| |
Kauai idled at her picket position, halfway between the Florida coast and the Bimini Islands. It was a high-tempo operation, and Haley was on the Bridge, standing a regular one-in-three OOD watch rotation with Ben and Hopkins, allowing Bondurant and Lee to rest when they were not involved in boardings. Haley supposed she would eventually tire of watchstanding and settle into the more traditional CO role of being on call, but not now. She was delighted to be back on the Bridge, conning the boat on this beautiful cool, calm night. There was no moon, only the stars and the soft yellow glow of the Miami-Fort Lauderdale-West Palm Beach metroplex stretching across the western horizon.
It had started as a coordinated multi-unit interdiction operation designed to counter the increased fast-boat traffic between Bimini and the Florida coast. Smuggling gangs assumed a weakness in the Coast Guard coverage of the eastern approaches to Florida’s Atlantic coast because of the ongoing Haitian migrant surge operation. They were taking advantage of this by pushing through more shipments of drugs and people by go-fast boats across the forty-five-mile strait between Miami and Bimini.
This assumption was in error. Operations south of the Bahamas were absorbing a considerable amount of the larger cutter resources, but the patrol boats and the speedy response boats at the individual Coast Guard stations were still present and available. The challenge lay in the eighty nautical miles of vulnerable coastline between Homestead and West Palm Beach; almost any point could be used to land an illicit cargo of contraband or illegal entrants.
Among the tactics in use this night was the classic “Hounds-to-Hunters” funnel operation, oriented east to west. Two patrol boats anchored the top of the funnel on the northern and southern ends, acting decidedly un-stealthy in their operations, liberally using radios and lighting to make their presence known. Unladen scout boats sent by the smuggling organizations to reveal the positions of the Coast Guard patrols—places to be avoided during the actual smuggling runs—did their jobs. The locations of the two patrol boats were noted, as was the large coverage gap between them, and passed along to the coordinators who fed the routes to smuggling craft. Smugglers could scurry through the gaps without being detected for a quick run to shore, drop off the load, and make a carefree return to the east.
They did not know that five Coast Guard response boats were concentrated at the western end of the funnel, close enough together to be mutually supporting and well-covered from the air. The smuggling boats were faster than the patrol boats but slower and less maneuverable than the response boats. Those smugglers not stopped and apprehended would dump their loads in an attempt to escape. Either outcome counted as an interdiction, a win for law enforcement, although arrests and prosecution were preferred.
The smugglers knew there was a significant element of risk associated with the trade and losses of cargo. Even the loss of the occasional boat and crew was considered acceptable—part of the cost of doing business passed on to the customers. On the rare occasions they were found, the crew’s modus operandi was simple: evade capture if practicable and submit to arrest without resistance otherwise. There was no advantage to fighting back, as the charges, if they could even be proven, were usually pled down to brief incarceration, provided resisting arrest was not included. If you fought back, the gloves came off and the prospect of hard prison time or being killed outright became a genuine possibility. Everyone understood that as long as this “gentleman’s agreement” held, short-term consequences were mild and long-term prospects were unaffected.
On this night, someone did not get the memo.
A thirty-five-foot open panga with three outboard engines and a cargo of baled cocaine had launched from a boat landing in Alice Town on North Bimini, heading for a drop-off on Key Biscayne. The operators had been fed the latest intel on their Coast Guard opposition: two patrol boats separated so that only a slight course change was needed to evade them. Besides the usual three crew, a heavily armed drug gang member rode along to ensure delivery. This was not the standard procedure; customer ridealongs increased the risks if they were stopped, but the gang indulged no arguments.
The crew followed the planned track to evade the patrol boats, using GPS for navigation and keeping a moderate speed of twenty knots to conserve fuel. They breathed a sigh of relief upon clearing through the picket line and made a slight course change to the south.
Unbeknownst to the crew, they had been picked up by a U.S. Customs and Border Patrol long-range patrol aircraft shortly after they cleared Henry Bank and tracked throughout their journey. Based on the plane’s information, one of the response boats from Coast Guard Station Miami Beach closed to intercept within territorial waters. It should have been easy: light up the target, and they either surrender or run. Everyone knew the rules; everyone but the gang member.
When the response boat’s spotlight flooded over the panga, the gang member panicked and opened fire with his AK-47 on full automatic, wounding a coastguardsman and drawing return fire from the boat’s 0.30 caliber machine gun. The panga’s master, convinced they were about to be gunned down in a vicious crossfire, gunned the throttles to ram the stern of the response boat, hopefully crippling it enough to enable an escape. He smashed one of the boat’s outboard engines, taking it out of the fight, but in doing so, the wounded crewman was thrown overboard and struck and killed by one of the panga’s propellers.
Word went out instantly. The crew of the fleeing panga had attacked a Coast Guard boat with gunfire and ramming and had murdered a coastguardsman. The customs plane stuck to the boat like glue now, constantly relaying position, course, and speed to the other units on the net as the panga fled to the northeast. A Coastie had been murdered, one of their own, and all law enforcement in the area was determined to make sure this night did not end well for the panga crew.
Onboard Kauai, Haley had completed a round with the binoculars when the alert was received. Bunting had the FC3 watch and took the initial call from LE chat. “Emergency message, Captain,” the young petty officer said.
Haley stepped over and read the chat message. “OK, Bunting, fire up all systems.” She stepped over to the 1MC box and grabbed the microphone. “Now set Law Enforcement Condition One-Alpha, repeat set Law Enforcement Condition One-Alpha.” She then pressed the buzzer used on Kauai for a law enforcement alert. Condition One-Alpha was law enforcement, where the suspects were considered armed and dangerous. It was essentially the same as General Quarters Condition One in terms of manning and equipment, but the law enforcement use-of-force continuum was still in play. Kauai could not engage a target with deadly force unless fired on or granted a statement of no objection from the command center.
Ben was on the Bridge within two minutes, followed by Hopkins and Williams, all grabbing body armor vests and helmets. Williams sat in the center seat of the console while Ben and Hopkins looked at the radar picture and the chat traffic. After a minute, they shared a grim glance, stepped over to Haley, and saluted.
Haley returned the salute and said, “You’ve seen the board. Do you have any questions about the situation?”
“No, Captain,” they both replied.
“Alright. Coast Guard 28167 reported one shooter. We will assume that this is still the case. If it is still the one active shooter, I’ll order the sniper to take him out. If it is multiple shooters, we will engage with whichever fifty caliber is unmasked until the gunfire is suppressed and proceed appropriately. Questions?”
“We need to make a general announcement about what is going on, ma’am,” Ben replied.
“I intend to. Anything else?”
After both responded with head shakes, Hopkins saluted and said, “Captain, I offer to relieve you of the Deck and Conn.”
Haley returned the salute and said, “I stand relieved.” She then announced, “On the Bridge, this is the captain. Chief Hopkins has the Deck and Conn!”
After everyone on the Bridge responded with, “Aye!” Haley took the 1MC microphone again. “All hands, this is the captain. A thirty-five-foot panga believed to be carrying narcotics has just fired on and rammed a response boat from Station Miami Beach about twenty-three miles southwest of our current position. One Coast Guard member is confirmed dead. The suspect vessel is now under direct observation, heading zero-eight-eight at twenty-five knots. We will intercept this vessel, stop it, and take all persons onboard into custody. These suspects are considered armed and extremely dangerous.
“I know how you must feel about this. Believe me, I feel the same. Nonetheless, this remains a law enforcement mission, and we will observe the continuum of force rules of engagement. No one is authorized to fire without my direct order.” Haley hung up the microphone, walked to the captain’s chair, and sat.
Ben said, “All stations manned and ready, Captain. Mounts 51 and 52 are manned with rounds in the chamber. Mount 25 is ready with bore clear and HE in the chute. Overwatch is posted.”
“Very well,” Haley replied. “Williams, I need a course and time to intercept at twenty-eight knots.”
“Aye, Captain,” Williams said, typing in the query. After three seconds, he continued. “Recommend course one-eight-three at twenty-eight knots, estimated intercept time twenty-four minutes, ma’am.”
“Chief, twenty-eight knots, please. Initial heading is one-eight-three.”
“Very good, Captain,” Hopkins said as she pushed the thrust levers forward to full speed. “Helm, come right, steer one-eight-three.”
“Come right, steer one-eight-three,” Pickins, the helmsman, replied. After about ten seconds, he reached the new course and reported, “Chief, steady on one-eight-three.”
“Very well. Navigation, are there any contacts with a CPA within two miles?” Even in the pre-dawn hours, this was a heavily trafficked area, and Hopkins’s principal responsibility was to keep Kauai from colliding with another vessel. Rather than get a series of reports on the dozen-odd targets on the scope, Hopkins requested those with a Closest Point of Approach, CPA, of two miles.
“Negative, Chief,” Zuccaro responded. “The nearest CPA on current targets is three-point-eight.”
Haley turned to Bunting, who had moved to the left FC3 seat, shifting communications to his screen. “Bunting, report to the command center. We are on an intercept vector for the suspect vessel. Estimate visual contact in thirteen minutes.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Bunting said and then began typing.
Haley turned to Ben. “XO, assuming we stop this target without sinking it, I want you to lead the boarding. Who do you want with you?”
“Bondurant and Lopez, ma’am. Lee on coxswain. Everyone with sidearms and Lopez with a shotgun.”
“Agreed. Head down, make your assignments, and brief them. Boarding and deck crew to stay on the messdeck until we call all clear. Get back here as soon as you’re done.”
“Very good, Captain. By your leave?”
“Go.”
Ben turned, stepped to the bridge ladder, and disappeared below.
Haley keyed her headset microphone and said, “Overwatch, Actual.”
“Actual, Overwatch. Go ahead, ma’am,” Guerrero replied from his sniper position on Kauai’s Flying Bridge.
“Overwatch, I don’t know how this will play out, so I will give you a conditional. You are weapons tight unless you see someone firing directly at Kauai. In that case alone, you are cleared for deadly force on the shooter only. Copy?”
“Copy all, ma’am.”
Guerrero was a skilled sniper, trained to hit targets on one moving boat while shooting from another. Sea and weather conditions were ideal, so he could theoretically kill any exposed shooter within seconds, provided the other vessel was not jinking too erratically.
“Alright. Post-shooter now. If needed, can you take out his engines?”
“Should be doable, ma’am, but the time of flight will be critical. I can’t promise anything beyond seventy-five yards.”
“Understood. I’ll do my best to get you inside that.”
“Copy, ma’am.”
“Mount 51, Actual,” Haley said, calling Hebert on the fifty-caliber machine gun on the starboard bridge wing.
“This in Mount 51. Go ahead, ma’am.”
“Mount 51, you are weapons tight. Stay low unless you get the order to open up.”
“WILCO, ma’am.”
“Mount 52, Actual.”
“Mount 52, ma’am,” replied Fireman Connally, manning the counterpart to Hebert’s gun on the port bridge wing.
“Mount 52, same deal for you. Stay low, weapons tight.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Haley looked at the bridge clock: 01:29—six minutes before the panga would come over the visual horizon. “Chief, let’s darken ship.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Hopkins said. “Bunting, shut down navigation lights.”
“Shut down nav lights, aye, Chief.” Bunting flipped the switches labeled “Mast,” “Side,” and “Stern” to off and said, “Lighting off, Chief.”
“Very well.”
Running at twenty-eight knots without navigation lights was not something done lightly. In the event of a collision, the liability would be substantial, regardless of the other vessel’s culpability. But the risk in this situation was negligible, and the gain from not alerting the panga of their presence was considerable.
Zuccaro leaned forward. “Radar contact, two-one-eight, eight-point-six, constant bearing decreasing range. Track position, course, and speed correlate with the suspect vessel, Chief.”
“Very well.” Hopkins did the math in her head: about forty knots closure, two and a half miles to go. “Williams, train the camera out to zero-three-zero relative. You should see them within three minutes.”
“Yes, Chief,” Williams said as he slewed the Electro-Optical Infrared camera around to that bearing. The monochrome screen showed the horizon and brightly glowing stars, but nothing else.
Haley leaned forward in her chair, scanning between the sensor/fire-control and navigation panels. Now the wait. Is there anything I have overlooked? She turned as Ben arrived beside her. He was decked out for the mission with body armor, a lightweight combat helmet, and an equipment belt with a holstered Sig P229 pistol.
“Deck and boarding parties are ready, Captain,” Ben said.
“Thank you, XO. We should have a look at them in about one minute.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Haley glanced at him. “Any advice, XO?”
“Ma’am, this is new for all of us. What’s your plan?”
“Loop in to parallel him on his quarter at one hundred yards.”
“Sounds right, ma’am. Recommend his port quarter. Hebert is steadier, and we’ll be masked when we launch the RHIB.”
“Good points. We’ll do that. Thanks, XO.”
“Yes, ma’am. And how do you intend to stop him, assuming we don’t end up in a total shootout? I wouldn’t plan on using the squid.”
“Concur. I’ll hit him with the locator light and put a burst over him with the fifty. If he doesn’t heave to, I’ll turn Guerrero loose on his outboards.”
“Recommend you skip the light up and warning shot, ma’am.”
Haley sat upright. “That’s the protocol.”
Ben shook his head. “With respect, ma’am, screw the protocol. Those bastards shouldn’t get a reset just because they escaped the first boat they shot up. A warning shot will only tell them to start jinking if they haven’t already, or worse, that they have nothing to lose by firing back. Same thing with the light. The engines on those outboards will glow like hot coals in Guerrero’s night sight—he doesn’t need any light.”
Haley sighed. “I hate this, but you’re right. We’ll do it that way.”
Ben nodded sympathetically. “Helluva break-in patrol for you, ma’am.”
Haley nodded as she turned back to the panels. “Yea, verily.”
Kenton Nicholas was a frightened man. There were three bullet holes in his windscreen from the firefight with the Americans. The closest was just to the right of where he stood at the helm. He had felt that bullet go by as it passed within an inch of him. His younger brother Nathan crouched beside him, staring straight ahead as the boat sped as quickly as possible with the bow partially caved in after the collision with the American.
His deckhand Jayden Wilson was forward, watching the makeshift patch plugging the tear in the hull. At least they had stopped taking on water—the hole in the hull was above the waterline, but gallons of seawater had poured in through the gap every time the bow dipped. The engines screaming at full power should push them at forty knots, but Nicholas would have been surprised if they were even reaching thirty, given the drag from the damage and the hundreds of pounds of seawater sloshing back and forth in the bilges. Fuel was also a worry; they were burning through it fast while traveling at a speed half of what they should be, thanks to that cargo, that damned cargo! Close to a ton of cocaine bales they had failed to deliver. What the hell good was it now? They were running for their lives on a damaged, overloaded boat, yet they could not jettison a ton of deadweight because of him.
That La Cantaña cartel monster was standing behind them, his AK-47 in his hands, ready to murder them if they stepped out of line. The man was not afraid, just stood there staring at them with gimlet eyes, his face and shaved head covered with tattoos. He was smoking a cigarette, smoking! Their only hope was to make it back to North Bimini without being spotted by aircraft searching for them, and the fool was generating a glow that could be seen for miles! Nicholas had told him to put it out, and the man’s only response was to flip the fire selector of his assault rifle off “safe.”
He had warned his boss back home that they should not be dealing with these animals. They would bring what up to now had been a lucrative family business to ruin. But the boss would not listen; the money was too good. Then the customers insisted on including one of their men to oversee the trips—they had lost too many loads and wanted to make sure the crew did their job. Nicholas had pointed out how dangerous that was, but at this point, nothing mattered. The cartel owned the boss, and therefore, they owned them all.
Nicholas had tried his best for success this night. The scouts had nailed the positions of the American patrols; all he had to do was get past their picket line by crossing through a wide gap they had left. They didn’t even have to land, just pull within twenty-five yards of the beach and dump the load for the La Cantaña cartel men to retrieve. They were still a mile off the coast when, out of nowhere, came a blinding light and the call to heave-to.
It was unfortunate, but hardly the end of the world. Nicholas would turn away from the light and run while Nathan, Wilson, and the cartel man threw bales overboard. They were faster than the Americans when empty—they just had to stay ahead during the dump. The Americans would follow until they were confident the cargo was jettisoned and then stop to retrieve it. Even without arrests, it was a win for them, and no one wanted bloodshed. Lose cargoes? Even a boat or crew? No problem—part of the cost of doing business. He had explained this to their passenger before they left Bimini, and the man simply nodded without expression.
Nicholas was startled when the light hit them—there should not have been any Americans here. He recovered quickly and put the helm over when the cartel bastard started shooting. The Americans reacted at once, and the space between the boats was crisscrossed with 7.62-millimeter tracer fire. Nathan and Wilson flattened on the deck, and Nicholas instantly realized this was a new game. Their survival depended on getting out of range of the machine gun on the American boat. Even if they put down the cartel man, they would not stop shooting. Nicholas had to cripple them somehow and decided a glancing blow to the stern could take out one or both of the American’s outboards without leaving his panga crippled. Then he had to run like hell.
It worked. After the jarring crash, they sped off into the night without pursuit. The Americans had stopped firing after the impact, perhaps with damage to their gun mount. Nicholas breathed a preliminary sigh of relief and ordered Wilson and his brother to dump the cargo. The cartel man turned his gun on them and said, “No!”
“You don’t understand,” Nicholas shouted over the engines. “We have to go fast to get home! This cargo slows us down!”
“No dump!” the man shouted back.
“What good is it when the Americans catch up with us?”
“They catch up, I shoot them too! No dump!”
That was thirty minutes ago, and Nicholas could see from the GPS they had at least another half hour before they reached the shoals of Henry Bank and safety. At least they had not seen any other boats. Nicholas thought luck might see them through when suddenly there was a bang, and the panga lurched to the right. He looked back to see the right-hand outboard spewing smoke. Damn! Of all the times to blow an engine! He put in some port helm to compensate for the loss of thrust and keep them on course and shouted, “Jayden, see if you can do something with it!”
The man was making his way back to the stern when there was a second bang, and the boat started drifting left. “It’s been shot! They’re shooting the engines!” Wilson shouted.
Nicholas’s eyes widened in fear, and he spun the helm to the right—too late. There was a third bang, and the center engine, their last, ground to a halt. The boat, already slowing before the previous hit, coasted to a stop. Where only moments before the crew had to shout to be heard over the racing engines, wind, and water sluicing past, there was near silence, only the lapping and occasional thud of a wave striking the hull and the hissing and soft pings of the cooling engines. Nicholas looked around frantically in the darkness; there were no lights or sounds anywhere. The cartel man was training his AK-47 from beam to beam, searching for a target, any target.
Nicholas was dumbfounded. He had expected to hear the whine of a helicopter, one of those the Americans used to shoot out the engines of go-fast boats. At least he should hear boat motors if they were close enough to take out the engines with single shots. But there was nothing at all. Finally, a male voice pierced the darkness from their port quarter.
“This is the United States Coast Guard! You will surrender immediately or be fired upon!”
Nicholas, Nathan, and Wilson ducked behind the stacks of cocaine bales while the cartel man stood and began firing blindly in the voice’s direction. There was a loud “crack,” and the man’s head snapped back, his arms spread out, and he collapsed backward with his assault rifle clattering to the deck beside Nicholas. Now they’ll kill us. That fool has done for us all!
A moment later, the panga was bathed in a blinding white light originating from the port quarter. Nicholas looked at the sprawled cartel man, his mouth and eyes open and blood seeping from a large hole in his forehead. Good riddance! Nicholas reached out, grasped the AK-47, and clutched it against his chest. He had absolutely no idea what to do next.
“This is the United States Coast Guard! This is your last warning. You will discard all weapons and stand with your hands above your head. Anyone holding a weapon or not standing still with both hands in plain sight will be shot without warning.”
“You are going to kill us anyway!” Nicholas shouted.
“No,” the voice replied. “If you surrender peacefully, you will be placed under arrest and transported safely to the United States to stand trial. If you continue to resist, you will be killed.”
“Kenton, what do we do?” Nathan whispered desperately.
Nicholas looked at the assault rifle in his arms, then over at the dead cartel man. It’s hopeless. Try to save Nathan and Jayden if you can. “Coast Guard, it was the dead man that shot at you! None of us have fired a gun tonight!”
“If that is true, it might work to your advantage at trial. But you must surrender NOW!”
Nicholas tossed the AK-47 aside and shouted, “Coast Guard, we agree to surrender! Don’t shoot!”
“Very well. Stand slowly with your hands in the air.”
Nicholas nodded at the other men, and the three put their hands in the air and stood.
“Good call,” the disembodied voice continued. “Now, stay exactly where you are with your hands in the air until the boarding officers direct you to do otherwise.”
Now, Nicholas could hear a boat engine off the port side, and an orange RHIB emerged from the darkness and nudged gently into the panga. Three men in combat gear scrambled on board, two holding handguns, the third a shotgun. The men carrying the handguns had them pointed at the deck, Nicholas was relieved to see, but the man with the shotgun pointed it in the general direction of Nicholas and his crew.
The shorter handgun-holding man stepped over to the cartel man, picked up the AK-47 from the deck, repositioned the fire selector to safe, and then put the sling over his shoulder. He looked at Nicholas and said, “Are you the vessel’s master?”
“Yes, sir,” Nicholas answered.
“I am Lieutenant Junior Grade Wyporek. You are under arrest for violation of United States law. You have the right to remain silent, and you have a right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you desire an attorney and cannot afford one, the court will appoint one before questioning. Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. For our safety and yours, this man will search your person. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer nodded at his companion, a large black man who holstered his weapon and began a head-to-foot search. When that was complete, he leaned over and said, “I’m going to handcuff you now. Please put your left hand back.” After placing Nicholas’s hands in flex cuffs, the big man said, “OK, sit down.”
The arrest process was repeated on the other crewmen, then the officer called back the orange RHIB, and the three panga crew were helped aboard. The officer and the large black man followed, and the shotgun man remained aboard the panga. It was a quick trip to get alongside the white-colored Coast Guard ship. When the RHIB had been craned to deck level, Nicholas and his crew were helped on board. Two crewmen took them to a side area on the ship’s deck where their flex cuffs were removed, and they were manacled to the deck. The three men sat silently, watched carefully by another Coast Guard man holding a shotgun.
The Coast Guard crew rigged a hawser to tow the panga into port. By the time they had completed the linkup and started the tow, the eastern horizon was already aglow with the coming sunrise. A short time later, two Coast Guard men unshackled Nicholas and brought him into what looked like a dining area. The officer who led the boarding was seated at one of the two tables, some papers spread out before him, and Nicholas was brought to the table and seated opposite the officer. After reading him his rights again, the officer asked if Nicholas wished to answer questions or make a statement.
“Will this help me at my trial?” Nicholas asked.
“I can’t promise that,” the officer replied.
“Very well, I’ll talk,” Nicholas said with resignation.
The officer pushed a piece of paper and pen in front of him. “This is a written explanation of your rights and a statement that you are waiving them. You may reassert those rights at any time during the questioning. If these terms are agreeable, please sign on the line. Nicholas nodded and signed the paper, which was then signed by the officer and one of the other coastguardsmen.
“Thank you,” the officer said. “Now describe in detail, please, your actions of last night, starting with your departure from Bimini.”
Nicholas provided a lengthy commentary of the panga’s activity and his role as the master, emphasizing the duress he and his crew felt from the cartel man. The officer nodded, took notes, and uttered an occasional acknowledgment throughout the interview. Finally, Nicholas completed his narrative and said, “That’s all I know.”
The officer nodded and said, “I have a few questions for clarification. You said the cartel man started the gunfight during your first encounter with the Coast Guard. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Nicholas answered.
“And you did not participate in the gunfight because you were driving the boat, correct?”
“That is correct, sir. Only the cartel man had a weapon, and he is the only one who shot at the Coast Guard.”
“And you drove your boat into the Coast Guard boat, correct?”
“Yes, sir, but just to get away from the gunfight. I was not trying to sink the boat, only to keep it from chasing me.”
“Very well. Is there anything else you wish to add?”
“No, sir. That is all.”
“Very well, thank you,” the officer said, then nodded toward the other crewmen. As they took Nicholas’s arms and helped him from the seat, the officer said, “Oh, one more thing. Were you aware that a Coast Guard seaman was killed during your incident with the boat?”
Nicholas felt faint, took a breath, and said, “No. I am very sorry to hear that. But as I said, the cartel man did the shooting, not me.”
“You just drove the boat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As it happens, the man who died was wounded by gunfire...in his arm, a non-fatal wound. When you rammed that boat, deliberately, by your admission, he was thrown overboard. And when he was helpless in the water, one of your propellers took off the top of his head.”
“Oh, God!”
“That man had a young wife and a baby girl at home. Now they are going to have to bury him. Most of him, anyway. All because you wanted to help import poison into this country for money. You think about that, you son-of-a-bitch!” He turned to the crewman. “Get him out of here and keep him separated from the others.”
“Yes, sir,” the crewman holding his right arm said. As they walked out on deck, he whispered to Nicholas, “Go ahead and try something. Please!”
Haley was still in her chair on the Bridge. She was tired, but far too keyed up to get any sleep or even eat. The tow of the panga was going well; they were making a steady eight knots toward the Coast Guard base in Miami Beach, where the vessel and their prisoners would be handed over to the appropriate authorities. It was slow going, as the northern set of the Gulf Stream reduced their speed over the ground to a plodding four knots.
Haley turned at the sound of footsteps on the ladder and saw Ben walking through the bridge door. He stood by Haley and saluted. “Interview complete, Captain.”
Haley returned the salute and said, “How did it go?”
“About what we figured, ma’am. The dead guy was the only shooter, and the elder Nicholas was the driver. I must regretfully admit to being remiss in not having informed the suspect of the victim’s cause of death prior to his admission of guilt in the act that caused it.” Ben smiled.
“I’m shocked, SHOCKED at your inattention to detail, XO!” Haley grinned in return. Her earlier concerns about her ability to connect and get sound advice were gone. Ben, in particular, had come through quite well, standing up to her when he felt it was needed and delivering practical and effective suggestions. “Seriously, awesome job today. When we tracked the Miho Dujam, Sam told me you guys were often creating tactics on the fly. I’m a believer now.”
The jury was still out on whether their not strictly by the book tactics would meet with official approval, but it would be hard to argue with the results: three arrests, one cartel shooter dead, a vessel seized along with what looked to be just under a ton of cocaine. And, hopefully, eventually, justice for Seaman Justin Demarest, the young man killed in the ramming. It warmed her heart that Drake had already hit her up to contribute to the collection he’d started for the seaman’s young family. The crew and she were in the right hands.
