... and vincenti was praying that someone would call him, because air traffic control or anyone at Andrews Air Force Base command post was not taking his radio calls. He had been trying frantically to contact someone, anyone, and offer his assistance ever since he heard the air defense emergency declared.
"Leather Control, this is Devil-03 on GUARD, I read you loud and clear, how me?" "Devil, I need you to turn left to a heading of two-niner-five and descend and maintain three thousand feet, right now, acknowledge.
was vincenti had racked his F-l 6 A.d.f into a tight, seven-G turn and was on the new heading in three seconds. He began feeding in throttle until he was at full military power.
"I'm on your heading, Leather," vincenti reported. "Is this a vector to the bandit?" "That's affirmative," the controller replied, trying to keep his breathing and voice as normal as he possibly could. "Your bandit is one o'clock, forty miles low. I need your best speed to the intercept, Devil, what can you give me?" Checking his fuel gauge, vincenti made a quick mental calculation, then turned the throttle past the detent and clicked in zone 3 afterburner.
The airspeed gauge slowly eased upward, the Mach meter hovering very close to 1.0, the speed of sound. "That's it, Leather," vincenti said.
"Are we going over to tactical frequency?" "Negative, Devil," another, slightly older voice cut in. "No time for that now--besides, I want our bandit to hear all this. Devil, we believe your target is a Boeing 747. It may be painted to resemble a VC-25 or some other V.i.p aircraft, but it is not, I repeat, it is not a VC-25. This has been verified by numerous independent sources. It is not carrying any VIPS or any government officials--it is believed to be carrying hostiles. We are tracking a second aircraft south of the capital, slow-moving, tracking toward the capital. Whoever they are, they have not responded to our radio calls to turn away from Class B airspace. Both aircraft are definitely hostile. I want you to keep both aircraft away from the entire area, but especially Prohibited Areas P-56, Washington-National and Dulles airports. Your priority is Bandit-1 west to the north; we have other interceptors inbound that might be able to catch the guy to the south. Take Bandit-1 west or north if you can do a visual intercept on them; take Bandit-2 south.
Are you familiar with the prohibited areas, Devil?" "Affirmative," vincenti responded.
P-5ca and comB was prohibited airspace over The Mall and the U.s. Naval Observatory.
vincenti checked his weapons status, which was a joke. He carried no weapons or ammunition, just videotape for the gun camera.
At least I'll get some great pictures of the chase, vincenti thought wryly. Of course, maybe the bandit is really radio-out, or maybe a passenger is flying the thing and can't answer, or maybe he'll turn away when he sees me or he'll give it all up and follow me out of the area.
Just then, a large yellow MASTER CAUTION light illuminated on vincenti's eyebrow panel, and he heard a female voice on interphone saying, "BINGO... BINGO.
BINGO." It was a reminder that he had enough fuel to get back to Atlantic city. Plenty of airfields out here, he thought. No way I'm turning back. But it was a bad sign. At afterburner power, he was burning fuel at fifty thousand pounds per hour--he was going to be running on fumes very soon.
"Devil, your bandit is one o'clock, thirty miles low." There were lots of radar targets out there--dozens of planes were stacked up over Washington-National and Dulles--but only one at that azimuth and range.
vincenti locked the radar blip up, using the F-16 A.d.f's I.f.f interrogator to see if the target was transmitting any air traffic control codes or signals--nothing.
This had better not be another fucking hot dog TV show crew, vincenti said to himself.
"Devil-03, judy," he reported to the AWACS controller.
The fire control computer put the bandit at two thousand feet, just a few hundred feet above ground.
His groundspeed was 360 knots and his closure speed was 250 knots. He was going to intercept the bandit only about ten miles north of the capital, so he nudged the throttle to zone 5 afterburner. The airspeed indicator went over 1.0.
There was no sudden sound as he broke the speed of sound, no jolt, no vibration, nothing except the ground was going by real damned fast.
"One o'clock, twenty-eight miles." "That's your bandit, Devil," the controller said.
"Control, Devil, say my engagement instructions again for this target," Vincenti radioed.
He thought he'd try a little gamesmanship here-- hopefully the crew of that plane would get spooked and turn around. "Your last instructions to me were to keep this bandit clear of P-56 and Washington-National Airport. No matter what I hear on the radio, even if they claim to be an authorized TV crew on assignment, am I clear to engage at will? Over." "That voice sounds familiar," another voice came on the frequency.
"Do we know each other, Devil? Have we met?" The voice sent chills down Vincenti's spine.
It's him, he thought.
Shit--it's Cazaux. It was the same voice he heard over Sacramento before Linda was killed. It's Cazax. He's on board that rake Executive7Just Jon-foxtrot. Vincenti keyed the mike button: "Cazaux, this is Lieutenant Colonel--this is Also Vincenti, the partner of the pilot you killed over Sacramento.
Remember me?" "Who can ever doubt the existence of the Fates now, I ask you?" Cazaux asked with laughter in his voice. "There are indeed mysterious forces at work, Colonel Vincenti, that have put us back together once again. But aren't you the one that is supposed to be keeping the skies safe from men like myself, dear Colonel?" Vincenti was going to reply, but the MASTER CAUTION light snapped on again, and he saw a FUEL indication in his heads-up display. This time the caution light said AFT FUEL LOW, meaning that the fuel quantity in the aft reservoir tank had dropped below four hundred pounds. It would run dry in just a few moments if he stayed in afterburner power. When the FWD FUEL LOW light came on, he had about two minutes of fuel remaining before they flamed out--perhaps only about twenty or thirty seconds in afterburner power. A normal landing would be impossible if he stayed in afterburner power.
He ignored it and keyed the mike: "I'm not going to warn you again, Cazaux. You will turn westbound, lower your landing gear, and head west or north, right now, or I'll blow you out of the fucking sky.
This time I won't hesitate. I've got plenty of reasons to flame your ass, Cazaux.
Do it, or you die. That's my final warning." The answer was immediate: "Very well," Cazaux said simply, and, to Vincenti's surprise, the 747 banked right and turned toward the west.
"Now you have promised you won't fire on me." Cazaux snickered.
"I have your word, don't I, Colonel? We are on an open frequency--there are probably thousands of people listening to us.
You promised not to harm me if I turned away." "I promised," Vincenti said. He immediately chopped the throttle back to 90-percent power to try to conserve every pound of fuel possible.
"But if you try to evade me or don't follow my instructions, I won't hesitate to open fire." "I assume your Leather Control has heard our conversation as well?" Cazaux asked.
"We're listening, Cazaux," the controller replied. "You're within range of a Hawk missile site right now. I suggest you keep going westbound." "Very well," Cazaux radioed back, chuckling. "I will take my chances with your federal court system. I understand your federal courts have no death penalty, correct? Life in one of your fine American prisons will suit me just fine." A few moments later, as Cazaux's plane was about to fly over the Potomac just south of Rockville, Maryland, Vincenti banked left and joined on the tail of the massive 747. Sure enough, the plane had been painted to look like Air Force One, except the paint was peeling off in several locations and the lettering was not perfect, although very Air Force One.
"Devil, Control, I show the bandit headed westbound, targets have merged. Do you have him in sight?" Before Vincenti realized he was talking on an open frequency, he replied, "Affirmative, Control, I enjoined on the bandit. His landing gear is down. The aircraft is a
747, resembling a VC-25.
It--" Just then the 747 started a steep left turn, the landing gear retracted, and the airliner began to accelerate rapidly. "Cazaux, stop your turn.
Head westbound now." "Too bad, Colonel Vincenti," Cazaux said firmly.
"Too bad you were given a plane with no weapons. You could have been a hero today." "I'm warning you, Cazaux, turn back or I'll fire." "You have not been truthful with me, Colonel." Cazaux snickered again.
"I am the man who killed your Linda McKenzie, the man who terrorized the world's supposedly greatest nation, the one who destroyed your fighters and rendered your entire air defense system useless and inadequate. I am your nemesis, Colonel Vincenti. If you had weapons, Colonel, you would have not hesitated to attack. You have obviously closed inside both missile and gun range, and we are over open territory, with little danger to innocents on the ground you would have fired on me if you had the ability. You do not.
Nor do I expect any of the Hawk missiles sites you lied about to engage.
My men have taken care of all of them very effectively." The 747 rolled out, now heading eastbound, and Cazaux added, "And look, Colonel--with typical government efficiency, your National Park Service still has not turned out the lights in your capital.
We are perhaps twelve miles away, and I can see your Capitol Building very clearly. It is so simple--line up on the Iwo Jima Memorial and the Washington Monument. How convenient of you to provide me with such beautiful landmarks. I was hoping to hit the White House, but I'm afraid I won't see it in time. But I can see the Capitol Building very clearly, up on that hill by itself lit up so brightly, so that shall be my target. Good night, Colonel. You did everything you could. Your government certainly cannot fault you." vincenti swore loudly in his oxygen mask and pushed the throttle back up to military power, banking hard to cut off the turn and stay close on the 747. But as soon as he moved the throttles to the mil power detent, the MASTER CAUTION light came on for the third time, this time with the FWD FUEL LOW caution light on. At military power, burning ten thousand pounds of fuel per hour, vincenti had less than sixty seconds of fuel left.
..
He knew what had to be done--it was the only option left to him now.
Near The Mall That Same Time The radio in Harley's car was already a jumble of confusion. She had automatically pulled out of the FBI parking garage onto E Street, heading west toward the Treasury Department, but after pulling onto Pennsylvania Avenue, passing the Hotel Washington, she heard another radio report of terrorists sighted near the Washington Monument, and she turned south onto Fifteenth Street and roared off in that direction, her little emergency light flashing away atop the dashboard.
"Why wouldn't they let us get our sidearms back?" Hardcastle asked in between radio reports.
"Because the FBI is filled with paranoids," Harley said, "or else they were told not to release them--that might be Judge Wilkes's idea of throwing her authority around. Doesn't matter--we don't need the popguns anyway.
There's a reason I wanted to take my car." Hardcastle had never considered his trusty Colt.45 automatic a "popgun," and he hoped Deborah had something better in mind.
They raced down Fifteenth Street, across Constitution Avenue, and found a plain sedan stopped on the east walkway, about two hundred yards from the Washington Monument. A chunky, gray-haired black plainclothes or off-duty D.c.
Police officer with an "ass-duty spread" was standing behind his sedan, pointing a.38 revolver toward the monument and trying to raise someone on his hopelessly jammed police radio. Harley skidded to a stop, popped open her trunk, and jumped out of the car, holding her gold Secret Service badge up for him to see.
"Secret Service. What do you got, officer?" "Automatic gunfire from two perps near the monument, hit a D.c.
cruiser over there," he said, pointing to a stopped D.c. Police cruiser just barely visible on the other side of the Washington Monument.
He was a good three hundred yards away-- obviously the cop had no intention of getting any closer with just a.38. Smart thinking.
"Just blew up an Army missile jeep with a damned bazooka." Harley met Hardcastle at the trunk of the can-he was wisely reaching for the heavy, dark-blue bulletproof vests he found. "You always carry two vests in your trunk?" Hardcastle asked.
"Sometimes I wear two vests, Ian," Harley said. "I'm not proud, believe me." She flipped down a flap on the front and back of the vests, revealing the words TREASURY AGENT. She then lifted the floor carpeting, unlocked a padlock, lifted a large metal door covering her spare tire well, and lifted out two short, futuristic-looking bullpup rifles with green plastic stocks that seemed to comprise the entire body of the gun itself. "Steyour AUGS. Familiar with them?" "Used them all the time in the Coast Guard and the Hammerheads," Hardcastle said. He shoved two 30-round magazines into his pants pockets, slammed one magazine home, charged the weapon, and set it on SAFE. They hopped back into the car and drove off toward the Washington Monument.
Over Arlington, virginia That Same Time The 747 was over Arlington now, skimming over the trees and buildings. It looked as if it were going to hit the apartment buildings north of the Iwojima Memorial, but Vincenti knew they were not Cazaux's target. The 747 now filled the windscreen. They were almost at the memorial, yet he couldn't see anything but the reflection of the lights of Arlington and Washington off the mottled white paint of the 747.
"What are you doing, Colonel?" Cazaux radioed. "Are you enjoying the view? I am." "The view I'm enjoying is the one with you crashing into the ground and dying once and for all." "I don't think so, Colonel," Cazaux radioed back.
"Unfortunately for you, I am not on board the 747. But thank you for thinking of me." Vincenti's color drained. Cazaux isn't on the 747? He hissed, "Cazaux, you're a dead man, you don't know it yet, but you're dead.
his "While you waste your breath on threats, flyboy, I shall stroll down The Mall, watch my 747 crash into the Capitol Building, and then see what other havoc I can raise in the ensuing panic," Cazaux said.
"Perhaps I'll take my remaining soldiers and visit the White House.
Ciao, Colonel." "Fuck you, Cazaux!" Vincenti raged on the radio. He shoved his throttle to full afterburner power to try to catch up with the 747-2 as he did, the WARN symbol appeared in the heads-up display almost immediately afterward, and a large red ENGINE warning light illuminated on the eyebrow panel. He was out of fuel and the F's engine had flamed out.
Near the Washington Monument That Same Time Just then, a man appeared from behind the Washington Monument, about a hundred yards away--they could see his outline against the floodlight surrounding the monument.
Harley immediately slid her car right, with the left side of the car facing the man, when suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire sent a swarm of bullets in their direction.
Hardcastle had swung open his door as soon as he saw the man, and he threw himself out of the car even before Harley completely stopped it.
He felt a hand on his leg as he was leaping out, and he thought Deborah was right behind him. Hardcastle took cover behind the right front wheel, leveled the Steyour, flicked the safety to the upper five-dot full-auto position, and fired a full one-second burst in the terrorist's general direction. "Deborah!" he yelled behind him.
He could no longer see the terrorist--either he was on the run or was on the ground. "Deborah, you all right?" "Shit, no!" Harley yelled. Hardcastle leaned his Steyour against the car beside him where he could get to it easily and crawled around to the passenger-side door. Deborah Harley was lying on the car seat, the left side of her face and left arm bloody.
Her left arm looked like it was hit just below the bulletproof vest, but it appeared to be only flying glass that caused the facial injuries. "When you're getting out, Admiral," Harley said in a remarkably clear voice, still with a trace of humor despite her injuries, "don't waste time.
I'll have to crawl over you next time." "You do that," Hardcastle said. "You got a first aid kit anywhere in
--" "Forget about me. I'm all right," Harley said.
"Where's that gunman who fired?" Hardcastle heard sounds of running. He reached for his rifle-only to face a tall, fearsome-looking warrior dressed in black, wearing a balaclava facemask, a web harness filled with grenades and weapons, standing less than fifteen feet away.
The man was carrying a small submachine gun with a long suppressor. The warrior raised his SMG, aimed.
... then stopped, lowered it, and said in a definite French accent, "Admiral Hardcastle, I presume?" Hardcastle made a move for his rifle, but the gunman fired a short burst into the ground beside him.
Hardcastle heard only faint cracks when the gun fired, but he could feel the impact of the bullets along the ground. The gunman then ran over, grabbed the Steyour, tossed it aside, then stood over Hardcastle, just a few feet away.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 46