Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Ron Gates was clutching onto the armrest of his seat as the Nomad’s motion took hold of him. Was this trip necessary?

  They were in a descent and turning. Not just the plane but his stomach too. Hoey had announced a high-speed plane that seemed to have just made a drop very close to their position—below them actually. She kept the telescopic infrared camera on the plane while at ten thousand feet above the water. There were four boats. Several large boxes were spotted in the water, and boats waiting for the delivery were hauling them on board their vessels. The plane that made the drop was heading southeast, no doubt to make more drops to prepositioned boats up and down the Bahamas. It was a very major delivery . . .

  Hoey was excited and understandably so. She could hardly sit still in her seat. “Hammerhead, this is damned amazing. They’re making a major delivery—we’re going to need all the boats and choppers you can get out here—”

  “We copy all, Three-Four. Stay with them as long as you can. Keep feeding up position updates after they break off and run.”

  “Copy, Hammerhead.”

  “Be advised, Hammerhead,” a specialist reported as he finally began to get a clearer picture on his infrared scanner, “we see at least fifteen big cases being dropped in the water, cases large enough to be two-hundred-pounders. Can’t get an accurate count yet but there’s at least fifteen . . . my God ...”

  “Keep those reports coming, Buff.” Geffar turned to Hardcastle. “You guys airborne?”

  “Three Falcons and two Island-class boats out of Miami Beach. I’m getting more. We’ve got Customs units assembling. They’ll be ready to deploy as soon as we get a clear picture on where these guys go.” “Admiral Hardcastle,” one of the young Coast Guard techs reported, “DIAMOND has picked up another air target. Sixty miles southeast of MAYBERRY, another fast-mover—preliminary velocity estimate says five hundred knots.”

  “Five hundred?” Hardcastle switched to that screen and found the highlighted radar return. The radar aboard the Coast Guard aerostat vessel had assigned the new target a confidence of 1, the highest factor—this was no stray return. “Got an origin on this guy?” “Negative. Appeared on radar well offshore, though. Not out of Holguin or Camaguey.” Those two areas were large Cuban Air Force bases with sophisticated air-defense units at both locations.

  “This better not be the Cuban Air Force moving in on this.” “They’ve launched fighters at us before,” Geffar said, “but never from the interior bases—it’s always been from Havana ...”

  “Sandra,” one of the Customs investigators manning the phones called out, “Message from Homestead. Intelligence got an anonymous tip about Gates ...” “Hammerhead, this is Three-Four.” It was Drury on the radio a few minutes later. Sweat was pouring from his neck, his gloved hands were hot and damp. “Where is that guy? What’s his position? Talk to me . . .”

  “Three-Four, turn right thirty degrees, vector for traffic at your nine o’clock, ten miles,” a controller on the Hammerhead One platform ordered. “Advise when you have visual on him ...”

  “Negative visual, Hammerhead,” Drury said. The strain in his voice was palpable. “I don’t see any lights. Flight visibility is about five miles. He must not have his lights on. I’m in a right turn.” They could hear Drury’s copilot broadcasting a warning on the GUARD emergency channels, trying to order the intruder to stay away.

  “Definitely a pickup, Hammerhead,” Specialist Buff LaMont reported from the Nomad. “We count at least eight strings of large boxes with flotation gear being picked up, at least three big boxes on each string. All the boxes are roped together. Estimate each box to weigh around two hundred pounds, maybe more.” The image from the infrared scanner showed the scene below with graphic clarity. “It takes two guys to lift each box. Wait... I count four boxes altogether. Four boxes, over two hundred pounds each on each string.”

  “I still don’t see that plane, Hammerhead,” Drury yelled over the radio. “Where in hell do I go now, dammit?” “Three-Four, turn left, maintain your altitude,” the controller replied to Drury. “Target is at your twelve o’clock and above you . . . roll out, maintain heading and altitude . . . target passing off your nine o’clock, two miles.”

  “It has to be the Cubans—who else would have a plane that can go so fast and who’d be harassing American Customs Service planes?” Geffar said.

  “Almost a thousand pounds of drugs for each boat,” Hardcastle said. “A big drop. If they made a drop that size over Mayberry—” “And if they make more drops near those other places near Andros Island and Exuma Cays where we saw those other boats sitting,” Geffar said, “this guy is carrying a huge load. Much bigger than a little prop job.” She paused, then looked at Hardcastle with a startled expression. “A fast transport, faster than the Shorts you shot down ... flying all the way from South America to the Bahamas with a huge load. A big civil transport ... or a military flight . . . ?”

  “Military . . .” If that’s a military cargo plane”—they stared at the magnified view around the Nomad, which was still trying to maneuver away from the unidentified newcomer—“then that guy might be military, too ... a military jet . . . fighter . . . ?”

  Geffar scrambled for the touch-screen. “Three-Four, break off from your surveillance. Head for Marathon or Key West at best possible speed ...”

  “The boats are heading west, Hammerhead,” Drury told her. “If we’re clear of that traffic we’ll continue our surveillance—”

  “Never mind the surveillance, break off and head north now. ”

  “Tell him to stay low,” Hardcastle said. “Maybe the guy will leave him alone. Keep broadcasting on all emergency frequencies. I’ll try to get my headquarters to raise the State Department.”

  “Target at Three-Four’s six o’clock, three miles,” Long reported. “What the hell is he doing? Playing tag? Is he one of your guys, Hardcastle?” Still suspicious of the Coast Guard, like a good old Customs true-believer.

  “Crew, we’re breaking off surveillance,” Drury announced. “We got some plane chasing us out of the area—”

  He never finished the sentence.

  A loud, animal-like screech erupted from the radios, followed by a hiss of static and muffled bangs. Geffar grabbed onto the console, thinking that something had hit the platform. Hoping that . . .

  “Fire!” someone shouted in the command center of the Hammerhead One platform. “There’s a fire on board the Nomad! ...”

  A column of flame leapt out from underneath the radar console in the Nomad, spreading directly into Jacqueline Hoey’s lap. Her scream was nearly drowned out by shouts from inside the cabin. Lamont was there with a fire extinguisher but seemed unable to keep his balance—he seemed to be floating around in the cabin as if weightless. Suddenly both he and Hoey were thrown against the ceiling.

  Ronald Gates, newly installed commissioner, opened his mouth to scream but nothing could be heard over the roaring sound of wind and explosions. His body was straining against his seat belt, the upper half pinned against the radar-control console. His hands shot up to his face, covering his death’s mask.

  “Contact lost with Three-Four!” Long shouted. “It disappeared off radar!”

  Geffar got to her feet, tore off her headset. “Get the Black Hawk ready for takeoff. Broadcast the Nomad’s last position on all emergency channels. Track that unknown and find out where he goes. Tactical crew armed and on deck in two minutes.”

  Hardcastle clicked on the platform’s intercom. “Helipad one, helipad one, prepare to launch helo. All hands, stand by to launch helo. Customs tactical crew to your helo immediately. Repeat, Black Hawk tactical crew, report to your helo immediately.” As Geffar ran outside he punched up the intercom to the lower hangar deck. “Deck three, this is Admiral Hardcastle. Get the Sea Lion up on deck and get her ready for takeoff . . . no, I want it up now. Spare two plane captains from the Black Hawk launch and get that Sea Lion on deck now!” He threw off his headset, turned to Curtis Long, who w
as trying to reach the Navy Pegasus hydrofoil ship by radio. “Can you handle things here?”

  “What. . . ?”

  “I’m taking the Sea Lion airborne to—”

  “That’s not authorized, we’ve got a plane down and two more in the area. It’s dark, we’ve got lousy weather. I’m not sure if I can work all of this stuff in a rescue situation. Taking that thing up there, sir, can just screw things up—”

  “I’ve been notified of a disaster at sea and I’m launching to investigate and assist.” He headed for the exit, ignoring Long’s following complaints.

  The rain was coming down in driving sheets now as Hardcastle reached the upper flight desk and went to the elevator from where the Sea Lion tilt-rotor aircraft would be raised. The Sea Lion came on deck a few minutes later. The aircraft, designed to be stowed on board an aircraft carrier or Marine Corps landing assault ship, was in its below-decks stowed configuration—the rotors on both engines were folded along the engine nacelles, the nacelles raised horizontally, and the wing was swiveled around so that the starboard nacelle was nestled between the Sea Lion’s twin tails and the port nacelle was suspended out off the plane’s nose. In this configuration the Sea Lion could almost squeeze inside a space equivalent to a two-car garage but within sixty seconds reconfigure itself with the flip of a switch into takeoff configuration.

  As the plane captains began towing it over to helipad number two Hardcastle jumped inside and began pulling the safing pins from the Sea Stinger missile pod on the starboard side and the Chain Gun pod on the port side. By the time the aircraft was moved onto its helipad, Hardcastle was beginning to strap into the pilot’s seat. As he did, three men, two Coast Guardsmen and a Customs Service agent, got in with him.

  “We heard you and Long talking in the command center, Admiral,” one of the Coast Guardsmen said. “Seaman Toby Morton, sir. We figured you might like some help.”

  Hardcastle didn’t argue. “Strap in and get ready,” he said as he put on a helmet. “Who else is with you?”

  The three were pulling on headsets they found on the seats and strapping themselves in. “Seaman First Bill Petraglia and some junior G-man we grabbed on the way.”

  “Anyone armed?”

  “I got one M-16 and a coupla clips. The Customs guy has a side- arm.”

  A moment later the Customs Service agent moved beside Morton. “Agent Jim Coates, Admiral. Could you use some help in the cockpit? I’m fixed and spin-wing qualified.”

  “You just signed up for a free flying lesson, Agent Coates. Get up here.” As Coates maneuvered over the center console and jumped into the left side copilot’s seat, Hardcastle activated the Sea Lion’s battery and internal power switches. Full fuel, full oil and hydraulics, good battery. No time for a complete preflight. Fortunately the Sea Lion needed no tools or crew chief intervention to prepare itself for takeoff, also no external power cart to start engines.

  Once the helipad was clear of ground personnel Hardcastle turned on battery and internal power and started the Sea Lion’s auxiliary power unit, which supplied electrical, pneumatic and hydraulic power. That small engine was powerful enough to swing the wings back to their conventional position, rotate the engine nacelles to the vertical, move the rotors back into place and spin the turbine on the port engine up to engine-start speed. Two minutes later both engines were started, the drift lights and perimeter lights in the helipad were illuminated and the Sea Lion reconnaissance attack plane was ready for takeoff. Without waiting for clearance, Hardcastle made a vertical takeoff and immediately headed toward the Nomad radar plane’s impact area.

  “Omaha Three-One, this is Hammerhead Four-Nine,” Hardcastle radioed. “I’m airborne, south westbound.”

  “Four-nine, this is Three-One. Dammit, Hardcastle,” Geffar was saying, “you are not authorized to fly the Sea Lion on a Customs mission—”

  “I called to ask if there was any assistance I could render Three- Four,” Hardcastle interrupted. “What’s your status?”

  A pause, then: “All right, all right, I knew you were going to launch anyway—nothing I could’ve done to stop you. We’re over Three- Four’s impact area. No sign of the aircraft or of survivors yet. We have a commercial fisherman twenty, thirty minutes away, and the Pegasus hydrofoil is about an hour out. We observe two- to four-foot seas out there. You might be able to set the Sea Lion down and pick up any . . . survivors.”

  “Copy that, Three-One,” Hardcastle replied. “We can handle the search for survivors. Instruct the hydrofoil and Omaha Four-Zero to intercept those boats involved with the drop.”

  “This’s no time to be thinking of that,” Geffar said. “We need to concentrate on rescue—”

  “Dammit, Sandra, I want them—don’t let them get away!” He didn’t say please.

  Actually Geffar wanted an excuse to change her mind. She understood where he was coming from. The noise on the radios had gotten almost unbearable, even on the Customs Service discrete-operations frequency—units were calling in from all over the area asking what the hell was happening. “All stations other than designated Omaha and Hammerhead units, clear this channel. Break. Hammerhead One, this is Three-One. Vector the Pegasus unit to intercept those boats leaving this area. See if Four-Zero can intercept target one. Continue to dispatch any available units to intercept vessels that might be picking up drops along target one’s flight path.”

  Hardcastle was over the Nomad radar plane’s impact point a few minutes later. “The controls for the FLIR scanner are by your right elbow,” Hardcastle told Agent Coates. “Plug the cables into your helmet and power your IR visor.” He demonstrated for Coates as they both lowered the infrared-scanner visors over their eyes. “All right. Can you see the status indicators?” Coates nodded. “Okay. I’ll activate your helmet. The FLIR scanner will send the infrared images to your visor. As you move your head the scanner will look in the same direction. You can zoom in and out and switch from normal to reverse-image with the controls on your cyclic. If you want to stop, just raise your visor.”

  It was as Hardcastle described. Coates could look in any direction outside the Sea Lion’s cockpit—even behind him or in a direction that would normally be blocked by the fuselage—and the scene he saw through the electronic visors appeared well lit. As he moved his head the heat-sensitive image moved with him. Tiny electronic numerals told him the aircraft’s heading, altitude and airspeed as well as the relative bearing of whatever he was looking at. Several times he stopped his sweep and used switches on the control stick to zoom in and get a better look.

  What he found were bits and pieces of the Nomad, spread out over an area the size of four football fields. The heat-seeking scanner registered several warm objects but none were distinguishable as human forms. Pools of fire were everywhere, obscuring their view. Finally they found what was left of the strongest section of the plane, the wing-connecting box that joined the wings to the fuselage.

  “The right side of the connecting box looks sheared off, probably from the impact with the water,” Coates was saying. “The left side looks . . . looks blown olf. There’s a big semicircular hole in the box just inboard of where the engine nacelle would be.”

  Coates touched the scanner’s zoom controls to get a better look. “Oh, Jesus . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not positive,” Coates said, “but . . . Jesus, I think those are bullet holes along the top of that connecting box, Admiral. My God, I think someone strafed the Nomad and shot him down.”

  The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

  The Next Morning

  The President seemed exhausted. Dressed in a somber dark suit and tie, he wore his silver-rimmed eyeglasses instead of the contact lenses that he had just removed after several irritating hours. Not having the time to rehearse the hastily written statement, he sat at his desk with his speech in his hands instead of reading off the TelePrompTer. He received his cue from the stage director, straightened his broad athlete’s shoulders
and began:

  “My fellow Americans, by now you may have heard about the horrible incident that occurred over the waters off the southern coast of Florida last night. I will summarize the events as we know them at this hour, and then announce our response to this atrocity:

  “At eleven forty-six eastern time last night a United States Customs Service reconnaissance plane with seven persons on board was attacked and destroyed during an anti-drug surveillance operation in the Straits of Florida approximately one hundred miles south-southeast of Miami. The plane was involved in an operation tracking boats strongly suspected of carrying drugs into south Florida. Shortly after four boats were observed picking up several objects that Customs investigators believed were drugs, a high-speed aircraft appeared and before the Customs aircraft could take evasive action, attacked the reconnaissance plane with large-caliber machine-gun fire. The plane crashed and was destroyed.

  “There were no survivors.

  “Along with the five Customs Service crewpersons on board, casualties included Commissioner of the Customs Service Ronald Gates, whom I had just sworn in that same day. The other fatalities were Customs Service pilot Michael Drury, copilot Jeffrey Crawford, radar officer Jacqueline Hoey, sensor officer William LaMont and flight engineer George Bolan.

  “Using recorded analysis provided by a joint Coast Guard-Customs Service unit on the scene, we have determined that the Customs Service reconnaissance plane was attacked by a fighter-type aircraft working in concert with the drug smugglers. We believe the fighter was actually providing air cover for the drug smugglers as they made several drops to waiting speedboats all across the western Bahamas and eastern Caribbean. When the smugglers found that our radar aircraft was vectoring in Coast Guard vessels to make arrests, the smugglers ordered the Customs plane destroyed.

  “This tragic incident follows two other similar attacks by wellarmed and well-organized smugglers that have used extraordinary military-like power to kill Customs Service agents and Coast Guard patrols. In recent weeks twenty-one men and women have been killed by these terrorists in their attempts to bring illegal narcotics into the United States. I am determined that these attacks shall not continue.