"I said twelve seconds, Cazaux, twelve seconds! We're only at one-ten.
Aren't you going to abort the take off?" "Not likely," Cazaux said.
He waited until the runway end-identifier lights had flashed under the nose, then hauled back on the control yoke with all his might. The nose of the LET L-600 hung in the air precariously.
The Stork's eyes were wide with fear as the white chevrons of the runway overrun area became visible --and then the cargo plane lifted off. But it was as if the Belgian mercenary wanted to commit suicide, because he immediately pushed the control yoke away from his body, forcing the nose of the LET down.
"What the hell are you doin'?" "Shut up, goddammit! was Cazaux shouted.
"We lifted off the runway in ground effect--we aren't at flying speed yet." His eyes were glued to the airspeed and vertical-speed indicators. Airspeed was pegged at one-ten, still ten knots below flying speed. Krull could do nothing but watch the trees at the departure end of the runway get closer and closer by the second. A lighted windsock whizzed by, the orange, cone-shaped flag not far below eye level. They were still too low.
"Pull up!" Krull shouted. "We're gonna hit!" Cazaux watched, and in a few seconds the airspeed indicator crept up to one-twenty and the vertical speed indicator nudged upwards. As soon as it did, Cazaux raised the landing-gear handle.
The cockpit occupants heard a loud swiissssh! outside the windows as the tops of a stand of trees were chewed apart by the propellers.
Krull could see the lights of homes atop the nearby hills getting larger and larger by the second.
But as soon as the red landing gear warning lights were out, Krull felt pressure on the bottom of his feet, the LET behaved more like an airplane and less like a ballistic sausage, and the homes disappeared safely under the nose--close enough to rattle the windows, but there was no impact.
"Jesus... man, I thought we were goners," Krull exhaled.
"You either crazy or you got big brass balls.
What was all that bullshit about acceleration timing? I thought you said you were gonna abort the damn takeoff." "Mr. Krull, there is only one thing worse than dying in a massive fireball in Chico, California, and not making the delivery as promised," Cazaux said as he slowly, incrementally raised the flaps, carefully watching the airspeed to make sure it didn't decay, "and that is surrendering to the police or to the military. I will never surrender.
They will have to take my bullet-riddled body away before I will give up, and I will take as many with me as possible before I go. If I'm awake I will try to escape, because capture is worse than death to me.
I was in a prison once. It will never happen again." "Well, you crazy motherfucker, you did it," Krull said with undisguised glee and relief.
"Those pricks ain't gonna catch us now." The Stork looked at Krull with wide, white, disbelieving eyes, then began to laugh loud enough to be heard over the thunder of the LET'S turboprops. "What's this brother laughin' at?" "He's laughing because we're not out of danger yet, Mr. Krull," Cazaux said. "If the authorities want me as badly as I think they do, they have one more card they can play." Southwest Air Defense Sector Operations Command Center (Socc) March AFB, Riverside, California The night crew had just finished a grueling three-hour-long exercise in which a flight of ten Sukhoi-25 attack bombers from Mexico had tried to penetrate the air defense screen around the United States and bomb the Coast Guard base at San Diego and the U.s. Customs base at March Air Force Base so all drug smugglers could enter the United States easier. They had gotten that idea from a series of actual attacks a group of Cuban terrorists had made a few years back, when sophisticated drug cartels used military weapons to protect their drug shipments from American interdiction forces. That was good for about a dozen different air defense scenarios built into the computer system at the Southwest Air Defense Sector.
Lieutenant Colonel John Berrell, the Senior Director on the floor that evening, made the last few remarks in his shift exercise critique sheet. Overall, it was a very good exercise. His shift was young and inexperienced, but they performed well. There were usually no instructors around at night, so every console operator had to be on his toes and be prepared to carry his or her load alone.
A few coordination items had been missed by overzealous operators in one of the Weapons Control Teams who thought they knew their procedures down cold and didn't use their checklists. The plastic-covered pages in the red folders before each operator had been built over decades of experience and covered every known contingency in the air defense game.
It was almost guaranteed to keep the operators out of trouble when the fur started flying.
His crew had accomplished the most important aspect of the job: detect, track, and identify.
Berrell clicked on his master intercom button: "Ops to all stations, well done." No use pointing out the ones that screwed up-they still had a long night ahead of them, and he wanted everyone's mind clear and sharp. "Run your postexercise checklists and check your switches are back in real-world mode. Repeat, check switches back in real-world mode." Several years ago in Europe, an American air defense unit had been running a computer simulation in which a large stream of Soviet bombers invaded West Germany.
The exercise was a success and the computer-generated bad guys driven off--unfortunately, after the exercise, one operator forgot to turn off the simulation. An hour later, the "second wave" of Soviet bombers "appeared" on radar, and the panicked operator scrambled dozens of very real, very expensive American, West German, Belgian, Norwegian, and Danish fighters against the phantom bombers before someone realized it was not happening.
Those were the good ol' days, Berrell thought. Before the sweeping world political changes in 1991 and 1992, air defense units were the spearhead of national defense and deterrence. Radar constantly sweeping the horizon, young faces staring at green cathode ray tube radar scopes, picking out the enemy from within the friendly targets; determined, daring men sitting by their planes ready to launch at a moment's notice to track down and destroy any intruder.
Before 1992, before the collapse of the Soviet bloc, the threat was deadly real. A Soviet Backfire bomber that appeared on radar five hundred miles off the coast was already in position to launch a large AS-12 nuclear cruise missile--one such missile could destroy Washington, D.c or any major city on the eastern seaboard.
Now, in 1994, the Soviet Union was gone; the Russian long range bomber threat was nonexistent. The Russians were still flying their heavy bombers, but now they were selling rides to wealthy Westerners in mock bomb runs out in Nevada, for God's sake! The air defense forces of the United States had been cut down to only eighteen locations across the contiguous United States, Alaska, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico.
With only two alert aircraft per location, that meant a total of thirty-six aircraft were defending approximately forty million cubic miles of airspace. True, many countries, including Russia, China, Iran, and North Korea, still had bombers and cruise missiles aimed at the United States, but the real day-to-day threat had all but disappeared. Air defense had all but gone away as a mission.
America still had a need to protect and patrol its borders and maintain the capability to hunt down and identify intruders, but now the intruders were terrorists, hijackers, criminals, drug smugglers, and lawbreakers. In order to prove to the world that the United States was not becoming lax about national defense and readiness, it was important for America to demonstrate its capability to patrol its frontiers. The remaining air defense units were clustered in the south and the southeast instead of the north so that the fighters could better cover the Mexican and Caribbean regions, where drug smugglers, illegal alien movements, and fugitive flights were clustered.
Berrell was busy reviewing the postexercise checklist cleanup and working on the after-action critique when the deputy sector commander, Navy Captain Francine Tellman, came over and sat beside him. As part of NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command, the individual command, representing all
the branches of the U.s. military as well as the air defense forces of Canada. Tellman, a twenty-year Navy veteran of air traffic control and air defense operations, was the Navy's representative at the Southwest sector. The fifty-two-year-old Navy veteran was not due to come on duty for another three or four hours, but it was typical of her to come in early when a big exercise or some other unusual event was underway.
Divorced twice and currently unattached, the sector was the big part of her life now. "Evening, John," she said to Berrell. "How did the Hammerheads-7 surge exercise go?" "It went fine, Francine. I need to schedule George on WCT three for a refresher on checklist discipline--he missed a couple coordination calls. Other than that..." The phone rang at Berrell's console--the flashing button was the direct line between the sector and the chief of the Oakland Air Route Traffic Control Center.
Oakland ARTCC, or Oakland Center, was one of the busiest and most diverse air traffic regions in the world, covering northern and central California and Nevada. "Southwest Air Defense Sector, Senior Director, Lieutenant Colonel Berrell." "John, this is Mike Leahy," the deputy director of Oakland Center replied. "I just got a call from a Special Agent Fortuna of a.t.f.
They have a fugitive smuggling suspect that just launched out of Chico Airport, and they're asking for assistance. He's southwest-bound, not squawking.
His ID code is seven-delta-four-zero-four." "Sure, Mike," Berrell replied. "Stand by one." Berrell put Leahy on hold and turned to his SD tech, Master Sergeant Thomas Bidwell. It was not unusual at all to get calls like that from the FAA'-THAT'S what the hot line was for--but to get it directly from the deputy director of the Center was a bit unusual.
"Tom, Oakland Center has a recent fugitive departure from Chico airport, ID number seven-delta-four-zero-four. Zero in on him for us. Don't make him a pending yet, just "Yes, sir," Bidwell replied. He opened his checklist to the proper page, logged the time of the request in the correct block, and passed the information to the Surveillance and Identification sections--since this was a target already over land, and the Sector Operations Command Center usually only tracked targets penetrating the air defense identification zones, Bidwell had to get his technicians to break out the new target from the hundreds of others on the scope and display it to each section. On the phone, Berrell said, "Mike, I got your slimeball on radar. Do you want to make him a pending or just monitor him for you?" "Monitor him for now," Leahy said. "I don't know what Treasury wants to do. You might want to get your flyboys up out of bed and thinking about heading toward their jets, though." "Is this an exercise, Mike?" was "Fraid not, Colonel," Leahy said. "The pilot of this one is apparently some hotshot gun smuggler. The suspect killed some a.t.f agents at Chico a few minutes ago. He's got several tons of explosives on board his plane." Berrell rose out of his seat, pointed to an extra phone for Tellman to listen in on the call, and rang a small desk-clerk bell on top of his console with a slap of his left hand. Serious shit was going down.
Technicians who were chatting and taking a breather hurried to their stations and began scanning their instruments. "What kind of plane is it, Mike?" Berrell asked.
"A Czechoslovakian LET L-600," Leahy replied after retrieving some notes.
"Twin-turboprop medium transport. Gross weight about thirty thousand pounds, payload with full fuel about six thousand." "What kind of explosives is he carrying?" "You name it," Leahy replied. "Ammunition, demolition stuff, pyrotechnics. Suspect might be connected with a National Guard armory heist a few years ago. You heard of the name Henri Cazaux before?" "Oh, shit," Berrell said, cursing under his breath. Had the world heard about Carlos the jackal?
The IRA? Abu Nidal? "I understand," Berrell said. "Stand by one." Fuck, he thought, this one's going to happen. A night intercept, over a heavily populated area, with dangerous fugitives and someone like Cazaux on board. Berrell never wanted to see his sector's pilots or anyone on the ground put in harm's way, but if there was a way to gun down Henri Cazaux, Berrell wanted to do it.
Berrell turned to his SD technician, but Bidwell had been listening in and was ready with the information Berrell wanted: "Sir, I recommend we put Fresno in battle stations," he said.
"I'm betting he'll make a run for Mexico, but we'll have to wait and see. A cargo plane like an L-600 has plenty of legs--he can go either to Canada or Mexico. But I'll put my money on Mexico." Sergeant Bidwell was seldom wrong--in fact, Berrell couldn't recall when one of his predictions was off the mark. Bidwell was always tuned toward economizing their forces--predicting the flight path of the target and putting the closest interceptors on the target.
But Berrell had a feeling that the Treasury Department and a.t.f weren't going to care about economy on this one. They wanted every throttle jockey in the Air Force ready to jump the bastard that killed their agents. Cazaux was supposed to be as wily as he was psychotic, and Berrell didn't want anyone in his sector to drop the ball if they had a chance to catch him. "All the same, get Kingsley and March suited up, too," Berrell said. "I got a feeling Treasury or the a.t.f won't want to let this guy go as long as he's within radar range of the States.
Let's get Northwest sector geared up in case this turns out to be a relay marathon, too." The Oakland Center phone rang again.
"Senior Director Berrell." "We just got word from the Treasury Department," Leahy said.
"They want you to intercept the target, accomplish a covert shadow, and stand by for further instructions. It sounds like Treasury is leaning toward an intercept and force-down. Treasury would like to try to force him away from populated areas if possible, and then attempt to force him down at a less populated airport or over water." "Mike, I have Captain Tellman, the deputy sector commander, on the line. Repeat what you just said." The FAA Center deputy repeated his message. "Mike, we need to talk to justice and Treasury right away and straighten those boys out," Tellman said, "because you know we don't have any procedures for trying to force an aircraft down." "You can't fire some shots across his bow, crowd him a little on one side to make him turn?" "You been watching too much TV. We have no procedures for anything like that, and I wouldn't want to free-lance something like that at night over populated areas with a terrorist like Cazaux at the controls of a plane full of explosives. The potential for disaster is too high, especially compared with the option of just letting him go and shadowing him.
But even if Air Combat Command approved a maneuver like that, I don't think it would work. If the target doesn't comply with visual, light, or radio signals to follow or turn, we either shadow him or shoot him down. Period. Our procedures say we can't get any closer than searchlight range of a known armed aircraft, and I'm sure as hell not going to have them try to turn a plane loaded with explosives--especially one piloted by an operator like Cazaux." "All right, Captain, I hear you, was Leahy said. "I'm just passing on this a.t.f agent's requests. Obviously he doesn't know your procedures, and he thinks you'll do whatever he asks because of his dead agents. We'll have to conference-call this one with Justice.
What's your recommendation?" "I'd gladly give the order to blow this scumbag out of the sky," Berrell said, "but your best option is to have us do a covert shadow on the target, find out where he goes. Does a.t.f know his destination?" "I don't think so," Leahy replied. "He's filed a VFRIEND flight plan to Mesa, Arizona, but I don't think anyone expects him to land there.
his "If he goes away from the mainland, then we can talk about trying some heroics, if you want to catch him so bad--and I think we'd all like to bring that bastard down," Berrell suggested. "But if he stays over U.s. soil, I recommend a covert shadow. My fighters can follow him easily, and with our night-vision gear, Cazaux won't even know he's being tailed by an F-16 Fighting Falcon. Have a.t.f agents leapfrog after us in jets or helicopters, land when he lands, then nail him." "Stand by, Colonel, and I'll pass that along to Treasury," Leahy said.
The reply did not take long: "a.t.f didn't see anything wrong with just putting a missile into him," Leahy said, "but the Treasury Dep
artment okayed the shadow. They'll be putting the official request for support through channels, but I'm authorized to request assistance now." "You got it, Mike. I concur and agree. Stand by." He turned to Captain Tellman, who had been listening in on a companion phone at Berrell's console. "What do you think, Francine?" "Well, I'm with the covert ID and shadow also," the Navy captain replied. "What's his track?" Berrell checked the radar once again. "Still heading southeast, away from San Francisco Class B airspace," he said. "Class B airspace," what was once called a Terminal Control Area, was the highdensity air t fifth-busiest airport in the United States.
The target was approaching the "upside-down wedding cake" of the class B airspace, so technically he was clear, but San Francisco International averaged one landing and one departure every sixty seconds all day long, and the target with fighters in pursuit was definitely going to mess up air traffic if he decided to veer back toward San Francisco.
"I agree with Sergeant Bidwell, except I think we ought to move on the target as soon as possible in case he heads for the Sierras and we lose him," Tellman said. "Scramble Fresno, put Kingsley at battle stations, and suit up March. We should also get the alert AWACS airborne from Tinker in case he tries to hide in the mountains." The Air Force E-3 Sentry AWACS (airborne Warning and Communications System) was a radar plane designed to look down and track aircraft at all altitudes from long range-- if their target made it over the Sierra Nevada Mountains before a fighter found it, ground-based radars could lose it. "I'll get on the horn to the commander." "Roger," Berrell said. He opened his checklist binder, got out his grease pencil, then turned to Sergeant Bidwell and said, "Okay, Tom, make the target a Special-9, covert ID and covert shadow." "Yes, sir," Bidwell said. He opened up his own checklist, filled out the first few squares, then announced over the building-wide intercom, "Attention in the facility, attention in the facility, target ID number seven-delta-four-zero-four, designate a Special-9, repeat, Special-9 covert intercept, stand by for active alert scramble Fresno.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 5