Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Screaming in Spanish was heard on the Hammerheads’ frequency. “Ayuda, ayuda, Pajaro . . . ataque paia fusil enemigo . . . ayuda

  “Pajaro One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One,” Hardcastle said over the flight common frequency. “Can you hear me?”

  The searchlight had gone out, but some of the lead helicopter’s lights were still on. The pilot was apparently still in at least partial control of the chopper, trying to get out of range of the murderous guns on the truck and to autorotate his machine for landing. Through the PNVS visor Hardcastle could see smoke billow from the sides of the chopper, which was still being raked by gunfire. “Pajaro One- Seven-One, acknowledge! Do you need assistance?”

  “Lion . . . Lion Two-One . . . this is Pajaro flight . . . Mayday, Mayday, we are under attack . . . Mayday . . .”

  “That’s it,” Hardcastle said. He threw full power into his Sea Lion and race forward across the Rio Grande toward the scene of the attack. “Shark, this is Lion Two-One. I have received a Mayday call and I can observe an aircraft in distress. I am moving to investigate. Notify Mexican defense authorities that Pajaro One-Seven-One flight of two helicopters are under attack and that I am moving to render assistance.”

  “Lion Two-One, roger, understand and acknowledge receipt of Mayday broadcast.”

  The rules changed on receipt of a Mayday. But at this point Hardcastle probably couldn’t have held off any longer. “Get the lights on, set radar to terrain-avoidance and put fifty feet on the radar altimeter-warning bug, Rachel,” Hardcastle said. As Sanchez hurried to set up the cockpit Hardcastle pressed the interphone button and told Don Rice, commander of his I-Team: “Stand by on the cargo ramp. We’ve got a Mexican helicopter under attack by heavy-weapons fire from the ground. Deploying weapons pods.” He activated the TADS targeting system, which automatically swung both the six-missiie Sea Stinger and the Chain Gun pods into slipstream and activated them. Hardcastle selected the Sea Stinger aiming system and centered the aiming donut on the nearest truck.

  The lead Mexican helicopter had meanwhile autorotated to a hard landing about fifty yards from the two trucks. “The Pajaro bird’s down,” Sanchez called out. “It’s lying on its side, but I don’t see any fire. Some soldiers are climbing out ...”

  Men on the first truck were still firing on the fallen helicopter with what looked like an M60 machine gun, poking through a rip in the canvas side of the truck and held in position by large brownish white packages—they were bracing the machine gun with bags of cocaine. “They’re still hosing the chopper.” Hardcastle deactivated his night- vision visor, retaining the TADS targeting system for the Sea Stingers, and turned on the NightSun searchlight. “Come on, scumbags— you want someone to shoot at, take a poke at me.”

  The searchlight had the effect Hardcastle wanted. Through his visor Hardcastle watched as men on the truck pointed at the searchlight beam. The M60 gun disappeared, only to reappear at the back of the truck, this time on a short metal pedestal. The men in the truck did not appear to have any night-vision equipment, so Hardcastle deactivated the searchlight. Seconds later Hardcastle could see the M60 open fire in his direction.

  “Crew, we are under attack,” Hardcastle said. He clicked the radio on to the GUARD channel: “United States Border Security Force, cease fire. Shark, Two-One is under attack and is returning fire.” He then armed the Sea Stinger pod, waited two seconds until he got a lock-on tone from a missile, flipped open the trigger guard, and fired one missile. Actually, he was not authorized to return fire unless fired on, and even then he was required to notify his command authority and issue a warning before attempting to defend his aircraft. Well, you couldn’t always cross all the damn Ts . . .

  At first the Sea Stinger had nothing to aim at but the residual warmth of the truck’s rear, but with the M60 pumping out two hundred rounds per minute, the missile found more than enough heat energy to lock onto. The missile’s motor was still running when the Sea Stinger plowed into the back end of the truck and exploded. As the truck erupted into flames, the fire mixed with the five hundred pounds of cocaine to form a black, burning caramel-like sludge that coated the gunmen in the truck with napalm-like liquid fire. Burning bodies dropped and crawled through the brush and sand until the fire found the truck’s gas tank and exploded, quickly ending the screams.

  Hardcastle now locked the targeting system onto the second truck. The second Mexican Air Force helicopter had landed about two hundred yards away and the soldiers had leapt out and were beginning to move in toward the last truck in the cover of darkness. When the first truck exploded, the second was not about to wait around—it dropped into low gear and sped south, a gunman in the back firing random bursts at anything that moved.

  The Sea Stinger missile system indicated a solid lock-on after Hardcastle centered the donut on the fleeing truck. The missile went into the engine compartment near the left front wheel, ripping the front axle off the truck in the explosion of its warhead. The engine compartment began to burn fiercely, but several men jumped to safety and ran in every direction. Hardcastle pivoted the AV-22 around and deactivated the weapon system, stowing both weapons pods back into the cargo bay. Using the night-vision system, he maneuvered back to the stricken Mexican helicopter and set down about forty yards away.

  “I-Team, the Mexican chopper is on the starboard side about fifteen yards away,” Hardcastle announced. “Don, check out the occupants and ask the commander to come aboard.” With sidearms drawn, Don Rice and another member of the I-team went through the starboard entry door after Hardcastle signaled that it was safe to exit. Two other I-team members unslung M-16 rifles and covered them.

  The Mexican Air Force soldiers were banged up, one badly injured, but all were able to travel. With one I-Team member ushering the soldiers away from the starboard engine nacelle’s powerful exhaust, Rice escorted the Mexican soldiers carrying an injured man into the Sea Lion chopper. The soldiers set the man on a seat just to the right of the entry hatch. When Hardcastle came back to speak with them he noted that the injured man wore a flight suit and silver stars on his shoulders. “Are you the pilot?” Hardcastle asked.

  The man nodded. Rice brought a first-aid kit as the Mexican said, “I am Colonel Geraldo Hidalgo of the Mexican Air Force. You ... you are the commander of this aircraft?”

  “Ian Hardcastle, United States Border Security Force.”

  “Hardcastle? Admiral Hardcastle. Commander of the Hammerheads?”

  “Yes and no. I’m just another pilot tonight. Are you hurt badly?”

  “I can’t move my left leg or wrist, but I don’t think they’re broken. What about my other helicopter? What about the smugglers?”

  “Your men appear safe, their helicopter landed okay. We got both trucks. Your men are rounding up the smugglers from the second truck. They won’t have to bother with the ones from the first.”

  “So I noticed,” Hidalgo said, managing a weak smile. “Impressive firepower. I have always wanted to fly one of your Sea Lions ...” He looked at his wrist, limp on his thigh, “Now when I find myself aboard I cannot fly it.”

  “No, but you can take command of her,” Hardcastle said. “The plane that dropped these drugs is making multiple drops all along the Texas-Mexico border. We’ve been tracking him for hours but couldn’t pursue him into Mexican airspace without authorization . . . But with you aboard in charge of the operation, we can do it . . .”

  Hidalgo’s face brightened. “You mean we go after those perros sucios in this Sea Lion . . . and I am in command? St, Admiral Hardcastle. If all you require is my permission, I give it to you. Let me check on my wingman first, then we will see about these desen- mascarars. ”

  It did not take long for Hidalgo to check on the rest of his men; four of the six smugglers were already being led toward the Sea Lion by Mexican troops, and those captured smugglers were carrying the bodies of two more smugglers. The commander of the second Mexican helicopter gave Hidalgo a report that was obviously favorable . .
. Hidalgo clasped him firmly on the shoulder and ordered himself taken back to the AV-22.

  Hidalgo found a headset and set it on his head. “We have a job to do, Admiral Hardcastle. Let’s begin.”

  Near the Town of Felix U. Gomez, 75 Miles Northwest of San Antonio de Bravo, Mexico

  Salazar’s largest cargo plane, the Antonov-26 that he was escorting near the U.S.-Mexico border near El Paso, still had fifteen hundred kilos of cocaine on board when they heard Hardcastle’s first warning on the emergency GUARD channel. The formation maintained radio silence, but Salazar had no trouble guessing what the crew of the Antonov was thinking—get as far away from the United States as possible. That was confirmed when the last transmission they heard on the Hammerheads’ common frequency said that one of the AV- 22’s was responding to an emergency situation across the border. Gachez’s people on the ground were heavily armed and may have been able to tear up the Mexican patrol that was in the area, but it would be a different story against an armed AV-22.

  If they had only a few hundred kilos of cocaine left, he might have ordered the Antonov crew to abort the last few drops and get away from the border, from whatever long-range surveillance system was feeding the Hammerheads with such accurate intercept data. But they had fifteen hundred kilos on board—over three thousand pounds—and it was worth over twenty-two million dollars extra if they delivered it as planned. It didn’t matter if the Mexican federales snatched it all up five minutes after the delivery—his part of the contract ended when the drugs were delivered to the spot designated by the ground crew.

  The fact that the Hammerheads had closed in so fast made it obvious that Van Nuys had been taken by the Border Security Force and had spilled his guts right after his capture. Equally obvious, Carmen del Sol Airlines was history, and although he had several other front-companies established in other countries, including a few in the U.S. itself, he was a man without a country or a base. He had his life, a few secret bank accounts, a few loyal soldiers to throw into battle, and for now he had a beautiful F-5E jet fighter with plenty of firepower aching to be released. It just might be enough.

  But to survive this thing he needed every dime he could scratch from Gachez and the rest of the Medellin Cartel before everything completely went to hell. Which once again meant making this last delivery and earning that last twenty-two million no matter what. One plus in all this was, for security reasons, the ground crews at each drop-point knew nothing about what was happening at another site and could not communicate with each other—so it was still possible for him to make this delivery and get his money, even though the whole thing was unraveling before his eyes.

  Two more drops, and it would be all over . . .

  Salazar now found himself pulling back on the F-5’s throttles to maintain his position on the Antonov-26 cargo plane. He checked his watch and flight plan—five minutes until the next drop. The An-26 was slowing down for the drop, getting into the proper flight parameters—precise airspeed, altitude and drift correction—for a ballisti- cally computed drop. For a safety margin, Salazar extended the flaps ten degrees to allow the F-5 to fly at the slower speed with better control, and increased his altitude so he could better watch all sides of the Antonov for signs of pursuit. At his new vantage point just a few meters above and behind the cargo plane’s rudder, he could see the big vertical stabilizer oscillate back and forth as the pilot made small corrections to stay on course . . .

  The beam of light lanced out of the night sky like a spear thrown from the Almighty. It hit the pilot’s side of the cockpit like a thunderbolt, the glare so bright, so sudden that the An-26’s pilot had to fight to maintain control—it was even too bright in Salazar’s F-5’s cockpit, where it wasn’t even aimed. The An-26’s pilot was so badly startled he almost lost control of the plane, and Salazar finally had to peel off to the right, take spacing and put in more power to stay with him. At less than one hundred feet above the ground there was no room for error.

  The An-26 pilot did somehow get back control, but the drop was blown—they had already moved several hundred meters closer to the Rio Grande River than they should be. Salazar gained more altitude and saw it: less than a mile behind them, a silver bullet illuminated like a Christmas tree from hell—a Hammerheads AV-22 Sea Lion tilt-rotor interceptor with its flashing warning lights, the steerable NightSun searchlight. Salazar could even see the “FOLLOW ME” sign in huge electroluminescent letters on its fuselage. What was an AV-22 doing in Mexican airspace?

  “Break radio silence,” Salazar radioed to the Antonov-26. “Get back on course and make the drop. Ignore the aircraft off your left wing ...”

  “Attention cargo plane, attention fighter plane, this is the Air Force of the Republic of Mexico,” a voice cut in on the emergency GUARD channel. “You are in violation of Mexican air-navigation and national-security laws. Lower your landing gear and follow me. If you do not comply you will be forced to land or be attacked. I am authorized by the Republic of Mexico to use deadly force if necessary.” The message began to be repeated in Spanish.

  “Continue the drop,” Salazar ordered over the command radio. “We’ve lost the WET SNOW beacon, colonel,” the AN-26 pilot relied. “Repeat, we’ve lost the beacon ...”

  “Damn them . . .” Salazar meant the ground crew that had obviously spotted the AV-22’s lights and run off. “Proceed on backup timing and flight plan route. Make the drop. ”

  The AV-22 had moved closer, almost abeam the pilot’s left side and now less than a quarter-mile away. The NightSun searchlight was boring into the Antonov’s cockpit—Salazar’s eyes almost hurt thinking of what the pilots were experiencing. “Make the drop, ’ he called out again. And then realized that the An-26 had lost several dozen feet and a good deal of airspeed—the pilot probably couldn’t see the instrument panel any more. “Get your nose up, get back on course ...”

  As the pilot panicked when he saw that his altitude had deteriorated, the An-26 heeled sharply left and up with the engines at full power. A few canisters of cocaine dropped out of the big cargo doors on the left and right sides, but the crew had abandoned the drop as well.

  “Lower your landing gear and follow me or you will be fired on,” the Spanish-accented voice said again on GUARD. “This is your final warning.”

  Salazar now threw full afterburner power on the twin turbojets and accelerated above and past the Antonov-26. When clear of the cargo plane he punched off the two nearly empty fuel tanks and armed his AIM-4 and AIM-9 missiles as well as the 20-millimeter cannons. He climbed to five thousand feet in twenty seconds, rolled hard left, and searched for the AV-22.

  Nothing. The AV-22 crew had extinguished the searchlight and the warning lights as soon as his F-5 broke formation . . .

  Aboard the AV-22 Sea Lion Two-One

  “Two-One, target two is climbing rapidly at your twelve to one o’clock position, now four miles,” the P-3 Orion controller’s warning blared on the scrambled channel. “Target two is level at five thousand feet, moving to your eleven o’clock, airspeed three hundred knots and accelerating. He’s turning in front of you.”

  Hardcastle shut down the searchlight the moment he saw the F-5’s afterburners ignite. “Set the MMR to air-search mode,” he ordered. He pushed in full power, set the AV-22’s engine nacelles to forty-five degrees for maximum velocity and vertical-lift authority and began a slow, nose-high climb. “Get the lights off, crew, we’re under attack.”

  Sanchez quickly shut off all the exterior lights and dimmed the cockpit lights, but while she set the multi-mode to air-target search mode she said, “What are you doing, you can’t dogfight this guy—” “We can’t outrun him, either,” Hardcastle said. “We’ve got to hold on until—”

  The center multi-function display on Hardcastle’s instrument panel flared to life. The Sea Lion’s phased-array radar, which sent out a cone of radar energy that swept thirty degrees in every direction around the nose, picked up an air target and locked on. Hardcastle switched t
he targeting system to slave to the radar, which locked the infrared scanner onto the fast-moving fighter. Hardcastle tried to turn fast enough to keep the radar aimed at the fighter, but the radar quickly broke lock. The fighter was racing in a tight circle around the Sea Lion.

  “Two-One, target two has moved around to your eight o’clock position, three miles, airspeed three-fifty,” the Orion controller reported. “Descend and maintain one hundred feet AGL, turn to heading one-zero-five, vector to the border. You can use the terrain along the river banks to hide from him.”

  “It’s no use,” Hardcastle said. “He’s moving too fast. Hang on.”

  Leaving the throttles at full power, Hardcastle moved the engine nacelles to full vertical position, then did a tight pivot to face the F-5 fighter head-on and translated into a hover just out of ground effect at three-hundred feet, adjusting the throttles to hold the Sea Lion’s altitude steady. The radar locked on as the nose swept around. “There he is,” Sanchez called out. “We’re head-to-head. His airspeed’s up to four hundred knots, range two miles ...”

  Hardcastle shoved the throttles back to full power. With the engine nacelles full vertical, the Sea Lion darted straight up at six hundred feet per minute. Just as he started to climb, he could see tongues of flame and bright winks of light erupt from the point in the darkness ahead where the F-5 was—he was firing on them . . . Hardcastle quickly switched to the M230 cannon, slaved the cannon pod’s aiming system to the multi-mode radar and pulled the trigger when the fighter was within one mile.

  But the M230 cannon pod wasn’t designed for high-speed dogfights—it was made for attacking surface vessels and aircraft flying less than half the speed of Salazar’s F-5. Hardcastle caught a glimpse of the F-5 as it sped less than a hundred feet under the hovering Sea Lion, wheeled left and tried to turn the Sea Lion fast enough for the M230 pod to keep track, but he had no chance with the Chain Gun pod . . .