Crooked River(58)

There was no response. She waited two minutes and tried again. Still no response.

“Didn’t the vessel receive your message?” Pendergast asked.

“She damn well did, she’s required by law to have the VHF tuned to channel 16. She’s just not answering.” Now Gladstone was seriously pissed off. No AIS and ignoring a call—that was not right. But they were nearing the first drop point and she had to turn her attention to that.

“Wallace, how are you doing back there?” she called through the open door.

“Ready to roll.”

“On my signal.”

He picked up a plastic basket of the buoys and carried them back to the transom. Gladstone throttled down to seven knots. The slackening of speed, she noticed, was soon matched by the following vessel.

Keeping an eye on the chartplotter, she held up her hand, then brought it down. She saw Lam toss the first buoy overboard. In another five hundred feet, she signaled the second drop. In five minutes, all buoys earmarked for the first drop were away.

He came back in, grinning. He used a towel hanging on a hook to dry his face and hands, and then checked an iPad mounted on a side console. “All buoys broadcasting their positions.”

Gladstone throttled up. “On to Manasota Key.”

The boat accelerated. She watched the following boat to see what she’d do. But that boat was now doing something different. Instead of pursuing, it was accelerating to where they had just dropped the buoys. The green blob approached the first drop point and slowed, then circled and stopped. She couldn’t believe it—what were they doing?

“What the fuck!” Lam cried, staring at the radar. “That boat’s picking up our buoy!”

Gladstone watched as the green blur of the boat on her radar merged with the GPS location being broadcast by one of the buoys. She throttled back down and grabbed the mike. “Unknown vessel, unknown vessel picking up our buoy, this is Leucothea, over.”

Still no answer.

“Unknown vessel, this is Leucothea, get your hands off our gear or we’re reporting you to the Coast Guard.”

Still no answer. But now the boat was moving toward the second buoy in the drop.

“Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is R/V Leucothea, over.”

She waited. No response. “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is R/V Leucothea, position 26.68 north, 82.34 west, please respond, over.”

This was crazy. The Coast Guard monitored channel 16 twenty-four/seven and had surely picked up her call. Why the hell weren’t they answering? She checked to see if there was a problem with the radio and confirmed it was indeed broadcasting at twenty-five watts.

“The boat’s picked up two buoys,” Lam said. “And now…looks like it’s accelerating toward us.”

Gladstone stared at the radar. Lam was right: the boat was really coming at them, now moving close to thirty knots. She looked at Pendergast. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I can’t outrun that sucker.”

Pendergast said, “Allow the boat to approach us.”

“But they might be dangerous—drug dealers or criminals. I can’t understand why the Coast Guard isn’t responding to our call.”

“Perhaps because that boat is the Coast Guard.”

“What? Why the hell would they interfere with my work? I’ve got permits up the wazoo!”

“If I were you, I would have those permits at the ready.”

Gladstone waited. She kept the throttle down, the Leucothea making only enough headway to keep her bow to the seas. As the green dot approached, she began to hear the distant throb of an engine, and then the vessel’s shape materialized out of the mist and drizzle—the unmistakable form of an RB-M Coast Guard patrol boat, with a Day-Glo orange hull and a 50-caliber machine gun mounted in the front.

“Christ, it is the Coast Guard!” She pulled down the mike again. “Hey, Coast Guard patrol, this is Leucothea. What’s the matter—you guys deaf? Over.”

The vessel slowed about a hundred feet out and a loudspeaker blared. “We are drawing alongside. We are drawing alongside. Bring your vessel to a halt and prepare for boarding.”

Gladstone yelled into the mike. “Coast Guard, in case you haven’t noticed, the sea is a little rough for coming alongside, over.”

Finally a voice came over the VHF. “Leucothea, this is Coast Guard RB-M 5794. Move to channel nine, over.”

Gladstone furiously punched in the channel. “Hey, what the hell are you guys doing, picking up my buoys? I’m a research vessel! And this is no sea for a safe boarding!”

“Repeat: we are coming along your port side and will board, out.”

She clicked off the transmission. “Assholes. Wallace, toss out the fenders on the port side. This is messed up—we’ve got a six-foot swell running!” She turned to Pendergast. “You’re FBI. What are you going to do?”

Pendergast returned her look. “Cooperate.”

“Jeez, thanks a lot.”

She brought the boat to a halt. With no headway, it began getting pushed all over the place by the sea. The Coast Guard boat now came up alongside, and a crew member tossed over a couple of lines, which Lam cleated down before racing into the hold, apparently to hide. The two boats were now tethered, heaving up and down, the inflatable gunwale of the Coast Guard boat smacking hard on their hull with each swell. The man directing the operation came out of the wheelhouse dressed in foul-weather gear, but she could see the lieutenant’s bars on his sleeve. Two sailors helped him over the side and onto the deck of the Leucothea, then followed.