She hit the DN LOCK REL button, which mechanically allows the handle to be lowered--and she got no safe gear indications. "No green lights, Also." "I see your right gear, and a partial nose gear," Vincenti said.
"Cycle the gear handle." McKenzie raised the gear handle, waited a few seconds, pressed the DN LOCK REL button, and lowered the handle. "Did it," she radioed.
"No red light, no green lights." "Four miles out. Use alternate extension.
Watch your airspeed, Linda, you're sinking.
Drop your nose a bit." "Copy." She made the proper attitude correction. Three miles out--and the left landing gear came into view. "What's it look like, Also?" "I got two main gear, no nose gear," he said. "Your nose gear might come down below 190.
Let's go to thirteen AOA and get ready for touchdown. Try your jfs to START " once more, and secure your throttle.
Glide path looks good, and you're cleared to land.
Nice job, Linda.
Little bit more nose lip, you're at eleven AOA." "She starts to get squirrelly below two hundred," McKenzie said.
"I want to keep my speed up until I'm over the threshold." "Okay, but remember you might not have all your brakes, and you have no speedbrakes," Vincenti said. "Use aerodynamic braking all you can, and use every inch of the runway. Go get "em, babe." "Thanks, Also," McKenzie said; then she added, "We should've done it, Also, you know that, don't you? It would've been sooo good." Leave it to Linda McKenzie to think about sex just seconds before making a 220-mile-per-hour flameout approach in the dark to a strange airfield in a damaged F-16 fighter, Vincenti thought grimly.
He did not reply, because there was no time. With Vincenti flying just a few feet above the right edge of the runway, McKenzie hit the pavement, traveling at 210 knots.
... and the worst-case scenario happened.
The nose gear never came down, but McKenzie held the fighter's nose high in the air to let the jet's fuselage create enough drag to slow down. A stream of fire trucks began their chase after her down the runway. Suddenly, Vincenti saw a flash of light--sparks caused by the damaged right fuel tank separating from the wing and dragging the runway. The fighter's nose slammed hard into the runway, then began to spin clockwise. Fire erupted in the engine compartment and caught a glimpse of two full burns of her seat's ejection motors before he passed the runway and began his climbout.
"Foxtrot Romeo Zero One, this is Mcclellan Tower, say your intentions.
was Vincenti knew the runways would be closed at Mcclellan and Mather, the two large military capable airports in Sacramento. Metro Airport was just a few miles away--they might send him there, although the Air Force didn't like to send armed combat aircraft to civil airports.
Beale and Travis Air Force Bases were both less than fifty miles away, and he had plenty of fuel to make it all the way back to Fresno Air Terminal. He wanted to see Linda, wanted to stay with his flying partner. No doubt they'd be convening an accident board, and as the original flight leader and close chase plane he'd be the star witness.
Screw 'em, Vincent thought angrily. He jammed the throttle to MIL power and keyed the radio button: "Tower, Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting handoff to Approach and vectors to the suspect aircraft that just overflew Mather." "Roger, Foxtrot Romeo, stand by." The wait did not last long: "Foxtrot Romeo-01, your control requests you land at Beale as soon as possible.
You can contact Sacramento Approach on one-one-nine point one." Vincenti turned his aircraft southwest-bound, not northbound, and began searching the skies with radar for a target.
"Foxtrot Romeo-01, did you copy? You are requested to land at Beale.
Over." Vincenti cut off the tower controller's insistent orders by tuning the radio to Sacramento Approach Control's western sector frequency.
"Sacramento Approach, Foxtrot Romeo-01 with you climbing to six thousand, suspect aircraft that overflew Mather, over." "Foxtrot Romeo-01, Sacramento Approach, roger, last reported position of your target is at one o'clock, approximately fifty-three miles, altitude unknown. You are leaving my airspace, contact Travis Approach on one-two-seven point one-five." That wasn't much of a vector, but it was enough. A minute later Vincent i picked up a low-flying aircraft thirty-two miles to the west, at the foot of the coastal mountains between Sacramento and San Francisco, traveling at two hundred knots at only a few hundred feet above the terrain.
That had to be Cazaux.
He was trying to sneak away under local radar, avoiding the TRACON (terminal Radar Approach Control) center near Travis Air Force Base.
"Travis Approach, Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting clearance to intercept the aircraft at my twelve o'clock, thirty-one miles, with a three-hundred-knot closure rate.
Over." Henri Cazaux's characteristically ice-cold heart started to pump superheated lava through his veins as he listened in on the exchange between the Air Force fighter and the civilian radar controllers: "Foxtrot Romeo-01, Travis Approach, maintain two-fifty maximum airspeed, stay clear of Travis class D airspace, and stand by on your request." "The wingman is after us," Cazaux said to the Stork. "I thought they'd both land after the bitch was hit." He shrugged. "I was wrong." "He was ordered to land," the Stork said incredulously. "He was ordered to land! Why is he disobeying orders?" "Revenge," Cazaux said simply. "Something I know all about.
And this fighterjock, he smells revenge. This pilot is the real leader, not the other. She was the inexperienced one. This one.
. will not let us live. He will try to kill us." "Oh, great!" Jones moaned. "You mean that Air Force jet's gonna flame us? What the hell we gonna do?" "Foxtrot Romeo-01, Travis Approach, sir, reduce speed and do not exceed two-five-zero knots indicated, do you copy?" they heard once again on the radio. "Reduce speed now... leaving my airspace, Foxtrot Romeo-01, contact Bay Approach on one-two-seven point zero.
How do you copy, Foxtrot Romeo-01?" "He ain't answerin" backea"...Jones said.
"What's he doin'?" Cazaux switched the radio to the same frequency, which was the terminal radar controller for the dozens of major airports in the San Francisco Bay Area. Still no response, no check-in. "This man, he is no longer taking orders from either his superiors or the federal aviation authorities," Cazaux said. "He is going to pursue us until.
.. the end game." "What the hell does that mean?" Jones shouted.
"It means he's a renegade, you idiot. He will put a two-second burst of cannon fire into this aircraft, whether or not he receives orders to the contrary," Cazaux said calmly. "That will be approximately one hundred depleted uranium shells about twice the size of your thumb, weighing approximately one pound, hitting us with supersonic force. He will blow this plane apart as easily as a baby bursting a soap bubble.
.. get it?" His eyes scanned out the window to the south, toward San Francisco, Oakland, Alameda Naval Air Station, Hayward, and Sanjose-the San Franc lights of dozens of aircraft filled the skies. Like gigantic strings of Christmas lights, the airliners formed long sparking lines of light in the sky, strung out for nearly a hundred miles in all directions, all sequenced to land at their various air terminals.
Finally Cazaux said, "That way," and moved the control yoke hard left and pushed, descending even farther toward the dark, light-sparkled earth below.
"What now, man?" "We cannot escape the pilot who pursues us," Cazaux said. "So perhaps we can force him to retreat --if he will." "How you gonna do that?" But Krull soon realized how. In just a few minutes, the answer was obvious--they were heading right for San Francisco International Airport, the locus of the greatest number of those strings of light in the sky.
He was heading directly into the airspace of one of the busiest airports in the United States.
"Oh, shit... you're gonna fly into the middle of all that?" "It is the ultimate game of chicken," Cazaux said with a grin on his face, "the ultimate game of Russian roulette." He changed his radio frequency to Bay Approach, listening in as the busy controllers vectored aircraft for landings into Oakland, Martinez, Alameda, Hayward, and San F
rancisco International. They were already approaching the northern shore of San Pablo Bay, with the city of Vallejo on their left and the dark forested expanse of Marin County on their right, illuminated by the lights of small communities along Highway 101. Soon they were over San Pablo Bay at one thousand feet, traveling three miles per minute through the wispy fog and haze.
"Cactus Niner-Seventy-Three, traffic alert, pop-up target, ten o'clock, three miles, no altitude readout," they heard the controller at Bay Approach call to another aircraft.
"Nine-Seventy-Three, searching, no joy," the pilot of the Southwest Airlines commuter, a Boeing 737 airliner out of Oakland International, responded. The pilot sounded bored.
Spurious radar targets caused by birds, fog, smog, or high humidity were common in this area. At night, airplanes had their lights on, and if it didn't have lights on, it wasn't an airplane.
After all, who wanted to hit another plane in midair?
"There he is," Cazaux said, pointing out the window, high and slightly to the right. The aircraft could not be identified as to type, but there was no missing it--it was ablaze in landing, recognition, position, and anticollision lights. The turbofan-powered airliner was much faster than Cazaux's L-600, but he had the cutoff angle.
Cazaux pulled back on the yoke and turned left, putting the JET L-600 directly on an intercept course, climbing above three thousand feet.
"Niner-Seven-Three, Bay Approach, traffic appears to be maneuvering, now at eleven o'clock, two miles." "Nine-Seventy-Three, still searching, no joy," came the reply.
"He cannot see us," Cazaux said. He reached down and flicked on his landin hts. "How about now?" v "Nine-Seventy-Three has contact on the traffic," the commuter pilot radioed. "Say his altitude again?" "Still no Mode C on your traffic," the air traffic controller responded. "You should be passing in front of him." "Not so fast," Cazaux said. He turned farther left to increase the cutoff angle, maintaining his climb rate. "How about now?" "Collision alert, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, turn thirty degrees right immediately!" the air traffic controller shouted over the radio.
The commuter plane's lights altered shape as the plane turned.
Cazaux laughed as he imagined what the occupants on board that redeye flight were windows, necks creaking in pain, coffee splashing, flight attendants scrambling for balance.
"That bastard turned right into me!" the pilot of the commuter plane shouted, forgetting proper radio discipline. "Bay Approach, be advised, that guy turned right into me. I want his tail number and controller tapes!" "Roger, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, I have your request, contact Bay Approach now on one-three-five point four. Break. Aircraft on the three-zero-zero degree radial, twelve DME fix from Oakland VOR, be advised, you are entering San Francisco Class B and Oakland Class C airspace without a clearance, and you have entered the thirty-mile Mode C veil without a Mode C readout. Remain clear of Class B and C airspace and contact Bay Approach on one-two-seven point zero.
Acknowledge." Henri Cazaux laughed. "Oh, this is perfect, perfect!" he cackled.
"We coulda gotten killed, you crazy motherfucker," Krull said, shaking his head.
"Mr. Krull, our death warrants were signed the second I heard that Air Force pilot's voice on the radio," Cazaux said, stone-serious.
"He wants revenge, and he is willing to ruin his career in order to get it. We are fighting for our lives." Then, just as quickly as it had gone away, the broad smile was back. "And if I am fortunate, I will take a few American citizens out with me before we die." With that, he turned the LET L-600 back toward San Francisco and began another descent, aiming right for the international airport itself.
"Foxtrot Romeo-01, radar contact, ten miles southwest of Travis Air Force Base," the military air defense controller SIERRA PETE reported.
Through a massive communications and radar relay network, military controllers from southern California could talk to and track on radar all military interceptors anywhere. "You should have been relayed instructions for landing at Beale, sir. Are you experiencing difficulty?".
,.
"Negative, SIERRA PETE," Vincenti replied. "Who's the senior director tn"...John? Marie?" "This is Colonel Berrell, Alsoea"...John Berrell responded, cutting in on the Weapon Control Team channel. "I'm the SD, and Bravo is on the floor as well." Bravo was the code name for the deputy director of the Southwest Air Defense Sector, Navy Captain Francine Tellman.
"What in hell are you doing? I ordered you to land at Beale for a debriefing." "John, I want permission to engage Cazaux's plane over the bay," Vincent i said.
"Say again, Foxtrot Romeo?" "You heard me, John," Vincenti said in a calm, even voice.
"Cazaux's driving directly at San Francisco International. He's flying right into the path of the arriving and departing traffic--he made one airliner almost do a backflip trying to avoid a midair. I believe he's got another load of explosives on board that cargo plane, and that he's going to drop them somewhere--on the city, on the airport, I don't know where. I've got a judy on him, about thirteen miles rrh f CF) r c the 13av Bridge into San Francisco Bay in about one minute. I want permission to bring him down as soon as.
A " he crosses the Bay Bridae.
Over." disi.
y "Also, I can't upchannel that," Berrell said. "I know how much i you want Cazaux..." - There was silence for a moment; then, a woman's voice came on the channel: "Foxtrot Romeo-01, this is Bravo." Vincenti recognized Francine Tellman's cutting, no-nonsense voice immediately. "I'm ordering you to land at Beale Air Force Base immediately.
Acknowledge and comply. Over." "If you want Henri Cazaux, Francine, I can take him. Just give me permission." "You've got your orders, Foxtrot Romeo-01. Comply with them or I'll court-martial you the minute you step off that plane.
And you had better start using proper radio procedures." "Francine," Vincenti said, ignoring her last request, "he tried to ram an airliner, and now he's headed right for the stream of arrivals into S.f.o." "I can see that, Vincenti, we're tracking him as well," Tellman said.
Obviously she gave up trying to use proper radio discipline as well.
"I also know that you've violated almost as many federal air regulations as Cazaux has.
Bay and Travis TRACON and Oakland Center are screaming bloody murder about you blasting through their airspace.
Now get the hell out of there and land at Beale." There was a slight pause, then she added, "Please." Vincenti alternately loosened and tightened his grip on the control stick. This was the turning point, he thought. He was still outside San Francisco Class B airspace, and he could easily climb above eight thousand feet to get above the airspace to stay legal. If Cazaux tried something, he'd still be in a position to act. He considered doing the old "radio-out" routine--go radio-out, squawk emergency, then turn everything back on when Cazaux was safely away from traffic-and as long as he stuck to his story they'd have to believe him.
But either way, Henri Cazaux would be getting away with murder.
"I can't do it, Francine," Vincenti said.
"Cut the crap, Vincenti," Tellman hissed angrily. "Stay out of the Class B airspace.
That's an order. Don't trash a long and successful career because of Cazaux. You did your job. Break off your pursuit, now. If there's another incident because of you busting into B airspace, I won't be able to keep you out of Leavenworth." Vincenti swore loudly into his oxygen mask.
Cazaux was about twenty miles ahead of him, flying just north of Treasure Island. In less than a minute he'd be over the San Francisco E3ay Bridge. He could turn right and be over the city of San Francisco in another minute, or over the Golden Gate Bridge in three minutes; or continue straight ahead for four minutes and be over San Francisco International Airport, not knowing which way it was going to go, praying it would go one way but not the other.
"Vincenti... Al," Tellman tried once more, "break off your pursuit, now." "Damn you all to hellea"...Vincenti muttered as he shoved in full afterburner and pulled the nose skyward. In sixt
y seconds, he was level at eighty-five hundred feet, above the San Francisco Class B airspace and on the proper hemispheric altitude for his direction of flight. He was flying above the city of Richmond and barreling toward Oakland when Cazaux crossed the Bay Bridge, heading directly for San Francisco. On his backup VHF radio, he called, "Bay Approach, Foxtrot Romeo-01 on one-two-seven point zero, F-16 active air intercept, level eight thousand five hundred, ten miles north of Oakland VOR, requesting Class B clearance, vectors to intercept unidentified aircraft crossing west of the Bay Bridge, and requesting speed to four-zero-zero knots, over." "Foxtrot Romeo-01, Bay Approach, unable your request," the air traffic controller responded. "I don't show you as an active air intercept--I'll have to check with your air defense sector people.
Squawk four-three-zero-zero, maintain present course and altitude, remain clear of San Francisco Class B airspace.
Break. United Three-seventy-Two, turn left heading one-five-zero and slow to your approach speed for separation. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, keep your speed up, sir, traffic at your seven o'clock, three miles, an unidentified aircraft, altitude unknown..." The stress in the controller's voice was painfully obvious, and Vincent i knew why. As soon as he heard a break, Cazaux interjected, "Approach, my target is that unidentified aircraft, and I've got him tied on radar.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 10