Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “The other problem is we’ve just now begun to develop fast enough computers to compute target altitudes. Our altitude readouts are only good within one or two thousand feet.”

  “This should be looked at right away,” Massey said. “Air-and-fleet defense is a top priority, but in peacetime our security against border intrusion, and especially against smugglers, is more important. And that’s you guys. But what you’re talking about is a lot more money

  “I agree one hundred percent, Mr. Secretary,” Elliott said. In fact, that was one of the reasons he had brought Massey to Aladdin City— it was much easier to fight for such a costly, far-ranging proposal such as this with the top people on your side.

  “I appreciate your decision, Brad, to let Customs in on this drug bust.”

  Elliott inwardly hated this p.r. ploy, but what the hell, if it helped the Hammerheads . . . “We’ve got intelligence that a drop will take place in a specific area. We’re acting on it as a law-enforcement action.” Elliott knew, like ex-Treasury Secretary McDonough and ex-Customs Commissioner Crandall, that Massey still believed in non-military drug interdiction organizations like the old Customs Service.

  “Zoom in on the target area and let’s see what’s up,” Elliott told the controller running the ROTH radar data.

  The radar information was reduced to a few dozen miles on a side, centered around the delta swamps southwest of New Orleans. Aircraft were highlighted by the computers, including one directly in the center of the display. “There he is,” Elliott said. “We picked him up an hour ago flying over Cuba. He was flying the airways until crossing our Air Defense Identification Zone, then dropped down to low altitude and is making a beeline for the drop zone. He’s got nerve, I’ll say that for him—winds at his altitude are gusting to fifty knots, with severe up- and down-drafts in the thunderstorms, and he’s only a thousand feet above the water.”

  “And New Orleans radar can’t see him coming?”

  Elliott told the controller to switch off the ROTH radar data. A few of the air targets remained, including a target in the center of the screen that seemed to disappear for several seconds, then reappear. When it came back, it was marked with an TR 5 symbol.

  “This is what Houston Center radar sees,” Elliott said. “A target does show up, intermittently, but it’s marked with that symbol. Which means the Center radar’s computer thinks it’s not an aircraft—or at least there’s a low probability that it’s a plane, given its speed, position and radar signal. As it moves closer or when it’s picked up by New Orleans Approach radar, it may eventually be identified as an intruder, but by then it would be too late to stop it. Most controllers squelch TR 5 targets to unclutter their scopes.” Elliott ordered the ROTH radar data replaced, and the scene changed to highlight the target aircraft.

  “So where are your planes?” Massey asked.

  “We have two AV-22’s and three Black Hawks on the ground at a small airfield, South Lafourche, about forty miles south of the drop zone. They’re under camouflage netting in case the target overflies the airport, but our guess is he’ll stay in the clouds until just before the drop. We also had an AV-22 trying to trail him offshore in case he made any overwater drops but our plane couldn’t handle the weather. When the target flies past South Lafourche our birds will launch and begin the chase, staying as far back as they can and still keep him in contact. They’ll be using infrared trackers to follow him, since we’ve received word that these guys might have radar detectors in their planes that could pick up our plane’s tracking radar.” “Don’t the smugglers usually use ground observers that watch for trailing planes and can warn the drop crew?”

  “They sure do. We plan on trailing the target high and as far back as we can to avoid being spotted, but remember, we’re going after the smugglers on the ground—if we want to have a chance to make an arrest on the ground we have to move double-time after the drop is made. It doesn’t take long for these guys to grab the cargo and disappear after a drop. And if the plane sees us and breaks off before making its drop, we trail the plane. At the worst we stop a big shipment from making it into the country. But we’re out to do much more than that . . .”

  Near the Smuggler’s Drop Zone, Dulac, Louisiana

  “Should only be a few more minutes,” Mario said. He was watching the yellow interrogation light on the beacon unit—it had begun flashing more during the last few minutes, indicating that the drop plane was using it to fine-tune its position in preparation for the drop.

  “I can’t hear him,” Girelli said. “Shouldn’t we hear him by now?”

  “He’ll be outta here and gone before you know it,” Mario said. “These Cuchillos don’t come in slow—they haul ass all the way.” He was watching the yellow light when he heard a voice on the radio call out, “Mario, this is Duncan. Mario, come in.”

  Mario picked up the small microphone and clicked the button: “You got problems, Dune?”

  “I hear choppers,” the voice on the other end reported. The trailing lookout sounded nervous. “Maybe two, maybe more.”

  “Are they following the plane?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t tell. I’d bug out if I were you.” The connection went dead. Mario and Girelli knew that that was what Duncan was doing right now.

  “Some lookout,” Girelli said. “The fucker’s worthless.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We stay,” Girelli said. He raised his rifle, an M-16 with an M203 grenade launcher attached, buckled a bag full of ammunition clips and 40 millimeter grenades onto his belt. Mario had his own M-16 slung over his shoulder ready to go. “Two choppers, we can handle.” He turned to Debeauchalet. “Tell your boys to get ready.” The old Cajun guide turned and made a motion to the nearest bass boat, and the message was quickly, wordlessly passed along. Most of Girelli’s soldiers had small wireless radios and had already heard the brief warning message from Duncan.

  The drop seemed to come out of nowhere. The smugglers heard a dull roar of engines at high speed, then a huge, dark green shape seemed to crash out of the dark stormy sky directly at them. They caught a glimpse of two huge propellers and a large squat fuselage before the plane screamed overhead, barely thirty feet above the swamp. They felt a blast of warm air, heard a loud snapping of trees and a rush of sound—at first they thought the plane might have crashed. But then they saw an object hit the murky water right at the very edge of the target island, skip twice onto the bog and flip end- over-end until it came to rest on the island. The object had a dim flashing strobe light and a long orange streamer attached to it, but they weren’t needed—the drop was dead solid perfect, almost in the exact center of the island. The huge plane pulled up steeply just before hitting a grove of trees, the tree branches whipping and snapping, and then it disappeared into the turbulent skies. Seconds later the drop was over.

  “They did it!” Girelli said. “They hit the island dead on. Get the boys movin’, Mario.”

  Mario was already in action . . . “Move,” he ordered into the microphone, then shut down the radio. Girelli motioned with his rifle toward the island, and Debeauchalet started the airboat engine up and steered the craft over to the island.

  The Fiberglass case was cracked but intact. Mario used a KA-Bar assault knife, a leftover souvenir from his Vietnam days, to cut open the steel bands around the case. Not bothering to count the heavily taped bags of white powder inside, he quickly tossed two bags to Girelli, who stowed them in a gym bag in the airboat. As men quickly moved in toward the tiny island, Mario began tossing bags out to them.

  “We did it.” Girelli was laughing. He felt a rush, almost like a cocaine high itself. The first few bass boats skittered off into the downpour and the darkness, moving off to pre-arranged hiding places until the rendezvous time. Girelli was shouting orders, laughing, oblivious to the rain pouring down on them . . .

  ... And to the sound of heavy rotors moving closer until they were only a few hundred yards away. Suddenly several five-thousa
nd-watt searchlights stabbed out of the maelstrom and illuminated the tiny island.

  “Hammerheads. All of you, stay exactly where you are.” The voice came over a loudspeaker. A huge white-and-orange aircraft resembling a cargo plane but with helicopter rotors hung over the island just fifty feet above, the rotor downwash beginning to stir the swamp water up into a froth. And now the entire area was filled with rotor- craft, a few black conventional-looking choppers with U.S. CUSTOMS SERVICE emblazoned on the side, others with U.S. BORDER SECURITY FORCE and illuminated FOLLOW ME lights on the sides. Two choppers veered off and roared into the swamps, tracking some of the bass boats that had already picked up their loads and were trying to make a quick getaway.

  A searchlight from one of the weird-looking choppers was on the airboat and another was sweeping around the island—for a moment, Girelli was in total darkness. He was stunned, amazed that the Hammerheads had moved in so quickly, so silently, that they had surrounded the island so fast. One chopper was moving closer, getting ready to land on the island—if he let that happen they’d be overrun by agents. He dropped a 40-millimeter grenade into the breech of his grenade-launcher and cocked the action.

  “You with the rifle,” the loudspeaker barked. “Drop it and stand up. Hands on your head. Now.”

  These guys didn’t need searchlights—they must have had cameras that could see in the dark.

  For a moment he sat frozen with indecision. He couldn’t let that chopper land . . . All right, they could see him, but could they stop him . . . ?

  Girelli leveled the M-16 at the chopper and squeezed the trigger .. .

  Aboard Lion Two-Six, the Lead Hammerheads AV-22

  Rushell Masters had been switching back and forth between the infrared scanner’s view on his helmet visor screen and the regular view—every time the Customs’ NightSun searchlight swept across his line of sight it wiped out his vision. But when the Black Hawk moved further down the island to find a landing spot he was able to use the scanner without interference. He swept the area with the infrared scanner and found the load of drugs and a couple of smugglers crouched near it. Both men were armed, but only one of them had raised his rifle.

  “I’ve got the cannon,” he told his copilot as he selected control of the M230 Chain Gun and slaved it to his infrared scanner. He zoomed in on the tense body of the smuggler, centering the crosshairs on the largest heat mass in the picture—the man’s chest. The man was facing the Black Hawk helicopter watching it as it eased in for landing. Then Masters saw him drop a cartridge into a breech on the bottom part of this M-16 rifle and cock the knurled handgrip pump action.

  “You with the rifle,” Masters called over the loudspeaker. “Drop it, stand up with your hands on your head. Now.”

  Masters could see him look toward the AV-22 Sea Lion, the rifle still upraised toward the Black Hawk. Masters changed from the loudspeaker switch to the command radio button: “Omaha One-Seven, one suspect at your two o’clock, sixty yards, with a rifle and what looks like a small grenade launcher. Shut off your light and move clear ...”

  The warning blared in Masters’ mind when he saw the smuggler with the rifle twist one shoulder toward the Black Hawk—he was going to fire . . . He spared a few seconds to shout, “Omaha, move clear, ” on the radio, then reached down with his thumb to lift the safety guard on the control stick-mounted trigger button and mashed the Chain Gun’s trigger.

  But Masters was a moment too late. Just as he lifted the safety- guard lever off the trigger, the smuggler pulled the trigger on his rifle’s grenade launcher. There was a bright flash of light and a round cloud of white smoke as the weapon fired—a split second before the first thirty-millimeter shell from Masters’ Chain Gun drilled through the smuggler’s chest.

  The grenade hit squarely on the nose of the Black Hawk helicopter, exploding on contact and blowing the whole cockpit section into a cloud of fire. The chopper pitched upward and to the right, flipping over backward in an impossibly tight looping arc until the main rotor knifed into the bog on the opposite side of the island, and the helicopter exploded.

  Masters fought the abrupt overpressure and concussion from the exploding helicopter but was pushed down and away from the island by the blast. He managed to keep the Sea Lion out of the swamp but his right nacelle hit a clump of trees and the big forty-foot diameter rotor sliced through the rain-soaked branches. Masters applied full power, tried to swing the nacelle away from the trees, but his twin- boom tails were also looping through some nearby branches. He managed to stabilize, hovering only a few feet above the murky water, then slowly nudged the AV-22 clear of the trees and out into the open.

  “All Omaha and Lion units, this is Lion Two-Six,” Masters called over the command radio. “Omaha One-Seven is down. Repeat, One- Seven is down. Two-Six is beginning rescue efforts. Suspects in the area, armed and dangerous. Out.”

  Now hovering several dozen yards away from the island, Masters activated the searchlight and scanned the area for survivors, but it was obvious that even if some of the Customs agents on board had managed to jump clear, they would be engulfed in flames that now covered almost the entire bog. He gained a bit more altitude and began to move closer, searching the edges of the island for survivors.

  One smuggler had pushed the body of the rifleman off the cargo case and was dragging it to the edge of the bog, trying to get it on board an airboat floating nearby. Masters hit him with the searchlight and slaved the Chain Gun sights to his helmet visor sight-pointing system. As soon as the searchlight beam hit the man he rolled over to his right side facing the Sea Lion and raised his hands in surrender. But Masters also saw the rifle looped over his shoulder, and was not going to hesitate again—he pulled the trigger, sending a hundred rounds of metal-piercing shells into the man, letting loose until his frustration was vented, his copilot yelling at him to stop, and the smuggler an unrecognizable lump of flesh mixing with the mud. A dozen bags of white powder could be seen ripped open and scattered about, covering the bloody corpse with a fine white dust.

  Masters, totally exhausted, managed to withhold his fire and allow the other survivors to crawl onto the mud island. The fires had all but died out from the destroyed Black Hawk helicopter, and it appeared that no oil or fuel had spread on the water. “Prepare to launch the RHIB,” Masters said, and stowed the scanner ball and lowered the Sea Lion to the water’s surface. The rigid-hull inflatable boat along with two Border Security Force I-Team members and three Customs Service investigators was launched off the aft cargo ramp and a detailed search for more survivors began.

  As Masters looked out over the devastation on that tiny island he thought back to before the Hammerheads were formed, back to the incident that sparked the creation of the Border Security Force. This was the second lethal firelight that Masters had been involved in during the last few years, he thought wryly, and even with the added firepower of the Hammerheads working for them, death always seemed to hover over them . . .

  The first group of I-Team investigators moved up to the cargo case where Masters had shot the two smugglers. The Customs agents had four men lying on their stomachs, using plastic binders to tie their wrists. He could see the I-Team member kick the rifles away from the bodies, as if the corpses would somehow reform themselves and pick them up. “Two dead here,” the I-Team investigator radioed back to Masters on his helmet communicator. Under the glare of the AV-22’s searchlights the investigator scooped a bit of the white powder up from the shattered cargo case into a vial of cobalt cyanimide, broke the capsule inside, shook the contents and held it up to the light.

  “Cocaine, all right. Low purity. Maybe thirty percent. Looks like they had about twenty to thirty kilos here.”

  “Twenty to thirty kilos? That’s all?” Masters looked over to the other side of the island, where Customs and Hammerheads investigators were dragging battered and burned corpses from the wreckage of the Black Hawk helicopter.

  “This stufPs like gold nowadays, Rush,” the I-Te
am member said. “There’s probably a couple million bucks’ worth lying here.”

  “Take the stick,” Masters told his copilot, then put his head back in his seat and stared up into space, trying to fight back frustration. When he looked out toward the island again six bodies had been lined up on the edge of the bog, so badly ravaged by the crash that they merged with the mud all around them. He recognized a few orange life vests, a few gnarled fingers or helmeted heads blackened by the fires, but mostly . . .

  “Goddamn,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes closed to shut out the sight. “Goddamn . . .”

  Over the Gulf of Mexico

  Twenty Minutes Later

  “Unidentified twin-engine cargo plane, this is the United States Border Security Force on GUARD. Reverse course and follow. Respond. Over.”

  The escaping smuggler’s cargo plane, an old Soviet-made Antonov- 24 twin-engine cargo plane, had made it through the thunderstorm on its way out and was now at eighteen thousand feet heading southeast across the Gulf of Mexico. Right beside it, less than fifty yards a way, was a Hammerheads AV-22 Sea Lion, call-sign Lion Two-Two. Lion Two-Two had tried to intercept the cargo plane as it came into the U.S., but the turbulence and lightning inside the thunderstorm drove the AV-22 away. It had returned, though, as soon as the smugglers moved south. The chase was on again.

  The Sea Lion pilot, Hank McCauley, checked his navigation display against a moving-map diagram on one of his cockpit displays. “Just east of Alpha-321 and approaching Alpha-39,” he said. He turned to his copilot, Janice Hudkins. “Try the BSF frequency again, the aerostat on that new platform, Hammerhead Two, might pick us up.”

  Hudkins had been trying for several minutes but with no success. There were no bases within radio range. The Border Security Force aerostat radar balloon at Mobile had been lowered and stowed because of the thunderstorm winding through the Gulf states, and the storm was disrupting high-frequency communications. The only other possibility was the newest Hammerheads air-staging platform off Florida’s west coast, NAPALM, fifty miles west of Naples. With its aerostat operating, they might move within radio range at any moment.