Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (23 page)

 
          
Wilkes
did indeed remember the Maria Fuentes incident. A young, pregnant female
Mexican drug “mule”—not a drug dealer, not a true smuggler, but someone who,
most times knowingly, carries drugs—had swallowed thirty condoms filled with
cocaine, almost thirty pounds and two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, and had
tried to take the drugs into the United States on board a small motorboat, with
two young children. She was detected, but could have gone unchallenged had she
not panicked and gunned the engine when the Border Security Force’s V-22 Sea
Lion armed interceptor aircraft flew near her. The chase took two hours, with a
small air force of sophisticated aircraft buzzing overhead.

 
          
Fuentes
ran the boat aground near a popular seaside resort at Palmetto Beach, near
Mobile, Alabama. The woman grabbed her two kids and tried to flee across the
beach on foot. To the astonishment of about a hundred stunned onlookers, she
was finally apprehended in a spectacular assault by the V-22 tilt-rotor
aircraft. But during the arrest, one of the condoms of cocaine inside the woman
broke open, poisoning her and creating an instantaneous stillbirth for everyone
to watch, including Fuentes’ two terrified children.

 
          
The
public outcry was deafening—and it was all directed against the Hammerheads;
then-Vice President Martindale, who was a strong Department of Border Security
ally; and then-co-commander of the Border Security Force Admiral Ian
Hardcastle. In response, the Senate Judiciary Committee unexpectedly launched
an investigation, “leaking” its supposedly classified information to the press,
which led to a lawsuit filed on behalf of the dead woman’s family charging the
Hammerheads with an unreasonable pursuit, unreasonable “search and
seizure”—actually charging the Hammerheads with using the V-22 to force the
woman to disgorge the drugs—and unreasonable use of force. Federal Judge Lani
Wilkes’ court blasted the government, equating the Hammerheads with East German
border guards shooting Germans trying to escape over the Berlin Wall.

 
          
The
government was ordered to pay an incredible ten- million-dollar settlement to
the dead woman’s family and to some of the onlookers, who claimed they were
“traumatized” by watching the incident. Kevin Martindale and Ian Hardcastle
were publicly ridiculed. Although the verdict was overturned by the U.S.
Supreme Court years later on appeal, the case was regarded as the beginning of
the end of the Hammerheads and the Department of Border Security, which was
abolished shortly after the new President took the oath of office in 1993.

 
          
“I
remember the Fuentes case very well, Mr. Vice President,” Wilkes said uneasily.
“But the Judiciary Committee was completely within its bounds to investigate
the incident then. Besides, that was an investigation of a serious incident by
the Border Security Force, not of an ongoing FBI criminal investigation. The
FBI enjoys a certain immunity from Congressional oversight in the course of an
investigation. I’m sure you understand ...”

 
          
“I
can’t speak for the Senate, Judge Wilkes, but I think the rules have
changed—we’ve been authorized to proceed,” Martindale said. He accepted a
sealed folder from an aide. It carried the seal of the U.S. Senate on its
cover. “And I assure you, we won’t interfere with your investigation. We’ll
just require a briefing—no more than three times per day—with the items stated
in this folder included. Also, we have observers that will accompany some of
your investigators. If you would, please provide us with a list of your senior
investigators, and we’ll pair an observer up with him or her right away.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, Mr. Vice President, but there’s been some mistake,” Lani Wilkes
interrupted. “I can’t allow nonBureau observers on an investigation. And I wish
I had the time to give you special briefings on the status of the case, but I
don’t. The Bureau gives daily press briefings in Washington.”

 
          
“Our
observers are fully trained former FBI, DIA, or CIA investigators, Judge
Wilkes,” Martindale said. “They know your procedures—our chief Bureau
consultant is Jeffrey Peck.” Wilkes’ eyes grew wide—Peck was the former Bureau
deputy director, a longtime FBI veteran, fired from his post as number-two man
because of allegations of wrongdoing. No specific charges were ever brought
against him. Peck had vehemently argued his innocence and never resigned even
though the pressure to do so was enormous, but there had to be a housecleaning
when the new Administration came in, so Peck was forced out. The President
expended a lot of political capital to fire Peck—now they were going to face
him again. Martindale’s pleasant smile dimmed a bit as he added, “And I
certainly
hope
the three briefings a
day won’t be too much of a burden for you—because our charter demands nothing
less of you. I’m sure you understand.”

 
          
Wilkes
saw the smile diminish and knew that Vice President Martindale wasn’t going to
spar with her any longer. But she wasn’t going to be bullied by any of these
outsiders either. “Of course I understand, Mr. Vice President. I’ll extend
every consideration to you and your people. All I need is confirmation from the
president pro tern of the Senate.” Wilkes knew the current Vice President would
put a halt to all this nonsense right away. “We can start as soon as—”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, Judge Wilkes, I should have handed this over earlier,” Senator Georgette
Heyerdahl said. It was a warrant, signed by the Senate Minority Leader. “As you
know, the Vice President is overseas, and he turned the gavel over to the
Majority Leader. Unfortunately, Senator Collingsworth lost an aunt in the
explosion in San Francisco airport last night, and he is on emergency leave.
Since the Senate Majority Whip is also out of the country, he allowed the gavel
to be transferred to the Senate Minority Leader. Here is his charter for our
organization to conduct this investigation.”

 
          
Wilkes
accepted the letter but did not look at it—she was very familiar with this type
of provision, called a “roundhouse.” Officially, the U.S. Senate is never
formally adjourned—the gavel, or presidency of the Senate, is always in
someone’s hand, day and night, while the Senate is “in recess.” The president
pro tern of the Senate (the Vice President of the
United States
) usually leaves it up to the leader of his
party in the Senate to choose who would preside in his stead, but there is a
definite “pecking order” in case of emergencies or disaster. Usually the
day-to-day presidency of the Senate is ceremonial in nature, but it also
conveys a lot of power to anyone who knows the law and who has the guts to use
it. Establishing a charter to a Senate subcommittee to begin some work is one
such power of the president pro tern, and pulling a roundhouse is a quick way
to get it enacted. “The charter is only good for five days or until the full
Senate can vote to cancel it,” Heyerdahl added, as if trying to instruct Wilkes
on the law, “but it’s in force right now.”

 
          
“I’m
well aware of the law, Senator, thank you,” Wilkes interrupted. Of course, the
Vice President, who was away in Tokyo, could snatch the gavel back immediately
just by stepping aboard Air Force Two or into the American embassy—both were
always considered American territory— and he could yank the group’s charter
away in a New York minute. But at this stage of the game, with a very public
press conference just concluded, it was probably not a wise decision. Any
hesitancy the Vice President or Wilkes might show toward such a distinguished
group as the Project 2000 Task Force might appear like a cover-up.

 
          
“As
I said, I’ll be more than happy to cooperate with your subcommittee, Mr. Vice
President.” Wilkes sighed.
No use in
trying to fight this anymore,
she thought. She had to contact the Justice
Department and the President right away and let them handle Martindale and
Hardcastle. “An office has been set up in one of the SR-71 hangars for our
team, and I’m due to receive a situation briefing as soon as I arrive. You’re
welcome to sit in.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Judge Wilkes,” Martindale said, the famous boyish smile returning. He
shook hands again with her, making sure that the press photographers captured
the moment.

 
          
After
the impromptu press conference broke up, Hardcastle noticed several Air Force
officers standing by a blue sedan nearby. He walked over to them, extended a
hand, and said, “Colonel Vincenti, Colonel Gaspar? I’m Admiral Ian Hardcastle,
U.S. Coast Guard, retired.” They shook hands, and Hardcastle was introduced to
the public affairs officer and Vincenti’s area defense counsel. “I’m sorry for
what happened to Major McKenzie. I know what it’s like to lose a good crewman.”
The Air Force officers nodded without saying anything—Hardcastle could easily
read the distrust in their eyes. “Colonel Vincenti, tell me about Henri
Cazaux.”

 
          
“Colonel
Vincenti has been advised not to speak with anyone else, Admiral,” the area
defense counsel said.

 
          
Hardcastle
shot her an angry stare, then turned back to Vincenti. “I need to know,
Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “I’m a part of a Senate investigation into the incident.”

 
          
“Another
government investigation,” Vincenti scoffed. “Great. Just what we need.”

 
          
“We’re
not trying to pin the blame on you, Colonel—I’m trying to pin the blame on
where it belongs: on the White House and the Pentagon,” Hardcastle said. “I’m trying
to get Congress and the President to act seriously about national defense.”

 
          
“I
appreciate that, Admiral,” the area defense counsel said, “but we’re still not
going to discuss—”

 
          
“One
question, if that’s okay with your ADC,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti did not
respond, but he did not object, either. “You were the hunter, Colonel. You had
your prey in your sights. Now tell me about Henri Cazaux.”

 
          
At
first Vincenti didn’t know what to make of this tall, lean, ghostly-looking
man. He had seen Hardcastle on all the TV shows, of course, but when Hardcastle
said the word “hunter,” he heard something else.
Yes
. . .
yes,
Vincenti
thought.
I know what he’s talking about.
Al Vincenti knew about the mystique of the hunter.

 
          
The
hunter, at the moment of unleashing deadly energy against his prey, forms a
sort of mind-meld with his quarry. Deer hunters feel it, experience the
synergism of minds linked together for a brief instant. Bombardiers sometimes feel
as if they are on the ground, watching their bombs fall on their own heads. The
inexperienced hunter can’t handle it and gets “target fixation” or the
“shakes,” and the spell is broken and the quarry usually escapes. A young or
emotional bombardier that feels it turns to the bottle, gets a Section 8, or gets
a .45 and blows himself away. Vincenti remembered that Hardcastle had once
lined up lots of targets in the sights of his awesome V-22 Sea Lion tilt-rotor
interceptors, so he definitely knew what it felt like to search, track, find,
pursue, attack, and destroy a target— Jesus, he had done it for
real
Hardcastle had fired on many real
targets. Vincenti didn’t know how many men he had killed, but he knew he had
killed before. He knew what it was like. And so did Vincenti...

 
          
“
Defiance
,” Vincenti said. “No fear. Not at any time
did I feel fear from Henri Cazaux. Even in his parachute. He was . .. happy.
Satisfied. Ready to begin ...”

 
          
“Begin
what, Colonel?”

 
          
“I
don’t know, Admiral.” Vincenti shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’m talking
about. You asked me what I felt when I thought about Cazaux, and that’s the
first thing that popped into my head. I wish I had taken him out. I won’t miss
next time.”

 
          
As
the group headed toward their cars to take them to their first meeting, Lani
Wilkes turned and noticed Admiral Hardcastle talking with the F-16 pilot
involved in the previous night’s incident, along with his group commander. She
excused herself from the former Vice President and the Senator and walked back
to them.

 
          
Hardcastle
ignored her as she approached. “I hope you get the chance, Colonel,” Hardcastle
said as Wilkes got closer, a grim, angry expression on her face, “but I rather
doubt you will. We’ll meet again. No matter what the press says, remember
you’ve got someone on your side—”

 
          
“Excuse
me, Admiral Hardcastle,” Wilkes said testily, standing several paces away from
the group. “Can I have a word with you, please?”