from the Mitsubishi and Raytheon corporations, was the best of its kind. However, it was no match for these seas.
The flat space in front of the instruments and under the windshield was under half an inch of seawater that sloshed back and forth with every wave. Most of the boat’s supply of towels and spare linens were packed around the base of the hardened Lexan panels. The seas however, were more than the yacht’s superstructure could handle. The aluminum hull was designed and built to twist with the different forces that played against it and for the most part, so was the superstructure. It was the finer materials of the boat’s interior that turned this ship into a yacht and breached the most valuable barrier of all, that which penetrated the border separating the living space and the mighty sea. The wood trim and tinted Lexan-paneled glass windshield twisted and stretched differently than the marine grade aluminum it was bonded to. This caused a spontaneous breakdown in the superstructure’s ability to make a watertight seal between an otherwise dry cabin and the violent sea outside. Every joint became a gaping conduit of seawater.
Yachts weren’t supposed to be in these heavy foot seas. They were usually found at anchor, weathering out the storm in some honeymoon harbor with the crew and the guests sipping frozen cocktails while gentle rain pattered on the deck above. That was the passage of a charter affording forty thousand dollar a week fees. The actions of the Jolene Marie were not that of a pleasure cruise and Tony knew it.
Del went to the aft cabin to check on Lynn w
ho had gone to sleep earlier suffering from severe motion sickness. As he staggered in to the master stateroom, Lynn was on her knees perched on the queen-sized bed, looking out the transom portholes.
“We have a small problem,” she said.
“What is it?”
“There’s a smoke trail behind us on the horizon. Since we are not in the main shipping channels it can only be the Coast Guard. It’s getting closer.”
Del’s head filled with the clutter resembling the pattern he’d been watching on the radar all afternoon. He kneeled over the unmade bed and peered through the aft porthole. As he did, the yacht’s bow dropped into the trough of an oncoming wave, elevating the boat’s stern high above the waves. Tony could see the flume of smoke and what appeared to be a tall, white masthead.
The Jolene Marie was making way at twelve knots; the heavy seas had impeded her normal speed of seventeen. The ship behind them was a frontline cutter. Its sharp bow could easily slice through an oncoming sea and not break its stride. Soon the pearl white hull with its orange stripe would be bearing down on them. Del sat back on the bed. If challenged, they would have to follow the larger vessel to port and then probably be stripped down. What was the perfect cover now met all the basic interdiction profiles. Del and Lynn no longer felt like the mega rich they had been portraying for the past few days. In a matter of minutes they had gone from Turnbush elites to Miami Marimbettos.
Del ran forward to the helm, first looking into the rubber hood of the radar. The image was still distorted. He immediately turned the unit off. The rotating bar mounted over the fly bridge stopped in place.
“We can be nervous, we just won’t look like we are,” Del said.
“What is it?” Regis asked.
“Has anyone looked aft lately? There’s a cutter about half a mile off our stern.”
Regis exploded, “Fuck, fuck, fuck! God damn it! Fuck me! This is fucked!”
“Look, I know this doesn’t look very good but appearances aren’t everything. Del, you and Lynn have just received word that your aunt just died and you need to be in Palm Beach by Sunday. We were making our best effort to get you to Miami where you could meet your plane when we got caught in this damn storm,” Tony said.
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