Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Geffar reflexed at the sound of three gunshots, dropped her .38 and waited for darkness to take her over. It never came. When she opened her eyes she saw Hokum’s body lying at the edge of the ditch, and Van Nuys standing in the knee-deep water, a smoking .45 in his hand.

  “It’s over,” he said flatly, and disappeared into the tunnel as a wave of intense pain blotted Geffar’s senses and drove her into unconsciousness.

  Border Security Force Headquarters, Aladdin City, Florida

  Two Hours Later

  The monitor showed in stark detail a profile view of the main part of the Verrettes airbase. It appeared to those in the closed-door session at the Hammerheads’ headquarters like a typical military installation in the United States or anywhere else—and that was frightening. A serpent’s den, a scorpion’s lair—so deadly, and so close to home.

  The room was filled with energy. For the first time they had a fix on a major smuggling ring. Hardcastle and Michael Becker were especially on edge, itching to get their forces together to counter the obvious target so close to them—and get back at the ones that had struck at Geffar. The secret mission to Haiti was also the first real indication by the Administration that they were willing to back the Hammerheads with substantially more than rhetoric, and they were anxious to follow up on its success. Even Brad Elliott appeared excited—finally they had a target, possibly the heart of a major smuggling ring.

  “Armed, organized and skilled,” McLanahan summarized for his audience. “It’s not like any other smuggling operation that the Border Security Force normally faces. They have military combat-capable aircraft and weapons, and they know how to use them.” He turned up the lights in the small conference room, low enough so they could still see the screen, high enough so they could see one another. “Question: what do we do about it?”

  “They’re obviously a major threat to us and the entire region,” Brad Elliott spoke up. “A force that size, that well armed, with no political organization or control, is an obvious direct threat to our security. Whether or not they’re involved in drug smuggling is almost immaterial—any such force so close to our borders would be considered a threat and should be disarmed and broken up. What we’ve got here is a well-equipped terrorist organization operating less than two hundred miles from our shores.

  “I will take these tapes to the Vice President, along with Lieutenant Powell’s statement. I’ll recommend that, in cooperation with the so-called Haitian government, we send in a strike force to disable their aircraft and airfield facilities, then move in a ground-assault unit to disarm and secure the base.” He turned to McLanahan. “You and Powell did a super job. You took an enormous risk and you got the information and somehow made it out alive.”

  McLanahan looked serious. “This Colonel Salazar isn’t exactly a wimp, and his pilots will follow him into hell. J. C. Powell is one hell of a pilot. He flies better with one good arm than a lot of two-armed jocks.”

  “J.C.? What’s that stand for?”

  “If you flew with the guy you’d know.”

  Elliott smiled knowingly—he was accustomed to flying with hot- pilots, as was McLanahan in the short year he had been with him at the secret Air Force research center in Nevada. If McLanahan said so, young Powell must be one crazy stick . . . “Well, I hope he understands that his days as an ATC instructor are numbered,” Elliott said. “After flying a mission like this into Haiti with a stolen Russian fighter, we can’t just send him back into the field.”

  “Knows too much?”

  “Something like that. He’ll be reporting to Dreamland as soon as he’s back on flying status. He might just be wild enough to handle the Cheetah project.”

  McLanahan nodded at that bit of news. “You bet he is. He’s asked for another shot at Salazar s people, too. This time in an American fighter with real missiles and bullets.”

  “He may get his chance ...”

  “Well, while we’re standing around jawing like good ol’ boys about cheetahs and Dreamland and hot-shot pilots,” Hardcastle said, “Salazar and his pilots may well be heading for the hills. They could have heard about Van Nuys and they must suspect by now that we were on a recon mission to their base. There’s got to be something we can do to keep them from packing up and leaving right now.”

  “When I reported to Washington the preliminary results of Powell’s mission, the Vice President agreed to take the matter up with the President, but he also said not to try anything more until he gives the word. Overflying an isolated part of Haiti without permission was one thing—and we might catch a ration of shit for doing that, if they find out for sure it was an American crew in that Sukhoi-27 fighter— but sending in an armed strike team to destroy a military base is another.”

  “So it might be politically unpopular, even create an international incident,” Hardcastle said angrily. “What’s going to happen? Haiti breaks off diplomatic relations with the United States? Big deal. We pay them off and apologize like we always end up doing and it’s gone with the wind. Meanwhile we get rid of a major smuggling ring in our own damned backyard ...”

  “I hear you, but I can’t authorize it—”

  Michael Becker spoke up now as he mentioned to the HDTV monitor, which was auto-replaying the intelligence photos he had taken over Verrettes. “Look at those pictures. They’ve got at least two MiG-2 Is and two Mirage F1C fighters, and the MiGs we saw were loaded down with heavy air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons. Real missiles and bombs, not decoys or retreads. If they had even half of those planes armed and fueled, they could probably defeat a dozen V-22 aircraft from long range. It would be suicide to send in a V-22 to Verrettes without first destroying or disarming those fighters. They’ve also got SA-7 missiles and air-defense artillery, in case some of our planes or choppers did make it through . . . Once we got on the ground—if we did—they’ve got at least three Pucara light bombers and two Aero L-39 Albatross jet bombers for close air support and tactical suppression. Which means we counter with ground-to-air missiles or anti-air artillery of our own or we’re sunk. And all that is before we encounter their ground forces. McLanahan reported some thirty armed soldiers on that ramp, with automatic weapons. That tells me that we’d better have at least a hundred soldiers before we even consider taking that base—”

  “I don’t want to take the damn base, Mike,” Hardcastle said. “I want to knock out this outfit’s ability to smuggle drugs into the country before they leave and set up shop someplace else.” He turned to McLanahan and Elliott. “Hell, send in that F-lll bomber again— send in three or four of them. Target the hangars and destroy that runway. Knock out as many planes as possible. If we can’t kill them, at least cripple them enough to put them out of action for a while.” “I’ll take your recommendations to the Vice President,” Elliott said, but I want a plan of action, not just some shouting for blood. Ian, give me something concrete I can take to the White House and I’ll get in there and pitch for you.”

  “I’ll fax my report to your plane,” Hardcastle said abruptly. “You’ll have them before you land in Washington. But emphasize that this is our backyard, our area of responsibility ever since we had the sea power to patrol it. The United States is responsible for ensuring the safety and security of this entire region, and that includes Haiti, never mind the rhetoric about the big bad Yankee colonies of the north. This unit in Verrettes is a major destabilizing force. It’s our responsibility to go in and clean it up.”

  “All right,” Elliott said, “put it in your report, along with a plan on how to deal with Salazar and his flyers and I’ll take it directly to the Vice President. But no Lone Ranger operation against Salazar or Verrettes until we get the word. We’d be defeating ourselves and the Hammerheads if we go off without documented authorization. He paused, then asked, “How’s Sandra?”

  “Hurting, but I think she’s okay,” Hardcastle said. “The bullet didn’t penetrate the Kevlar, and the steel shock plate minimized the impact injuries. She’s going to have a b
ruise the size of Pittsburgh, but otherwise they say she’ll be fit for duty in a couple of days.”

  “I wish I had time to see her but I want to get this information to Washington soonest. Give her my best.” And he limped out the door to his waiting plane.

  Hardcastle pounded a fist on the desktop and slumped in his chair. “What’s his problem? When I first met the man he was all fire and gung-ho. Now, it seems he’s so cautious about everything we do—”

  “Not so,” McLanahan said. “He believes in this organization. He knows he’d be responsible if something he did undermined or destroyed—”

  “But he put together this Russian fighter routine in just a few hours . . .”

  “After he got the okay from the Vice President to execute. Believe me, he wants to get these guys as badly as you do. But he doesn’t think with his gut, he thinks with his brain—”

  “Unless the Veep blows in his ear,” Hardcastle murmured.

  “Right. And be glad of it. You saw the directive, the classified replies—you were in on the paper trail, the planning and recovery operations. You think that was just coincidence? Believe me, with his organization and resources he could have destroyed Haiti and plenty more. He does it by the book, at least until the fight starts.” McLanahan paused, a half-grin on his face. “After that he’s been known to shake some people up.”

  Hardcastle still looked skeptical. “Well, Brad will be landing in Washington in about three hours,” he said. “By then I need a plan to deal with this Salazar character. I’ve some ideas, now I just have to flesh them out—”

  “Let me show you something I’ve come up with,” McLanahan said. “It will be tough and risky, but I’ve seen too much amazing stuff in the past year to say anything is impossible. J. C. Powell and I came up with some ideas flying back to the Zoo. I told you, Powell can’t wait to get back at Salazar for that pig-sticker in his arm. Anyway, I think we’ve hit on a way to take care of the fighters and the air defense units so we can get a few AV-22’s in. After that we attack any aircraft on the ground and get out of Dodge. I transcribed our notes into the computer, we can access it—”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Hardcastle broke in. “Let’s do it.”

  The intelligence-operations center at Aladdin City was a separate, smaller facility than the master command-and-control center in which it was located, although the tall, wide viewing windows with the one-way glass gave people in the center a clear view of the three wall-sized computer monitors in the master command center while those outside could not look in. Here in the soundproofed, electronically sealed room, information from federal, military and worldwide police intelligence-gathering units was assembled, analyzed, and presented to tactical commanders and field units. The room had space to brief several dozen persons—even benches and weapons lockers for military personnel. It was the place to plan a strike mission.

  McLanahan double-checked the security of the center’s doors and windows, then activated the computer database and unlocked his data-storage area. “As I said,” he began, “those fighters at Verrettes are our biggest worry. We assumed that they had four MiGs and four Mirages there. With four missiles and three hundred rounds of ammo per fighter, and all dead-eye shots, each fighter could destroy up to eighty aircraft ...”

  “So we’d need at least sixty-four aircraft to counter their fighters?” Michael Becker asked. “We don’t have that many AV-22s . . .”

  “No we don’t, but we do have that many Seagull drones.”

  “You’re going to send in drones?”

  “It’s what the drones were designed for in the first place,” McLanahan said. “High-speed surveillance, reconnaissance and attack against heavily defended targets. We’ve got the means of controlling an entire flight of Seagull drones from a single Hawkeye radar plane or from an aerostat radar-data link towed from a Hammerheads cutter. We send in the Seagulls to lure the fighters out, and then engage them. They’ll waste a lot of their fuel and weapons on the drones, I hope. When they go back to refuel we hit them on the ground. We use the drones, Seagulls or Sky Lions, to map out where their air-defense units are deployed, then take them out with small, mobile ground troops or tactical air attacks. Once we offset their fighters’ effectiveness and take out their air-defense systems, we or whatever unit we link up with should be able to move in on Verrettes.”

  They put the file material into one encrypted data file, formatted for high-speed transmission, and less than two hours after locking themselves into the Zoo’s intelligence center Hardcastle hit the XMIT button on the electronic computer-data transceiver and sent the document, complete with computer-generated maps and estimates, to the facsimile machine on board Elliott’s Border Security Force jet heading to Andrews Air Force Base near Washington, D.C.

  “It’s a risky plan,” Hardcastle admitted, “but it might just work. It depends on how fired-up these pilots of Salazar’s get when they see us coming.”

  McClanahan nodded. “Their alert birds, the two MiGs and probably the two Mirages will be airborne and gunning for us when we get inside of fifty miles of their base. Those pilots are good—I can attest to that. They might have put their planes on round-the-clock alert after our little visit today, in which case they’ll launch when they see us heading toward them . . . It’ll be no picnic.”

  Becker reported to the duty controller that he was on his way to the Hammerhead One platform for the start of his twelve-hour shift—which because of the attack on GefiFar would probably grow to a full-day shift. Hardcastle logged off-duty on the computer terminal and punched in his pocket phone’s number for the computerized message center. Like McLanahan he had been on duty for well over twenty-four hours; he was bone-tired and was going “home”—in this case, out to the Hammerhead Two platform—to get some rest before . . . before the next crisis. “I hope they do come for us,” Hardcastle said as he left the office with the young navigator.

  “They will—they won’t be able to stop themselves,” McLanahan said, then added, “of course, the first person to shoot us down may very well be the President of the United States.”

  It was nearly dark outside when the evening AV-22 shuttle flight arrived from the Hammerhead Two platform. Hardcastle watched the off-going crew exit the plane, the ground crew refuel and service the big tilt-rotor aircraft, and watched the night-shift flight crews change over, all the time eyeballing the amazing Sea Lion aircraft with undisguised awe. This particular bird was used mainly as a crew shuttle and cargo carrier—its Sea Stinger missile and thirty-millimeter cannon pods had been removed to make room for more airliner-style seats and cargo—but, Hardcastle thought, it was still a deadly yet beautiful work of flying art. Even with the ominous-looking FOLLOW ME signs, the infrared scanner ball under the nose and the steerable searchlights poking out in every direction, it was still beautiful.

  At a PA announcement from the crew chief, the on-going crew began filing into the Sea Lion and Hardcastle followed along, noting the surprised expressions on the crewmen’s faces at seeing the platform commander riding along with them. The Sea Lion could carry twenty-four passengers in relative comfort in the thinly padded seats, plus a three- or four-person flight crew and a few thousand pounds of cargo in the rear; at times the Sea Lion would also sling a ten-thousand-pound pallet of supplies or fuel bladders underneath on the cargo hooks along with full interior cargo. The cargo bay’s insulation and soundproofing—plus the fact that the engines and rotors were way out on the wingtips instead of directly overhead as on a regular helicopter—made the interior noise level easily tolerable.

  The night crew on both platforms was usually the most upbeat, high-spirited group of the two shifts, since this was when most of the serious no-shit intercepts occurred. Despite the stringent crackdowns by the Hammerheads, a few daredevil smugglers still tried to sneak past the sophisticated radar cordons—at night when they believed their chances were better—and were usually apprehended by night crews. Crews were, therefore, rotated a
bout once every three or four weeks to give everyone a chance to prosecute an intercept. This night shift was in particularly good spirits, and Hardcastle worked to try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible during the flight.

  He was offered one of the front starboard side-seats, coveted most by the passengers because of the big observation window on the right entranceway door and because it was close to the galley and the coffee pot; but he gave it up to one of the newcomers on the night shift and took one of the backseats near the aft-cargo ramp. He wadded up a spare jacket as a pillow and quickly fell asleep. It was one of the few times he had ever sat in the back of a Sea Lion: usually, by right of rank or position, he claimed at least the instructor pilot’s jump seat and usually managed to get in some stick time. He didn’t waste one minute of the forty-minute flight out to the platform—he pulled his seat belt tight, turned off the overhead light and was sound asleep before the hybrid airplane-chopper leveled off at eight thousand feet five minutes later.

  Dozing ofif, he had an intimation that his dreams would be disturbing, and he was right on target. He dreamed that he and not J. C. Powell had gone on that mission to Verrettes, and worse, that he couldn’t keep his cool as well as the young Air Force pilot had. He’d been shot down by Salazar’s men, and McLanahan had been taken out of the rear cockpit of the Sukhoi-27 and shot after he, Hardcastle, spoke English to him and gave him away. He saw this Salazar as a giant skull-headed figure with blazing red eyes, bony fingers and a black cloak who recognized Hardcastle right away and ordered his execution. He tried to make a run for the Sukhoi, to get out and warn the Hammerheads, but no matter how hard he tried, Salazar was right there, eyes blazing red, a huge knife clutched in his fleshless hand. His feet moved in slow motion, bogged down by sticky globs of blood from McLanahan’s battered body. The skull-faced apparition hurled his knife, and it imbedded itself deep into his left arm, making it go numb. He tried to pull the knife free but it stuck there—the tighter he grasped the hilt the more it held on, threatening to saw off his whole arm . . . Suddenly the sky was filled with fighters and bombers and transports strafing and bombing the Hammerheads Two platform. Some of his crewmen were running around the platform pointing to the sky and calling out to him to stop the attacking planes but he could do nothing except try to pull the stiletto from his arm. The skull-faced Salazar was close, in his face, telling him to die like a man, let go of his miserable life, let go, let go . . .”