“That’s their speculation.”
“Can we get someone over there to question her?”
An uncomfortable pause, then: “I tried. They said I don’t have clearance to interrogate one of their prisoners.”
“But you’ve done that before—”
“As a Customs investigator,” Masters said. “They said they’ve got no guidance on the status of Border Security Force people. A crock if you ask me.”
“We’ll get right on it, Rush. Anything else?”
“The boys can’t wait to get their hands on some Sea Lions. Are they on their way?”
“You’ll be getting six of them. As soon as they get repainted and reconfigured for fuel and weapons we qualify everyone on platform landings. After that we’ll be putting four of them here on Hammerhead One and keeping the other two at Homestead for training. I understand we’ve gotten a dozen more applicants for pilot, too— things are lookin’ up.”
“I’ve got a call into Brad Elliott about intelligence clearances,” Hardcastle said as Geffar closed the channel to Homestead. “That’s good news about getting more pilots. It’s about time.”
“I’m glad to see we’re finally getting the V-22’s,” Geffar said. “We have the pilots but no aircraft. We’ve got to qualify everyone on platform landings, day and night, then get the scheduling worked out. And don’t worry about budgets. Let Elliott fight those battles. That’s his job. He knows what he’s doing. He’s supposed to be buddy- buddy with half of Congress, and the other half is in awe of him for whatever the hell he was involved with last year from his base in Nevada—”
He was interrupted by a call from Becker. “Traffic alert. An unknown, origin possible from Nassau. Not on any airways. Low altitude, slow mover. If he stays on course he’ll cross the FIR in five minutes.”
“We’re on, gang,” Geffar said, turning back on her console. “Check the computer logs, begin radio warnings on all frequencies.”
“Computer log enabled and running,” Becker acknowledged.
“Attention all aircraft, attention all aircraft,” the controllers began, “this is the United States Border Security Force. Unknown aircraft on the one-five-five-degree radial, four-zero miles southwest of South Bimini VORTAC, six-five miles east of Biscayne Bay VORTAC, you are about to enter United States restricted airspace without authorization. Contact me on frequency one-two-one point five or reverse course. All aircraft on this frequency, check your position and report to your inbound controller.” The warning was repeated several times, on over a dozen frequencies and in Spanish. That broadcast was a warning to all other aircraft and vessels within a hundred miles of America’s shorelines—the Hammerheads are watching, we can see you, and we will intercept if you do not respond.
“No response,” one of the controllers reported to Geffar and Hardcastle. “Crossing the FIR now.” The FIR, Flight Information Region, was a boundary of airspace where different nations or different air traffic control procedures went into effect. In the airspace east of Miami, where the distances between Bahamian, Cuban and U.S. airspace were very short, the Border Security Force controllers began broadcasting warning messages when aircraft crossed the FIR instead of the Air Defense Identification Zone, even though the Hammerheads’ authority did not legally begin until an aircraft crossed the ADIZ. “Estimating ten minutes to ADIZ penetration.”
“He’s altering course farther south,” Becker said. “He’ll fly right over us. His altitude is one thousand feet.” Becker had put the HIGH-
BAL’s radar display on the center screen. The computer, which constantly displayed the target’s flight data, had also predicted the aircraft’s course and time of arrival at a variety of different airports in the area. “This might explain things—the computer predicts this guy’s heading for the Sunrise Beach Club.”
Geffar shook her head in exasperation. That explained a lot. The Sunrise Beach Club on the northern tip of Key Largo was one of the most exclusive residential communities in Florida. Sunrise Beach residents returning from a weekend in Nassau or Freeport—many of whom were politicians, corporation chairmen, or retired bigwigs— frequently assumed that they were allowed to cruise any time into Sunrise Beach without prior notice.
But Geffar and Hardcastle weren’t about to let anyone go. “Let’s get Customs moving towards Sunrise Beach,” she told Becker. “Bring a Seagull up on deck and prepare for launch. Let’s get an ID on this guy.”
Hardcastle said, “Why don’t we take this one? We deserve it.”
“In a Sea Lion?” Hardcastle nodded. “I haven’t flown that hybrid since the demonstration flight with the Vice President,” GefiFar said. “I don’t think so . . .”
“You’ve been working hard,” Hardcastle said. “You need a refresher flight. I’m current in the V-22. This looks like a pretty simple intercept—some retired doctor who forgot to turn his radio on. What do you say?”
Geffar hesitated, but only for a moment. She logged off the commander’s computer console, tossed her headset on the desk. “Okay, Hardcastle. Let’s go flying.”
They waited for the plane, a single-engine Cessna 210, to fly over the platform, then took off directly behind it. They were a few miles from the inside boundary of the ADIZ when they pulled up alongside the plane and made themselves visible to the pilot.
“Cessna three-Victor November, this is the United States Border Security Force,” Geffar radioed as they tucked in off the Cessna’s left side, about fifty feet away. “You are in restricted airspace and are in violation of United States law. We will direct you to a landing area. Follow this aircraft or you will be considered hostile.” The pilot clearly saw the Sea Lion but sat there and stared at it. He wore a headset but made no reply.
“Cessna Three-Victor-November, acknowledge instructions. Over.” This time, as GefiFar edged closer to the Cessna, she could see the pilot gesturing at something. “Three-Victor-November, I am not receiving any reply. If you can hear me, wave your hand or wag your wings.” The man in the pilot’s seat waved casually, actually managed a smile.
“I don’t believe this, the guy can hear me ... I think I recognize this guy, too.” She clicked on her microphone. “Cessna Three-Victor- November, wave if you can not respond on the radio.” Again, another quick wave.
“Radio-out,” Hardcastle said. “He can hear but he can’t talk back.”
“I do recognize him,” Geffar said. “He’s some hotshot attorney . . . wait a minute. Three Victor-November? Max Van Nuys, I think his name is. He represents real estate developers and investors all over the Caribbean.”
“A spoiled playboy, you mean,” Hardcastle added. “I’ve heard of him. He owns most of Miami Beach, or at least acts like he does. Anyone with a custom-airplane registration has got to be a prima donna.”
“If he has a radio malfunction and if he’s lost his navigation equipment, flying over the platform makes sense,” GefiFar said. “He can use that as a visual checkpoint, then fly west and he'll find the Sunrise Beach Club airport.”
“But that doesn’t explain why he’s up here, flying from Nassau or somewhere in the Bahamas to Florida without a flight plan or Customs clearance,” Hardcastle said. “I don’t give a damn who he is. We either divert him to Opa-Locka or bust him at Sunrise Beach.”
“Cessna three-Victor-November, wave if your destination is Sunrise Beach Airport.” The wave could be seen. “Be advised Sunrise Beach is not an airport of entry. Without prior permission from Customs you must land at an airport of entry. We will escort you to Opa-Locka Airport for inspection.”
Van Nuys nodded his head to signal that he understood, then suddenly Van Nuys seemed very agitated, snapping his head back and forth, looking down, up at the Sea Lion every now and then, fear in his expression.
“Smoke!” Hardcastle shouted. “I see smoke coming out from under his cowling.”
“In the cockpit, too,” GefiFar said. She clicked open the channel. “Cessna three-Victor-November, we see smoke coming from u
nder your engine compartment and in your cockpit. Disregard intercept instructions. We will proceed to Sunrise Beach airport. Follow us. Do not acknowledge.” GefiFar could see Van Nuys frantically nodding his head. The smoke directly in front of the windshield was being cleared away by window defroster vents and by overhead cabin vents, but the smoke in the cockpit was getting worse.
“Mayday, Mayday, Shark Two-Zero,” Hardcastle called out on the emergency channel. “Position twenty-five miles southeast of Biscayne Bay, heading two-zero-zero, altitude one thousand feet, airspeed one hundred twenty knots. We are in formation with Cessna three-Victor-November, type Cessna 210, one soul on board. The Cessna appears to have smoke in the cockpit and he is partial radioout. We are enroute for emergency formation landing at Sunrise Beach airport.”
“Cessna three-Victor-November, lower your landing gear,” Geffar said. “Maintain this airspeed until we get closer to touchdown.” The long, spindly landing gear began to drop down, but abruptly stopped in mid-extension.
“Three-Victor-November, recycle your landing gear.” Nothing. Van Nuys was maintaining altitude with the V-22 but seemed to be having trouble staying on a straight course. Geffar moved out to about eighty feet to stay away from the Cessna’s widening swings but crept back in so Van Nuys would not lose sight of her.
“Three-Victor-November, we are ten miles from landing. We will start a gradual descent and slow to ninety knots indicated airspeed. Lower one notch of flaps and begin slowing to ninety knots.” No flaps came out. The Cessna was slowing but things seemed to be getting worse.
“It may be an electrical failure or alternator fire,” Hardcastle said. “He’ll have to shut his alternator before he starts a bagger fire in his engine compartment.” GefiFar relayed the instructions but the smoke continued.
“Three-Victor-November, we are five miles out. Recycle your landing gear once more, or try manual extension.” Still no movement—they were stuck fast. “Okay, three-Victor-November, you’ll have to prepare for a gear-up landing. If you can’t move your flaps, leave the flap switch in the intermediate position. We’ll give you a shallow approach at ninety knots. When we see you over the threshold, set your mixture switch to cutoff, shut off your fuel system and turn your battery switch and magnetos off to reduce the chance of a fire. Good luck.”
Van Nuys was a little wilder in his approach as they got closer to the runway but he hung in there as they got closer to touchdown. At the end of the runway they were about twenty feet off the ground. The Cessna’s landing gear looked as if it had moved down another foot—the wheels were exposed and clear of the fuselage but the gear was still unsafe. And still no flaps. “Crossing the threshold . . . now!” Geffar and Hardcastle could see the propeller spin down and finally stop. Van Nuys was keeping his cool—he even had the presence of mind to crank the engine’s starter a few times to angle the propeller blades so they would not strike the ground on impact.
Touchdown. The man was obviously a skilled pilot He let the back end of the fuselage skid in first, then as if doing it all by feel, slowly nestled the plane down on the partially extended wheels. The gear wasn’t locked down so it did not support the Cessna’s weight, but Van Nuys kept on flying the plane, gliding the belly in. Suddenly the Cessna spun sharply to the left, skidded on its nose, and swerved across the runway and into a shallow ditch on the west side of the field.
Geffar swung the Sea Lion off to the north end of the runway about a hundred yards from the Cessna and brought the tilt-rotor aircraft to an abrupt landing, then ran toward the crippled Cessna. Suddenly fire trucks and rescue vehicles came out of nowhere, nearly sideswiping her, and screeched to a halt in front of the Cessna. A fireman with a captain’s white helmet went out toward Geffar and told her to stop and stay clear.
Geffar nodded. “We’re equipped to medevac Mr. Van Nuys if necessary,” she said.
The fire chief looked at her with surprise and suspicion. “How did you know it was Van Nuys?”
“We tracked him in from the Bahamas. We intercepted him near our platform and followed him here. We got a pretty good look at him.”
The fire chief looked over Geffar’s shoulder at the Sea Lion tilt- rotor aircraft, then back at her. “You were close enough to get a look at Van Nuys’ face—flying that?”
“So it is Van Nuys . . .”
“That’s who owns the plane here at Sunrise Beach and that’s who filed the flight plan.”
“Border Security didn’t receive a flight plan. He violated Customs entry procedures. We’ll have to talk to him—”
“Stay here.” The fire chief then headed back toward the trucks encircling the plane, speaking into his walkie-talkie. At that instant, a loud hissing sound could be heard and mountains of white, foulsmelling chemical foam began spraying over what they could see of the aircraft.
“How is he?” Hardcastle asked as he came up to Geffar.
“I don’t know, they won’t let me any closer. The chief said it was Van Nuys, said he had filed a flight plan.”
“We sure as hell didn’t get it. Neither did FAA or Customs.”
An ambulance raced onto the runway, and a stretcher was brought out.
“We should secure that airplane,” Hardcastle said. “Even though we know who the pilot is and now know his destination he’s still in violation. That plane has to be secured.” Geffar nodded but her mind was somewhere else. “I’ll radio Homestead and tell them to send an , investigation team.
“I’ll take some statements and secure the plane,” she said and walked over to the crash site.
Van Nuys was just being hoisted onto the stretcher when she got to the plane. He was strapped securely onto the plywood backboard, heavy straps under his chin and across his forehead securing his head and neck onto the board. Van Nuys was dark and athletic, big hands crossed on his midsection. It took four paramedics to raise his large frame onto the stretcher and carry him into the ambulance. GefiFar stepped over to the rear door of the ambulance and watched Van Nuys being wheeled inside. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted GefiFar and raised a hand to the men carrying him.
“You’re the one who intercepted me?” The words came out raspy and hoarse. “You were the pilot of that . . . amazing machine out there?”
Geffar nodded. “Sandra GefiFar, Border Security Force, Mr. Van Nuys—”
“Max.”
Geffar was only human. Here was a man in obvious pain, about to take an ambulance ride, somehow able to be not only friendly but interested ... in the V-22, of course . . . “You saved my life. Thank you.”
He tried to stretch out a hand toward her, but the movement sent a shock of pain through him. The paramedics hustled him inside the ambulance and drove off, and the fire trucks left shortly afterward.
Hardcastle was inspecting the wreckage of the Cessna when Geffar returned. The plane lay on its right side, right wingtip crumpled into the sandy soil between the runway and the taxiway, the fuselage sitting on the ground, the landing gear sprawled out underneath like the legs of a newborn colt. It was covered with at least twelve inches of gooey chemical foam that smelled like formaldehyde and sawdust. The fuselage was crumpled a bit in the middle, but it was remarkably intact, with no sign of explosion or fire . . . Well, Hardcastle thought, Van Nuys had sure kept his cool. “Investigation unit’s on the way,” he told Geffar as she stood beside him. “They’re going to need a shovel and protective gear to clear that gunk out. It’s weird, though, no sign of fire, only minor wing fuel-tank damage.”
One of the fire trucks drove over to Hardcastle and Geffar, and two firemen stepped out of the truck carrying chains and thick nylon towing straps. A moment later the fire chief walked over to them from the crash site.
“I’m Police Chief Joseph Hokum. I’ve received a call from UNICOM. They’d like you to move your .. . whatever that thing is at the end of the runway. They have inbound trafific.”
“The runway’s closed until further notice,” Geffar told him. “Since this is an uncont
rolled field we’re leaving the V-22 there for now as a reminder. You can’t move the Cessna yet either. We have an investigation team on the way—they’ll advise you when you can move the plane—”
“An investigation team?”
“This plane was involved with a Customs and Defense Department violation,” Hardcastle told him. “The area will be sealed off until the investigators are done. You’ll have to divert any inbounds somewhere else.”
“Hey, you don’t have jurisdiction here. Sunrise Beach is private and I’m the security department here. I’ve got to clear the damage and reopen this runway.” He turned and jabbed a finger at his men, ordering them to continue working.
Geffar, the adrenaline still pumping through her from the excitement of the pursuit and crash, shocked everybody, including herself. She took three quick steps toward Hokum, grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him backward.
“Why, you—” He reached inside his coat and Hardcastle saw an under-the-arm holster with the butt end of a very large gun.
Hardcastle was on the case fast. He clipped the man under his jaw, hard, knelt down on the man’s chest, pulled a nine-millimeter automatic from the chief s holster and tossed it aside, then rolled the man over on his stomach and yanked his coat back down over his arms.
“What the hell?”
“He tried to pull a gun on you,” Hardcastle said, drew his own nine millimeter SIG Sauer automatic and used it to motion toward the firemen. “Move away from the plane. Now.” They did. “Take off your coats.” They did. All of them were wearing guns. “Drop those holsters on the ramp.”
They looked once at their chief on the ground, slowly unfastened their holsters and let them slide off.
Hardcastle pulled out his walkie-talkie and thumbed the mike. “Shark, this is Two-Zero.”
“Go ahead, Two-Zero,” Becker replied from the Hammerhead One platform.
“We have a situation here at Sunrise Beach, Mike. Send a chopper with a couple of officers out from Homestead or Shark to our location.”
“We’ll divert the Dolphin heading back to headquarters, ETA, about two minutes.”
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