Brown, Dale - Independent 02 by Hammerheads (v1.1)

that could be brought
up on deck from the armory and mounted around the ship. She had a helipad aft
of midships large enough to land a single HH-65 Dolphin helicopter rotated in
from Coast Guard air stations around the southeast United States; her present
Dolphin was borrowed from the Coast Guard air station in Mobile, Alabama.
                 “.
. . Ship’s position-information updated and verified,” McConahay reported,
using a set of Plexiglas plotters on the board to mark the GPS coordinates on
the chart, then making a tiny triangle and logbook entry on the chart. “GPS
position fix on the target verified as well.” He then checked the position
readout on the third navigation computer, the Loran, for Long-Range Navigation,
a system that used timed signals from synchronized shore-based radio stations
to pinpoint their position. “Loran data recorded. Checks with GPS within a
tenth of a mile.” The navigator’s mate would update the ship’s position and
navigation computers with the more accurate GPS and use the radar and Loran to
check the GPS.
                 “I
don’t need the whole spiel, McConahay,” Ehrlich said wearily, “just tell me
where the hell he is. ”
                 “Exactly
ten miles south of Marsh Island,” McConahay reported. “Well inside the twelve
mile limit.”
                 “He
got sloppy and drifted into our jurisdiction,” Ehrlich said, now excited. “All
these days of tracking that sonofabitch finally paid off. Mr. Ross, find out
where our Falcon is.”
                 Lieutenant
Martin Ross, the officer of the deck, nodded and clicked on his intercom to the
communications center. A moment later he reported, “Sir, comm has radio contact
with Omaha Six-One out of New Orleans. He says he’ll be on station in five
minutes.” “Five minutes? They’re already five minutes late.”
                 Just
then on the bridge’s speakers a voice blared out, “ Resolute , this is Omaha Six-One on Uniform. On station in three
minutes. Over.”
                 Ehrlich
turned toward the voice as if he had heard a sound from the grave; then turned
angrily toward Ross. “Is he on the scrambler?” “I’ll check, sir.”
                 “Dammit,
he better be.”
                 “Uh
. . . sir?” It was McConahay.
                 “Hang
on, son.” To Ross: “Well?”
                 “He’s
on the scrambler now, sir.”
                 “Skipper
. . . ?”
                 “What is it, McConahay?”
                 “I
... I think the target is moving.”
                 “ What?” Ehrlich was off his chair to
check the radar scope. “Right after Seven-One checked in, sir. Looks like he’s
heading out.”
                 “I
knew it! Son of a bitch was monitoring our frequencies.” He swung to Ross.
“Have the duty-crew on deck on the double. Helm, all ahead full. Let’s go talk
with him before he gets away.”
                 McConahay
stood up from his plotting board on the Resolute ’s
bridge. “We’re going to move in on him? Now? It’s . . . it’s after 2:00 A.M.—”
                 “Are
we keeping you up, Mr. McConahay?” Ehrlich made an entry in the bridge’s
logbook. “There’s nothing in the book that says we don’t work at night. These
guys will be out of our waters in ten minutes. It’ll take us that long to catch
up to them. We move in now. ”
                “My engines are all ahead full,
sir,” the helmsman reported. “Showing twelve knots and increasing.”
                “If we lose this guy I’m going to
shoot that Falcon crew. We’ve spent too much time dicking around with this guy
to let him go now.”
                 The Resolute crew had indeed been
tracking their target—a one- hundred-eighty-foot cargo ship, the Numestra del