“Does anyone else feel like there are more pangas out there than before?” he said. “That was our fifth intercept this month.”
“All this talk about a wall, it’s pushing them out to sea,” said Chinchilla.
“We’re getting a lot of good intel from AMOC. That’s made a difference,” said Finn.
AMOC was the newly expanded Air and Marine Operations Center that had just opened out at the air base in Riverside. It gave the CBP the capability to monitor air and marine traffic far out into the Pacific Ocean.
Figueroa stood. He looked like he was seething. He muttered good night.
When he was gone, Chinchilla said, “I don’t think I can do another patrol with that guy, Finn.”
“You won’t have to. He’s off the boat,” said Finn.
“Bummer. I never got a chance to apologize for Tasering him,” said Gomez.
“You didn’t write him up? For stepping up to you out there?” said Chinchilla.
Finn shook his head. He leaned back and sipped lemonade through a straw.
“I told him to consider other career options that don’t involve going to sea,” he said. “Whether he does or not is not my problem.”
* * *
The following evening, Finn walked into the briefing room at the station, where he found the crews of the three boats on patrol that evening had already assembled—twelve people in all. He was surprised to see Figueroa there. Had he managed to find himself another boat already? The young man avoided making eye contact with him. Finn sat down, nodded at Chinchilla and Gomez, then turned his attention to the man standing at the front of the room.
Station director Keith Klein was in his late fifties and kept in shape. He was of medium height, clean shaven, and what hair he still had he kept cropped short. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down khaki shirt with a star on the collar, indicating his rank. Finn liked working for Klein. He appreciated his boss’s plainspoken approach. Klein had been a navy pilot before joining the CBP, and Finn felt for him the kinship that veterans who served in the same service often feel for one another. Finn knew that Klein was coming up on mandatory retirement and that he wasn’t happy about it. He returned Klein’s nod, then took a seat.
“All right, everybody’s here. First up, I want to congratulate the crew of Interceptor One for the outcome of your mission last week. Your professionalism and selflessness in horrific conditions saved twenty-two lives. You did good.”
The assembly broke out into spontaneous applause. When it had died down, Klein continued. “Okay, tonight’s missions: Interceptor One, you take the same sector. It seems to be happy hunting grounds for you, so may as well keep you there. Interceptor Two, you take the southern sector. Interceptor Three, you go north. Plus, you’ve got a new crew member, Agent Antonio Figueroa, so please make him feel welcome.”
Chinchilla looked at Finn, eyebrows raised.
“Any questions?” said Klein.
When no one raised a hand, Klein launched into his stump speech.
“You are members of the largest civilian air and marine force in the world. We have boats, we have planes, we have satellites, and we have drones. But most of all, we have our people. You. Our opponents are the cartels who want to smuggle drugs and people into our country. They have go-fasts, pangas; they have their own planes and submarines. Our job is to stop them. Ladies and gentlemen, go make our borders safe.”
Everybody stood and made for the exit.
As the room emptied, Finn went over to Klein. “Got a minute?”
Klein nodded.
“You put Figueroa on another boat?” said Finn.
“Well, you didn’t want him on yours.”
“He’s not a mariner, boss.”
Klein threw up his hands. “Oh, I know that. You couldn’t teach that kid to be ballast. But that’s what they send me, Finn. I can only take what they send me.”
“If he falls overboard, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“If he falls overboard, he’d be doing me a favor.”
“One more thing. We’re only intercepting people-smugglers. We haven’t seen a narco for months.”
Klein raised an eyebrow. “Well, get out there and find ’em, then. It’s not like drugs have run dry in this country.”
Finn realized he wasn’t making himself clear. “What I mean is, there’s something not right about the intel coming out of Riverside. Seems like they’re only seeing pangas. Every time we get a heads-up from them, it turns out to be a panga. How come they’re not picking up any narcos?”
Klein gazed at Finn like he was considering his reply.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Klein. “I’ve got a heads-of-station meeting next week. The AMOC director will be there. I’ll put it on the agenda, see if he can explain it. All right?”
“All right.”
“All right. But, Finn, chances are, it’s just a statistical cluster. Like fishing. One day, you’re catching more yellowtail and sea bass than you can fit in your cooler. Next day, same spot, you’re catching nothing but eels. Doesn’t mean you stop fishing.”
Finn nodded.
“Thanks, Chief,” he said.
He headed for the door.
* * *
At midnight, Finn cut the engines. After four hours’ patrol, it was nice to have a moment’s respite from the constant roar of the outboards. Conditions were benign, the water glassy, the stars bright. Finn, Chinchilla, and Gomez sat on the gunwales and listened to the lapping against the hull.
The serenity didn’t last more than a minute. The VHF crackled to life.
“Interceptor One, Interceptor One, do you read.”
Finn grabbed the mic. Chinchilla and Gomez crowded round the radio.
“Long Beach, this is Interceptor One, I read you clearly, over,” said Finn.
“Interceptor One, Riverside has a visual of a vessel traveling dark, position 33°18'50" north, 118°03'27" west, bearing zero-six-zero, speed ten knots. Heat signature indicates multiple people aboard.”
The speed and number of people aboard told Finn that this was almost certainly another people-smuggler. Gomez checked the electronic chart.
“At thirty knots, we’re on them in twenty minutes,” he said.
Finn examined the chart himself. He used the roller ball to measure the distance between the panga and the shore. Then he pointed at Crystal Cove State Park between Laguna and Newport.
“They’re heading toward Crystal Cove,” he said. “Traveling at ten knots, they won’t land for another two hours.” He pointed out to sea. “Meanwhile, this sector is left wide open.”
He looked up at his two crew members. “If we bear south, then east, we can at least cover the rest of the sector and still have time to come up between the panga and the beach at Crystal Cove. What do you think?”
“It’s risky,” said Chinchilla. “What if they speed up and get to the beach before us?”
“Riverside will watch them. If they accelerate, we’ll alter course.”
He paused, to allow Chinchilla to voice any other concerns she might have. When she didn’t, he said, “Strap in.”