Wegener's inspection came before linch instead of after.  There wasn't much to complain about.  Chief Riley had been there first.  Except for some paint cans and brushes that were actually in use - painting a ship is something that never begins or ends; it just is - there was no loose gear in view.  The ship's gun was properly trained in and secured, as were the anchor chains.  Lifelines were taut, and hatches dogged down tight in anticipation of the evening storm.  A few off-duty sailors lounged here and there, reading or sunning themselves.  These leapt to their feet at Riley's rumbling "Attention on deck!"  One third-class was reading a Playboy.  Wegener informed him good-naturedly that he'd have to watch out for that on the next cruise, as three female crewmen were scheduled to join the ship in less than two weeks' time, and it wouldn't do to offend their sensibilities.  That Panache had none aboard at the moment was a statistical anomaly, and the change didn't trouble the captain greatly, though his senior chiefs were skeptical to say the least.  There was also the problem of who got to use the plumbing when, since female crewmen had not been anticipated by the cutter's designers.  It was the first time today that Red Wegener had had something to smile about.  The problems of taking women to sea... and the smile died again as the images from the videotape came back to him.  Those two women - no, a woman and a little girl - had gone to sea, too, hadn't they...?

It just wouldn't go away.

Wegener looked around and saw the questions forming on the faces of the men around him.  The skipper was pissed about something.  They didn't know what it was, but knew that you don't want to be around the captain when he was mad about something.  Then they saw his face change.  The captain had just asked himself a question, they thought.

"Looks all right to me, people.  Let's make sure we keep it that way."  He nodded and walked forward to his stateroom.  Once there he summoned Chief Oreza.

The quartermaster arrived within a minute.  Panache wasn't big enough to allow a longer walk than that.  "You called, Captain?"

"Close the door, Portagee, and grab a seat."

The master chief quartermaster was of Portuguese extraction, but his accent was New England.  Like Bob Riley he was a consummate seaman, and like his captain he was also a gifted instructor.  A whole generation of Coast Guard officers had learned the use of the sextant from this swarthy, overweight professional.  It was men like Manuel Oreza who really ran the Coast Guard, and Wegener occasionally regretted leaving their ranks for officer status.  But he hadn't left them entirely, and in private Wegener and Oreza still communicated on a first-name basis.

"I saw the tape of the boarding, Red," Oreza said, reading his captain's mind.  "You shoulda let Riley snap the little fucker in half."

"That's not the way we're supposed to do things," Wegener said somewhat lamely.

"Piracy, murder, and rape - toss in the drugs for fun." The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders.  "I know what we oughta do with people like that.  Problem is, nobody ever does."

Wegener knew what he meant.  Although there was a new federal death-penalty law to deal with drug-related murders, it had only rarely been invoked.  The problem was simply that every drug dealer arrested knew someone bigger who was even more desirable a target - the really big ones never placed themselves in a position where the supposed long arm of the law could reach.  Federal law-enforcement agencies might have been omnipotent within U.S. borders, and the Coast Guard might have plenipotentiary powers at sea - even to the point where they were allowed to board and search numerous foreign-flag ships at will - but there were always limits.  There had to be.  The enemy knew what those limits were, and it was really a simple thing to adapt to them.  This was a game whose fixed rules applied only to one side; the other was free to redefine its own rules at will.  It was simple for the big boys in the drug trade to keep clear, and there were always plenty of smaller fry to take their chances on  the dangerous parts - especially since their pay exceeded that of any army in history.  These foot soldiers were dangerous and clever enough to make the contest difficult - but even when you caught them, they were always able to trade their knowledge for partial immunity.