The walkie-talkie on the seat beside him crackled. Jenkins picked it up and thumbed the talk button once, then glanced across the front seat at Xavier Gomez. "You're up, Cuggy."
The middle-aged Hispanic Robbery sergeant chuckled dryly as he settled his Giants cap a little tighter on his head, nodded once and got out of the burgundy Galaxie parked on Folsom near 8th.
Jenkins dropped the talkie back on the seat then ran his hand over his jaw. It was turning into a frustrating day. They had received nothing during the night from the two spotters covering Coopers, one watching the front, the other the back alley; and their first two plants of the day, after the drinking establishment opened, were equally non-productive.
As he watched Gomez head down the street towards the bar, he picked up the talkie again and switched channels. "Gary?"
"Yeah. What, you got something?"
"No no, I was just wondering the same at your end."
"Nope, sorry, not a thing."
"Okay, later."
Newman was over near pier 41 in the black van. Realizing that some members of the Coast Guard might be more savvy about The City's fishing fleet, he had requested, and received, permission to have several ensigns and a couple of lieutenants, all in mufti, taking turns making the rounds of the fishing piers, ostensibly as civilians and tourists interested in the boats and the equipment. But so far they had noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
In a similar vein, the two SFPD officers posing as homeless itinerants, and who had spent the night on the pier in sleeping bags, reported nothing out of the ordinary. No trucks or cars had driven up to any of the long and crowded fishing piers, and no boats were spotted entering the wharf area either during the long, cold night.
Everyone was at a loss as to what was actually happening; was there really a Shanghai gang operating in San Francisco in 1975, or could the disappearance of Mike Stone be attributed to something else altogether?
But if it was something else, what could it possibly be?
# # # # #
It had been a long, exasperating day of waiting. Not being allowed anywhere near the two places of interest, the bar and the pier, Steve spent the first hour after the team meeting bringing Captain Olsen and Deputy Chief Condon up to speed, from his perspective. Then Bobby Cox drove him over to USCG Station Fort Point before leaving to join in the surveillance of the pier.
The fleet would start heading out around 4 pm, but until then, unless something broke at Coopers, there was nothing much he, or anyone, could do… except worry and keep the faith.
Commander Williams had taken pity on the young SFPD cop and brought him under his wing, hoping that keeping Steve in the loop, and as busy as possible, might help assuage the almost paralyzing guilt he was erroneously shouldering.
Steve was watching the activity in the large command centre from his perch on a desk in a corner when Williams approached. "Okay, the fleet's gonna start going out in a couple of hours, so we're going to send our two motorboats out now and get a headstart. We're gonna put them just inside the line, one near the Farallons and the other about fifty nautical miles further north, near Point Reyes."
By 'line', Steve knew Williams meant that imaginary barrier twelve miles from the coast that separated U.S. waters from international waters. And by motorboats he knew that Williams wasn't talking about two pleasure craft with outboard motors; the CG officer meant the two powerful self-righting 47-foot motor lifeboats, equipped with radar and capable of outrunning anything in the fishing fleet.
Williams added that he, Commander Brady and two full crews would also be standing by with the two large rapid-response hovercraft, which were more than capable to getting to the Farallons and beyond even faster than the lifeboats.
The commander nodded towards Steve's torso with a sympathetic smile. "Inspector, you're more than welcome to join me on the hovercraft, but I have to warn you, it's going to be very bumpy and very uncomfortable. We get thrown around quite a bit when we're at top speed out beyond the Bridge. You're gonna have to hold on for dear life and in your condition, it's gonna hurt big time. You think you're up for it?"
Steve had started nodding midway through the Williams' explanation. "Commander, nothing's gonna stop me from getting on board with you, believe me." He managed a soft smile and Williams grinned, shaking his head.
"Yeah, somehow I thought you'd say that. Good. And ah, seeing as we're gonna be spending quite a bit of time together in the next day or so, how 'bout you start calling me Brad and I start calling you Steve?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Great, thanks." Williams began to turn away then stopped. "Your partner, ah…?"
"Mike," Steve answered softly, "Lieutenant Mike Stone."
"Right, thanks. Ah, how long have you been together?"
"Five years."
Williams nodded, looking away briefly. "If they've got him on one of those fishing boats, we'll get him… don't worry. We're pretty good at what we do." He smiled encouragingly.
"I'm counting on it," Steve shot back with a wistful smile of his own, watching the CG officer cross the large, busy room.
# # # # #
The sun was starting to set. Bobby Cox had joined Steve at the Coast Guard station, reporting that nothing out of the ordinary had been observed so far at either Coopers or the pier, all the boats now out to sea.
It had been a long, frustrating day of waiting, with no concrete results. And Steve was starting to bristle under the strain. Not being able to physically participate in any aspect of the operation was beginning to wear on his nerves; and he hadn't eaten all day, seeming to subsist on a constant stream of black coffees.
Cox had eventually slipped out and driven up the hill and the short distance along Lincoln and Lombard to Divisadero, popping into his favourite deli to pick up a couple of sourdough sandwiches. Steve had refused the offer when Cox returned but eventually thought better of it; he could hear Mike's lecture about taking care of oneself in order to help others ringing in his ears as he stared at the waxed-paper wrapped turkey club.
He had just taken his first bite when the ensign manning the radio looked up quickly, calling for Williams. As the commander strode briskly across the room, Steve tossed the sandwich on the desk and got up slowly, masking a wince, to join him, Cox on his heels.
"Sir, CWO Baxter's reporting that one of the trawlers has broken away from the others just beyond the Farallons – it's heading west, sir."
Williams glanced at the two cops now standing behind him then leaned towards the radio operator. "Tell them to follow, at the requisite distance but to intercept if they get close to the line. We're on our way." He turned to the others. "Gentlemen, it's time to go," he said, trying to contain his own enthusiasm as he led the way out of the office. "John, it's all yours," he called to the warrant officer across the room.
"Thanks, Brad, good luck."
# # # # #
Williams' had been right. The pounding the hovercraft was taking as it skipped over the waves on its way to the Farallons was taking its toll on the injured police officer.
Steve was sitting on the floor of the small cabin, holding onto the railing above his head and trying to stop himself from bouncing against the walls as the big air boat skimmed over the choppy seas. A sympathetic ensign had given him a life jacket to sit on, which helped a bit, but Steve was beginning to have second thoughts about his decision to go along.
Cox was sitting beside him, trying to be of assistance but fighting his own battle; he'd had no idea he was prone to seasickness. Tonight was not the night, he mentally berated himself, to find out. He laid a hand on Steve's shoulder reassuringly, not sure which one of them needed the support more.
Williams' took off the headphones he was wearing, shot them both a sympathetic frown and stepped closer to kneel down beside them. He raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines and thudding of the craft against the water. "Our other boat just reported that a trawler has broken away from the others just off Point Reyes and is heading out to sea!"
The two cops glanced at each other, Steve gritting his teeth against the continuing pounding his battered body was taking. Cox looked back at the CG officer. "Which one are you going to go after?"
"Well, the one we're chasing right now is moving faster, so I still think it's the one we should focus on. Commander Brady is heading out in the other hovercraft to help with the intercept of the Point Reyes boat. So we'll be able to stop them both." He winked at Steve. "Looks like we're on the right track, Inspector." He returned to stand beside the ensign at the control wheel.
Steve closed his eyes, fighting off the pain from the constant pounding, hoping that Williams' was right.
# # # # #
It seemed like hours until the two detectives felt the ACV start to lose speed; in reality it was less than fifteen minutes. Within seconds it had slowed enough to allow them both to stand. Cox felt his stomach heave as he gained his feet but he managed to keep his dinner down, for the moment. Despite the chilly night air, which had managed to penetrate the small, hot cabin, Steve's brow was beaded with sweat. The ache in his chest was now constant and he was having a hard time catching his breath.
In the pitch black through the windows of the tiny cabin, they could vaguely discern the stark outline of the small blue and white fishing trawler pinned in the spotlight that shone from the prow of the larger Coast Guard craft.
Williams opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the tiny deck of the hovercraft, Steve and Cox close behind, leaning against the cabin walls for support as they tried to get their sea legs. The fishing boat was bobbing up and down, three crewmembers on their knees on the deck, their hands behind their downturned heads, caught in the beam from the powerful light.
"Great job, fellas!" Williams' called to the crew of the lifeboat.
"Thank you, sir!" came the formal reply out of the inky night. "We're just about to board, sir!"
"Don't let us stop you!"
"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"
The San Francisco cops watched and listened as orders were shouted and the engine of the lifeboat kicked into gear, moving slowly and expertly alongside the trawler. Long hooks were lowered from the slightly higher CG boat, pulling the trawler tight alongside. Four CG sailors dropped down onto the trawler, carefully approaching the three 'fishermen'. Two of the sailors, one with a rifle, the other a handgun, pulled the fishermen to their feet and propelled them towards the lifeboat, where a rope ladder had been lowered. As they started to climb onto the CG boat, the other two sailors began to open the hatch door.
On the narrow deck of the hovercraft, Steve stood as if frozen to the spot, watching without blinking. The sailors lifted the heavy wooden cargo hold door, letting it slam against the deck, then one of them took a large flashlight from his belt, snapped it on, then flopped down on his belly to look into the hold.
Everyone held their breath.