Contraband

51

Lieutenant Hanna Harris moved from the bridge of her cutter into the radar room, where the lights were dimmed and the screens shone brightly. She stood between two operators, one monitoring the flying aircraft, the other the vessels on the water. “How we doing?” she asked.

“We’ve got a vessel dead ahead at twenty-two miles,” said the operator on her right.

“I’ve had a flash of primary targets a couple of times,” the other operator said. “Altitude, speed, and course undetermined. We’ll have to be patient until he gets closer.” She twiddled some knobs. “Got him!” she shouted. “Thirty-nine miles, one thousand feet, course 030.”

“All right,” Harris said, “I want you to plot where the two courses converge.”

“That’ll be easy, ma’am. The vessel isn’t moving.”

“All the better.”

“The airplane is going to fly directly toward the vessel at one thousand feet, which is pattern altitude for him, then he’ll land on the water near the vessel and transfer his cargo.”

“Okay, as soon as that happens, we’ll no longer be interested in the airplane, we’ll concentrate on the vessel and hang back out of visual range.” She picked up a microphone. “This is the lieutenant speaking. All stop, but hold your heading with the bow thrusters.” She watched as the aircraft descended, then stopped, on the water. She slapped the operator on the back. “You’re done. Now I want constant readout on course and speed of the vessel. How far offshore is she?”

“Seven miles,” the other operator said. “There, she’s moving, settling on course 020 at... let’s see... eight knots.”

“If she holds that course, where would she make landfall?” the lieutenant asked.

“Somewhere around Naples.”

“Should we notify the local authorities?” someone asked.

“No, we’re going to keep this federal. Get me the Naples base on the satphone.”

“Not the radio?”

“We don’t want to be overheard.”

She was handed the satphone. “This is Lieutenant Harris out of Key West,” she said. “Is your cutter in port?”

“No, ma’am,” a voice came back, “she’s at sea, eight miles north of here, returning to port after a scheduled run.”

“Give me a satphone number for her, please.” She turned to the operator. “I want to know where our prey is going to cross the three-mile limit on this course.”

The operator tapped some keys. “Fifteen miles south southwest of Marco Island,” he replied.

Shortly afterward, the two cutters were communicating directly. “This is Lieutenant Harris. Who’s out there?”

“Captain Burrows, Lieutenant.”

She gave him her position. “We’re tracking a suspected smuggler twenty miles north of our position, type unknown, running at eight knots. She’ll make Naples on her present heading, but we want to intercept as soon as she crosses the three-mile line. We’re pursuing using radar only. We don’t want to be seen until we’re ready.”

“What do you need, Lieutenant?”

“I’d like you to intercept from the north at that point, but launch your RIB for that purpose, and we’ll do same. I want to sneak up on her at high speed before she has a chance to jettison cargo. I don’t want to involve the locals.”

“Roger, got that, wilco.”

Back on the yacht, everybody was gathered around the laptop. “Dixie has taken off and is making for the strip,” Max said. “Tommy and a couple of others will greet him on arrival.”

“Where’s the Coast Guard cutter?” Stone asked.

“We can’t display her,” Max said, “but she’ll be somewhere around here” — she pointed — “staying over the horizon and painting our quarry on radar.”

Dino headed for the bar. “Anybody want a gimlet? This is going to take a while.”

The others joined him.

Later in the afternoon, Max’s cell rang. “This is Max.”

“It’s Harris here. We’ve just launched fast boats from two cutters, and they’re approaching the vessel at sixty knots from north and south. We want to nail them before they can jettison their cargo.”

“Keep me posted,” Max said.

“This will be over in a few minutes.”

The radio squawked. “Vessel in sight, closing fast. It’s a shrimper.”

“Proceed as planned,” Harris said.

As the two boats closed on the shrimper, Ensign Peter Wills, who was in charge of the southern boat, grabbed a hailer. “Shrimper Lucy Ann heave to, prepare to receive boarders. Everyone keep his hands in sight.”

The two RIBs roared up to the shrimper, cut their power, and moved alongside. Four men in helmets and flak jackets, carrying assault weapons, jumped aboard from both sides. The crew were stunned and had their hands up.

The guardsmen immobilized the Lucy Ann crew and conducted a search of the vessel. They found nothing but a full load of shrimp.

Ensign Wills called his skipper. “We’ve completed our search, and found nothing above or below.”

“Is there a load of shrimp aboard?” Harris asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then the cargo is under the shrimp,” she said. “Search there.”

Ensign Wills walked into the wheelhouse, where the captain was leaning idly against the bulkhead. “Get your crew assembled and start unloading your shrimp.”

The captain was startled. “Unload them where?”

“Into the sea,” Wills replied.

“Listen, swabbie, that’s money, not just shrimp. Who’s going to pay? My owner will want to know.”

“You and your owner are going to pay,” Wills replied. “Now start unloading shrimp, and don’t stop until we see your real cargo.”

Max answered the phone. “This is Max.”

“It’s Harris. We’ve secured the vessel, a shrimper, but have found no cargo. I suspect it’s hidden under their catch. The FBI is calling on the ship’s owner in Naples as we speak. I’ll call you with results.”

“Mr. Wills,” one of his crew called. “Take a look at this!” He pointed to a line that was secured to a cleat next to the hold. He yanked the line, and the other end disappeared into the pile of shrimp.

“Get that line to a crane!” Wills yelled. The crew did as ordered, and a crewman from the shrimper was directed to raise whatever it was attached to. He did so with reluctance, but as he did, the line tautened, and a large pallet emerged from the catch. On the pallet, secured by a cargo net, were a number of wooden crates and at least a dozen aluminum suitcases.

“Bingo!” Wills yelled into his hailer, as the cutters moved alongside.

Max’s phone rang and she answered it via speaker. “This is Max.”

“This is Harris. Their cargo, consisting of wooden crates and aluminum suitcases, is secured. The crates include caviar, the suitcases have cigars.”

“More gimlets!” Dino crowed.