“No foghorns out there. Sun’s burning through,” he announced. The captain nodded.
“Less than an hour until it’s gone. Gonna be a warm one. Weather forecast in yet?”
“Storms tonight, sir. The line that went through Dallas around midnight. Did some damage. Couple of tornadoes clobbered a trailer park.”
Wegener shook his head. “You know, there must be something about trailers that attract the damned things…” He stood and walked to the radar. “Ready, Chief?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wegener flipped the set from standby to active, then bent his eyes down to the top of the rubber hood. “You called it close, Chief. Contact bearing one-six-zero, range six thousand. Mr. O’Neil, come right to one-eight-five. Oreza, give me a time to come left up behind him.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Take a minute.”
Wegener flipped the radar off and stood back up. “Battle stations.”
As planned, the alarm got people moving after everyone had had a chance to eat breakfast. The word was already out, of course. There was a possible druggie out in the fog. The duty boat section assembled at the rubber Zodiac. Everyone had a weapon of some sort: one M-16 automatic rifle, one riot shotgun, and the rest Beretta 9mm automatics. Forward, a crew manned the 40mm gun on the bow. It was a Swedish-designed Bofors that had once sat on a Navy destroyer and was older than anyone aboard except the captain. Just aft of the bridge, a sailor pulled the plastic cover off an M-2.50-caliber machine gun that was almost as old.
“Recommend we come left now, sir,” Chief Oreza said.
The captain flipped the radar on again. “Come left to zero-seven-zero. Range to target is now three-five-zero-zero. We’ll want to approach from the target’s port side.”
The fog was thinning out. Visibility was now at about five hundred yards, a little more or a little less as the mist became visibly patchy. Chief Oreza got on the radar as the bridge filled up with the normal battle watch. There was a new target twenty miles out, probably a tanker inbound for Galveston. Its position was plotted as a matter of course.
“Range to our friend is now two thousand yards. Bearing constant at zero-seven-zero. Target course and speed are unchanged.”
“Very well. Should have him visual in about five minutes.” Wegener looked around the wheelhouse. His officers were using their binoculars. It was a waste of energy, but they didn’t know that yet. He walked out on the starboard bridge wing and looked aft to the boat station. Lieutenant Wilcox gave him a thumbs-up gesture. Behind him, Chief Boatswain’s Mate Riley nodded agreement. An experienced petty officer was at the winch controls. Launching the Zodiac into these sea conditions was no big deal, but the sea had a way of surprising you. The.50-caliber was pointed safely skyward, a box of ammo hanging on its left side. Forward he heard the metallic clash as a round was racked into the 40mm cannon.
Used to be we pulled alongside to render assistance. Now we load up, Wegener thought. Goddamned drugs…
“I see him,” a lookout said.
Wegener looked forward. The white-painted yacht was hard to pick out within the fog, but a moment later the squared-off transom stern was clearly visible. Now he used his glasses to read the name. Empire Builder. That was the one. No flag at the staff, but that wasn’t unusual. He couldn’t see any people yet, and the yacht was motoring along as before. That was why he’d approached from dead astern. For as long as men had gone to sea, he thought, no lookout ever bothered looking aft.
“He’s in for a surprise,” O’Neil thought, coming out to join the captain. “The Law of the Sea.”
Wegener was annoyed for a moment, but shook it off. “Radar isn’t turning. Of course, maybe he broke it.”
“Here’s the picture of the owner, sir.”
The captain hadn’t looked at it before. The owner was in his middle forties. Evidently he’d married late, because he reportedly had two children aboard, ages eight and thirteen, in addition to his wife. Big man, six-three or so, bald and overweight, standing on some dock or other next to a fair-sized swordfish. He must have had to work hard for that one, Wegener thought, judging by the sunburn around the eyes and below the shorts… The captain brought the glasses back up.
“You’re coming in too close,” he observed. “Bear off to port, Mister.”
“Aye aye, sir.” O’Neil went back into the wheelhouse.
Idiots, Wegener thought. You ought to have heard us by now. Well, they had a way to make sure of that. He poked his head into the wheelhouse: “Wake ’em up!”
Halfway up Panache’s mast was a siren of the sort used on police cars and ambulances, but quite a bit larger. A moment later its whooping sound nearly made the captain jump. It did have the expected effect. Before Wegener had counted to three a head appeared out of the yacht’s wheelhouse. It wasn’t the owner. The yacht began a hard right turn.
“You jackass!” the captain growled. “Close up tight!” he ordered next.
The cutter turned to the right, as well. The yacht settled a bit at the stern as more power was applied, but the Rhodes didn’t have a prayer of outrunning Panache. In another two minutes the cutter was abeam of the yacht, which was still trying to turn. They were too close to use the Bofors. Wegener ordered the machine gun to fire across the Empire Builder’s bow.
The .50-caliber crackled and thundered for a five-round burst. Even if they hadn’t seen the splashes, the noise was unmistakable. Wegener went inside to get the microphone for his ship’s loud-hailer.
“This is the United States Coast Guard. Heave to immediately and prepare to be boarded!”
You could almost see the indecision. The yacht came back left, but the speed didn’t change for a minute or two. Next a man appeared at the stern and ran up a flag – the Panamanian flag, Wegener saw with amusement. Next the radio would say that he didn’t have authority to board. His amusement stopped short of that point.
“Empire Builder, this is the U.S. Coast Guard. You are a U.S.-flag ship, and we are going to board you. Heave to – now!”
And she did. The yacht’s stern rose as engine power dropped off. The cutter had to back down hard to avoid surging past the Rhodes. Wegener went back outside and waved at the boat crew. When he had their attention, he mimicked pulling back the slide on an automatic pistol. That was his way of telling the crew to be careful. Riley patted his holster twice to let the captain know that the boat crew wasn’t stupid. The Zodiac was launched. The next call on the loud-hailer told the yacht’s crew to get into the open. Two people came out. Again, neither looked like the owner. The cutter’s machine gun was trained on them as steadily as the rolling allowed. This was the tense part. The only way Panache could protect the boat crew was to fire first, but that was something they couldn’t do. The Coast Guard hadn’t lost anyone that way yet, but it was only a matter of time, and waiting for it only made it worse.
Wegener kept his glasses fixed on the two men while the Zodiac motored across. A lieutenant did the same next to the machine gun. Though no obvious weapons were visible, a pistol wasn’t that hard to hide under a loose shirt. Someone would have to be crazy to fight it out under these conditions, but the captain knew that the world was full of crazy people – he’d spent thirty years rescuing them. Now he arrested them, the ones whose craziness was more malignant than simple stupidity.
O’Neil came to his side again. Panache was dead in the water, with her engines turning at idle, and with the seas now on the beam she took on a heavier but slower roll. Wegener looked aft to the machine gun again. The sailor had it aimed in about the right direction, but his thumbs were well off the firing switch, just the way they were supposed to be. He could hear the five empty cases rolling around on the deck. Wegener frowned for a moment. The empties were a safety hazard. He’d have some one rig a bag to catch them. The kid on the gun might stumble on one and shoot by mistake…
He turned back. The Zodiac was at the yacht’s stern. Good. They were going aboard there. He watched Lieutenant Wilcox go aboard first, then wait for the rest. The coxswain pulled back when the last was aboard, then scooted forward to cover their advance. Wilcox went forward on the portside, with Obrecki backing him up, the shotgun pointed safely at the sky. Riley went inside with his backup. The lieutenant got to the two men in under a minute. It was odd to see them talking, but not to hear what they were saying…