Pineda County Sheriff’s Office
Mosquito Lagoon, Pine Island, Famalhut
1457 Local, February 10, 2481
Sheriff Panfilo de Narvez sat behind the large wooden desk in his office. The desk was made of Maderacoco, wood from the palm trees which grew on Pine Island, and was finished with a pale reddish-brown stain and high-gloss varnish. A gentle cool ocean breeze blew into the office, smelling of salt and a hint of iodine. The breeze offset the 90-some degree heat of the humid afternoon, making the temperature comfortable in the office. In the distance, looking through the open shutters of the office’s west window, Panfilo could see dark gray clouds towering above the horizon. It would be about an hour before the violent daily thunderstorm blew in then dissipated as quickly as it formed.
The sound of someone knocking on the office door drew the Sheriff’s attention away from the storm brewing in the distance.
“Come on in,” he said in a 19th century Southern American accent as he stood to greet the visitor.
A man dressed in black slacks, white shirt, red tie, and an unbuttoned black reefer blazer entered the office along with another man similarly dressed.
“Good afternoon Sheriff, I thought we might be late but it looks like we’re just in time,” the man said as he approached the desk.
Panfilo reached out and offered a handshake, “I’m Sheriff Panfilo de Narvez.”
“I am agent James Chalmers,” the responded as the two shook hands.
The Sheriff moved to shake hands with the second man, who introduced himself as agent Andrew Deveaux.
“Please, have a seat,” Panfilo motioned to the two wicker seats in front of his desk.
“So what might I help y’all with today,” he asked once the three men were seated.
“We have a warrant issued by a federal judge to search the home and property of a man living in your county. We’ll be moving in to arrest him later this evening and want to make sure you know what’s going on,” James said as he handed a folder to Panfilo.
Panfilo took the folder and opened it, “So what’s the charge,” he asked as he looked over the pages.
“Illegal manufacture of weapons, specifically, automatic firearms.”
Panfilo rubbed his jaw as he scanned the folder’s contents, “And the evidence?”
“That’s what we are moving in to seize,” James responded.
“Okay then. The probable cause,” he asked as he dropped the folder onto his desk.
“We’ve traced a number of weapons back to this individual’s residence. These weapons were not registered with the federal government, and the individual has no manufacturer’s certificate.”
Panfilo leaned forward, clasping his hands together as he put his elbows on his desk, “Well, registration and certificates,” he said a bit slower than usual.
“That does present a major problem. Huge problem,” he said then paused, “What do y’all want me to do?”
“We’d like your office to serve the warrant,” James responded.
Panfilo leaned back in his chair, “Serve the warrant. Hmmm, ‘fraid I can’t do that.”
“Why is that?”
“You see gentlemen,” he began as he leaned forward again, “there’s a few problems with the whole thing. First the federal government has no authority to require registrations or certificates for firearms or their manufacture. Second, you have no evidence this individual harmed another person or their property. Third, if you think you’re gonna come in here tonight disturbin’ the peace and harass people in my county, you’re wrong.”
“Ok Sheriff, if that’s the way you want to play it, we will play along. We spoke with the mayor before arriving here and he is willing to fully cooperate in our operation,” James responded as the two men stood.
“I don’t much care what the mayor thinks. I’m the highest elected law enforcement official in this country, period, end of story. The best advice I can give you is to crawl back onto whatever dropcraft you dropped in on, and take the same droptrack outta my county that you came in on. You try to serve that warrant and you’ll be sittin’ right here in the county lockup.”
The two agents turned and headed for the door, “We’ll see y’all tonight,” Panfilo said just before they opened the door.
Panfilo picked up the handset of the telephone on his desk and dialed his head deputy’s number, then asked him to report to his office. When the deputy arrived, Panfilo briefed him on the situation, gave him the folder containing the case’s information, and told him to call up the posse.
Sheriff Panfilo glanced at his watch and decided to go to lunch, albeit a few hours late. Walking out of the small Spanish Colonial styled sheriff’s station next to the courthouse, he could hear the rumble of waves on the beach and wind rustling through several palm trees nearby. The beach was located on the other side of a natural sand dune across the highway from the station. Behind the station was a large lagoon, beyond which lay an island, another lagoon, and finally what could have been considered the mainland.
Mosquito Lagoon was the largest continent on the planet of Pine Island. The continent was nothing more than a gigantic atoll in which swamps and thousands of small islands developed. Near the coasts of the continent, vegetation consisted mainly of various saw grasses and palm trees growing in the sand. On Mosquito Lagoon’s central islands, swamp cypress and pine trees grew along with bushes and other smaller plants in more suitable soil.
As for the planet itself, Pine Island was a Class T-4 world; a temperate planet with more than 75% of its surface permanently covered by liquid water. Although water covered almost 90% of Pine Island’s surface, the average water depth was only 25 to 30 feet, with the deepest point being the El Muerto Basin at almost a thousand feet deep.
Panfilo opened the door to his patrol truck, a four-wheel drive SUV painted white with green fenders. The loud buzzing zee-ooo-zee-ooo song of palm cicadas faded as he climbed into the truck and pulled the heavy door shut. The palm cicadas were at their loudest during the hot afternoon and just before sunset; their tune coming in 15 to 30 second intervals every minute or two. Although the noise was loud most people who lived on Mosquito Lagoon found it calming.
Checking for traffic on the two lane highway, Panfilo quickly backed out of the gravel parking area in front of the sheriff's station. In the distance, he could see the profile of the bridge connecting Cape Viera to Sharpes Island looming over the flat surroundings. As he drove north, he rolled down the truck's windows and the sound of wind and the buzzing of the all-terrain tires filled the interior.
In the ten or so minutes since Panfilo left his office, the storm had gotten much closer and much darker. Just as he reached the several hundred foot high summit of the bridge, the wind picked up and rain began to pour down from the almost black clouds. Although there were another few hours of daylight, the clouds made everything look as if the sun had already sunk below the horizon. The surface of the lagoon below had been whipped into heavy chop by the winds; turning the normally sea green colored water into a frothy aquamarine. Thunder cracked from nearby lightning strikes while deep rumbles echoed across the sky from bolts many miles away.
As he drove over the causeway towards Sharpes Island, Panfilo thought about the current state of affairs in his county, the federal agents who had visited him, and all the bad news he saw on television. Things seemed in disarray everywhere, and he wondered if a different kind of storm was brewing just over the horizon.
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