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.
"Not you, Detective Beaumont," Captain Powell said into the phone, as soon as I identified myself. "Whenever you call me at home, it usually means trouble. What's going on?"
Unlike my relationship with Major Gray, with Captain Larry Powell I have a long history of working together. It's been stormy on occasion, but we do have a reasonable understanding of how the other guy thinks and where he stands. Captain Powell listened to every word I said without once interrupting.
"Let me get this straight," he said when I finished. "You're there at Boeing Field right now, waiting for one of the chopper pilots to spot the boat. When they do, you want me to have a Seattle P.D. hostage negotiation team assembled at the airport ready to go, but you don't know where they'll be going?"
"That's right."
"Jurisdictional lines be damned?" he demanded.
"That's true, too," I conceded, "but we have letters of mutual aid with most of the other jurisdictions in Washington State, don't we?"
"One would hope," Powell answered thoughtfully, "although whether or not those Memorandums of Agreement are all in order-properly signed, witnessed, and on file in the right office-is another question entirely."
"It's always easier to step on toes first and say you're sorry later," I advised him, speaking with the benefit of my lifelong history of bending, if not actually breaking, the rules. "If we try going for permission in advance, we may end up stuck in some petty jurisdictional squabble when what we need is the ability to take immediate action."