Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“How about the antenna?”

“I can go to the comm antenna or the nav antenna: your choice.”

“Does it matter?”

“Naw, it’ll broadcast on either one.”

“What about receiving?”

“Okay, I’ll run it to both.”

“Whatever’s convenient and unnoticeable.” Stone looked toward the sun. “I reckon you’ve got less than an hour.”

“Can do,” Hobo said. “Probably.”

Max spoke up. “Hobo,” she said, “get your ass in gear.”

Hobo set his toolbox on the ground next to him and went to work.

As the sun’s rim touched the horizon, Hobo yelled, “Bingo! What’re you going to view the result on?”

“A laptop,” Dino said.

“Is that already equipped to receive?”

Dino consulted the written directions. “It is.”

“Then let’s test it out.”

Dino switched on the computer, chose the proper app, and got a resounding beep for his trouble.

“Up and running,” Hobo said. “That will be five hundred smackers, please.”

Stone produce five hundreds and pressed them into Hobo’s greasy palm. “Okay, put that thing back together and wipe off any fingerprints on anything.”

Hobo did so, then got back into Tommy’s car and was driven away.

“Okay, what do we do now?” Stone asked.

“Drink,” Max said. “And eat. Then we hope Dixie makes another run tomorrow.”

“Dino,” Stone said, “can we monitor this thing from the yacht?”

“Anywhere there’s a Wi-Fi signal,” Dino replied.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Back aboard the yacht, Dino plugged in the computer, turned it on, clicked on the app, and turned the volume all the way up. “We ought to hear that through the alcohol haze,” he said, and was handed a gimlet.

They raised their glasses and drank, then made themselves comfortable while waiting for dinner.

“Did you coordinate with the Coast Guard?” Stone asked Max.

“I did,” she replied, “they’ll be on station at daybreak.”

“To daybreak,” Dino said, raising his glass again.

They had a pleasant dinner, and Stone and Max decided to remain aboard for the night.

The next day, nothing happened. Max drove to the landing strip and found the airplane still there. The following morning, though, they were having a late breakfast when the laptop beeped loudly, lifting them from their seats.

“We’re on,” Max said.

“How are you communicating with the Coast Guard?” Stone asked.

“They’ve got a satphone, and I’ve got their number.” She pointed at the computer screen. “He’s on the water and taking off!” She picked up her iPhone and made a call, then pressed the speaker button.

“This is the cutter, Lieutenant Harris speaking,” a female voice said.

“Lieutenant, this is Max. Our party is in the air, heading south by southwest.”

“Roger. Let me know when he reaches his pickup point.”

“Wilco.” Max plugged in her phone and set it on the coffee table.

They were having a light lunch when Max called the cutter again.

“This is the cutter.”

“Lieutenant, this is Max. Our target has stopped moving.” She read out the coordinates. “I’ll call when he takes off.”

“Roger.”

“This won’t take long,” Max said.

Ten minutes later she called the cutter again.

“This is the cutter.”

“Lieutenant, our target is off the water and turning on course. Stand by for a heading.”

“Standing by.”

Ten minutes later, Max said, “Cutter, our target is heading 360 degrees at one thousand feet, making 140 knots over the water.”

“Let me plot that.” The lieutenant came back a moment later. “That will put him five miles off Fort Jefferson in about an hour and a half.”

“That’s where he’ll make his turn.”

“We’ll be on the move, as soon as we get a course and speed. We don’t want to scare off his reception committee.”

Right on time, Max sang out, “Making his turn.” She dialed her phone.

“This is the cutter.”

“This is Max. He’s made his turn, now heading 030, still at one thousand feet, making 145 knots over the water. He picked up a little tailwind.”

“We’ll plot a course to a point north of the meeting place. We’ll pick up the reception committee on radar before we get a visual. We don’t want them to see us.”

“I’ll call you back when he starts descending,” Max said.

“I can’t wait,” the lieutenant came back.

“Soon,” Max said.

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.”