Heavy Traffic

They watched the Seasprite sail past. It was about seven kilometres off shore and it was unlikely that anyone onboard would have spotted them from that distance, particularly if, as Bernie had reported, the crew was mainly below deck. After about ten minutes, the Cape Sutil followed, proceeding eastward along the shore, maintaining a discreet distance behind the freighter. Meanwhile, the crew watched carefully for activity aboard the Seasprite and for any sign of the pick-up motorboat. Sure enough, after another ten minutes and with the Seasprite now long gone, they spotted a boat, under high speed, heading directly out into the Straits. Constable Barlow aimed the binoculars well ahead of the motorboat. “Well, what do you know, partner. Maybe this isn’t a big wild-goose chase after all,” he said with a big grin as he passed the glasses to Tim. “Look at that thing bobbing around in the water out there.” Sergeant Murphy trained the binoculars to the spot where Craig Barlow was pointing and finally made it out. He estimated they were about eight kilometres from the raft and all he could see from this distance was a blurry black shape riding above the waterline and maybe a bump where a man might be sitting. “You might be right old buddy,” he answered, the relief evident in his voice. “Now to see what happens. And while they are busy, Jack, how about moving further along the shore so we can get into position between Parkinson’s Creek and the motorboat? Later we can let them by if we hear that the other guys are in position to block off their escape by road.” As they watched, they saw the motorboat close in on the life raft. Finally, when it was almost on top of the raft they were able to spot movement from the “bump” that Tim had observed. “Christ, Gutierrez made it!” he exclaimed. “Not something I would want to do, no matter how much that cocaine is worth. Now to make sure he doesn’t get to keep it.” The transfer was made quickly and the life raft set free, as Roberto Gutierrez obviously had no intention of attempting to salvage it once they got back to shore. Within seconds, the motorboat was heading back to the landing site, with nothing but a fully-crewed Coast Guard ship and a couple of police officers to block their progress. “Still nothing from Roy,” Tim muttered, as he picked up the microphone for the radio. “Where in hell are those spotters?” he asked Cooper, after reporting that the pick-up had been made and the motorboat was on its way back to the shoreline. “We need to know if they are in position to block these guys off.” “What, already?” Roy answered. “I was just talking to them and they are not even back to Port Renfrew yet. Apparently those logging roads to the west are like finding your way through a maze. It’s taking some time for them to zigzag their way out. They figure it will be close to half an hour before they are in position at Parkinson’s Creek.” “Alright guys. We’re going to take them ourselves,” Tim announced as he hung up. “We will intercept the motorboat as it approaches, come alongside, and Craig and I will go aboard and arrest them. One of you guys can drive their boat back to Port Renfrew. After the arrest, the spotters can transport them to Victoria.” “Sounds like a plan,” Craig responded, drawing his Smith and Wesson out of its holster. “I just hope these guys agree to go along with it.” They were able to get within 100 metres by the time the men on the motorboat decided they weren’t going to be able to get straight back to shore. The motorboat suddenly made a sharp 90 degree turn to starboard, following the shoreline. “It looks like they are taking issue with your script, Tim. Now what?” “Follow them and stay between them and the shore, Jack,” Tim responded, ignoring Craig. You guys have a loudspeaker, right? Get on it and order these guys to stop. Tell that we are coming onboard.” Dennis Ping nodded and promptly made the announcement, but the motorboat kept going, its lone outboard motor roaring, obviously at full throttle. “We’re gaining slowly,” Devana reported, the Cape Sutil also at its top speed of 25 knots. When they had closed to 50 metres, the motorboat suddenly turned and headed straight for shore, only 200 metres away. “Look, they’re heading for that small creek mouth,” Devana yelled. “I think they’re planning to ditch it and escape by foot.” “Not if I can help it,” Tim responded, “follow them in.” “Are you crazy? Do you realize the draft under our hull is well over a metre? We’ll ground as soon as we hit the creek and I’m not going to be responsible for the damages.” “Do it anyway and that’s an order. You may be the captain here, but when it comes to an operational decision I’m the on-scene commander. Follow them in.” Devana shook his head, but did as he was told. Up ahead, the motorboat slammed into the creek mouth and the three men scrambled out, Gutierrez and Gurney attempting to drag the bag of cocaine with them. Realizing the futility of it, they dropped it and fled up the creek bank and across the rocky shore as the Cape Sutil quickly closed. “Brace,” Devana yelled, as the SAR lifeboat came to a screeching halt, its bow pointing skyward as it slammed into the creek bank, its motors suddenly quiet. “You four stay here behind the cabin,” Tim instructed. He and Ballard lurched from the deck, staggering forward as they jumped into the creek bank. Scrambling upward they followed the fleeing threesome, who, having spotted them, had ducked behind a large log close to the forest’s edge and began firing. “Get down, Craig,” Tim yelled, diving for cover behind the bank he had just scaled.