Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

Mink nodded and turned back to her radios: “Copy all, three-fifty- one. Sir, we’re having difficulty verifying your Customs clearance request. We must instruct you to divert to Opa-Locka Airport for inspection. Please acknowledge. Over.”

  “Say again, Border Security?” came the thick Latino accent once again, louder and angrier than ever. “You want me to go where?” “Opa-Locka Airport,” Mink repeated. “Sundstrand Air three- fifty-one, by order of the deputy chief of Border Security Forces unit one you are directed to proceed immediately by the most direct route, avoiding known restricted areas, and land at Opa-Locka Airport, Miami, and report immediately to the Customs Service inspection station there for records and aircraft inspection. This order is directive in nature, and deadly force is authorized to enforce compliance.

  “Opa-Locka is currently VFR, landing runway two-seven right, visual or ILS approach in use. We will advise Miami Center of your new destination. Maintain heading and altitude and remain on this frequency. I will provide further traffic separation and flight routing. Sundstrand Air three-five one, acknowledge new clearance.”

  The pilot was already responding ... when Mink released her mike button they heard “. . . Can’t do this ... I have clearance to Fort Lauderdale, I am gonna hang you by your titties, puta sucia ... I demand to speak with your supervisor right now. Over.”

  “Three-fifty-one, I’ve notified my supervisor, please stand by,” Mink said. She didn’t mind him sounding off on the open channel— this guy was going to get clobbered when he landed. The Hammerheads I-Team and the Customs Service CET at Miami International Airport, who would by now be rolling toward Opa-Locka Airport, would be listening in and would not take kindly to this guy’s popping off.

  “You had better get him on the line, lady,” the pilot retorted. “You guys are crazy. I don’t have no passengers on board. You can do your inspection at Fort Lauderdale. They got facilities there. Why don’t you do your damned inspection there?”

  Mink was typing on her keyboard, then sat waiting on the computer to retrieve the information she requested. “I’m calling up his Customs clearance form to be sure,” she told Ricardo. “But I think he’s supposed to have passengers.”

  “What?”

  “Excuse me, Ricardo,” another controller cut in. “Just a notice. Looks like CARABAL has dropped off the line.” He was referring to the aerostat radar balloon facility at the Hammerheads’ land base on Grand Bahama Island one hundred twenty miles east of Palm Beach. Michael Becker moved back to his commander’s console to check out the report himself.

  “Make sure it’s logged in to our system, then give them a call and see what’s up.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m not getting anything from Grand Bahama on the radio,” Becker said. “I’ll give them a try on the phone.”

  “Got it, Ricardo,” Angel Mink suddenly chimed in. “His Customs declaration form says eight passengers, all Americans. Social Security numbers, drivers’ license numbers, the works.”

  “Yet he tells us he doesn’t have passengers,” Ricardo said. “Ask him to verify.”

  Suddenly the platform’s emergency buzzer sounded three times and Becker promptly got on the address system: “Attention on the platform, this is the command center. We have received notification that the aerostat radar unit on Grand Bahama Island has just come under attack and has been destroyed by hostile aircraft. I am placing this platform on yellow alert. Clear the flight deck and prepare for aircraft launch and recovery. Off-duty crew, report to emergency stations. Repeat, this platform is on yellow alert.” He turned to Ricardo. “Broadcast an alert warning on all Border Security, Coast Guard and military channels, and clear the airspace for fifty miles around this platform.”

  Most of the controllers and crewmen were watching the activity up on the commander’s podium. “Take your seats and watch your sectors,” Becker told them. “Get your life jackets on but continue monitoring your sectors. Do it.”

  One person did not get to her feet. Angel Mink only pressed her headphones tighter on her head against the noise in the control center and repeated into her radio, “Sundstrand three-fifty-one, acknowledge. You are exiting the entry corridor and approaching restricted airspace. Turn left to heading three-five-zero immediately.” No reply. On interphone she called out, “Mike, Sundstrand three- fifty-one has left the entry corridor and is heading for us. No response. His speed has increased to two-eightv. He’s thirty-eight miles southwest, ETA eight minutes.”

  Aboard Lion Two-Nine Heading Toward Hammerhead Two Platform

  Hardcastle was making his way back to his seat in the rear of the V-22 shuttle with a cup of coffee—decaffeinated this time—when Lee Tanner touched his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir . . .”

  “Tanner, aren’t you ever going to let me sleep?” But Tanner’s face was serious this time. “What is it? The Bills score again?”

  “Broadcast on all freqs from Hammerhead One,” the controller said. “They are at yellow alert. They said CARABAL was just attacked from the air—”

  Hardcastle nearly took off Tanner’s ears as he grabbed he headphones. “Ken, what’s going on?” he called up to the cockpit.

  “No contact with CARABAL,” the pilot, Ken Sherry, replied. “Platforms one and two are at yellow alert. Key West and the Zoc have been alerted.”

  “What was that about an air attack?”

  “LYiconfirmed, sir,” Sherry told him. “But Hammerhead One said something about an air attack on CARABAL.”

  Hardcastle looked out the observation window on the starboard- side entry-hatch but it was pitch black outside. The crew in the back of the Sea Lion started to rustle uneasily, sensing the tension in Hardcastle’s voice. “Where are we?”

  “Twenty miles west of the coast. Hammerhead Two is off the nose at twenty-five miles.”

  “Turn us around and land us somewhere,” Hardcastle ordered. “Somewhere close—Naples or Southwest Regional ...”

  “But what about Hammerhead Two?”

  “If they come under attack I don’t want twenty-five more crewmembers on that platform. We can evacuate crewmembers better with an empty plane. Turn us around and get us on the ground pronto.”

  The White House, Washington, D. C.

  The President was in his familiar blue, red and white nylon warm-up suit, a reminder of his former football years—when he met in the White House Situation Room with Vice President Martindale, Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Army General Randolph McKyer, the newly promoted White House Chief of Staff Jack Pledgeman, CIA Director Kenneth Mitchell and the just appointed National Security Advisor, Air Force General Wilbur Curtis. Other NSA and Cabinet officials were represented by top aides or deputies. Along with the top White House brass and their aides were Brad Elliott and Patrick McLanahan, sitting away from the group with their briefing boards and notes.

  “With all due respect, General Elliott,” the President began irritably, “what I see are a bunch of ifs and maybes here.” He turned to Vice President Martindale. “What about it, Kevin? You send McLanahan and a kid pilot over Haiti in a”—he stopped, disbelieving what he was about to say—“a Russian fighter plane. They’re forced to land and are damn near taken into custody. Or worse. Now you’re claiming that this military unit is a drug-smuggling ring?”

  “The evidence may appear circumstantial but it’s documented and verified, sir,” Martindale said. “This base has been under surveillance by Border Security for some time.” He was stretching the truth a bit, McLanahan thought, but it was necessary for now. “Major McLanahan has evidence that the smugglers that killed those children, threw them out of their aircraft, landed at the base in question. I did therefore authorize General Elliott to use whatever assets at his disposal to investigate, and do it in a timely manner.”

  “With a Russian fighter plane? Why did you use a Russian fighter?”

  “It was the only aircraft available that could do the job, Mr. President,” Elliott put
in. “We needed a plane that was fast and maneuverable for self-defense, but we were also trying not to spook the smugglers into running and hiding, which we felt would happen if we sent an American fighter or bomber. There are Cuban fighter bases with Russian planes near Haiti... a Russian plane seemed the logical choice—”

  “And if they got caught or killed? We’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

  “General Elliott’s group is deniable and highly classified, Mr. President,” Martindale said. “White House or U.S. government involvement would have been difficult if not impossible to prove.”

  The President looked at Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston, who gave a slight nod. “Even I was not aware that we had a flyable Sukhoi-27 fighter being flown by American pilots, Mr. President,” Preston said. “Although I would have preferred the use of a more . . . conventional aircraft for this mission, I am impressed with the results. However, I am still not entirely convinced that this group discovered by McLanahan here is a drug smuggling ring, and I am even less convinced that we should do anything about the situation at this time—”

  “I disagree, ” Martindale said. “We need to go in there, with the Haitian government, such as it is, and break down that bunch right now. If we wait they escape and set up shop somewhere else and we have to find them all over again.”

  Assistant Secretary of State for Central America Janet Johnson said: “I checked on the legal status of this Colonel Agusto Salazar that Lieutenant Powell discovered in Haiti. It turns out Colonel Salazar is a district militia commander—”

  “A what? You mean the guy’s legitimate?”

  “Salazar is a dual-national, a citizen of both Haiti and Panama, although he was born in Cuba and was a colonel in the Cuban Revolutionary Air Force,” Johnson said. “He serves without compensation except for the right to establish a local militia in the west-central region of Haiti. He is under nominal command of the Haitian military and is authorized to arm and equip a fighting force in Verrettes.”

  “The man is also an ex-Cuban military officer, tried and convicted of drug smuggling in Cuba,” CIA chief Kenneth Mitchell put in. “His supporters, probably most of the soldiers and pilots there at Verrettes, broke him out of prison days before he was to be executed. My sources say he lives under the good graces of the Cuban regime by some big payoffs to the Cuban government. In exchange, his men and planes have virtually unrestricted access to Cuban airspace and waters for their activities, although they would never admit it, of course. After all, he operates out of Haiti.”

  “So what’s the bottom line, people?” the President cut in. “Can we get this guy or what?”

  “We can ask the Haitian government to turn him over to us,” Johnson replied. “Salazar is a lot like Manual Noriega was in Panama—a military leader, a strongman, enjoying full protection and immunity of a government official. He’s richer and more powerful than anyone else in Haiti ...”

  “Once we get permission from the Haitian government we can have him out of there in no time,” General McKver said.

  “Another invasion force?” the President said. “We looked like bullies to the hemisphere when Bush invaded Panama.”

  “But the operation worked, sir,” McKyer said. “We got Noriega. The man is serving time—”

  “If we move into Haiti we’ll lock in the condemnation of the entire world,” Johnson said. “They’re already calling us empire-building bullies, invading neighboring states whenever we feel we need to. I’d recommend against that course of action.”

  “I must agree,” Thomas Preston said. Martindale’s shoulders slumped—he knew how important Preston’s voice was in all of the President’s decisions. “The situation with this Salazar character is much diflFerent from that with Noriega. Noriega took control of Panama by trying to kill off the opposition and by nullifying the free elections. And he declared war on the United States and threatened to destroy the Panama Canal. The decision to invade Panama was a necessary one, a defensible one. Besides, we already had a sizeable force in place. We would have no such advantage in Haiti. We’re not at war with the government there, no one in Haiti has declared war on us, and this Salazar doesn’t threaten the security of either Haiti or the United States . . .”

  “I agree, Thomas,” the President said to Preston. He turned to Martindale. “We can begin actions against Salazar that will show our displeasure at his actions—maybe even indict him for drug trafficking the way we did Noriega, and we can get the cooperation of the Haitian government in monitoring his activities. But nothing I’ve heard justifies a military action against this guy. It’s out of the question. We can’t possibly identify anything he’s done.”

  “Except, of course, for his drug smuggling,” Elliott said quietly, the tension nonetheless loud and clear in his voice.

  “His alleged drug smuggling,” Johnson corrected. “If we’re going to indict him we might as well start thinking legally.”

  “If we can indict him,” McKyer said. He looked at Elliott—it was obvious that McKyer did not think highly of the White House’s esteemed trouble-shooter. “Our best evidence that this Salazar is in Haiti was obtained from American servicemen flying a Russian plane uninvited into Haitian airspace. Not exactly prime evidence for a grand jury. Fruit of the poison tree, I think is the legal expression.”

  “That mission was an authorized government secret operation, general, Martindale said quickly. “We can protect our sources and methods, and the evidence is still admissable in any court in this country.”

  “We have to do this thing right,” the President said. His tone signalled that this meeting was definitely coming to an end. “If we don t have a solid legal footing, unless the guy does something stupid like ... I don t know, like attack the United States or one of our ships in the Caribbean, we can’t move against him—”

  I believe he already has, sir,” Elliott said. “We’re analyzing the photos we took over Verrettes to see if we could possibly match a plane there with the wreckage of the plane shot down over the Everglades two years ago, as well as some of the other drug planes seized or destroyed since. I think we can find enough evidence to prove that one of Salazar’s planes attacked and destroyed our Coast Guard patrol plane.” Elliott stood. “But I can’t emphasize enough, Mr. President—that base at Verrettes is a major threat to our national security.”

  “It won’t fly, Brad,” the President replied. “Analyzing those photos is a positive step, and if you find something that we can go on, then we 11 take it up then. Otherwise we’ll continue with what we’re doing. The President stood and straightened his warm-up jacket. “Thank you all for coming. Sorry to keep you up at such a late hour.”

  A few of the Cabinet sidled up to the President to speak with him privately. Pledgeman began herding Elliott, McLanahan and the others out of the Situation Room when a silenced phone began flashing its ringer-light on the table in the center of the room. Simultaneously, beepers on the belts of several persons in the room went off, including those of Preston, Curtis and Elliott.

  Preston’s aide answered the phone as the men cut off their beepers. “Message from the communications center, sir,” the aide said. As Preston moved to the phone the aide motioned to Elliott. “Call for you, sir, from your headquarters. The comm center says it’s an urgent.”

  Elliott took the receiver, listened, then in a loud voice to get the others’ attention, said, “Say that again.” A moment later he said, “I’ll be in touch,” and hung up.

  “The aerostat radar balloon site in the Bahamas has been destroyed by an air attack, Mr. President,” Elliott said in a loud voice. The announcement silenced every voice in the room. “Both Border Security Force air-staging platforms are now believed to be under attack by light aircraft.”

  Hammerheads One Air Staging Platform

  Angel Mink’s digital color display was in a ten-mile range, configured so as to show both Lion Two-One, the AV-22 tilt-rotor launched from the Hammerhead One platform only moments
before, and the Sundstrand Air target aircraft. The two aircraft were on opposite sides of the rectangular screen, like knights at opposite sides of the lists ready to charge.

  And, virtually superimposed over the computer symbol representing the Hammerheads’ aircraft, was the symbol representing the Hammerhead One platform. Less than ten miles away—about two more minutes—and the plane, whatever its intention, would be right on top of them.

  “Two-One, your target is at eleven o’clock, nine miles,” she reported. “You are clear to engage. Suggest left turns to evade. Seagull One is at your four o’clock, five miles, on auto intercept.”

  “Roger.” The AV-22’s pilot sounded even more worried than Mink. Then: “Two-One has a judy. Two-One has radar contact, maneuvering to intercept.”

  “Negative,” Michael Becker cut in. “You’re not doing a tail chase, Two-One. We don’t have the time. Engage at long range, then pivot and engage again. Use your aircraft’s capabilities and stay behind him.” On interphone Becker directed, “Keep broadcasting warning messages, dammit.” There was still a glimmer of hope, remote now, that this guy was lost or disorientated and had started flying off course and toward the platform at the same moment that CARABAL went off the air.

  “Target altitude now one thousand and descending,” Mink reported to the command-center crew. “Seven miles from Two-One and closing, twelve o'clock, now five miles.”

  “Mike, Homestead is launching alert fighters in support,” one of the controllers reported. “We’ve got one F-16, designation Trap One, thirty miles out and closing at Mach one point two. Two are heading toward Key West and one toward Hammerhead Two.” Mink expanded her scope to include the Air Force F-16.

  “Two-One, missiles away,” the pilot on the AV-22 reported. He was shooting at the Sea Stinger missile’s extreme range-limit, at a head-on propeller-driven target at low altitude—the odds of a hit were not good. A controller began broadcasting navigation-warning messages to alert aircraft and vessels in the area.