Dale Brown - Storming Heaven

by Storming Heaven [lit]

  "LET Victor Mike Two Juliett, Chico ground, taxi to runway one-three left via alpha taxiway, wind one-eight-zero at one-three," came the response from ground control.

  "LET Two-juliett," Cazaux replied.

  Russ Fortuna, sitting in the front of the "six-pack" pickup truck, lowered the handheld VHF radio and turned to his deputy strike leader beside him. "Right on time and right where he's supposed to be," he said. The six-passenger pickup truck they were riding in cut a corner and sped toward an open gate guarded by an a.t.f agent and a sheriff's deputy. The three a.t.f agents sitting in the back of the truck clattered as their armored shoulders bumped against each other. The semirigid Kevlar armor they wore resembled a hockey player's pads, with thick face, neck, arm, torso, groin, and leg plates that would protect them against heavy machine-gun fire with reasonable mobility. Their helmets were one-piece bulletproof Kevlar shells with built-in microphones, headphones, and flip-up night-vision goggles, powered by a lithium battery pack mounted on the back of the helmet.

  They wore thickly padded ALICE vests over the armor, with spare ammunition magazines, flash-bang grenades, and.45 caliber automatic pistols in black nylon holsters.

  The agents carried no handcuffs or restraining devices--this was a hard-target assault all the way. If the suspects weren't restrained by the sight of pistols and assault rifles, they were going to be suppressed by a bullet in the head. Their main weapons were Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns with flash suppressors; the driver of the truck would man a.50 caliber heavy sniper rifle with a 30x nightscope that was big enough to destroy an aircraft engine with one shot.

  Once through the gate, the truck headed along rows of small aircraft hangars on their right. A high-wing Cessna was taxiing toward them, fla turned on emergency flashers to warn the plane's pilot to stay away.

  Another truck, an eight-passenger van with smoked windows, was directly behind them, loaded with six more a.t.f agents in full ballistic armor and combat gear. This van, and another one heading across the airport to encircle Cazaux, each carried six fully equipped agents.

  "Give me a rundown of the location." The deputy strike leader opened an airport guide to the paperclipped pages. "Avgroup Airport Services is the large parking area southeast of the control tower, closest to the departure end of runway thirteen left," he replied.

  "One large hangar east, one more southeast, one more north. Pretty open otherwise. From the northwest gate, we'll have to come in from the north between this hangar and the tower. That way we can cut off his taxi route." "But he could use the parallel runway instead of the longer one, right?

  We should cover both runways." "Runway thirteen right is only three thousand feet," the deputy strike leader said. "The LET L-600 needs a good five thousand feet even for a best-angle takeoff, and more if Cazaux's got it loaded down with fuel and cargo. In addition, he's got a strong crosswind-that'll cut down his takeoff capability even more. I think he'll have to take the long runway." "All the same, I want unit three to go around east of the tower, down taxiway delta, and take up a position on the east side of runway one-three right in this intersection," Fortuna said. "That way he can cover the departure end of runway thirteen right and block the long runway if we need to." "That'll only leave two units on Cazaux," the deputy strike leader said. "The airport's pretty big--if he rabbits, we might lose him. If they got choppers, we might want to bring the Marshals in on this after all." "It's too late to bring them in now," Fortuna decided. "Once we get Cazaux's plane stopped, we'll have the Marshals move in, but I want to move into position before anyone else appears in the line of fire." The deputy strike leader got on the tactical radio to issue his instructions.

  The intersection up ahead near the control tower appeared deserted, with no aircraft or vehicle movement at all. Floodlights were on around and inside the Avgroup Aviation Services hangar.

  Cazaux's plane was just visible, taxiing away from the front of the hangar. Fortuna clicked on his radio: "I've got the plane in sight.

  I'm moving in." "Unit one, this is two," the driver in Fortuna's van radioed.

  "I've got five individuals walking west along the taxiway away from the Avgroup hangar.

  Some of the people are definitely suspects.

  They're carrying packages, but I can't tell what they might be. I don't see any weapons or radios. I can take them with two of the security team and position the others to flank the target and block him from the west." "Do it," Fortuna radioed.

  Two a.t.f agents dismounted from the van and silently trotted into position, taking cover near some parked airplanes. The five men practically walked right up to them, never noticing them or the van just a few dozen yards in front of them in the darkness. As soon as the driver of the van saw the five men's hands go up--they were carrying small bundles, and through their night-vision goggles they could clearly see they were bundles of cash--the van sped forward to take up its position to surround Cazaux's plane.

  "Drop those packages," one of the a.t.f agents shouted. "Now!" The bundles of money spilled from their hands and hit the ground--and then the whole world seemed to erupt in a flash of light and a huge ear-shattering explosion.

  "I told them to count the money," Henri Cazaux mused as he put the tiny remote detonator transmitter in his flight bag beside his seat.

  Off in the distance, they could see a truck burning brightly alongside the Avgroup Aviation Services hangar. Kbbrull, squatting between the pilots' seats to watch the takeoff, stared out the forward windscreen in horror. "Joining my outfit is looking like a better idea all the time, isn't it, Mr. Krull?" "No shit... Captain," he responded.

  The Stork grinned, showing the newcomer his few remaining tobacco-stained teeth.

  Cazaux turned off the telescopic nightscope he had been using to monitor the a.t.f agents' approach, then handed it to Krull, who placed it carefully into a padded case. "I never did care for them white boys anyway. Fuck "em." "You work hard and keep your mouth shut, Mr.

  Krull," Cazaux said, shoving the throttles forward and picking up speed along the north terminal buildings, "and we will enjoy a long and profitable relationship. I don't care what color your skin is. Cross me, inform on me, or speak to anyone about my operation or myself, and you'll be crow food too. That I promise." "I get the message." "Aircraft on taxiway bravo near the tower, this is Chico ground, hold your position and acknowledge. Orders from the sheriff's department.

  Say your call sign," the ground controller radioed.

  "Checklists, Stork, checklists," Cazaux shouted cross-cockpit.

  He reached across the cockpit and flipped on the engine ignition switches--if the engines faltered during takeoff, leaving the igniters on would help to restart them quickly. "Mr. Kbbrull, your job is to watch this indicator. When it hits sixty, punch this button to start the stopwatch. You will count down precisely twelve seconds and give me a warning beginning five seconds before the sweep hand reads twelve seconds, using the words 'ready, ready," then "now" in a ock reads twelve seconds Do you d "What the hell for, man?" "I told you, keep your mouth shut and pay attention, Mr. K and you'll do fine in my organization," Cazaux said. "Do you understand what I just told you?" "Yeah, yeah, I got it." "Very good. This is an acceleration test, Mr.

  Kbbrull. We have twelve seconds to go from sixty knots to one-twenty. If we don't do it, we won't take off. Simple enough." Then we better make it, man," Kbbrull said, "because whoever gonna be too happy about us blasting dynamite in their faces." "True enough. Oh--hit that button for me right there, if y would.

  Kbbrull reached over to a small aluminum box mounted a the glare shield above the instrument panel, took a look at Cara y with the checklists, and at the Stork, h with complete mirth at him. Kbbrull hit the button.

  ... and a ring of volcanoes appeared to erupt all around them with huge thick geysers of fire shooting into the sky, obscuring the buildings on the east ramp near the control tower. One by one, wite airplanes and crop dusters were sent spinning into the air by explo
sions. The explosions were set in precise patterns, causing across the airport as SOON as the L 600 spot, the explosions would cut off the taxiway and obscure them w fire and smoke. "Jesus Christ, what in hell... ?" "It is so pitifully easy to set explosives on airports in America Cazaux said "Offer to wash a windshield or paint a few stripes on the ground, and pilots in this country will let you do anything you want around their planes. But I am disappointed--only about half of the detonators are going off. I think I'll have a talk with those erica; dealers. They owe me a refund." Kbbrull felt as if he was in some kind of hellish nightmare --the airport was systematically being destroyed all around them, and Henri Cazaux was chatting on about busines matters as if the explosions were just the twinkling of fireflies.

  K n saw one explosion erupt under the control tower, but the dark and smoke obscured his view and he couldn't see if the concrete an steel structure hit the earth.

  "Rather like setting up dominoes in a row and watching to see if the pattern completes itself, no?" Cazaux asked Krull. "You cannot help but watch.

  The disaster is magnetic." Sixty seconds ago, Special Agent Russell Fortuna was in command of three trucks filled with seventeen heavily armed a.t.f agents --now, two trucks had disappeared in balloons of fire, and his own truck was abandoned and they were taking cover behind it. Like a freight train out of control, the six agents were helpless as the columns of fire erupted all around them. A small single-engine Cessna with a Playboy bunny painted on the tail disappeared in a flash of light and an ear-splitting sound only twenty yards away, shattering the windshield in the truck and blowing out two tires. Two agents were dazed, one finding blood oozing from a ruptured eardrum in one ear. All the rest appeared unhurt--four out of a strike team of eighteen. Aftermath of a typical Henri Cazaux ambush.

  "Team two, check in... team two, check in," Fortuna tried on the portable radio.

  Nothing. "Team three..." He didn't try team three anymore, because he saw those poor bastards get blown away when the booby traps Cazaux's thugs were carrying went up. "Damn it, somebody answer me!" "Russ, this is Tim," Chief Deputy Marshal Lassen radioed. "I've been monitoring your frequency. What's your situation?" "The target booby-trapped this entire airport," Fortuna replied.

  "No reply from my two support units." He was not about to say on an open frequency, scrambled or not, that both his assault trucks had been blown sky-high. "Suspect is taxiing to the northwest for takeoff on runway one-three left.

  What's your position?" "We're five minutes out, Russ," Lassen replied. "We'll try to block the runways." Lassen's three-helicopter SOG team was less than five minutes out--they were close enough to see the burning aircraft, like large bonfires, dotting the darkness around the airport.

  The runway lights, taxiway lights, and tower rotating beacon were all out. The flight crew of the Black Hawk had to lower night-vision goggles in place to find the airport. The moving shape of the large cargo plane was now visible, moving rapidly down the inner taxiway. Only a few dozen yards and Cazaux would be at the end of runway one-three left, lined up for takeoff. "I want one Black Hawk in the middle of one-three left," Lassen radioed to his other helicopters, "and the Apache hovering at the southeast end to cover.

  We'll fly overhead and take onethree right in case he tries to use the shorter runway. I want--" Suddenly a bright flash of light erupted on the ground ahead of them, and a streak of light arced out across the sky, heading right for them. Lassen's Black Hawk banked hard left, away from the second Black Hawk, which was flying along in formation on their right. The streak disappeared immediately, and Lassen was about to ask what it was when a brilliant burst of light flashed off to their right. The second helicopter was illuminated by an orange-blue sheet of fire on its left side.

  "Mayday!

  Mayday! Mayday!" the pilot of the second Black Hawk radioed.

  "Hunter Two has taken some ground fire.

  One engine on fire, losing oil pressure.

  We're going down!" "Hunter One, this is Wasp," the pilot of the Apache attack helicopter radioed. "I have a vehicle at the spot where that missile came from.

  Three men. They appear to have another man-portable missile and are preparing to fire.

  Request permission to engage." Lassen didn't hesitate--he had run this very scenario in his head a dozen times since putting the request for the AH-64 Apache helicopter into the California Air National Guard. His warrant, signed by judge Wyman, specifically said that he could not use the Apache's weapons unless they were under attack--well, they were definitely under attack.

  "Request granted, Wasp," Lassen radioed immediately. "Clear to fire." He was about to ask his pilot where the Apache was, but he found out himself a moment later as several bursts of rocket fire flashed just a few yards away, the strobe light-like flashes freezing the rotors of the deadly Apache gunship. The Apache launched at least two missiles, and both hit the same spot on the ground ahead, creating a mushroom of fire. Lassen saw a swirl of light on the ground, jumping and looping and cartwheeling in the air like a comet gone crazy--an unfired Stinger or Redeye missile round cooking off, he guessed.

  "Target suppressed, two secondary explosions, target destroyed," the Apache pilot reported.

  "Good shooting, Wasp," Lassen radioed.

  "Take the end of runway one-three left, keep the suspect aircraft in sight, and attempt to block its taxi path." "Wasp copies." But a moment later, the pilot came back: "Hunter, this is Wasp, suspect aircraft is lined up on runway onethree right, repeat, one-three right, and he appears to be on his takeoff roll. Am I clear to fire?" Lassen put his night-vision goggles back in place and searched the airport, now less than a mile away. Sure enough, Cazaux had decided not to taxi all the way to the long runway--he was on the short runway and already starting his takeoff run. It would be impossible to block his path now.

  But he could still stop him--the Apache gunship had a 0-millimeter cannon that could shred Cazaux's plane in two seconds, plus at least two more wire-guided TOW (tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire-guided) missiles that would rid the earth of Henri Cazaux once and for all. One word from him, and Cazaux would be a flaming hole in the earth.

  "Hunter, this is Wasp, am I clear to engage? Over." Henri Cazaux had killed a handful of a.t.f agents that night alone, plus killed or injured his deputy marshals on the second helicopter, plus any unlucky civilians who were on that airport when Cazaux decided to destroy it to cover his escape. Add all those souls to the list of his victims in the past several years. And those were only the ones Cazaux himself had killed that were known to the Justice Department--he was undoubtedly responsible for hundreds, perhaps thousands of other deaths because of his gun-smuggling and terrorist activities.

  Henri Cazaux desrued to die.

  Unfortunately, Chief Deputy Marshal Timothy Lassen didn't have the legal or moral authority to kill him. Would judge Wyman or any other federal judge throw the book at him for putting a TOW missile into Cazaux's filthy hide? Probably not, Lassen decided.

  ..

  "Hunter, the target is reaching my max tracking speed. I need authority to shoot. Am I clear to engage?"... but his own conscience would prosecute him, find him guilty of selling himself out, and sentence him to a life of remorse and guilt for betraying his badge, his sworn oath, and himself.

  "Negative," Lassen said on the radio. "Do not engage, repeat, do not engage. Stay clear of the suspect aircraft, tail him as long as you can, report his position. Hunter out." Cazaux taxied the LET to the end of runway 13 Right, rapidly performing last-second checklist items as he aligned himself with the runway centerline. Then he stomped hard on the brakes and held them.

  The Stork was intently watching the engine instruments as Cazaux pushed the throttles up. The LET rumbled and rattled like a freight train out of control as the two sets of engine needles began to move. They heard a few loud coughs and bangs from the engines,.

  and out the corner of an eye Krull could see long tongues of flame occasionally bursting from the
exhausts and lighting up the tarmac.

  "Attention aircraft on runway one-three right, warning, shut down your engines immediately." The Stork yelled something and pointed to one of the instruments, but Cazaux shook his head. Krull saw several gauges with their needles in the red arcs, but Cazaux was ignoring them all. It seemed to take forever, but finally the power needle made it up past 90 percent, and Cazaux released the brakes. The Stork kept his hand on the throttles to make sure they were full forward, jabbering away unintelligibly about something. The engines still didn't sound right, were obviously not putting out full power yet.

  "Hey, Captain," Krull said, "this looks bad." "Sixty knots... now!" Cazaux shouted.

  Krull hit the stopwatch.

  "Just be quiet and give me a countdown." "Five seconds!" Krull shouted. It looked as if the airspeed needle had barely moved. "Eight seconds..." The needle was just over ninety knots, bouncing back and forth wildly in its case. "Ready, ready... now!" Cazaux did nothing but continue to watch the instruments both hands on the yoke, feet dancing on the rudder pedals, trying to keep the plane on the centerline.