Let me intercept him and I'll try to get him out of your arrival pattern, over." "Several aircraft talking at once, everyone please shut up and listen," the irritated controller said. "Foxtrot Romeo-01, I said unable, maintain your present course and stay clear of the Class B airspace.
Delta Fourteen, turn left heading two-zero-zero, descend to five thousand, vectors for VOR runway one-niner left arrival.
United Eight-Twenty-Two, descend and maintain six thousand..." It was impossible to cut through the rapid-fire controller's instructions. Vincenti thought about doing a rapid descent and dropping right on Cazaux's tail, but now it was far too dangerous--the closer Cazaux was to San Francisco International, the more aircraft he was mixing around, and the harder it would be to stay away from the traffic.
Well, he had done at least part of what he was ordered to do-stop the pursuit--but he wasn't ready to give up on Henri Cazaux.
Vincenti still had an hour of fuel to burn, and plenty of suitable bases nearby to choose from.
Better wait up here, clear of all the traffic and confusion, and watch to see what the maniac Cazaux had in mind.
On his backup radio--no use in listening to Francine Tellman and the rest of the Southwest Air Defense Sector yell at him--he switched over to San Francisco Tower and set up an orbit above the Class B airspace so he could watch Cazaux on radar. He felt completely useless, orbiting thousands of feet above his prey, but there was absolutely nothing he could do except listen to the horrible tragedy unfold below him.
"Unidentified aircraft over the port of San Francisco, this is San Francisco Tower on GUARD," the frantic tower controller radioed on the VHF emergency frequency. "You have entered Oakland Class C airspace without proper radio callup, and you are on course to enter San Francisco Class B airspace without a clearance. There are numerous aircraft departing San Francisco at your twelve o'clock position." The controller tried a different tactic: he decided to assume that the pilot of the aircraft was in trouble--perhaps it was the wife flying after her husband had a heart attack, or a kid had stolen a plane to go for a joyride and was aiming for the biggest airport he could see.
No use trying to threaten him or her-better to offer plenty of options while protecting the airspace and the legitimate aircraft already in it.
"You must execute a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and fly away from San Francisco because there are a lot of very big airliners in your vicinity and you could get hurt," the controller said, trying hard to control his anxiety and anger. "If you can hear me, it is important that you turn around and head back towards the north bay or toward Sacramento, right now. You don't have to reply, just turn away from San Francisco until we can get some of these planes out of your way, and then we can help you get oriented.
TWA Five-Eighty-One, roger, report the outer marker... Unidentified aircraft flying over the Seagram's sign heading towards San Francisco Airport, you must turn away right now... American Three-Seventy-two, traffic alert, two o'clock, altitude unknown, NORDO aircraft in Class B airspace, stay with me until you're clear and be prepared to maneuver... Delta Four-Twenty-Two, I can't give you that, we've got NORDO VFRIEND traffic in the area, unless you declare an emergency I'm going to have to send you back to FAITH intersection for the I.l.s..." Vincenti dropped his oxygen mask in absolute frustration. The air traffic situation around San Francisco and Oakland was going haywire, all because of one madman.
He had to do something!
He refastened his mask and keyed his mike: "San Francisco Tower, Foxtrot Romeo-01, over the Bay Bridge at eight thousand five hundred, be advised that VFRIEND NORDO aircraft is at one thousand feet. He is a LET L-600 cargo plane piloted by a suspected terrorist. I strongly suggest you hold all departures on the ground, divert all arrivals, and let me take care of the bastard.
Over.".
1: : i.
The radios were completely, utterly silent after that--it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the San Francisco Bay area. The word "terrorist" had that effect on people, and now his reign of terror was being felt here, now.
Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the tower controller radioed, "Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, San Francisco Tower copies, stand by." It was not the same "stand by" issued by the other controllers, which in effect meant "don't bother me"--this "stand by" meant "wait while I clear a path for you." "United Twelve-Ohfour, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your position. TWA Five-Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach.
Delta Fourteen, go around, stay with me until advised. Attention all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays.
Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of runway one-niner right.
Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your intentions?" "Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft," Vincenti replied.
"MARSA" stood for "military accepts responsibility for separation of aircraft," and although it usually applied only to military formation flights or aerial refueling, Vincenti wanted to use it to intercept Cazaux.
"Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01," the tower controller said. Although air traffic control tower controllers rarely issued clearances other than "cleared for takeoff" and "cleared to land," this was obviously an unusual and dangerous situation.
"You are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your most expeditious airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five nautical mile radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the NORDO aircraft. Stay on this frequency." "Roger," Vincenti replied--just before he pulled hard on his control stick in a tight loop. When he emerged from the loop, he was just south of the Bay Bridge in a fifteen-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, heading "down the ramp" right at San Francisco International Airport.
There were very few aircraft on his radar scope, and only one aircraft near San Francisco International was not transmitting any air traffic transponder codes--that had to be Cazaux.
"Foxtrot Romeo-01 is tied on radar and accepts MARSA with unidentified aircraft," Vincenti radioed. "I suggest you get on the radio and try to get Oakland to keep its planes on the ground, too. I don't think it'll be safe for any other planes to be flying around over San Francisco Bay right about now." "Say that last transmission again, Foxtrot Romeo-01... ?" San Francisco Tower called. But there was no reply.
Taddele Korhonen, at the controls of the LET L-600, had pushed the throttles up to full power, and they were skimming across the top of the piers, docks, and warehouses of the Port of San Francisco, west and south of the Bay Bridge.
"Why the hell we flyin" so low to the city?" Jefferson "Krull" Jones asked. He and Henri Cazaux were in the cargo bay of the L-600, removing some of the packets of money and cocaine from the second pallet. "You gonna drop all those explosives on San Francisco, too?" "Of course not," Cazaux replied. "The loss of the Stinger missiles was regrettable and will dearly affect my business, but all is not lost if I can salvage the explosives and ammunition. Besides, we are still flying. As long as we're airborne, there is hope." Suddenly, the chatter on the air traffic control channel seemed to cease. The quiet caught Cazaux's attention as easily as a loud gunshot. Then he heard, "Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, San Francisco Tower copies, stand by... United Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your position. TWA Five-eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach..." "What the hell is going' on?" Jones asked.
"Sounds like they're clearin' everybody out." "That is exactly what they're doing," Cazaux said. "But why?" "Attention all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays.
Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one
miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your intentions?" "Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft," came the reply.
"Foxtrot Romeo Zero One... that's the damn fighter again!" Jones said. "Man, he's back on our tail!" "They will never give him a clearance to descend at five hundred knots through dense airspace like this," Cazaux said.
"Impossible." "Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your most expeditious airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five nautical mile radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the NORDO aircraft.
Stay on this frequency." "Jesus, they just gave him carte blanche," Cazaux said, stunned.
"A tower controller is not authorized to give such a clearance!" "Well, he just did it," Jones sneered. "And now he's gonna be gunnin' for our asses. What the hell we gonna do now?" Cazaux looked like a balloon that was pricked with a pin and was slowly losing air.
For the first time, Jones saw real depression, real defeat in his face.
He stared out the open end of the L-600 as if he could see the F-16 diving down on them, could see the cannon muzzle flashing, could see the heavy 20-millimeter shells peppering him and his plane.
"We can surrender, man," Jones continued.
"Tell him we give up. It's better than dyin," man." "I will never give up!" Cazaux said emphatically. "I will never surrender!" He went over to the intercom panel and hit the mike button: "Stork, fly over San Francisco International Airport, right over the terminal buildings." The L-600 banked left and descended in response. Cazaux switched the intercom switch to the VHF radio: "Attention, F-16 fighter, this is Henri Cazaux. I have several thousand pounds of explosives on board this aircraft, and I will release them on San Francisco International Airport unless you depart this area." "You'll be dead long before you reach the airport, Cazaux," a voice said over the frequency. "I show you two minutes to the airport, and I'm in missile range right now." Vincenti hoped the bluff would work--he wasn't carrying any missiles at all, and he wouldn't be in optimum gun range for another thirty to forty seconds.
"Jettison the explosives right now, into the bay, and then fly away from the airport straight down the bay. After that, I'll direct you to make a turn over the bay north, and we'll land at Alameda Naval Air Station." To Jones, Cazaux shouted, "Get that second pallet ready to drop." On the radio, he asked, "How do I know you will not kill me after I do all that you order?" "I'm not giving you any guarantees, you sonofabitch, except this--if I don't see your course altered away from land, you'll be dead in three seconds. What's it going to be?" "Very well, I am dumping the explosives overboard right now.
Do not fire your missiles." He motioned to Krull, and he and the big loader pushed the second pallet of military gear out the cargo ramp, just a few hundred yards east of Fullers Point, north of the airport.
Cazaux then picked up the microphone and switched to intercom: "Stork, decrease speed and execute a turn back to the north.
and then turn directly towards San Francisco International again and go to full throttle." Back on VHF: "All right, I have done as you asked.
I have dropped the explosives, and I am turning north. Hold your fire.
I broadcast my surrender to all who can hear my voice on this frequency. I am surrendering to the United States Air Force, for assurances that I will not be fired upon. You are all my witnesses in case there is a so-called unfortunate accident." "You gonna do it?" Jones shouted over the windblast and the roar of the engines through the open cargo ramp. "You gonna drop the last pallet on San Francisco International? Holy shit!
He'll put a missile up our asses for sure... Jesus, mother of god..." "If he had missiles, he would have killed us long ago," Cazaux decided. "He has only guns, like the first fighter. I believe he will wait until we fly down the center of San Francisco Bay, then open fire. I am hoping he cannot follow us if we slow down and turn. No one threatens me and gets away with it." He dropped the microphone, then went over to a rack with several backpack-style parachutes and pulled Francisco International, then parachute to safety. The Stork will put the plane on autopilot and join us." "We're not dropping anything," Jones said. As Cazaux began fastening his parachute harness, Jones reached down and pulled a small automatic pistol from an ankle holster. "Hold your hands straight out from your sides and turn around." "What is this?" Cazaux asked, a trace of amusement in his eyes.
"U.s. Marshal, Cazauxea"...Jones said. He retrieved a wallet from a back pocket, flipped it open to reveal a five-pointed star, and tucked the wallet in his belt. "You're under arrest, motherfucker. I said turn around." "If you fire that gun in here, Marshal jones, you will blow us all to hell." "It would be worth it to watch you die, Cazaux," Jones said.
"Step away from there, across the plane, facing the wall. Move." As Cazaux moved slowly in front of the third pallet toward the left side of the cargo bay, Jones reached the intercom panel: "Stork, this is Jones. Don't turn back towards San Francisco. Fly north down the middle of the bay. I'm a federal marshal, and you're under arrest.
If you turn towards land, I'll--" Suddenly the LET L-600 seemed as if it flipped completely upside down. Korhonen had thrown the plane into a steep left bank, causing jones to lose his balance for just a few seconds--but that was more than enough time for Cazaux. With incredible speed, Cazaux knelt under jones's first bullet, withdrew a Walther PPK automatic pistol from his right boot, dodged a second shot fired at him by throwing himself aft toward the open cargo ramp, then opened fire on Jones. He missed his intended target--Jones's heart--but he managed several shots into the big man's chest and one in the head.
The undercover U.s. marshal fired several more shots at Cazaux before he dropped, still fighting even as he was dying.
"I have got to get out of this damned business. The authorities are practically in bed with me." Cazaux tried to clear his head and get to his feet. One bullet had hit him in the left leg, creasing across his calf and ankle. Walking on it was difficult, but he ignored the burning pain, made his way forward and said to Korhonen, "Good job, Stork. I knew I could depend on you. You're one of the few in my organization I can trust." "Thank you, sir," the Stork said, showing two grimy rows of teeth.
"I am getting a fluctuating oil pressure on the number two engine, sir. I think one of your shots hit the right engine. We have perhaps ten minutes" time before I have to shut down.
What are your orders?" "One last act of revenge, and we will get out of this place, take the money, and go into hiding in Mexico," Cazaux said. He pointed at San Francisco International and said, "Fly right over the main terminal building, Stork. Dive right for it, then pitch up at the last moment.
I will get the pallet ready to drop. After that, fly her south along the coast at medium altitude, set the autopilot, and we'll bail out together. We will make our way to the central valley and make contact with our Mexican agents.
Thank you again, old friend." He clasped Korhonen on the shoulder once again, then returned to the cargo bay.
But it wasn't going to happen, Cazaux realized.jones's body was lying across the rear deck, directly in the path of the one remaining pallet, blocking the cargo ramp opening, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't move the three-hundred-plus-pound corpse. The explosives weren't going anywhere.
He shrugged, checked that his PPK was secure in its boot holster, stuffed a few bundles of cash into his fatigue shirt, tightened up his parachute straps, and hefted two of the remaining hand grenades.
"Thanks again, Stork," he said to no one. "You were a good pilot." He then popped the safety pins off the grenades, tossed them atop the last pallet filled with explosives, and ran out the open cargo ramp, pulling his parachute D-ring as he cleared the ramp.
Taddele Korhonen was well above redlined on both engines and at the plane's structural redlined as he careened through three hundred feet, aiming righ
t for the main commercial terminal at San Francisco International--what was the worry about overstressing the plane, he reasoned, when they were apparently going to ditch it?
Coming in from the northeast, he was lined up with runways 1 91 and 191 and offset a bit to the north. The taxiways on the X-shaped airport were dotted with airliners waiting to depart, and the entire circular main terminal building was choked with airliners and service trucks.
As the center of the largest part of the main terminal building almost touched the cargo plane's nose, the Stork clicked twice on the intercom to let his master know they had arrived, then began to pull up into a steep climb.
The first explosion did not seem too loud, and since Korhonen was concentrating on the pullout, he ignored it.
Then his ears registered a second loud bang! and then another explosion a hundred times louder and more powerful.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 11