Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (58 page)

Burning fuel was never a factor for the Customs boats.  Uncle Sam kept their tanks full of high-octane gasoline at all times.  Even in times of fuel scarcity, the Department of Homeland Security went to the front of every line.

Next, the Fountain overtook a larger sailboat, which was motoring straight out the channel just beyond the tip of Point Loma, the land’s-end of San Diego.  It was a white-hulled boat about fifty feet long, with its cockpit in the middle between two masts.  A woman was standing behind the wheel in the cockpit and hand steering, while a man stood by the larger mast in front, evidently preparing to hoist the main sail.  Bullard didn’t know too much about sailboats, but he was a quick study, and something alerted him to an opportunity.

He throttled back and turned to the leader of the Customs crew standing next to him, and asked, “What’s that contraption on their stern, those pipes and ropes? It looks like an extra rudder, why isn’t it down in the water?”  Both of them were wearing wrap-around sports sunglasses, and Bullard could see his own double reflection.  They had to yell to be heard over the four engines.

“I think it’s what they call a self-steering wind vane.  Sort of like an autopilot for sailboats, but it runs off the wind, instead of electric power or hydraulics.”

“So they can make that boat steer itself, even when it’s sailing?”

“Sure.”

“And they can cross oceans on boats like that, right?”

“No problem.  They do it all the time.”

Bullard noted a gray inflatable dingy turned upside down on the foredeck of the boat, and a dozen plastic Jerry cans in assorted colors lashed to the safety lines along the amidships on both sides.  “It doesn’t look like he’s just going day-sailing today, does it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not.”

Bullard further eased back the throttles until the Fountain was almost at a dead idle, falling into line behind the sailboat.  He read the name from the transom.

“The
Mystic Lady
, from Boston.  That boat’s already come a long way—let’s go have a chat.”  He goosed the throttles slightly ahead, coming alongside the sailboat with only a few yards separating their hulls.  The man and woman on board the sailboat had been studiously trying to pretend that the Homeland Security boat trailing them did not exist. With the boat so close alongside they were beyond pretenses, and the couple forced weak smiles and gave little hand waves of greeting.

“You take the wheel,” Bullard told the Customs man beside him, stepping out from his bolster.  “Bring her right alongside, I’m going over.”

The truth was that despite his present high rank within the Department of Homeland Security, Bob Bullard was at his core a hands-on kind of a guy who missed kicking down doors and busting scumbags. Wendy would appreciate watching him in action.  She’d see that Bob was still a stud who could get physical, that he could hang with the young agents and match them step for step.

He gestured to the two Customs agents in the aft bolsters to follow him across.  The Fountain edged over until its deck-edge rub rail was pressed alongside the white hull of the sailboat, matching its speed of five knots.  He stood on the gunwale of the race boat, grabbed the sailboat’s lifelines and climbed over.  The two men climbing over behind him carried MP-5 submachine guns slung on chest slings.  

All three of them wore black ball caps with DHS written across the front as their introduction.  There was no asking permission to come aboard, no mention of probable cause or warrants.  In the eyes of the law, the sailboat was not a home, and was not afforded the protections of even an automobile on an American highway.  The vessel was a conveyance potentially used in international travel, and it could be boarded at their discretion, anywhere and anytime, with no questions asked.  For all anyone knew, it could be involved in smuggling dope, guns, illegal aliens or enemy terrorists.

The well-tanned husband looked to be about in his late forties, with a shaggy mop of windblown brown hair salted with gray.  He was barefoot, wearing cutoff shorts and a t-shirt advertising a bar somewhere in Mexico. His wife was about the same age, but not too bad looking.  She was wearing white sneakers, white shorts and a man’s white oxford shirt, and a floppy white canvas sailor’s hat to protect her face from the midday sun.

The man stepped down from the sailboat’s coach roof as Bullard and the Customs team scrambled aboard.  He was clearly terrified, which was how Bullard preferred them.  The sailor nervously asked, “W-what can I do for you gentlemen today?”

Bullard never answered questions from civilians—he only asked them.  “Anybody else aboard this vessel?”

“Uh, no sir. We’re alone.  Nobody else aboard.”

“This is your vessel?”

“Yes sir, it’s ours.”

“What’re your names?”

“I’m Harvey Sumner, and that’s my wife Roxanne.”  He forced a tepid smile and put out his hand, but it was ignored and he slowly withdrew it.

“Where are you heading today, Mr. Sumner?”

There was a short pause, as the man looked between the agents, and over at the Customs boat.  “Up to San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? Nice town. Nice.  You have the papers for this vessel, some ID?”

“Uh…yes sir.  Down below.”

“Good.  Well, why don’t we go down below and have a look, shall we?  Roxanne can just keep on steering, right?”

“Sure—sure she can.”

“My men can keep her company in the cockpit. Why don’t you and me go below?  After you, Mr. Sumner.”  The old juices were flowing. There was nothing quite like invading somebody’s most personal space with the full force of the government behind you.  The companionway hatch was already open at the front of the cockpit, and Mr. Sumner climbed down the short ladder first, followed by Bob Bullard in his black uniform and utility vest.

“Nice, very nice.” Bullard pulled off his sunglasses as he entered the main saloon.  “Is this all natural teakwood? Fine workmanship.  Where was it made?”

“Taiwan.”

“Well, those Chinamen, they do mighty good work, that’s for sure. Nice table, is this where you eat dinner? I’ll just sit here, while you gather your documents.”  Bullard enjoyed making himself at home, uninvited.  He was teasing the man, who had obviously been expecting several Customs agents to come below and search his boat.  The documents were in a plastic valise on a shelf across from the dinette table.  Harvey Sumner quickly had them spread on the table in front of Bob Bullard, and then he sat down across from him.

“U.S. documented vessel, that’s good.  Stamps are all up to date. From Boston, huh? What, you came through the canal?”

“Right, the Panama Canal. Last year.”  Mr. Sumner was about the same overall size and height as Bullard, but with longer and much thicker brown hair. In his silly t-shirt and shorts, he was no match for the muscular homeland security honcho, who was beefed up even further by his black uniform and utility vest.  Bullard was clearly the top dog today, no question.  The boat owner virtually rolled over on his back, and figuratively offered his throat to the dominant alpha male by asking, “Can I

get you something to drink, or maybe a snack?”

“No thanks, Mr. Sumner.  Say, do you two live aboard this boat?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.  Yes sir.”

“That’s nice, very nice.  Free as birds, eh?  Just go wherever the wind blows, is that right?”

“Sometimes…”

“But the wind’s not blowing towards San Francisco, is it Harvey? Must be tough to sail north, against the wind.  Have you seen the five day forecast?  A low’s moving in from the Northwest—it’s going to get nasty. I’m thinking it’d be a lot easier to sail south, or west.  You know, with the wind.”  Mr. Harvey Sumner was tongue-tied, off balance.
I’ve got you
, thought Bullard, enjoying the old cat and mouse game of interrogation, before going in for the kill.

“Uh, um, sometimes it can be.  It depends.”

Bullard waited, looking at Sumner as if he could read his mind, and already knew that he was prevaricating.  “So, where are you going in San Francisco, Mr. Sumner? Which marina?”

“Um, we usually don’t stay at marinas.  Usually, we anchor out, to save money.”

“Is that so?  So tell me, where are you going to anchor out, when you get to San Francisco? Maybe you can show me, on a chart? I’m sure you already have it marked, don’t you? And I’m sure you’ve already got the waypoints entered on your GPS, right? Waypoints, all the way up to San Francisco. Don’t you, Mr. Sumner?”

The man hesitated, uncertainty written all over his face. He looked down and to the left, unable to meet Bullard’s gaze.  “I was g-going to put them in today, once we’re s-sailing north.  The w-waypoints depend on the w-wind direction, and how we have to tack.”

Bullard leaned back and snickered, as if he’d just heard a mildly amusing joke.  Once they started stuttering, it was close to the end. He’d been trained in facial cues and body language lie detection, and he could list a dozen subtle clues to determine when a subject was lying, but this man was an open book.  “Nice try Harvey, nice try.  Now, tell me something that’s not a ‘sea story.’  Tell me the truth. You’re not going to San Francisco. You’re heading west, aren’t you? West across the mighty Pacific. That’s why you have all those extra Jerry cans of fuel tied on deck, isn’t it? That’s why you have that self-steering vane on the back? For crossing oceans.”

Sumner’s face drained, his jaw hung slack.

“Look Harvey, personally, I don’t care.  There’s no law against it, at least not yet, right? You’re still free to go wherever you want—I just don’t like being lied to.  That’s all.  So tell me the truth: you’re not going up to San Francisco, are you, Harvey?”

Mr. Sumner looked down at the varnished table, at his folded hands. Bullard knew that liars arranged their hands that way to keep them from visibly shaking.  He could write a book on how liars behaved under interrogation stress.  Harvey Sumner could provide an entire chapter.

“Harvey, I don’t want to be here, giving you a hard time.  Actually, I admire you, I really do.  Most men only dream about crossing oceans, and you’ve done it!  I respect that, I honestly do!  So please, just to satisfy my curiosity: where are you going?  Tell me the truth, and we’ll all be on our way.”

Mr. Sumner’s jaw twitched.  He glanced up, could not bear the pressure of Bob Bullard’s piercing ice-blue eyes, and looked down again. “Well…um…”  He gave a low cough, clearing his throat, stalling.  “Actually…um…P-Polynesia.”  He spoke almost inaudibly, his voice cracking. “The Marquesas, and then the T-Tuamotus.  Down that way.”

“Nice! The ultimate tropical cruise, that’s really terrific.  But you know, I’ll bet there’s one big hassle.  Those new currency export laws, they must really be a pain in the ass.  I mean, only being able to take $10,000 New Dollars out of the country—that has to be a showstopper. Tell me, how do you manage it?”

“We—we’re thrifty. We m-make do.  We get by.”

Bullard grinned again.  “Oh, come on now Mr. Sumner—I wasn’t born yesterday.  It takes a lot of dough to run a boat like this.”  Bullard had a hunch, and he was winging it.  “I’ve never met a sailor yet that didn’t have a little something hidden away, you know what I’m saying?  I mean, New Dollars aren’t exactly the flavor of the month overseas anymore, are they? What’s a hamburger cost in Tahiti, two hundred blue bucks? Now I’m thinking, an intelligent man like you Harvey, he’d have a few coins set aside for a rainy day, don’t you think?  You know the kind I mean.  Maybe a Maple Leaf or two? Maybe an Eagle or a Krugerrand? Gold coins, Mr. Sumner.  I’m sure an intelligent man like you must have seen the wisdom of putting aside some gold.”

Sumner looked to be on the verge of tears, the facial tic was really firing now, as he continued to look straight down at his hands to avoid eye contact.

“Mr. Sumner, I’m going to be straight with you. I could have my men take this boat back into port under suspicion of unlawful export.  We could handcuff you and your pretty wife Roxanne, and take the Mystic Lady right back to the Customs dock.  Then we’d tear this boat apart, down to the last screw.  We’d cut open every mattress and cushion; we’d pull up every floorboard and rip out every ceiling panel.  We’d take it down to the bare hull, if that’s what it took, and then we’d rip the hull apart.

“And we’d find something, I guaran-damn-tee it.  We always do. If you have one penny over $10,000 New Dollars on board, we’d get you for felony currency export, and that’s five years federal time right there. Federal time Harvey—that means you do every single day—there’s no early release.  Plus, we’d do an asset forfeiture on your boat, so when you and Roxanne got out, you’d be homeless.  And if we found more than five gold Krugerrands or Maple Leafs or Liberty Eagles, well, that’s ten more years right there.  You know, gold hoarding is economic sabotage, and taking it out of the country, well, tack on some more unlawful export charges. You could be looking at ten to twenty, easy.

“And Mr. Sumner, we haven’t even gotten around to the firearms yet. Now, I know that if I was sailing around the world, well I damn sure wouldn’t go without at least a couple of guns!  No freakin’ way! Now, you’re an intelligent man, I’m sure you agree with me.  No way would I go out there unarmed, what with all the pirates and cutthroats lurking around every third world hellhole, making eyes at Roxanne!  So I’m right there with you on the guns.  But unfortunately, you have to know, if we did take the Mystic Lady back to the Customs dock, we’d find every last bullet. There’s no way on earth you could hide a gun on this boat so that we wouldn’t find it, not even a .22 derringer. I don’t care if you buried it in the keel or hid it up the mast, we’d find it.

“So what do you say, Mr. Sumner?  Should we turn this boat around, and have my men take it back to the Customs dock?  Take a minute to decide, get a glass of water if you want.  But let me know if you want the Mystic Lady to be heading out across the Pacific today, or back to the Customs dock.  It’s your decision.”