Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  America still had a need to protect and patrol its borders and maintain the capability to hunt down and identify intruders, but now the intruders were terrorists, hijackers, criminals, drug smugglers, and lawbreakers. In order to prove to the world that the United States was not becoming lax about national defense and readiness, it was important for America to demonstrate its capability to patrol its frontiers. The remaining air defense units were clustered in the south and the southeast instead of the north so that the fighters could better cover the Mexican and Caribbean regions, where drug smugglers, illegal alien movements, and fugitive flights were clustered.

  Berrell was busy reviewing the postexercise checklist cleanup and working on the after-action critique when the deputy sector commander, Navy Captain Francine Tell man, came over and sat beside him. As part of NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command, the individual air defense sectors were under joint services command, representing all the branches of the U.S. military as well as the air defense forces of Canada. Tellman, a twenty-year Navy veteran of air traffic control and air defense operations, was the Navy’s representative at the Southwest sector. The fifty-two-year-old Navy veteran was not due to come on duty for another three or four hours, but it was typical of her to come in early when a big exercise or some other unusual event was underway. Divorced twice and currently unattached, the sector was the big part of her life now. “Evening, John,” she said to Berrell. “How did the Ham- merheads-7 surge exercise go?”

  “It went fine, Francine. I need to schedule George on WCT three for a refresher on checklist discipline—he missed a couple coordination calls. Other than that. . .” The phone rang at Berrell’s console—the flashing button was the direct line between the sector and the chief of the Oakland Air Route Traffic Control Center. Oakland ARTCC, or Oakland Center, was one of the busiest and most diverse air traffic regions in the world, covering northern and central California and Nevada. “Southwest Air Defense Sector, Senior Director, Lieutenant Colonel Berrell.”

  “John, this is Mike Leahy,” the deputy director of Oakland Center replied. “I just got a call from a Special Agent Fortuna of ATF. They have a fugitive smuggling suspect that just launched out of Chico Airport, and they’re asking for assistance. He’s south westbound, not squawking. His ID code is seven-delta-four-zero-four.”

  “Sure, Mike,” Berrell replied. “Stand by one.” Berrell put Leahy on hold and turned to his SD tech, Master Sergeant Thomas Bidwell. It was not unusual at all to get calls like that from the FA A—that’s what the hot line was for—but to get it directly from the deputy director of the Center was a bit unusual. ‘Tom, Oakland Center has a recent fugitive departure from Chico airport, ID number seven-delta-four-zero-four. Zero in on him for us. Don’t make him a pending yet, just an item of interest. Request for support from ATF.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bidwell replied. He opened his checklist to the proper page, logged the time of the request in the correct block, and passed the information to the Surveillance and Identification sections—since this was a target already over land, and the Sector Operations Command Center usually only tracked targets penetrating the air defense identification zones, Bidwell had to get his technicians to break out the new target from the hundreds of others on the scope and display it to each section. On the phone, Berrell said, “Mike, I got your slimeball on radar. Do you want to make him a pending or just monitor him for you?”

  “Monitor him for now,” Leahy said. “I don’t know what Treasury wants to do. You might want to get your flyboys up out of bed and thinking about heading toward their jets, though.”

  “Is this an exercise, Mike?”

  “ ’Fraid not, Colonel,” Leahy said. “The pilot of this one is apparently some hotshot gun smuggler. The suspect killed some ATF agents at Chico a few minutes ago. He’s got several tons of explosives on board his plane.”

  Berrell rose out of his seat, pointed to an extra phone for Tellman to listen in on the call, and rang a small desk-clerk bell on top of his console with a slap of his left hand. Serious shit was going down. Technicians who were chatting and taking a breather hurried to their stations and began scanning their instruments. “What kind of plane is it, Mike?” Berrell asked.

  “A Czechoslovakian LET L-600,” Leahy replied after retrieving some notes. “Twin-turboprop medium transport. Gross weight about thirty thousand pounds, payload with full fuel about six thousand.”

  “What kind of explosives is he carrying?”

  “You name it,” Leahy replied. “Ammunition, demolition stuff, pyrotechnics. Suspect might be connected with a National Guard armory heist a few years ago. You heard of the name Henri Cazaux before?”

  “Oh, shit,” Berrell said, cursing under his breath. Had the world heard about Carlos the Jackal? The IRA? Abu Nidal? “I understand,” Berrell said. “Stand by one.” Fuck, he thought, this one’s going to happen. A night intercept, over a heavily populated area, with dangerous fugitives and someone like Cazaux on board. Berrell never wanted to see his sector’s pilots or anyone on the ground put in harm’s way, but if there was a way to gun down Henri Cazaux, Berrell wanted to do it.

  Berrell turned to his SD technician, but Bidwell had been listening in and was ready with the information Berrell wanted: “Sir, I recommend we put Fresno in battle stations,” he said. “I’m betting he’ll make a run for Mexico, but we’ll have to wait and see. A cargo plane like an L-600 has plenty of legs—he can go either to Canada or Mexico. But I’ll put my money on Mexico.”

  Sergeant Bidwell was seldom wrong—in fact, Berrell couldn’t recall when one of his predictions was off the mark. Bidwell was always tuned toward economizing their forces—predicting the flight path of the target and putting the closest interceptors on the target. But Berrell had a feeling that the Treasury Department and ATF weren’t going to care about economy on this one. They wanted every throttle jockey in the Air Force ready to jump the bastard that killed their agents. Cazaux was supposed to be as wily as he was psychotic, and Berrell didn’t want anyone in his sector to drop the ball if they had a chance to catch him. “All the same, get Kingsley and March suited up, too,” Berrell said. “I got a feeling Treasury or the ATF won’t want to let this guy go as long as he’s within radar range of the States. Let’s get Northwest sector geared up in case this turns out to be a relay marathon, too.” The Oakland Center phone rang again. “Senior Director Berrell.”

  “We just got word from the Treasury Department,” Leahy said. “They want you to intercept the target, accomplish a covert shadow, and stand by for further instructions. It sounds like Treasury is leaning toward an intercept and force-down. Treasury would like to try to force him away from populated areas if possible, and then attempt to force him down at a less populated airport or over water.”

  “Mike, I have Captain Tellman, the deputy sector commander, on the line. Repeat what you just said.” The FAA Center deputy repeated his message. “Mike, we need to talk to Justice and Treasury right away and straighten those boys out,” Tellman said, “because you know we don’t have any procedures for trying to force an aircraft down.”

  “You can’t fire some shots across his bow, crowd him a little on one side to make him turn?”

  “You been watching too much TV. We have no procedures for anything like that, and I wouldn’t want to freelance something like that at night over populated areas with a terrorist like Cazaux at the controls of a plane full of explosives. The potential for disaster is too high, especially compared with the option of just letting him go and shadowing him. But even if Air Combat Command approved a maneuver like that, I don’t think it would work. If the target doesn’t comply with visual, light, or radio signals to follow or turn, we either shadow him or shoot him down. Period. Our procedures say we can’t get any closer than searchlight range of a known armed aircraft, and I’m sure as hell not going to have them try to turn a plane loaded with explosives—especially one piloted by an operator like Cazaux.” “All right, Captain, I hear y
ou,” Leahy said. “I’m just passing on this ATF agent’s requests. Obviously he doesn’t know your procedures, and he thinks you’ll do whatever he asks because of his dead agents. We’ll have to conference- call this one with Justice. What’s your recommendation?” “I’d gladly give the order to blow this scumbag out of the sky,” Berrell said, “but your best option is to have us do a covert shadow on the target, find out where he goes. Does ATF know his destination?”

  “I don’t think so,” Leahy replied. “He’s filed a VFR flight plan to Mesa, Arizona, but I don’t think anyone expects him to land there.”

  “If he goes away from the mainland, then we can talk about trying some heroics, if you want to catch him so bad—and I think we’d all like to bring that bastard down,” Berrell suggested. “But if he stays over U.S. soil, I recommend a covert shadow. My fighters can follow him easily, and with our night-vision gear, Cazaux won’t even know he’s being tailed by an F-16 Fighting Falcon. Have ATF agents leapfrog after us in jets or helicopters, land when he lands, then nail him.”

  “Stand by, Colonel, and I’ll pass that along to Treasury,” Leahy said. The reply did not take long: “ATF didn’t see anything wrong with just putting a missile into him,” Leahy said, “but the Treasury Department okayed the shadow. They’ll be putting the official request for support through channels, but I’m authorized to request assistance now.”

  “You got it, Mike. I concur and agree. Stand by.” He turned to Captain Tellman, who had been listening in on a companion phone at Berrell’s console. “What do you think, Francine?”

  “Well, I’m with the covert ID and shadow also,” the Navy captain replied. “What’s his track?”

  Berrell checked the radar once again. “Still heading southeast, away from San Francisco Class B airspace,” he said. “Class B airspace,” what was once called a Terminal Control Area, was the high-density air traffic airspace over San Francisco airport, the fifth-busiest airport in the United States. The target was approaching the “upside-down wedding cake” of the class B airspace, so technically he was clear, but San Francisco International averaged one landing and one departure every sixty seconds all day long, and the target with fighters in pursuit was definitely going to mess up air traffic if he decided to veer back toward San Francisco.

  “I agree with Sergeant Bidwell, except I think we ought to move on the target as soon as possible in case he heads for the Sierras and we lose him,” Tellman said. “Scramble Fresno, put Kingsley at battle stations, and suit up March. We should also get the alert AW ACS airborne from Tinker in case he tries to hide in the mountains.” The Air Force E-3 Sentry AW ACS (Airborne Warning and Communications System) was a radar plane designed to look down and track aircraft at all altitudes from long range—if their target made it over the Sierra Nevada Mountains before a fighter found it, ground-based radars could lose it. ‘Til get on the horn to the commander.”

  “Roger,” Berrell said. He opened his checklist binder, got out his grease pencil, then turned to Sergeant Bidwell and said, “Okay, Tom, make the target a Special-9, covert ID and covert shadow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bidwell said. He opened up his own checklist, filled out the first few squares, then announced over the building-wide intercom, “Attention in the facility, attention in the facility, target ID number seven-delta-four-zero-four, designate a Special-9, repeat, Special-9 covert intercept, stand by for active alert scramble Fresno. All duty controllers report to your stations. All duty controllers report to your stations.”

  “SD, this is the WAO, we have positive contact on target ID seven-delta-four-zero-four, confirm ID.” The WAO, or Weapons Assignment Officer, was the overall supervisor of the section of the command center that controlled the fighters from takeoff to landing and monitored the entire intercept.

  “Target ID seven-delta-four-zero-four, confirmed, WAO, you have the intercept.”

  “Roger, SD, WAO has the intercept,” the senior Weapons Assignment Officer replied. He made an entry in his checklist log, then turned to the WAT, or weapons assignment technician, seated next to him. “Active alert scramble, Fresno, hold for confirmation. Put WCT One on this one.”

  “Copy, sir,” the WAT replied. He checked the status readout of the four Weapons Control Teams (WCT) on his panel to be sure the team the Assignment Officer wanted was free and were ready to go to work. The WCT, consisting of one Weapons Director and a Weapons Technician, would be the persons in contact with the interceptor throughout its mission. WCT One was the most experienced of the young shift on that night. The WAT clicked open his intercom after seeing that all four WCTs were ready to go: “WCT One, your target ID is seven-delta-four- zero-four, a Special-9 covert intercept, repeat, Special-9 covert intercept. Clear for active air scramble Fresno.” “WCT One copies all,” the Weapons Director of Control Team One responded. “We have the intercept. All stations, this is WCT One, stand by for active alert scramble Fresno, target ID seven-delta-four-zero-four.”

  The weapons technician opened his checklist to the proper page, cleared his throat, then ran his hand along a row of switches guarded by clear plastic covers, selected the one marked fresno, opened the cover, and stopped. “Sir, I have Fresno, active alert scramble. Ready.”

  The Weapons Director checked to be sure that the technician had his finger on the right button, then tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the button, and the communications technician pressed the button. Silently, he said, Sorry to get you up like this, boys, apologizing to the crews up in Fresno for what he knew was going to be a rude awakening.

  Interceptor Alert Facility, 94th Fighter Squadron (California Air National Guard) Fresno Air Terminal, California

  The Navy called it “channel fever,” describing the excitement of the last full night at sea before pulling into port.

  Back in the days of the Strategic Air Command, when most alert units changed over on Thursdays, it was called “Woody Wednesday,” describing the almost unbearable anticipation most crewmen felt about going home and greeting the wife or girlfriend after seven days on ’round-the-clock alert. Whatever it was called, the feeling was the same—you were so excited about getting off alert and going home that you stayed up late, ate every piece of food in sight, watched every movie available, played poker all night, and generally burned yourself out.

  Major Linda McKenzie, one of the two F-16A ADF (Air Defense Fighter) pilots on duty at Fresno Air Terminal in central California, pushed herself away from the all-night poker game table at ten-thirty p.m. Channel fever was not too bad here at Fresno—alert was only three days, and families spent a lot of time with the crews at the alert facility. The anticipation was still real, however, and it usually manifested itself as an all-night poker game, attended by every available crewman at the facility. McKenzie had been playing for the past five hours, and she had finally gotten to the point where the need for sleep was numbing the excitement of getting off alert. “I’m out,” she said after the last hand had finished. She steeled herself for the simultaneous moans of disappointment from the crew chiefs and security guards around the table, gave everyone a tired and slightly irritated smile, then reached out to scoop up the small pile of coins and dollar bills on the table before her.

  “C’mon, Linda, one more hand,” her flight leader, Lieutenant Colonel A1 “Rattler” Vincenti, pleaded. But even he could not stifle a yawn. Vincenti was a longtime veteran of air defense, flying with the 194th Fighter Squadron “Black Griffins” since 1978. He was a veteran command pilot with over seven thousand hours’ flying time, all in tactical fighters.

  “Hey, I’m on a three-hop to Seattle in thirteen hours. You get to sleep in. Don’t give me this bull.” Like many Air National Guard pilots, McKenzie was an airline pilot, a first officer with American Airlines based out of San Francisco. Because of monthly flight duty day restrictions, the airlines gave each Guardsman plenty of time to spend on UTA, unit training assembly.

  “Is this the same person who threatened to emasculate us
all if we got up and left the game last week?” one of the crew chiefs asked. “Little bit different if you’re winning, isn’t it, Linda?”

  “Damn right it is,” McKenzie said. “I’m outta here. See you clowns in the morning.” She traded in coins for bills, stuffed her winning into her left breast pocket, and headed for her quarters.

  Once there, Linda McKenzie got undressed, taking the unusual risk of piling her clothes and survival gear in a heap rather than laying it out so she could easily find it all and dress quickly. The last scramble exercise was early that morning, which meant the odds of getting another one in the middle of the night on the night before changeover were slim, so she decided to risk a quick shower. No luxuriating in the shower while on alert—get in, get clean, and get out—but she was relaxed as she did so, confident that there would be no interruptions. Her shower took less than five minutes.

  Perfect timing.

  She heard voices in the hallway, then the door next to hers open. Wrapping a towel around herself, she peeked out her door just as A1 Vincenti was closing his. “Al? Come here a second.” He stepped over to her, and when he was in range she grasped the front of his flight suit and pulled him into her room.

  “Linda, what in hell are you—” But he was interrupted as she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss. He resisted at first, then relented. That only spurred her on, and she held him in her grasp even longer. She finally released him, but began kissing his neck and unzipping his flight suit. “Linda, it’s late.”