by Mark Romang
Trujillo looked around. “Where is the hidden camera?”
“It’s in the wall clock behind you.”
Trujillo turned and studied the nondescript clock. “No kidding? Does it have audio too?”
Annie shook her head. “I guess that wasn’t in the budget.”
“Hey, let’s see what’s in the duffel bag. My curiosity is killing me.” Trujillo loosened the drawstring of the duffel bag just enough that they could peer inside. He whistled. A Browning handgun rested atop multiple bundles of money. “Son of a gun. Where did he get all that cash? There must be a million dollars in that pile.”
“Three-million,” Annie corrected. “And believe it or not, what you’re looking at is the long lost McAllister ransom.”
“No way. I can’t believe it didn’t rot out there in the Basin. Where do you think Sebastian intended to spend it? The Treasury Department withdrew one-thousand-dollar bills from circulation way back in 1969. He’d have a hard time spending it without attracting attention.”
“I don’t think he considered that too much.”
“So who gets the money?” Trujillo asked, still gawking in amazement at the quantity of cash. “I would venture the McAllister girl has first dibs.”
Annie looked away from the bulging duffel bag. The money brought back memories of her father. “I think you’re right, Randy. From what I understand, Annie McAllister’s daddy left everything he had to her in his will. She just has to come forward and prove she’s really Clayton McAllister’s daughter to claim the money.”
“Sounds like she better hire a good lawyer.”
Annie nodded. “An attorney will definitely help her cause.”
“From what she went through she deserves every red cent,” Trujillo said. The pitiful sound of Sebastian sobbing hysterically in the bathroom interrupted their discussion. The ex-con wailed like a mother who just lost a child. “We better let Newton know we have Sebastian.”
Annie pulled out a cell phone from her chef’s blouse. “You’re right. Newt is probably flipping out about now.”
Agent Trujillo laughed. “I’m sure he is. But before we call him we need to have the captain put out into the harbor before the real Sea Maiden arrives. The last thing we want to do is arouse Carlos Zaplata’s suspicions.”
Chapter 43
Thirty minutes later
Carrying clipboards and walking in pairs, FBI Special Agents Richard Pancea and Chris Mallard, and DEA Agents Jeremy Leflore and Curt Howell strode grimly up the wharf toward the Sea Maiden.
The faux seafood inspectors certainly looked and smelled the part. Smeared liberally onto their authentic smocks were generous portions of fish scales and shellfish spatter. Now, if they could only act like they knew what they were doing. Three days hadn’t been nearly enough time to immerse themselves in the protocols used by USDC seafood lot inspectors.
Dodging a lone egret preening itself on sun-faded dock timbers, DEA agent Curt Howell stepped onto the Sea Maiden’s gangplank. Only moments ago deckhands secured the vessel to dock cleats. A crewmember came over to greet Howell. The sun-bronzed fisherman curiously eyed Howell and the undercover federal agents standing behind him.
“Good afternoon, sailor,” Howell said cheerfully. “Permission to board? I need to talk to your captain.”
A middle-aged Hispanic man appeared from behind a shrimp pod stack and held out a work-calloused hand for Howell to shake. “I’m Manuel Garcia, captain of this vessel. How may I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
A self-proclaimed expert at detecting treachery, Howell observed a hint of forced graciousness in Captain Garcia’s introduction. He’s definitely hiding something, Howell thought. “The shipping manifest states the Sea Maiden’s cargo to be white shrimp. Is that correct?” Howell asked as he leafed through the ship’s manifest.
“Yes, seven tons in all,” Garcia proclaimed.
“I would like to inspect the shrimp on board, if I may.”
Garcia frowned. “I’ve never had my cargo inspected on board before. I assume you have a good reason to deviate from port inspection protocol.”
Howell nodded. “Indeed I do, Captain. Actually, I have two reasons.” Howell turned and pointed at a distant pile of rubble littering the shoreline. FEMA officials picked through the debris. “As you can see, Hurricane Vera wiped out about half of Morgan City’s fish processing plants. There’s a backlog of shellfish waiting to be processed at the remaining plants, leaving no room for yours for the time being,” Howell explained.
“You said you had two reasons. What’s the other one?”
“The Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Surely you’re aware that the oil slick poisoned a great deal of sea life in the Gulf.”
Garcia’s wind-weathered face turned crimson. “I assure you my shrimp are of the highest quality. My crew has been eating shrimp for the past two days, and none of us have gotten sick,” Garcia said defensively.
“Well, then you won’t mind if we do an onsite analysis, will you? Now, if you’ll be so kind, Captain, to lead us to your cargo holds, we can greatly expedite this inspection.”
“I thought NOAA finished the testing on Gulf seafood,” Garcia grumbled.
“The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration conducted the initial testing. But we’ve been authorized to take over the surprise inspections now,” Howell lied.
“After so much time has passed? The spill was years ago.”
“There will be testing for many years to come. Trust me, Captain.”
“Who am I to deny you access. Follow me.” The captain turned smartly on his heel and led them through a hatch in the bulkhead. Richard Pancea took the lead and Howell fell in close behind. They traveled silently down a short passageway, and then descended down a hatch and into a claustrophobia-inducing stairwell, each of them wondering if the next step on the ladder would be their last.
If the intelligence geeks had it right, Zaplata enforcers were on board and lying in wait. And none of them looked forward to a bloody gun battle with Zaplata henchmen. In close quarters like this someone from the good side would likely eat a bullet. Howell took some comfort in knowing the Coast Guard was only a stone’s throw away.
One by one, they reached the last rung and stepped down into the dining area. The tables were unoccupied, but dirty dishes remained as evidence of a meal recently enjoyed by hungry fishermen. Captain Garcia led them down another short passageway with several doors that Howell presumed to be the crew’s sleeping quarters.
I wonder which door Zaplata is behind. Is he behind door number one, door number two, or door number three? I’d bet my right arm that he’s in the captain’s quarters, Howell mused.
The passageway ended at a set of steps leading to the boiler room and freezer holds. Garcia led the procession down the steps and up to a large door. He opened the door. A frosty cloud billowed out. “You’ll find the shrimp in here, gentlemen,” he announced.
Special Agent Pancea entered the refrigerated hold first, then Howell. Leflore and Mallard entered last. An enormous shrimp pile sat in the smelly hold. The gargantuan mound stretched from corner to corner.
To Howell it seemed as if the entire population of Gulf shrimp had migrated onto the Sea Maiden. Finding illicit drugs in the vast shellfish pile would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Fortunately, he had a secret weapon just for this purpose. A newfangled gizmo borrowed from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology.
His clipboard appeared innocuous on the surface. Slightly larger than an Apple iPad, it contained an electron tube that took digital x-ray photographs from its underside.
Underneath the manifest on the clipboard’s topside was a three by five inch viewing window that he could discreetly monitor simply by lifting up the clipped papers. The gizmo was an amazing breakthrough in radiophotography technology and a significant upgrade from the cumbersome x-ray machines used at airports, and the clumsy ion scanners used by the DEA and Border Patrol.
The miniat
ure x-ray machine could digitally photograph hidden drug contraband and store the photos on its memory card. The only drawback was that the ultra-expensive batteries powering the x-ray clipboard had to be recharged after only fifteen minutes of use, which put immeasurable pressure on Howell and Special Agent Pancea--who also carried an x-ray clipboard--to find the drugs quickly.
Howell took Manuel Garcia to the side. “What we’ll be looking for Captain, is traces of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons in the shrimp. PAHs are the most common carcinogenic components in crude oil. This portion of the inspection shouldn’t take long. Fifteen minutes, maybe,” Howell said, as he watched Jeremy Leflore open a small aluminum attaché case containing a microscope. Leflore set the microscope down on the floor, and then began to dissect a shrimp, placing a small piece of it on a viewing slide.
Howell excused himself from the captain and began walking slowly around the pile of shrimp, occasionally picking up a shellfish as if he’d spotted an anomaly. He held the clipboard at an angle so the electrons would beam toward the bottom edges of the pile. It seemed logical to him that the contraband would be near the bottom, where it would require considerable effort to get at.
Howell let out his breath when the captain didn’t shadow him. Garcia seemed too entranced with Leflore’s culture test to pay any attention to him. Howell pushed back the papers on his clipboard and monitored the viewing window. The x-ray didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary so far. But he wasn’t too worried. His greatest concern rested with the possibility of Carlos Zaplata not being on board. Nabbing the drug lord would be a victory for all mankind, not just the DEA.
After seven minutes of fruitless scanning, a mean-looking Hispanic man joined them in the hold. Howell’s breath caught for a second when he recognized Lupe Sanchez, Zaplata’s chief enforcer.
Howell had a peculiar habit of comparing people to animals. It was a little game he’d been playing since childhood. He quickly sized up the diminutive Sanchez and concluded he was a cross between a rabid schnauzer and a Tasmanian devil.
“Is there a problem, Captain?” Sanchez asked.
“No problems, Lupe,” Garcia assured him. “Because of logistical problems caused by the hurricane, these inspectors our examining our cargo on board.”
Sanchez didn’t respond to Garcia’s explanation. Instead he directed a hawkish gaze at Jeremy Leflore, who peered intently into a microscope, oblivious to Lupe’s intense scrutiny. A few moments later Sanchez left the hold as abruptly as he entered it.
I wonder what that was all about. Howell thought, his excitement level having risen at least six notches. He was now positive that Carlos Zaplata was on board the Sea Maiden.
According to Mario Brinkman, Zaplata never went anywhere without the incendiary Sanchez--his human security blanket.
Through his peripheral vision, Howell saw a flash of movement. He looked up and saw Special Agent Richard Pancea motioning him over. Howell walked over to Pancea, who showed him his clipboard. Howell took a quick double take and tried to hide a boyish grin from breaking out on his face.
The x-ray revealed cocaine and/or heroin bricks near the bottom of the shrimp pile just aft of the trawler’s bow. At least two-dozen bricks by Howell’s quick count. Extracting a mundane looking but far from ordinary ballpoint pen from his inspector smock, Howell double-clicked the pen, sending an electronic signal out to Coast Guard Lieutenant Kyle Creedy and his Port Security Unit.
Creedy and his men patrolled Berwick Bay in a TPSB--Transportable Port Security Boat. The signal cued the Lieutenant and his men to board the Sea Maiden and assist in arresting Zaplata and his henchmen.
But just as before, no one saw Lupe Sanchez stealthily enter the hold until it was too late. “Hands up, Gringos!” he shouted, pointing an MP5 submachine gun at them. “Hold your hands high or I’ll send each of you to perdition with a bad taste of lead in your mouth.”
Goosebumps broke out all over Howell’s spine. It appeared rather obvious that Sanchez dearly wanted them to disobey his orders. He looked like a hungry dog eyeing a bloody steak.
“Have you gone mad, Lupe?” Garcia demanded.
Sanchez smiled cruelly. “The Americans are being dishonest, Captain. Real seafood inspectors do not carry side arms like these do. I suspect their true occupations to be federal agents.” Sanchez walked forward and poked at Jeremy Leflore’s ribs with the muzzle of his MP5. “Remove your weapon and drop it to the floor. Nice and easy,” he demanded.
Leflore acquiesced without delay. His fingers trembled as he pulled a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson from his holster and dropped it gently to the floor. Howell could only speculate as to how Sanchez knew Leflore was armed. The only thing that came to mind was that Leflore’s smock might have gaped open when he crouched on the floor with his microscope.
“All of you take out your weapons and throw them to the floor,” Sanchez demanded.
One by one they each removed their side arms and placed them on the floor. Howell disarmed last. And for a long moment he considered snapping off a shot. From this range he could easily shoot out Lupe’s onyx-colored eyes. But then he thought better and dropped his side arm to the floor. Why take a chance when the Coast Guard would soon board the ship and restore order.
“Now, each of you, clasp your hands behind your heads and back up to the bulkhead.”
After they scooted back, Sanchez shot a quick sideways glance toward Garcia. “Gather their weapons, Captain, and take them out of the hold.”
“Listen here, Lupe,” Garcia blustered, “I didn’t sign up for this. All I agreed to do was deliver the shrimp, nothing else.”
“Fine, then join your new friends here,” Sanchez spat, angrily pointing his MP5 at Garcia. “I don’t need you to skipper the Sea Maiden. The first mate is just as capable as you. He can take us back out into the Gulf.”
Curt Howell couldn’t resist darkening Sanchez’s day. “You’ll never make it out of Berwick Bay, Lupe. The Coast Guard will be here any moment. So you might as well do everyone a favor and safe your rifle.”
Sanchez jerked his head around to confront Howell. The Mexican’s eyes were sharp and probing like freshly stropped daggers. “Then let them come. Their blood will flow like a swollen stream. I’ll make sure of that,” he promised as he gathered their handguns and stepped out of the hold, locking it behind him.
And then they were left alone to ponder their plight in the frigid darkness. Operation Pitfall is off to a most inauspicious start, Howell thought, as he felt the ship lift anchor.
****
At the sound of urgent knocking, Salvador Monzon opened the door to his quarters. A very uptight Lupe Sanchez glared back at him. “Is something the matter, Lupe? You look troubled?” Monzon asked.
Sanchez nodded soberly. “Yes, Salvador, I am troubled. The seafood inspectors that came aboard are federal agents. And the Coast Guard is onto us as well.”
“Where are the phony inspectors now?”
“I confiscated their weapons and locked them in the freezer hold.”
“It feels like we’re leaving the port.”
Sanchez nodded his head. “We are. I’m having the first mate sail us back into the Gulf,” Sanchez explained, shifting his MP5 to a more comfortable position.
Monzon shut the door behind Sanchez. “For what purpose are we leaving the harbor, Lupe? You know the Coast Guard will send up a helicopter. They always do. We’re as good as caught.”
“You give up too quickly, Salvador. We may not be apprehended. We will commandeer a quicker vessel to make our escape. But until then I suggest you put together your sniper rifle,” Sanchez said, referring to Monzon’s Springfield Armory M25, a rifle manufactured as a tribute to legendary Marine sniper Carlos Hathcock. Hathcock registered ninety-three confirmed kills in Viet Nam.
Monzon nodded. “I trust you’ve informed Carlos regarding these unfortunate developments?”
Sanchez shook his head. “I didn’t have to. Carlos is no longer on the boat. I lowered
him over the side in a Zodiac just before we entered the harbor.”
“Why did you do that?” Monzon asked, incredulously. “Was it your idea?”
“Carlos requested it. The fool is chasing a ghost from his past--the American soldier who crippled his stomach so many years ago.”
Monzon rolled his eyes. “His obsession has finally gotten the better of him,” he concluded as he set a rifle case onto his bunk.
“I would agree with your assessment. Carlos is loco in his head.”
“He’ll have to find his own way back to Mexico, then,” Monzon said, unsnapping his rifle case.
“Yes, he knows that.”
Monzon tried to calculate the long odds of pirating a ship and evading the Coast Guard, but kept coming up nil in his head. The Sea Maiden had a top speed of only thirteen knots, while the Coast Guard’s pursuit boats could exceed forty knots. We will all surely die today, he thought grimly. But if I must go to hell today, I’m taking a few gringos with me.
Chapter 44
Morgan City
Semper Ibi, Semper Paratus--Always there, always ready.
Deep down in his core, Coast Guard Lieutenant Kyle Creedy doubted he was ready for his current leadership assignment. The recently commissioned Jr. Grade lieutenant always assumed his first handpicked mission would be a simple one, one he couldn’t possibly screw up, and one with limited danger.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. He was getting thrown into the lion’s den right from the get-go. He should have seen it coming all along and prepared himself better. Because this is what I get for graduating first in my class, Creedy thought.
He was no longer a cadet with potential. He was a waterborne security officer with men under his command. At least that’s what the government paid him rather modestly to be. If nothing else, he had genetics on his side. Military service at sea flowed proudly in Creedy family blood. His late grandfather captained a destroyer in World War II. And his old man still captained a WHEC Coast Guard cutter stationed off Manhattan Island. Now it was his turn to build upon the Creedy legacy. He only hoped he wouldn’t tear down what those before him strived so tirelessly to construct.
