Death Rattle

by Alex Gilly

  “I told him to consider other career options that don’t involve going to sea,” he said. “Whether he does or not is not my problem.”

  * * *

  The following evening, Finn walked into the briefing room at the station, where he found the crews of the three boats on patrol that evening had already assembled—twelve people in all. He was surprised to see Figueroa there. Had he managed to find himself another boat already? The young man avoided making eye contact with him. Finn sat down, nodded at Chinchilla and Gomez, then turned his attention to the man standing at the front of the room.

  Station director Keith Klein was in his late fifties and kept in shape. He was of medium height, clean shaven, and what hair he still had he kept cropped short. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down khaki shirt with a star on the collar, indicating his rank. Finn liked working for Klein. He appreciated his boss’s plainspoken approach. Klein had been a navy pilot before joining the CBP, and Finn felt for him the kinship that veterans who served in the same service often feel for one another. Finn knew that Klein was coming up on mandatory retirement and that he wasn’t happy about it. He returned Klein’s nod, then took a seat.

  “All right, everybody’s here. First up, I want to congratulate the crew of Interceptor One for the outcome of your mission last week. Your professionalism and selflessness in horrific conditions saved twenty-two lives. You did good.”

  The assembly broke out into spontaneous applause. When it had died down, Klein continued. “Okay, tonight’s missions: Interceptor One, you take the same sector. It seems to be happy hunting grounds for you, so may as well keep you there. Interceptor Two, you take the southern sector. Interceptor Three, you go north. Plus, you’ve got a new crew member, Agent Antonio Figueroa, so please make him feel welcome.”

  Chinchilla looked at Finn, eyebrows raised.

  “Any questions?” said Klein.

  When no one raised a hand, Klein launched into his stump speech.

  “You are members of the largest civilian air and marine force in the world. We have boats, we have planes, we have satellites, and we have drones. But most of all, we have our people. You. Our opponents are the cartels who want to smuggle drugs and people into our country. They have go-fasts, pangas; they have their own planes and submarines. Our job is to stop them. Ladies and gentlemen, go make our borders safe.”

  Everybody stood and made for the exit.

  As the room emptied, Finn went over to Klein. “Got a minute?”

  Klein nodded.

  “You put Figueroa on another boat?” said Finn.

  “Well, you didn’t want him on yours.”

  “He’s not a mariner, boss.”

  Klein threw up his hands. “Oh, I know that. You couldn’t teach that kid to be ballast. But that’s what they send me, Finn. I can only take what they send me.”

  “If he falls overboard, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “If he falls overboard, he’d be doing me a favor.”

  “One more thing. We’re only intercepting people-smugglers. We haven’t seen a narco for months.”

  Klein raised an eyebrow. “Well, get out there and find ’em, then. It’s not like drugs have run dry in this country.”

  Finn realized he wasn’t making himself clear. “What I mean is, there’s something not right about the intel coming out of Riverside. Seems like they’re only seeing pangas. Every time we get a heads-up from them, it turns out to be a panga. How come they’re not picking up any narcos?”

  Klein gazed at Finn like he was considering his reply.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Klein. “I’ve got a heads-of-station meeting next week. The AMOC director will be there. I’ll put it on the agenda, see if he can explain it. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “All right. But, Finn, chances are, it’s just a statistical cluster. Like fishing. One day, you’re catching more yellowtail and sea bass than you can fit in your cooler. Next day, same spot, you’re catching nothing but eels. Doesn’t mean you stop fishing.”

  Finn nodded.

  “Thanks, Chief,” he said.

  He headed for the door.

  * * *

  At midnight, Finn cut the engines. After four hours’ patrol, it was nice to have a moment’s respite from the constant roar of the outboards. Conditions were benign, the water glassy, the stars bright. Finn, Chinchilla, and Gomez sat on the gunwales and listened to the lapping against the hull.

  The serenity didn’t last more than a minute. The VHF crackled to life.

  “Interceptor One, Interceptor One, do you read.”

  Finn grabbed the mic. Chinchilla and Gomez crowded round the radio.

  “Long Beach, this is Interceptor One, I read you clearly, over,” said Finn.

  “Interceptor One, Riverside has a visual of a vessel traveling dark, position 33°18'50" north, 118°03'27" west, bearing zero-six-zero, speed ten knots. Heat signature indicates multiple people aboard.”

  The speed and number of people aboard told Finn that this was almost certainly another people-smuggler. Gomez checked the electronic chart.

  “At thirty knots, we’re on them in twenty minutes,” he said.

  Finn examined the chart himself. He used the roller ball to measure the distance between the panga and the shore. Then he pointed at Crystal Cove State Park between Laguna and Newport.

  “They’re heading toward Crystal Cove,” he said. “Traveling at ten knots, they won’t land for another two hours.” He pointed out to sea. “Meanwhile, this sector is left wide open.”

  He looked up at his two crew members. “If we bear south, then east, we can at least cover the rest of the sector and still have time to come up between the panga and the beach at Crystal Cove. What do you think?”

  “It’s risky,” said Chinchilla. “What if they speed up and get to the beach before us?”

  “Riverside will watch them. If they accelerate, we’ll alter course.”

  He paused, to allow Chinchilla to voice any other concerns she might have. When she didn’t, he said, “Strap in.”

  * * *

  The thirty-nine-foot Midnight Express that Finn commanded weighed more than sixteen thousand pounds, was powered by four three-hundred-horsepower Mercury outboards, and had a top speed of sixty knots. It also had seats mounted on shock absorbers, which, of its many features, was the one Finn most appreciated. He loved driving fast boats, but he knew what a thirty-nine-foot hull slamming against the sea could do to your knees.

  He clipped himself into the three-point harness in the seat in front of the wheel. Gomez strapped into the seat next to him, Chinchilla into one of the two seats behind. She was wearing night-vision goggles. Gomez’s job was to scan the screen for anything suspicious picked up by their own radar. Chinchilla’s was to scan the horizon for body heat.

  Finn checked that his shipmates were strapped in, then pressed down the throttles. Even strapped into the shock-mitigating seat, Finn’s body felt the impact each time the hull launched itself off the top of a wave, hung suspended for a moment in the air, then slammed down on the water, all the while maintaining a forward speed of fifty knots. His body felt weightless every time the boat’s hull left the water, then crushed when it hit the surface. It was absolutely exhilarating.

  They drove like that for a quarter hour, not seeing anything. Then Finn felt a tap on his shoulder. He pulled back the throttles. The boat slowed, the hull sank into the water, and the engines’ roar diminished to a low rumble.

  “Bodies five hundred yards off the starboard bow,” said Chinchilla.

  Finn put on his own night-vision goggles. They were still at a distance that was at the limit of the goggles’ range, but it was a clear night, and he could distinguish two human figures standing in the cockpit of a speedboat. A speedboat traveling with its lights out.

  Finn put down the goggles.

  “Take the starboard gun,” he said.

  Chinchilla unstrapped herself from the
seat and positioned herself at the rifle mounted on the starboard gunwale. Finn pushed the throttles forward until they hit twenty knots and headed straight at the speedboat. He switched on the lights and the siren.

  Finn didn’t need to ask why the speedboat was traveling with its lights out. Its reaction to the Interceptor told him all he needed to know. The go-fast took off. Finn accelerated to keep up. They were close enough now to see what they were dealing with. A sleek, forty-foot boat with four outboards.

  Chinchilla, who was still wearing her night-vision goggles, shouted, “There are three guys aboard, not two!”

  Finn put the Interceptor in their wake. He was running her at 80 percent throttle and was easily keeping up with her. The Interceptor was about fifty feet behind its target. He knew that he could jump up alongside the go-fast whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to get too close until he knew what they were up against.

  A minute later, whoever was driving the go-fast must’ve realized that he wasn’t going to outrun the Interceptor. He wasn’t going to reach his destination. So he turned south, toward the border. Finn tapped the throttle forward and set a course to cut them off. Very quickly, he closed the distance to twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

  Then the fun began.

  The go-fast turned abruptly toward them. The two boats passed each other so close, the spray from the go-fast’s outboards splashed onto the Interceptor’s canopy.

  “Hold on!” shouted Finn. He threw the Interceptor into a tight turn. She leaned right, over almost to the portside gunwale, so far over that Gomez, who had unwisely unclipped himself from his seat, crashed into the rail. Finn straightened the wheel and opened the throttle all the way. He glanced over at Gomez, who had scrambled back to his seat.

  “Tell them to stop,” he said.

  Gomez got on the mic and started saying over and over through the loudspeaker, “Alto! Para el barco!”

  The boat kept running. Now Finn was running alongside on the starboard side and slightly back. He could make out the silhouette of the driver against the moonlit water. Suddenly, he saw a splash of white water. Then another.

  “They’re throwing cargo overboard!” shouted Chinchilla.

  Gomez kept shouting, “Alto! Alto!”

  The boat kept running. The two men who weren’t driving kept throwing large packages overboard. Finn was trying to keep count. So far he’d counted eight. And they were still going.

  Finn killed the siren and called out to Chinchilla, “Fire a warning shot.”

  Chinchilla opened fire.

  The rat-tat-tat of her automatic weapon filled the air.

  Still the boat didn’t stop.

  She fired another volley. The boat kept going.

  Finn said, “All right. Take out her outboards.”

  Chinchilla nodded, adjusted the rifle on its mount, and opened fire for the third time. Finn saw the casings of the go-fast’s outboards splinter. The speed fell off the go-fast, and Finn had to pull right back on the throttles to avoid running into the back of her. Chinchilla kept her gun trained on the men in the boat. No one was throwing bales overboard now. With their outboards shot out, they weren’t going anywhere. All three heeded Gomez’s shouts to put their hands in the air.

  Finn brought the Interceptor alongside the go-fast. Gomez got his sidearm out and jumped into the Interceptor’s bow. When they were close enough, Gomez jumped across to the go-fast. He shouted at the smugglers. They lay facedown on the deck and put their hands behind their heads. Finn called in their intercept. Long Beach replied that they would dispatch a helicopter and call in another Interceptor to help recover the bales that the smugglers had jettisoned.

  Finn hung up the mic, then tied the Interceptor to the go-fast and jumped across. While Gomez and Chinchilla provided cover, Finn started cuffing the three guys. One of them, lying with his face pressed against the deck of the go-fast, said, when Finn slapped the cuffs on his wrists, “No debe estar por aquí.”

  * * *

  With all they had to do following the intercept—recover all the bales, process the three traffickers, wait for a coast guard cutter with a crane to come and pick up the disabled go-fast—Finn and his crew went into overtime, and it was well and truly day by the time they headed back to base. Passing through the Long Beach breakwater, Finn realized how tired he was. He was looking forward to getting home, getting warm, and getting dry. He knew Mona was leaving early that morning for a court appearance in Paradise, and he had hoped to see her before she left, but now the best he could do was send her a text saying good luck.

  They pulled in alongside the pier. Chinchilla and Gomez made the boat fast. Finn made a note of the fuel level in his log, then killed the ignition. The four outboards fell silent.

  While Chinchilla hosed down the deck, Gomez scrubbed with a hard-bristled broom. Finn stood on the deck and finished writing up the patrol in his log. When he was finished, he put the log back in its waterproof pouch.

  The three weary mariners walked up the pier. The sun was over the horizon in the east. They entered the station and made their way to the locker rooms—Finn and Gomez to the male locker room, Chinchilla to the female one.

  Finn and Gomez were still getting changed when Klein appeared. Finn wasn’t surprised to see him; Klein often came in early if there’d been a major interdiction operation out on the water. But he was surprised by the grim look on Klein’s face.

  “Listen, there’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll get straight to the point,” said Klein. “There has been a complaint filed against you. Both of you.”

  “What?” said Gomez. “By who?”

  Finn laughed without meaning to. “Figueroa, right?”

  Klein looked at him apologetically. “I can’t tell you. I’m supposed to protect his anonymity,” he said.

  “What a load of bullshit,” said Gomez. “Can’t you shut it down?”

  “He went over my head. The inspector general’s investigating, which means I have no choice but to take you both off active duty until they’ve finished.”

  Finn’s spirits sank. If there was any government department that could be counted on for endless bureaucratic process, it was the Office of Inspector General.

  “Come on, Keith. You’re the director. Surely you can make this go away,” he said.

  Klein shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do. You’re just going to have to wait it out.”

  “How long?” said Gomez.

  Klein shrugged.

  “So now what?” said Finn.

  “Got any leave due?” Klein asked.

  “A couple of weeks,” said Finn.

  “It’s gonna take longer than that.”

  “You telling us to take unpaid leave?” said Gomez.

  “No. I just don’t know what to do with you. You’re my best crew. You’re no good to me on land.”

  Klein leaned against the wall and tapped his foot.

  “There’s one thing I could do. I’m supposed to send people to Riverside, to familiarize themselves with the new systems there. They say they want to get us ready for the future. I could start with you two.”

  Finn reflected. The Air and Marine Operations Center at March Air Reserve Base in Riverside was a ninety-minute drive away. He didn’t relish the prospect of spending three hours a day behind the wheel. On the other hand, what else was he going to do? He looked at Gomez and raised a querying eyebrow. Gomez gave a resigned shrug.

  “All right, fine,” said Finn.

  Gomez shook his head. “You should’ve cited Figueroa,” he said to Finn.

  “Cited him for what?” said Klein.

  “Forget about it,” said Finn.

  Klein nodded. “This new administration, they’re recruiting like crazy, but nobody wants to work for CBP anymore. We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  Finn reflected for a moment. Then he said, “Should we be worried, Chief?”

  Klein shook his head. “It’s just procedure. The OIG will send someone to interv
iew you both, as well as Chinchilla. Your stories will match. You’ll all say you acted appropriately. I’ll write a glowing assessment, saying you’re my best crew. And that’ll be that. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You should call the union.”

  “You just said there was nothing to worry about!” said Gomez.

  Klein had one foot out the door.

  “Just in case,” he said.

  FOUR

  THE U.S. district courthouse in Paradise, California, was a dreary cinder block box surrounded by baking asphalt. Someone had tried to gild the lily by planting greenery out front, but the desert shrubs only emphasized the building’s desolate air. Mona parked in its shadow, next to a row of BSCA prisoner-transport buses liveried with the company’s logo of a swooping eagle. She replied to Finn’s text with a series of emojis: a boxing glove to represent the fight, a set of scales to represent justice, and a heart to represent her feelings for him. Then she climbed the steps into the courthouse.

  In contrast to the parking lot, the courtroom was teeming with people. Rows of shackled, jumpsuited prisoners sat crammed along the benches in the public gallery; more stood lined up along the back wall. Even the jury box was packed with defendants. Mona scanned the room but couldn’t see Carmen anywhere. A tired-looking clerk with an armful of files elbowed past.

  “I’m looking for my client, Carmen Vega?” said Mona.

  “Keep looking,” said the clerk, barely slowing to answer. “We’ve got 111 cases on the docket today.”

  Mona squeezed her way past the bar to the defense table, where an attorney sat holding a phone to her ear, despite the big notice on the wall saying NO CELL PHONES. Mona pointed at the seat next to her and mouthed, “Is that free?”

  The attorney cradled the phone between chin and shoulder and removed her box file from the chair. “I was saving it for my colleague, but looks like he’s a no-show, again,” she said. She hung up the phone and slid it into her handbag.

  Mona sat and put down her own box file on the table. The attorney introduced herself.