Roger Hammersmith returned moments later. After a brief introduction to Sue, he sat down to plot strategy.
'I've talked it over with the operations chief up in Everett. He and I agree with you that it's doubtful they'd head for the south end of Puget Sound. Sure, there are plenty of places to hide temporarily, but not forever. If they are trying for the open ocean, as you seem to believe, then they have a couple of choices, especially if they don't want to be seen.
'For one thing, they might head north, dodge between Camano Island and Whidbey, or maybe duck through the Swinomish Channel. The other alternative, especially considering how much lead they've had, is to not worry about being seen in the shipping channels and just make a run for Cape Flattery.'
'So what do we do?' I asked.
'We've come up with two separate tactics. Fortunately, we have enough aircraft and pilots at our disposal to execute both plans at once. The first one is based on the assumption that they're putting the pedal to the metal and making a run for it. We counter that maneuver by plotting the most direct route from here through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We send helicopters out beyond the far end of where they could possibly be by now, going full steam. We have the pilots work their way back to base by doing a track line search.'
'And the second one?'
'That scenario assumes that they're going to try to duck into someplace reasonably unobtrusive and wait for the heat to die down some before they head for open water. At this time of year, when most of the tourists are back home for the winter, they might reasonably expect to disappear for days at a time, either up around the San Juans or across the border in Canadian waters.
'But dodging around like that uses up a lot more time than straight-line navigation, where they'd be more likely to stick to the easiest, most tried-and-true courses. That means we'd end up doing a much broader-based grid-pattern search closer to home.'
I nodded, another thought occurring to me. 'What about calling the Coast Guard Vessel Traffic Center to help with the search?'
Hammersmith shook his head. 'I thought about that, too, but I think it's a bad idea,' he answered. 'If they're operating in the shipping lanes, it would be simple for someone to spot them, call in, and report the sighting. But if whoever's piloting that boat is maintaining any kind of radio contact-which he should be-then, as soon as we call VTC into it, the bad guy knows it, too. What happens to the hostages then? This way, we spot them first, but then we have time enough to marshal our forces before they realize we know where they are.'
'Wouldn't they hear the radio contacts to and from the helicopters?'
'We operate on different frequencies,' he answered, then looked at me. 'What do you think?' he asked.
'When do we start?' I returned.
Hammersmith glanced at his watch. 'Our students fly out of Paine Field up in Everett. We have a bunch of Japanese students who are here learning how to fly helicopters. They're due to report in at eight o'clock sharp. We should be able to have the whole bunch airborne by eight-thirty. This will give them some good practice.' He looked at me and grinned. 'And help the company make payroll besides.'
He stoop up. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll go plot out the flight plans we'll distribute at the preflight briefing.'
As soon as Roger Hammersmith left the room, Sue Danielson turned to me. 'What's going to happen?' she asked.
'You heard him. Grid-pattern searches until we find them.'
Sue shook her head impatiently. 'Finding them is a foregone conclusion,' she said. 'What I want to know is what's going to happen once we do.'
I hadn't wanted to think that far ahead. The worst part about hostage situations is that they're so dangerous. Sure, SWAT teams take out the hostage-takers, but all too often, hostages die as well.
Longtime cops take the position that black humor is better than no humor, so I tried to shrug off Sue's very important question. 'I thought I'd have one of the choppers land me on the deck of the boat, maybe swing me in on a rope. I could come out of a crouch with both guns blazing like they used to do on Sea Hunt, that old Lloyd Bridges series on TV.'
Sue was not amused. 'Who's Lloyd Bridges?' she asked. 'Any relation to Jeff Bridges?'
'Forget it,' I growled. 'I can't even talk to you. You're too damn young.'
'I get the picture,' she answered. 'It sounds like the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, only on a boat. What about a hostage-negotiation team?'
'Right,' I said. 'And while we're at it, let's have an emergency-response team as well. That's the problem with law enforcement these days. Everybody's a specialist. Whatever happened to general-practitioner cops?'
'I think we should call for reinforcements,' she said. 'General-practitioner cops went the way of the dodo bird.'
The way she said it made it sound as though she considered me right up there on the endangered-species list myself. After that we both lapsed into a sullen silence.
Of course, I knew Sue was right. That's why her saying it irked me so. Young men become police officers because they're idealistic as hell-because they want to ride white horses, save the universe from the forces of evil, and rescue damsels in distress. I suppose these days, young women join up for much the same reasons. They want to make a difference, and they want to do it themselves.
I'm not a remote-control kind of guy. I want to have my own hands on the knobs-my own finger on the trigger, if it comes down to that. Tracking down bad guys and then having to tell somebody else to go get 'em doesn't quite square with my view of myself-of who I am and what I'm all about.
Hammersmith strolled back into the room. 'They're about ready for the meeting. I'm going to conference-call it because we've got some guys down here and some up in Everett. I'll be back as soon as the last aircraft is off the ground.'
He turned and started away again. 'Wait a minute,' I called after him. 'What about us?'
'What do you mean?'
'Don't we go up in one, too?'
I guess some of those old Sea Hunt images were still flickering in the back of my imagination.
'Detective Beaumont,' Roger Hammersmith explained patiently, 'I thought I made it clear. You guys are command and control.' He said it slowly, as though speaking to a wayward child; as though he never expected to have to clarify such a basic concept.
'You and Ms. Danielson stay here until we have a sighting from one of the Robinson helicopters. They're tiny. Cute. They can fly two men, but they can cover a lot more ground if they only have one person on board. Once the pilots find something, that's when Paul will take you two up in one of the big turbines. Then it will be up to you to figure out what to do next.'
'I see,' I said. 'When will Paul be here?'
'The Department of Transportation has finally hauled the semi off the bridge. Traffic is beginning to move. He should be here within the next half hour or so.'
Once again Hammersmith left the room. When I looked over at Sue Danielson, she drummed her fingers on the table and said nothing. She didn't have to. It was my operation, and she was forcing me to call the shots and do the right thing.
For a time, we sat in silence, waiting and drinking coffee. And after the coffee-incredibly awful swill that must have been made weeks earlier-I paced the floor with my guts at a full boil, wrestled with my indecision, and longed for the physical comfort of an antacid chalk-pill.
Every minute that passed brought us closer to the showdown, the moment when we would find them. It would have been easier to know what to do if we could have predicted in advance exactly where and when we'd find them. Where and when the inevitable confrontation would take place.
Despite my general-practitioner lamentation, I knew damn good and well that not all jurisdictions had trained hostage negotiators available. And even if they had, all such trained individuals are not necessarily created equal. Regardless of whose team was designated to do the job, it might take time-precious time-to assemble team members on a rainy November Sunday morning.
Finally, at ten o'clock, I decided to take my best shot and called Captain Lawrence Powell at home. I was glad he answered the phone himself. I wouldn't have wanted to try explaining the whole tangled web to Mrs. Powell, only to have to explain it again to her husband a few minutes later.
