Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Border Security Force Headquarters, Aladdin City, Florida

  “Suspect is decelerating and turning northbound,” Fields said, her voice rising. “Three-Three reports he has lowered his landing gear.” A cheer from the main command center controllers.

  “We need Customs and the Coast Guard to pick up the other canisters and check out that pickup boat,” Elliott said. “See if we can get another Sea Lion airborne to escort the Cheyenne back into Taimiami, and have Three-Three fly into Homestead to have his crewman dropped off at the base hospital.”

  “Yes, sir, ” Field said.

  Elliott looked at Annette Fields. “This is turning into a major bust, and we only got two of the twelve planes Van Nuys said would be on this operation.”

  , Mexico

  Twenty Minutes Later

  Agusto Salazar was just completing a walk around inspection of one of the two F-5E fighters that would be going on the escort flight. The F-5, he had to admit, was a beautiful plane, as deadly looking as a stiletto even with two big fuel tanks on the wings and a big ground- and surface-attack rocket-pod on the belly. A far-cry from his old MiGs, and sleeker and faster-looking than the French-built Mirage F1C. The Mexican government had purchased a lot of new equipment for these F-5s, so Salazar was going to fly them on this escort mission instead of the bigger but less capable Mirages.

  His F-5 also carried two M39-A2 20-millimeter guns in the nose, each with 280 rounds of ammunition; two older Air Force AIM-9J Sidewinder missiles, the cheaper but less capable heat-seeking missiles that were useful only short-range stern chases, mounted on wingtip rails; and two ancient AIM-4 Genie radar-guided missiles linked to the F-5’s upgraded AN/APQ-159 radar on wing hardpoints. The AIM-4 missiles were a last-minute experiment for this mission and had never been tested, but the missiles would “talk” with the fire-control radar so he was going with the untested Genie missiles to retain a longer-range radar attack weapon. His wingman would be similarly equipped, except the other F-5 had only one 20-millimeter cannon instead of two. Both fighters were still in their maintenance hangars, shielding their activities from curious onlookers—the Mexican Air Force would certainly not approve of their aircraft loaded up with missiles and ammunition on an unauthorized drug-smuggling escort flight.

  The plan was to launch the F-5s as the Antonov and Douglas transport planes made their way north through Mexico toward the United States. The fighters would join with the transports over the Gulf of Mexico east of Tampico, outside of radar coverage of both Mexico and the United States, then fly in close formation with the transports as they made their drops.

  With the extra fuel tanks and a bit of luck, the F-5s could fly for almost two thousand miles, which would allow the fighters to escort the transports well inside the United States to their drop points and well back into Mexico. They had refueling points set up for the returning planes all through central Mexico, at civilian airports as well as remote landing strips.

  A clerk ran over to Salazar as he walked to the boarding ladder to finish his cockpit checks. “Urgent message for you, sir,” the clerk said. Salazar read the note as his wingman, Captain Tony Vasquez, walked over to his side. .

  “Trouble, Colonel?”

  “We received an HF message from nine-nine-Charlie. Trujillo was intercepted by the Hammerheads east of Marathon. The Hammerheads also got Gachez’s pickup boat.” He crumpled up the note and threw it into the clerk’s face.

  “How are they finding our planes?” But of course he knew. Van Nuys . . .

  “They must be using satellites or radar planes,” Vasquez said. “We know they don’t have one aerostat or carrier out there.” He paused. “What about the other planes? What are we going to do—?”

  “We continue, of course,” Salazar said. “The Hammerheads could have a dozen radar planes up there but they can’t catch us if we’re spread out over two thousand miles across the continent. Besides, we win every time one of those canisters leaves our planes. This is a war of numbers, Captain. We will win it.” Salazar chose not to mention that he would become that much richer if the mission continued. He turned to the clerk, who had stayed and waited for any orders. “I want an update on the cargo planes headed to Texas, New Mexico and Louisiana,” he said.

  “Right here, sir,” the clerk said, producing a clipboard. “All three planes have landed safely in Valladolid and are refueling now. They should be airborne in fifteen minutes.”

  Salazar checked his watch and made some fast mental calculations. “We will launch as scheduled in one hour, and rendezvous in about two hours near Ciudad Victoria,” he said. “We still have the upper hand. The Hammerheads are too late to stop us.”

  Over North-Central Mexico, Near San Antonio de Bravo

  Three Hours Later

  The rendezvous had gone off without a hitch. Two hundred miles east of Tampico, on Mexico’s east central coast, Salazar and his wingman in their F-5E fighters rendezvoused with the Antonov-26 and the Douglas DC-3 cargo planes. It was a textbook operation, using strict timing and course control with only occasional bursts of attack radar data from the F-5s to make the joinup. The two F-5s each sided with a cargo plane and tucked in close, nearly merging wingtips. By the time the flight of aircraft was within radar range of Mexican air-traffic controllers at Tampico, they looked precisely what their flight plans said they would be—two Carmen del Sol Airlines planes flying together. The planes were precisely on course and on time, and so they received immediate clearance to enter Mexican airspace. As the flight of aircraft reached a point one hundred miles east of Chihuahua, the DC-3 with its F-5 fighter continued northeast on its flight-plan route to Nogales, while the Antonov-26 headed north towards Ciudad Juarez, skirting the Rio Grande River.

  The routing of this flight was critical. Unlike the DC-3, which would land in Nogales and offload its cargo on the ground, the Antonov-26 would make a drop along the U. S.-Mexican border in spots between the towns of Ojinaga and Felix Gomez in an area that had restricted radar coverage. A Border Security Force aerostat unit was located in Eagle Pass, Texas, and another at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, and both sites were effective and well maintained. But two other sites at Deming, New Mexico, and Marfa, Texas, had suspended operations on account of budget constraints. So there was a significant gap in radar coverage that was only partially offset by air-traflic-control radars in El Paso and Juarez. Although Customs and Border Security Force patrols had been increased in the southwest Texas border area, there should be no way to track an aircraft at low altitude in this area ... at least that was what Salazar believed as the Antonov-26 cleared off frequency with air-traffic controllers in Chihuahua, waited a few minutes until safely off the controller’s screens, then descended to a thousand feet to begin their drops.

  Salazar’s intelligence was correct: the aerostat radar balloons at Marfa and Deming were indeed impotent—they were flying as a show, the radars were not functional. But the ROTH radar site in north-central Arkansas scanned the border area constantly, and it had steered the Hammerheads’ modified P-3 Orion radar plane and two AV-22 Sea Lion aircraft into the area. Another Border Security Force radar plane was carefully following the Douglas transport as it made its way to Nogales . . .

  “Lion flight, this is Shark,” the controller aboard the P-3 called on the scrambled tactical frequency, “your target has just begun a descent. He’s at your ten o’clock, twenty miles. Descend to four thousand feet MSL, use caution, high terrain and power lines in your vicinity and within five hundred feet of your final altitude, El Paso altimeter, two-niner-niner-eight.”

  “Lion Two-One flight of two, leaving ten thousand for four thousand,” Hardcastle replied. He was in the lead Sea Lion aircraft, with ex-army helicopter pilot Rachel Sanchez as his copilot: Rushell Masters and Sandra Geffar were in Lion Two-Two flying in formation with him. They were just on the U.S. side of the border paralleling Salazar’s course. Hardcastle was using the PNVS goggles to locate terrain and other obstructions. “Give me the MMR on �
��MW SEARCH,’ Rachel,” Hardcastle said as they passed eight thousand feet.

  “You got it. Multi-mode radar to ‘OPR,’ mode set to millimeter- wave radar search, built-in test completed, and you’ve got a green light.” Sanchez had activated the Sea Lion’s millimeter-wave radar system; the ten-inch-diameter radar would help detect small obstructions in the plane’s flight path such as power lines and radio towers, dangerous features that were usually undetectable even with a high- quality night-vision system. The MWR impulses were transmitted to Hardcastle’s night-vision goggles as a thin white line across his field of view; if an obstruction was detected the line would squiggle and jump in the area of the strongest radar reflections.

  “I’ve got a good trace,” Hardcastle said. He continued his descent and leveled off at four thousand feet; the radar altimeter read about fifteen hundred feet. They were on the western edge of the Stockton Plateau of southern Texas—although the terrain was generally flat and rolling, the high desert terrain also showed a few cliffs and dangerous valleys with power lines strung across them that had very often trapped unwary pilots. “MWR to standby.” Sanchez flipped off the radar for him; they were still high enough to clear all obstacles in the area.

  “Target at your eleven o’clock, ten miles, altitude five hundred feet, speed two hundred knots,” Hardcastle said.

  “He might as well be a thousand miles away,” Sanchez said irritably. “We still can’t touch him without clearance to cross into Mexican airspace.”

  “Elliott said he’d get it, so he will,” Hardcastle said.

  “And what if he doesn’t? We’re up here watching the biggest drug shipment in history go down right before our eyes."

  “Give it a rest, Rachel,” Hardcastle said. “Everything that can be done is being done . . .” It sounded lame even to Hardcastle too. Sanchez was only saying what she was thinking. The only thing that kept the Hammerheads away from getting the Cuchillos was a line on a map. There was no such line out here in the dead of night, flying the nap of the earth. One push on the stick, one nudge of the power control, and he’d have this smuggler in his sights.

  “Target now at two hundred feet AGL, airspeed one-fifty,” the controller aboard the P-3 Orion radar plane reported. “Lion flight, recommend you maintain your altitude to insure terrain clearance. We show you at one thousand six hundred AGL at this time.”

  “Checks, Shark,” Hardcastle replied, verifying the Orion’s readout with the radar altitude. “Shark, I know the target’s making a drop. Are you positive he’s in Mexico?”

  “Affirmative, Two-One. Well south of the border, five miles southwest of San Antonio de Bravo. He’s not taking any chances.”

  “There’s no runway for a hundred miles—he’s sure as hell not getting ready to land,” Hardcastle said. “It’s pitch-black dark outside—he’s sure as hell not sightseeing. You showing any other aircraft in this area?”

  “Negative, Lion flight. Normal traffic in and around Juarez and El Paso, nothing in this area.”

  “So the federales aren’t here. Great. So much for support from the Mexicans. Where’s our clearance? If they don’t want to get this guy why not let us do it? Has any one of those bozos from Washington called yet?”

  “Negative, Two-One. We’ll notify you as soon as they do.”

  If they do . . . Hardcastle thought. “This is stupid, what a waste—” “Lead, this is Two-Two,” Geffar radioed over to him. “What are we going to do? Bore more holes in the sky?”

  Hardcastle was tempted to ignore the P-3 controllers and conduct the intercept on his own—it would have been easy, if not legal, to say that in his opinion the suspects were in the United States. Instead he hit the mike button: “Sit tight, Two-Two. We’ll go when we get clearance.”

  "Lion Two-One flight, this is Shark. I have two high-speed aircraft heading northeast-bound from Chihuahua, range seven-zero miles, speed one-three zero knots. I’m picking up Mexican Air Force modes and codes. Looks like your federales are on the way after all.” “Are they heading for the target aircraft or the drop point?” “Neither right now,” the controller replied. “They’re heading northeast towards Ojinaga, about fifty miles south of here. They may be heading for the border on a standard patrol sweep, or it may just be a liaison flight—cargo or passengers only. They may not know that a drop is in progress.”

  “Or care,” Sanchez said cross-cockpit.

  “Shark, is there any way to contact them?” Hardcastle asked. “Can we find their tactical frequency? I don’t want to alert the smugglers if I can help it.”

  “I can contact Chihuahua Approach or Monterey Flight Following on a land line and see if they’ll give me that information. Stand by.” A two-minute pause, then: “Two-One, this is Shark. Negative on your request. Chihuahua has no air-traffic-control contact with that flight. They did verify that it was a Mexican Air Force border-patrol flight but they won’t give me his tactical frequency. I have the phone number of the district border-patrol headquarters. I’ll see if I can get anywhere with that. Chihuahua said that flight does monitor GUARD channel.”

  The two Sea Lion interceptors had moved as close to the border as they could—they were directly overflying the center of the Rio Grande River. Off in the distance, a few miles south of the tiny village of San Antonio de Bravo, Hardcastle could see clusters of headlights spaced about a hundred feet apart, with vehicles racing from one group of lights to the other. With the PNVS zoomed to maximum magnification, Hardcastle could just make out a few trucks and vans encircling a small, tubular object.

  “Shark, I see trucks and vans around what appears to be a cylindrical container. There are groups of trucks, each about a hundred feet apart. I think that plane made a drop just south of San Antonio de Bravo.” Hardcastle flipped up his night-vision sight system, reached over to the center multi-function display and entered the VHF GUARD emergency channel frequency into the number-two radio. Before Sanchez could ask what he was going to do, Hardcastle hit the mike button: “Attention, Mexican Air Force helicopter on northeasterly heading, thirty miles west of Ojinaga, Mexico, this is the United States Border Security Force on GUARD. We are five miles south of San Antonio de Bravo over Rio Grande. We have observed a suspected drug drop in this vicinity and have suspects in view. We request you divert to San Antonio de Bravo and contact us on VHF frequency one-one-two point five-five for further information. Please acknowledge. Over.”

  Sanchez nodded to Hardcastle as he lowered his visor once again. “I guess it was the only thing we could do,” she said. “But the smugglers had to have heard that message . . . they’re bound to run now.” Hardcastle had transitioned to full helicopter mode and was flying gentle circles around the Rio Grande, just on the other side of the border from the suspected drop site—without a telescope night- vision system it was unlikely they could be spotted by the smugglers. “I just hope the federales hightail it over here now.”

  And then on the Hammerheads’ common tactical frequency they heard, “United States Border Security Force, this is Pajaro One- Seven-One flight of two on frequency one-one-two point five-five. We read you. Over.”

  “Pajaro One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One Flight of two. Can you divert immediately to San Antonio de Bravo to investigate a suspected drug delivery? We are in pursuit of a suspect and believe he has made a drug drop in this area. Over.”

  “Affirmative, Lion Two-One. We were notified of this by our headquarters. Hold your position. We are vectoring now.”

  “Lion flight, that Mexican helicopter is turning toward you,” the P-3 reported. “His ETE is fourteen minutes.”

  “Shark, get on the phone again and call Aladdin,” Hardcastle said. “In fourteen minutes these guys on the ground will be gone. We need permission to cross now. ”

  “Roger, Two-One. We’ll rattle their cage again.” But a moment later: “Lion flight, be advised, the target is descending once again and slowing. Looks like another drop. This one is twenty miles north of your position, right
along the border.”

  “Copy that. Two-Two, break off and catch up with that air target. Keep him under surveillance as long as you can.”

  “Roger, Two-One,” Rushell Masters replied. “Shark, Lion Two- Two is proceeding northward as a solo.”

  “Roger, Two-Two. Squawk normal, fly heading three-five five, take eight thousand feet, your target is twenty miles. El Paso altimeter, two-niner-niner-eight.” Hardcastle turned and watched as the second AV-22, which had dropped into a hover just a few yards off Hardcastle’s left wing, banked hard left and sped away.

  But when Hardcastle looked back at the drop zone, he felt another wave of frustration wash over him. The trucks and vans that had clustered around the drop zone now began to pull away from the area, scattering in all directions. The smugglers were escaping . . . “Pajaro One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One, the suspects on the ground are leaving the area. Two trucks seem to be heading in your direction. They’re paralleling the river. Will you be able to spot them?”

  “Affirmative, Two-One,” the Mexican helicopter pilot replied. “We are night-vision-goggle equipped. Stand by.”

  Hardcastle translated the AV-22 left so he could keep as many vehicles in view as possible, but he soon had to leave the larger group and focus in on the two large trucks that were speeding along the low hills and gullies of the Rio Grande. A few long minutes later, Hardcastle could see flashing lights and an occasional searchlight beam stab into the darkness and sweep across the ground. Soon the searchlight beam stopped its sweeping search-pattern and held steady on one of the retreating trucks. The second Mexican helicopter peeled off and hit the second truck with another searchlight.

  On the scrambled tactical frequency Hardcastle reported, “Shark, this is Two-One. It looks like those Pajaro choppers got—” Suddenly a burst of fire erupted from one of the helicopters, and the searchlight beam began to swerve and jab in every direction. As the glare of the searchlight cut off, Hardcastle could see volleys of heavy automatic-weapons fire erupting from both trucks. “They’re under attack ...”