“Why didn’t we bust this guy in Nassau?” Fields asked. “Right now he looks legitimate—he’s cleared Bahamian Customs, he’s dead on course on Bravo-646 and he has a valid flight plan to Mexico. But we know the guy is carrying drugs—”
“He didn’t actually clear Customs in Nassau,” Elliott corrected her. “In fact, he didn’t have to go through Customs at all. He’s on a stopover flight plan from Jamaica to Cancun with no deliveries scheduled for any stop—only pickups and refueling. Bahamian customs doesn’t have to inspect his plane unless they have probable cause.”
“But we do have probable cause. Van Nuys said this guy had five hundred kilos of cocaine on board. That should have been enough—” “Wouldn’t have made any difference. We couldn’t convince Bahamian customs to let us wire this guy or check his documents,” Elliott said. “They told us we had to get a court order or go through their home secretary. As they say, the fix was already in.”
“If we busted this guy the word might get out that we’re on to this operation,” Fields added. “Besides, if Van Nuys’ information is straight goods, this guy will make a drop somewhere along the Keys or in Florida Bay and we can get both the plane and the man on the ground if we wait.”
“If we can determine that the plane dropped drugs in U.S. territory,” Elliott said. “Congress, the White House doesn’t want a repeat of the Lion Two-Two incident when that smuggler was shot down over the Gulf of Mexico. Even with all that’s happened to the Hammerheads, the rules are tighter than ever—even tighter than the old rules for the use of deadly force. Which means we have to see the drop, find the drugs, determine that the recovered container was the thing that was thrown from the plane and then determine that the container contains cocaine or some other illegal substance. And we have to do all this before the guy leaves American airspace.” Elliott shook his head. “I don’t like this. We should do a standard intercept and turn him away. We’re risking missing both the drop and the plane.”
“We’ve got McLanahan airborne in the E-2 with six Sky Lion drones to chase down the ground smugglers,” Fields said, “and an AV-22 on this guy’s tail. We’re covered. So far Van Nuys has given us good information. I think we should take advantage of it.”
“Looks like he’s descending,” Fields reported. “The target’s data block indicated the plane leaving ten thousand feet; although the altitude readout was erratic, the Hammerheads’ Relocatable Over- the-Horizon Backscatter radar system could usually detect altitude changes and alert the operators. “Groundspeed may have dropped off too . . . he's turning northwest. He’s starting his inbound track. Sixty miles east of Marathon at this time. Lion Three-Three is turning, maintaining contact ...”
Aboard the Inbound Smuggler’s Plane
“Miami Center, Carmen del Sol Airline’s flight nine-oh-nine Charlie, descending VFR on top to eight thousand five hundred. Over.” “Del Sol nine-oh-niner Charlie, roger,” the air traffic controllers replied. “Be advised, MEA in your area is eight thousand feet, limited radar coverage until within range of Key West Approach. Over.” “Thanks for the advisory, Center, nine-oh-niner Charlie. Eight point five will be our final. We w'ere getting some bad winds up there.” The controller replied with two clicks of his mike, then went on to talk to someone else.
The pilot of the Cuchillos’ twin-engine Cheyenne turboprop, Major Jose Trujillo, reached up to a special device on his instrument panel and flicked it on. Normally, Air Traffic Control radar interrogated a plane’s IFF, its Identification Friend or Foe system, which would reply with the plane’s assigned code and the altitude readout from the pressure altimeter. This device allowed the pilot to transmit any altitude data he wanted through the plane’s mode-C encoder. With the device on, Air Traffic Control would read the plane’s altitude as eight thousand five hundred feet, although the plane could be at any altitude.
“Position?” Trujillo asked his copilot.
“Coming up in five miles,” the copilot replied. He had the WET SNOW beacon receiver on his side of the instrument panel, intermittently activating the system to get a bearing to the drop point, then flicking it off to prevent detection. He had been directing the pilot to steer toward the ground crew, who were arranged along Lower Matecumbe Key waiting for the five-hundred-kilo shipment.
The copilot took one long, last bearing—they were right on target. He tightened his seat and shoulder belts, looked back at the cargo crew—they had no seats but were holding on tight to whatever they could—nodded to Trujillo and said, “Now.”
Trujillo pulled the throttles all the way back to idle, hauled the plane into a steep ninety-degree right-bank and knifed the nose down toward the dark waters below. The vertical-velocity indicator snapped down to two-thousand-feet-per-minute descent and pegged. In seconds the plane had descended from eight thousand to two thousand feet.
“Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, recycle your transponder and check code four-one-three-three. Over.”
Trujillo had to control his voice during the dizzying descent as he replied, “Niner-zero-niner-Charlie, roger,” He hoped the controller wouldn’t notice the tension in his voice as the altimeter unwound like a racing stopwatch gone wild.
“Niner-zero-niner-Charlie, recycle your transponder once again.” “Pull up, ” the copilot shouted cross-cockpit. They had shot through two thousand feet with the nose still ten degrees below the horizon and the plane still at ninety degrees bank, in an accelerated stall. Trujillo shoved the throttles back in to arrest the screaming descent, leveled the wings and pulled back on the control column. At six hundred feet the vertical-velocity indicator finally bounced off the dial and began to creep upward. They finally leveled off at three hundred feet . . .
Aboard Lion Three-Three, in Pursuit of Carmen Del Sol Nine-Zero-Nine Charlie
Through the Pilot’s Night Vision Sensor goggles Ken Sherrey saw the suspect plane in front of him, a huge Cheyenne turboprop, do a high-G wingover and plummet toward the ocean like a rock. Sherrey pulled the left-power lever on his AV-22 Sea Lion tilt-rotor back to reduce power, ignored the computerized warnings to change nacelle angle and let the Sea Lion’s nose drop to pursue.
“Aladdin, the suspect is doing a hard descent,” Sherrey reported. “He’s heading for the deck at five thousand feet a minute—that guy must have steel balls to do a wingover in a Cheyenne at night.”
“We copy, Three-Three,” Annette Fields replied. “Can you maintain contact?”
“My I-Team guys are weightless in the back but I can still see him okay. I can maintain contact. You better check with the Sky Lions, though.”
“Roger,” Field said. “Break. Hawk Four-One, did you copy?”
“Roger that,” McLanahan replied aboard the E-2 Hawkeye radar plane orbiting forty miles away. “The drones are descending too. IVe got radar contact with both the suspect and the Three-Three. We also have IR contact on several surface targets near Lower Mate- cumbe Key ... I think that’s our drop. I’ve got two Sky Lions on auto-intercept on the confirmed surface targets.”
“Copy all, Four-One.”
“Three-Three copies all.” Sherrey let the speed increase as he continued his own hard descent. “He better pull up soon,” Sherrey’s copilot murmured.
“He’s still nose low and wing high,” Sherrey said. “Even if he does get level he might sink right down into the drink.”
But the suspect plane did not crash. Slowly, inexorably, the big turboprop leveled its wings. It seemed to hang motionless in the green-and-white infrared/night-vision video-screen. Sherrey was still positive the plane would pancake in, but after several moments it was obvious that the smugglers made it.
“Pretty dammed good flying,” Sherrey’s copilot said.
“Luck of the devil,” Sherrey muttered. He kept the AV-22 coming down until he was at one thousand feet above the water, well above and behind the low-flying smuggler. “Luck of the devil ...”
The copilot had the WET SNOW-beacon system on as soon as the plane leve
led off and took a reading as soon as he was sure Trujillo had the big turboprop back under control. “Five degrees left, ten seconds,” the copilot shouted. Trujillo’s chest was heaving from the exertion, but he slapped the plane to the left and worked to inch the plane down to one hundred feet, one hundred twenty knots, the precalculated drop parameters. “Drop crew, stand by . . . stand by . . . now. ”
They had no fancy sled drop devices—two men in the back of the Cheyenne just started sliding the fifty-kilo canisters out the door as fast as they could. In thirty seconds they had slid all ten bullet-shaped canisters out the door. “Drop completed. Go. ” “Cargo in the water,” Sherrey’s copilot called out as he saw the canisters fly out the Cheyenne’s cargo door.
“I got it, I got it,” Sherrey said, talking to himself more than anyone else. “I’m breaking off from the Cheyenne. I-Team, stand by.” Sherrey rotated the engine-nacelle switch up, which swung the Sea Lion’s twin engines to the vertical position. As he did so the AV-22’s controls changed from standard aircraft rudders and ailerons to helicopter cyclic and collectives. He quickly dropped down to just a few feet above the water and hovered yards away from three canisters he could see bobbing in the water.
“I’ve got a canister just ten yards on the right,” he said as he settled the big plane down for a gentle water landing. “I-Team, out.” In the cargo bay of the AV-22 the five-man I-Team slid their rigid-hull inflatable boat off the rear cargo ramp and into the water. With the helmsman wearing a set of night-vision goggles he was able to pick out the canisters. Sherrey water-taxied the AV-22 clear so his rotor wash wouldn’t capsize the RHIB, and the I-Team members threw a rope around the canister and lashed it to their boat.
Just as they pulled the floating canister to the side of the RHIB the helmsman announced from his helmet-mounted radio: “I’ve got a boat at three o’clock, closing fast ...”
“Get back aboard,” Sherrey shouted over the radio. But just as he called out the orders Sherrey could see winks of light coming from the approximate position of the newcomer—they were being fired on.
“Aladdin, this is Three-Three,” Sherrey radioed. “We’ve got hos- tiles at our three o’clock. Shots fired. I-Team taking heavy fire. We’re recovering the I-Team and can’t lift off.” The copilot unbuckled and headed back to the cargo bay, ready to help the I-Team back in.
“Break. Three-Three, this if Four-One,” McLanahan suddenly cut in from the E-2 Hawkeye radar lane. “Stand by, we’re coming in.” The helmsman standing up in the RHIB was the first to fall to the fusillade of bullets from the attackers. Several of the I-Team flattened themselves down and began to return fire with sidearms, while two others helped the wounded helmsman and began to steer the RHIB back to the cargo ramp. “Four-One, get down here,” Sherrey shouted. “We’re taking heavy fire ...”
And out in the darkness beyond the right engine nacelle Sherrey saw a brilliant flash of light and a yellow streak of fire race across the sky, heading to the surface. A moment later there was an explosion just fifty yards away. One of the Sea Lion drones following the surface ships it had detected with its infrared scanner had fired a Sea Stinger missile at the oncoming boat. Moments later a second missile plunged into the attacker’s boat, creating a mushroom of fire rolling across the ocean. And the boat began to burn fiercely, lighting up the sky for hundreds of yards.
“Three-Three, I’ve got another Sky Lion moving in to your position,” McLanahan radioed from the E-2. “Do you need further assistance?”
Negative. Your wind-up toys did a nice job,” Sherrey said. “Stand by.” He turned in his seat. “How’s Joe?”
The helmsman’s right arm was covered with blood but he was sitting up, alert, and could wave back at Sherrey. “I’m okay, get those sons of bitches.”
“You sure, Joe?” The helmsman waved again. “The drones got the pickup boat. Crack that case open and let’s see what we got.” Steel bands were cut off the fiberglass canister, and after a quick check for explosives, triggering devices or other booby traps they opened the case—because the smuggler’s pickup crew often had to open a case to disperse the load it was rarely booby-trapped, but it was a good idea to be sure. What they found was fifty one-kilo bricks of a grayish-white powder. One of the I-Team members brought out a test kit, and they cut into one brick and dumped a knifeful into a vial of cobalt cyanimide. “Pure as my baby sister,” he called out.
“Secure that back ramp and get strapped in,” Sherrey ordered. He had already lifted off and was starting his pursuit before the copilot made it back into his seat.
Major Jose Trujillo aboard the Cheyenne shoved the throttles back to full power and started a steep climb after making the drop. As he passed through five thousand feet they started to hear snatches of radio transmissions from Miami Center: “. . . Charlie, if you can hear me, contact Miami Center on one-one-eight-point-two-five. Repeat, Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, come up this frequency immediately.”
“Miami Center, Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, we can hear you fine, sir,” the Cuchillo pilot said. “I’ve been identing, can you see my beacon now?”
“Affirmative, niner-zero-niner-Charlie,” the controller said. The Cheyenne was now passing six thousand eight hundred feet. “I show you level at eight thousand five hundred. You didn’t acknowledge my calls.”
“I heard you fine,” Trujillo replied. “I guess I was hitting the wrong button, sorry ...”
“Copy.” A few moments later the Miami Center controller got back on the radio: “Del Sol zero-niner-Charlie . . . ah, sir, you have traffic at your six o’clock, five miles.”
Trujillo hesitated—usually the air traffic controllers didn’t report traffic behind you because they knew you probably couldn’t see it, and in any case they usually reported the other aircraft’s altitude and type of aircraft. Finally he said, “Roger, Center. Can’t see him.”
Another pause, longer than the first, ten: “Del Sol zero-niner- Charlie, switch to frequency one-one-two point five-five.”
The two Cuchillos pilots looked at each other. They knew what that frequency was—the Border Security Force’s air-surface common channel. They had been discovered.
They worked without talking. Trujillo immediately turned south, pushed the throttles up to full power and pushed the nose down to lose altitude. Meanwhile the copilot shut off the IFF transponder and double-checked that all the exterior lights were off.
“Carmen Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, this is the Border Security Force,” Ken Sherrey radioed from his AV-22 on the international GUARD emergency channel. “We show you exiting your flight corridor and assigned altitude. You are currently on the Marathon zero- niner-two-degree radial at twenty-five DME, heading south, currently at five thousand feet and descending. You are in violation of United States border security procedures. Maintain your present altitude and lower your landing gear. Contact me at VHF frequently one-one-two-point-five-five or on VHF GUARD one-two-one-point- five.”
One of the cargo crewmembers rushed up the cockpit. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“Shut up and sit down . . .” But just then a brilliant beam of light stabbed into the Cheyenne’s cabin from the left side, flashing along the fuselage and wings before settling on the pilot.
“The Hammerheads, they’ve found us . . .” Looking out the windows on the left side, the crewman could see the flashing warning lights and the white spotlight very close behind. “They’re right behind us, seven o’clock, about a half mile. Can you outrun them?”
Trujillo pulled the sun visor around to his left to try to block out the bright NightSun spotlight. “What do you think?” the pilot said. “We head south and try to get out of U.S. waters before they open fire.”
“It’s no use to try to run,” the voice said on the radio. “We got one of your canisters, we got the drugs, we saw you drop the canister—we even got your pickup boat.” The spotlight began to flash slowly, the beam swinging in and out of the cockpit and across
the left wing. “I can see faces in the windows, people, which means this warning message and my searchlight have been seen. Lower your landing gear and start a right turn now or we will open fire.”
“What are we going to do?” the Cheyenne’s copilot said. “They’re going to shoot . . .”
“Quiet,” Trujillo said. “Get on the short-wave radio and try to reach one of the other Cuchillos. Tell them we have been intercepted.” He pulled the throttles back to seventy-percent power, reached over to the center console and pulled the landing gear handle down. The “GEAR UNSAFE WARNING” light came on briefly as the gear dropped into the slipstream, but it soon went out and was replaced by three green “GEAR DOWN AND LOCKED” lights.
Trujillo switched his radio to the Hammerheads’ common frequency. “Carmen del Sol Airlines flight niner-zero-niner-Charlie has lowered its landing gear. We protest this unwarranted action and demand that the Border Security Force aircraft at our seven o’clock position move away and turn off that searchlight. We are cancelling our international flight plan and are exiting American airspace. We are no longer under your control. Move clear.”
“Zero-niner-Charlie, you have been intercepted by the United States Border Security Force. You are required to follow my directions and acknowledge all transmissions or you will be fired on. Traffic separation and obstacle clearance will be provided by me. Turn right to magnetic heading three-five-zero and prepare for a visual approach and landing at Taimiami Airport.”
Trujillo turned his head at the glare of the searchlight, then began a slow right turn to the heading he was given. As he did he reached up to the patch on his left breast pocket of his flight suit—a blue diamond with a set of gold hawk’s wings, the symbol of the Cuchillos borrowed from the wings of the Cuban Revolutionary Air Force. He ripped the patch off his flight suit and tossed it away, a silent apology to the man who had betrayed him—Colonel Agusto Salazar.
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