Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “The F-111, they were firing at the 111 . . . now, let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Powell brought both engines to military power, waited a few seconds for them to stabilize, clicked them into min afterburner, released brakes and slowly brought them to full afterburner. Unlike American fighters, the Sukhoi banged into each afterburner stage with a loud explosion, but the power advanced quickly. Powell held the control stick back as the speed increased, lifted the nose gear off the ground at ninety knots, then fed in a little forward stick as the main gear lifted off. He raised the landing gear with a flick of a switch, allowed the Sukhoi to accelerate to one hundred-eighty knots with the fighter only a few feet off the ground, then flipped another switch to turn off the alpha limiter on the flight-control computer.”

  The Sukhoi-27 at full power in level flight had accelerated to nearly three hundred knots—five miles per minute—in only a few seconds. When the wall of smoke was five hundred feet away, Powell yanked the nose skyward. With the alpha limiter off, Powell was able to move the fighter’s nose nearly vertical, and the fighter raced skyward like a rocket. It was over five hundred feet in altitude by the time it crossed the line of burning trucks, and almost a thousand feet when it crossed the departure end of the runway.

  “Get out of afterburner and get the nose down, J.C.,” McLanahan urged his young pilot. “They might have other anti-aircraft weapons on us. It’s better to stay at low altitude and keep the hot engines away from them.” Powell did as he said, and several minutes later they were over water and clear of both Haitian and Cuban airspace.

  Even though the damaged canopy threatened to shatter and disintegrate at any moment, Powell kept the power at full thrust, and McLanahan watched the skies behind them until they were within radar range of the Hammerhead One aerostat unit—better for the canopy to come loose than for one of Verrettes’ MiGs to find them. But the canopy somehow held together, and after ten minutes of flying near the speed of sound Powell brought power back to two hundred knots, climbed back up to normal VFR air-traffic altitudes and set a special frequency on the radio unit installed for this mission.

  “Hammerhead One, this is Pinko,” Powell radioed on the prearranged scrambled tactical frequency. “How copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Pinko,” Elliott aboard the Border Security Force’s platform replied. “Say status.”

  “The machine is code one, the pilot is code two and the back-seater is scared as hell but code one,” McLanahan told them. “You got a place for us to set down? We shouldn’t risk flying it all the way to the planned recovery base.” That landing spot was one of the many hard-surface auxiliary runways at Eglin Air Force Base in the Florida panhandle, the largest and one of the most desolate military bases in the country—a perfect place to hide the illegally obtained Sukhoi-27 fighter.

  “Bring it in to Aladdin City,” Elliott told him. “We’ve got a recovery team standing by and we’ll get an ambulance rolling for J.C. Can you make it?”

  McLanahan saw Powell’s head nodding in the affirmative, and he did seem to have pretty good control of the plane in spite of the wicked-looking blade still protruding from his upraised left arm.

  “Affirmative, Hammerhead. We will recover at Aladdin City. Have rescue and medical personnel standing by.”

  “Roger, Pinko. We’re ready for you.”

  “How did the pictures turn out?”

  “Better than we expected, Pinko. We think we found our boys, all right. Well done.”

  McLanahan for the first time was able to look at the note that Hermosa had thrown into the cockpit. As he read his eyes widened. He attached the note to the back of Powell’s seat, then photographed it with the digital camera, slipped the camera’s recording disk into the transceiver and hit the XMIT button.

  “I’ve got one more picture for you, Hammerhead,” McLanahan said. “This one you’re not going to believe.”

  The bullet from a soldier’s rifle had sliced Hermosa’s spinal cord in two. One hand had been crushed as the left wheel of the escaping Sukhoi-27 had rolled over it, and he had been tumbled down the runway for several meters by the hot, oily jet blast of the Russian fighter. But somehow the ex-Cuban military aide was still alive.

  Salazar found him in a twisted heap on the side of the runway, his eyes full of pain. Kneeling down in front of Hermosa’s face, he turned to the soldier standing behind him who had shot Hermosa: “You said it was a note he passed to that crewman of the Sukhoi?”

  “Yes, Colonel, I first saw him pull the wheel chocks so I moved across to warn him that your orders were to try to keep the plane from taking off. When I saw him throw the note into the cockpit, I suspected something ...”

  Salazar nodded, then looking at Hermosa, said, “You probably shot an informer. Is that right, Field Captain?”

  Hermosa attempted a feeble reply. Salazar bent down to listen. “This ... is for the children you murdered . . .” and he managed to spit into Salazar’s face.

  Salazar didn’t flinch. He showed the blade of a stiletto to Hermosa, then drew the razor-sharp blade across Hermosa’s throat.

  “Bury him with the other trash,” Salazar ordered. “I want his office and belongings searched. I want to know why he passed a note to a Russian fighter crew—if they were Russians . . . Russians . . . ? the only thing really Russian about them was their aircraft. Without that Sukhoi-27 they could have been Americano ...”

  Salazar had his UHF walkie-talkie in hand. “Control, this is Salazar. I want all flight commanders and squadron chiefs to meet in the briefing room in five minutes. See to it that it is set up for an operational strike briefing. Do not call Field Captain Hermosa—he will not be joining us.”

  Sunrise Beach Club

  Thirty Minutes Later

  The huge Indian aide, Salman, filled the doorway as he looked unsmiling at Sandra Geffar, one hand on the open door, the other on the door frame.

  “Hello, Salman,” Geffar said, removing her sunglasses and placing them in her Ilight-jacket pocket. She wore a flight suit and flying boots, and despite the growing heat of the day she had kept her lightweight jacket on during the ride from the Hammerheads’ base to the quiet seaside community. “How are you today?”

  So saying, she tried to step through the door but Salman was immobile as a tree.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I am sorry, Miss Geffar, but Mr. Van Nuys is engaged in a business meeting and has asked that he not be disturbed. He instructed me to show you to the sun garden, where he will meet you for lunch.”

  Geffar turned toward the walkway, then suddenly reached over her shoulder, grabbed Salman’s arm, twisted her hip away and executed a classic judo throw. The three-hundred-pound Indian butler spun over Geffar’s right hip and down the stairs, landing like a pallet of bricks on the slate flagstones below.

  But he was also a trained bodyguard, and he knew how to take a fall. He landed hard but was back on his feet in an instant, his left hand reaching inside his coat for the gun. Geffar was expecting that, and her .45 caliber Smith and Wesson automatic was in her hand and leveled at Salman’s chest before he could regain his balance.

  “Don’t move or you’re dead.” Salman raised his hands clear of his coat. Immediately two Border Security Drug Enforcement agents, with Monroe County sheriffs as backup, surrounded Salman, handcuffed him and led him away.

  “Nice throw,” one of the agents said. He handed Geffar a Kevlar body-armor jacket and a Hammerheads operations helmet—bulletproof, with built-in radios, lights and face protectors.

  Geffar nodded as she strapped on the helmet, replaced her flight jacket with the body armor, and activated the communications link in the helmet. “I’ll go through first, see if I can draw Van Nuys into the open,” she told the agents and deputies. “He’s got this place wired for sound and video and I’m sure he’s been alerted, so be careful.” She pointed at the four deputies, who had on communications headsets so they could monitor the Hammerheads’ tactical frequenc
y. “Go to the back but stay behind cover. You people”—she pointed at two of the DEA agents, adjusting their own body armor— “follow me in, then take the upstairs. You others, check the office and bedrooms on the east side. There’s a doorway that leads to the basement at the end of the hallway through the utility room. This place has a huge cellar and he might be down there.

  “There’s a driver, and he’s bigger than Salman, so watch for him. There might be others. They obviously know we’re here and they’re not coming out. Don’t hesitate.” She hefted the .45 and stepped back through the doorway.

  Geffar looked in through the doorway, scanning for any movement inside. Nothing. She pushed the door open wider, moved the helmet’s microphone away from her lips. “Occupants, U. S. Border Security, search warrant.” She waited a few seconds for any sign of movement, heard nothing, moved inside.

  As she moved across the threshold she withdrew a folded set of papers and held it up to one of the far corners of the room, where she knew a wide-angle security camera was hidden—with that system Van Nuys could monitor his estate inside and outside from several places in the house.

  “Max, this is Sandra Geffar,” she called out—if he was anywhere in the house he would hear her. “This is a search warrant.” She held it up, then dropped it behind the door and resumed her two-handed grip on the pistol. “The place is surrounded, the airport is closed and a Hammerheads vessel is blocking the marina. We’ve got Salman in custody. If you run you’ll be shot. Give yourself up.”

  Nothing, she moved the microphone back to her lips. “Deputies, move to the back. Watch the second-floor balconies.” Geffar reached up to her helmet and clicked a button that activated a microphone that would amplify sounds in the rooms around her. She could, among other things, hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, ice cubes clattering into a bucket from the icemaker behind the bar in the great room, and sea gulls outside on the back lawn.

  The basement of Van Nuys’ huge house was Geffar’s main concern—he could hide an army down there. She walked through the kitchen, carefully checking the pantry and storage closets, and stood in front of the door that led to the basement suites. Centering the helmet’s microphone on the door, Geffar held her breath and listened.

  The faint creak of wood, breathing, a hard swallow—someone behind the door.

  “Border Security, anyone behind that basement door come out hands up.”

  “I’m coming out, coming out...” It was Bullock, Van Nuys’ driver. The door was pushed open a few inches, nobody appeared.

  “Bullock, toss your gun out—”

  Through the directional mike she heard the too-familiar snik of a hammer being cocked into position, followed by a sharp intake of air into lungs, and she dived for the floor just as six holes erupted out of the wooden door, the subsonic rounds sounding like hammer blows as they crashed through the door. From her position, Geffar traced a figure-eight pattern of .45 caliber slugs around the center of the holes Bullock had made in the door. She heard a short cry of pain, then the sound of a body falling, thumping down the stairs.

  Two DEA agents and two sheriff5s deputies with M-16 rifles appeared beside her. As one deputy covered the door, the other inched it open, turned to his partner. “Cover me.”

  “Don’t try it,” Geffar said after one of the DEA agents helped her up. “The basement goes on forever. Tear gas the basement and call for a K-9 unit and more backup.” One deputy went off to relay the request.

  “We're upstairs,” one of the other agents announced to her over the radio. “Bedrooms, bathrooms, den, attic all secure.”

  “Get a team up there and search the place,” she radioed back. “Breezeway connects to the driver’s office in the garage—check that out, too.”

  “Roger. I-team is moving in.”

  Geffar suddenly felt very tired. After seeing the note that the Cuban drug smuggler had passed to McLanahan, the note with Van Nuys’ name on it, she had felt a chill, and a shock she had thought she had long ago insulated herself against. For a while she had almost let herself believe something might be possible with this man ... and then the weariness gave way to the anger that had replaced the hope

  She got to her feet and went to the back patio, reloading her .45 with a fresh clip as she made her way out into the hazy sun. One of the Hammerheads’ Cigarette ocean interceptor yachts was patrolling the area just outside the marina, ready to chase down any suspect, and three small Florida Marine Patrol vessels cruised through the marina itself searching for Van Nuys. A Sky Lion tilt-rotor drone with its large bug-eyed surveillance dome on its belly hovered a few hundred feet over the Sunrise Beach Club, electronically scanning for a sign of Van Nuys or his car.

  Geffar could hear the progress reports on the helmet radio, including one that did not surprise her—Van Nuys’ Jaguar was at the airport, and one of his planes was missing. It appeared that he had managed to escape just before the Hammerheads could close in on him.

  “Did you copy that report?” one of the DEA agents queried over the radio. “Van Nuys skipped.”

  “Get a report from Hammerhead One,” she replied, “and see if they got a radar plot on any aircraft leaving Sunrise Beach. Continue the search.”

  Geffar walked to the edge of the immaculately groomed lawn off the back of the estate on the marina side of the spit of land on which the estate was located. To the right was the pool, the garages. Beyond was the marina and the narrow channel that led to Old Rhodes Key. To the left was the main driveway from the development to the house, a drainage ditch under the road, patches of trees and bushes that bordered Van Nuys’ property, and beyond, a narrow beach and the Atlantic Ocean. This northern tip of Key Largo had been coveted for decades by the rich and famous; and although the main house had been redecorated and expanded several times it was in essence the same mansion that had stood on this property for almost a hundred years . . . including Prohibition years when this coastal part of south Florida was a haven for whiskey smugglers . . .

  Geffar now drew her pistol and followed the driveway out toward the drainage ditch that emptied into the ocean. Although the brush and debris appeared near-impenetrable, the ditch itself was wide and deep—and there was a small rubber raft bobbing in the shallow water, partially hidden in the darkness of the aqueduct . . .

  “Hello there,” Maxwell Van Nuys said as he appeared from under the drainage pipe beside the raft, his expensive suit smudged from where he had had to squeeze through the drainage system to the hidden escape point.

  She leveled her pistol on him. “You almost made it,” she said. “They found your car and the missing plane—they were ready to call it off ”

  “An old bootlegger’s escape-and-supply system,” he said with studied calmness, motioning inside the aqueduct. “The house has several levels of basements. Most are underwater or caving in but there’s one level where they had this nifty escape corridor from the house to the ocean.”

  “Bullock tried to kill me.”

  “I told him to surrender. He’s a three-time loser—probably afraid to go to prison.”

  “Bullock does what you tell him to do—”

  “No, I could never hurt you, never order someone to ... I was trying to get away before my mistakes ruined any chances I had with you—”

  “Tell me you had nothing to do with the military smuggling ring in Haiti.” Van Nuys glanced at the gun—it did not waver.

  “Look”—his cool was slipping—“they found out I had a little business of my own, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, if I wanted to go on living. But I always intended to turn myself in—”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “A Colombian drug family. Very rich, powerful, well equipped. They run a bunch of ex-military pilots that make their deliveries. That’s all I know about them.” He took a few steps towards her, sloshing through the brackish seawater. “I played along until I liquidated enough assets to set myself up in South America. I own a ranch in Brazil now. I’l
l give you and your people everything I have on these guys if you’ll let me go. I’ve got radio frequencies, maps, names, contacts, safe houses they use in Florida and the Bahamas. But it’s got to be kept quiet. If the cartels even suspect I’ve double-crossed them I’m dead. I’ll turn over everything I have to the Hammerheads. But only in exchange for the right to insure my own protection.”

  “Put your hands on your head and come out of there slowly,” Geffar ordered him, shaking her head. “You’re under arrest.”

  Van Nuys moved noisily toward the embankment, used his hands to help him crawl up the muddy, weed-choked ditch to the road. “Please listen to me—”

  A voice from behind Van Nuys: "Move. ” Van Nuys hit the ground. Hokum, the security chief for the Sunrise Beach Club community, was standing in the shadows of the drainage tunnel with a rifle in hand—and before Geffar could move, Hokum pulled the trigger.

  The impact of the .30-06 round on Geffar was like an overhanded sledgehammer blow, but because of the Kevlar material and the steel shock-attenuator plate inserted into the body armor the bullet did not penetrate. Geffar was, though, driven ten feet backward, unable to take a breath. She could hear the rustle of water and the slide and click of a gun being cocked—Hokum was coming out of the ditch to finish the job.

  Fighting off waves of pain, Geffar reached down to her right boot for the .38 caliber automatic in its ankle holster.

  “Are you okay?” someone was calling out to her on the helmet radio. “Come in. Answer.”

  She tried to speak but Van Nuys crawled over to her and removed the helmet. Gathering her strength, she tried to bring her .38 around, but it was like trying to lift a truck.

  Van Nuys scrambled to his feet, down the muddy sides of the ditch and back toward the escape tunnel, trying to grab Hokum and take him along.

  Geffar raised the .38 with both hands and shakily aimed. “Max, stop . . .”

  “I got a score to settle with this one first.” Hokum shrugged out of Van Nuys’ grasp, came up out of the ditch and raised the hunting rifle at Geffar’s head. “I told you you’d be sorry for the day you clobbered me. Say good-bye to her, Van Nuys . . .”