Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know a damn thing.” The big black hoodlum had vocalized Cazaux’s own fear—this time, after so many close calls and so much death, the authorities might want Henri Cazaux out of the way for good. There was no one better to do it than the U.S. Air Force. Who would mourn his loss or condemn the United States for such an act? He had enemies all over the world, of every religion and nationality. The only ones to be sorry might be the bounty hunters who would be cheated out of the reward money.

  No, he was not sure that the fighters would not open fire.

  He thought about their route of flight. To try to stay away from ground radar, Cazaux had chosen to fly on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevadas, as low as he dared to go. The sectional aeronautical charts gave maximum elevation figures for each thirty-by-thirty-mile block of land, and he would simply add five hundred feet to each quadrangle elevation—that would put his plane well below radar coverage but safely above the terrain. But that wouldn’t faze an airborne radar, such as from a fighter. Without extensive jamming equipment or fancy flying, Cazaux had no hope of trying to break a radar lock. If ordered to fire, the fighters would have a clear shot—and flying along the Califomia- Nevada border, the area was desolate enough so as not to threaten citizens on the ground. They could simply pick their moment, and shoot.

  ‘They will not open fire on us,” Cazaux decided. “This is America, and they are the military—the military is forbidden to actively get involved in law-enforcement activities, except to assist in surveillance and to provide transportation. They cannot act as judge, jury, and executioner. Period.”

  “I sure hope you’re right, Captain,” Jones said, sitting back into the spot he had picked out in a comer of the cockpit. “And if you ain’t, I don’t want to know about it. I just hope it’s over fast.”

  When the target’s altitude dipped below the hemispheric altitude for his direction of flight, Vincenti became concerned. When his altitude dipped below the IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) minimum safe altitude in this area, he was more concerned—and when it drifted to within a few hundred feet of the rapidly rising terrain ahead, Vincenti was positive that they had been discovered. A quick S-tum to McKenzie’s portside confirmed it: her big ID light was on full bright. The target must’ve seen the light and was attempting to descend into the mountainous terrain ahead.

  Their Special-9 covert intercept was blown. Well, no use in embarrassing McKenzie. Vincenti keyed his mike button: “Foxtrot Romeo, station check.”

  “I’ll make the call when I’m ready, Two, just stand by.”

  “Foxtrot Romeo lead, I recommend a station check. I’m complete.”

  “Later, Al. Stand by.”

  She wasn’t taking the hint. He had no choice: “Lead, I’m on your left wing. Check your damn switches!”

  The ID light went out immediately this time—Vincenti could almost feel her exasperation at her mistake, now that she realized what the target was doing and why. A few moments later, just as Vincenti was worrying about whether or not she was going to do something about the new development, he heard McKenzie on the command radio. “SIERRA PETE, this is Foxtrot Romeo. I believe the target aircraft got a visual on us. He has descended very close to the terrain in this area. Request further instructions.” The weapons controller replied with a simple “Stand by, Foxtrot Romeo,” and McKenzie and Vincenti were left with their thoughts and doubts as they closed in on the target.

  “How in hell did they see the fighters closing in on them in the middle of the night?” Charles Lofstrom, Deputy Director and Chief of Operations for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, thundered over the phone. In the fifteen minutes since the F-16 fighters had been scrambled against Cazaux, the BATF, the Marshals Service, the Air Force, and the FAA were on a conference call, and Colonel Berrell had just finished briefing the conference members on the status of the chase. “I’ve worked with night intercepts before—done properly, the pursuer can close to within a few dozen yards without the suspect realizing a thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter how it happened—it happened,” U.S. Marshal Collins Baxter of the Eastern District of California interjected. “The problem is, the possibility exists that Cazaux knows he’s being tailed.”

  “Let’s shoot the bastard down, then,” Agent Lofstrom said irritably. “I can get a warrant.”

  “We can't shoot him down, and that’s that,” Captain Tellman said. “I thought this was explained to you, Lofstrom.”

  “I know what you said, Captain, but I also know that I got a federal judge that will give me a warrant ordering you to take all necessary actions to stop Cazaux from escaping.” “A federal judge can’t compel the Air Force to do anything, especially kill someone. If such a warrant existed, and if you asked me to follow its instructions, I would turn it over to my superior officer for evaluation, who I’m sure would turn it over to his superior ... you get my drift, Lofstrom? I suggest you try a different approach.”

  Tellman’s statement of the obvious infuriated Lofstrom, but he decided that trying a different approach might not be a bad idea: “I don’t mean shoot him down, as in terminate him,” Lofstrom said. “What I meant was, scare him. Fire across his flight path, something like that.”

  “Agent Lofstrom, as I explained to you earlier, the only way our pilots are authorized to fire their weapons is to kill someone,” Tellman said, shaking her head in exasperation. “We don’t try to scare anyone by spraying the skies with twenty-millimeter shells.”

  “You do it in the Navy—you know, a shot across the bow.”

  “Only when we know precisely and absolutely that no one is in the way when the shell splashes down,” Tellman explained. “Racing across north-central California at three hundred miles an hour and ten thousand feet in the air, there’s no way of knowing who’s under those rounds. And this would be done at night, at close quarters. We can’t take the risk.”

  “You can’t take the risk? What about my agents? What about the innocent victims at that airport? Christ, it’s not Santa Claus we’re chasing!” Lofstrom exclaimed. “Lady, Henri Cazaux is probably responsible for killing more human beings in the past three years than your precious Navy has since Vietnam.”

  “All the same, Lofstrom,” Tellman said, “I won’t put my forces in a situation where they may have to do that. Law enforcement should have gotten the suspect on the ground, alive. My interceptors can’t do the job for you in the air.” “Then the suspect gets away with murder,” Lofstrom said angrily, “and I won’t allow that to happen. Six of my best agents died tonight, Captain Tellman, and I want Cazaux to pay for what he did. Your planes are in a position to do that—and I want some action!”

  “Look, this argument is getting us nowhere,” Timothy Lassen said via his portable scrambled phone from the parking ramp at Chico Airport, where his Black Hawk helicopter had set down—the open ramp was the only part of the airport not substantially damaged. “We’ve got the Air Force interceptors trailing the suspect, and he’s got to come down sometime. It’s doubtful if he has the fuel reserves to make it all the way into Mexico, but if he does, let’s get DEA and the State Department on the horn and get permission to do a joint capture. We set up a helicopter relay for his route of flight, and we keep the Air Force fighters on the suspect’s tail, augmented with Customs trackers and anyone else that can help. We send the helicopters down to recover the guns if he tries to drop them, and we’ll know his exact location if he tries to land.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Lofstrom said. “It takes time to set up a relay system, and days to coordinate with the Mexican government for law-enforcement support.” “Cazaux will be airborne for at least two, and more likely three hours,” Lassen said. “I’ve already got the California Air National Guard alerted, and I’ve got access to all the helicopter support I need. We can get permission for the choppers to cross state lines.”

  “So how in hell are your choppers in California going to chase down a fixed-win
g flying over Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico?” Lofstrom asked. “Unless they’re right in Cazaux’s flight path, they won’t be able to catch up, even if they launched right this second. We’ve got to get Cazaux turned away from Mexico if we want any chance of nailing him—and the best thing we’ve got right now is the Air Force. Those pilots have got to turn Cazaux westbound. Even if he just slows him down or gets him to make a few turns or descend, it’ll disorient him and may give us a chance to surround him. If he tries to fight out of the trap, we can legally blast him out of the sky and be done with all this nonsense,” Lofstrom said to Tellman. “So how about it, Captain? Can your hotshot pilots force Cazaux to turn or descend? You say your pilots can’t safely fire a few shots across his bow—I say they can. Crowd him so he’s forced to turn away ... ?”

  “We don’t have procedures for any of that, Agent Lofstrom,” Tellman replied. She thought about it for a moment, checking the aircraft’s position, then: “However, at the target’s present position, I think our crews may be able to safely fire their cannon without endangering themselves, the suspect, or anyone on the ground. I can pitch the idea to NORAD and Air Combat Command and get a response in a few minutes.”

  “Now you’re talking, lady,” Lofstrom said on the scrambled phone link. “Lassen, get your choppers airborne and spread out across his flight path. If this works, he’ll be forced to head westbound and eat up more fuel, and we can nail him in California.”

  “Agent Lofstrom, the suspect is carrying a planeload of explosives, and I think the last thing you want to do is steer him over any populated areas,” Agent Lassen radioed in. “I recommend either getting him to land at an isolated airfield in the Sierras or shooting him down over the Sierras. If he flies over Sacramento, or Stockton, or San Jose, or San Francisco, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “I agree,” Captain Tellman said. “Tactically, keeping him over sparsely populated areas is better because it gives our pilots more options.”

  “Listen, I’m all in favor of seeing the man blown out of the sky,” Lofstrom said. “I’ll throw a fucking party for you if you do it. But just letting him orbit over the Sierras, hoping he’ll dump his cargo, or forcing him to crash-land in the Sierras, means he’ll have a chance to get away. It’ll take a half a day to send our search teams up into the hills to be ready to pick him up—there’s no time for that. Cazaux’s an expert in mountain survival—he could survive for weeks up there. Have the fighters corral him into the hands of our choppers and SOG units in the valley. In case he jumps I’ll get State working on a cross-border or joint capture with Mexico—the taco-crunchers owe Cazaux plenty over the years. You know, I think we got the bastard now.”

  Cazaux completed a steep right bank as the Stork searched out the cockpit windows in the direction of the turn. Krull searched out the windows in the entry door for any sign of pursuit. Instead of turning left back to course, Cazaux made another unexpected bank to the right, hoping to catch their pursuers. But the darkness was absolute— not even the stars were shining anymore. Cazaux eased the L-600 back on course, then accomplished another fast turning maneuver. “I don’t see them anymore,” Taddele “Stork” Korhonen said cross-cockpit to Cazaux. “The light has disappeared.”

  “They obviously discovered their error,” Cazaux said. “Whoever it was, they could be heading back to base.”

  “Or they could be right on our butts,” Jefferson “Krull” Jones observed. “What are you gonna do, man?”

  “I need not do anything,” Cazaux said. “We will either die when they open fire on us or we will be allowed to continue. But I don’t think they have the stomach for a fight. They will follow us and try to capture us when we land.” “So you got something planned for them at the landing zone, Captain?” Krull asked.

  “That will be a surprise, Krull,” Cazaux said. “Right now, I want you to—”

  Suddenly a flash of blue-orange light erupted just a few feet away from the right side of the LET L-600, and the loud, unmistakable brrrrrr! of a high-speed, heavy-caliber cannon could be heard over the roar of the engines. They saw another tongue of fire flash, causing a stroboscopic effect that froze the L-600’s right propellers; then, an impossibly bright white searchlight flashed directly into Cazaux’s face. All three men on the flight deck of the L-600 were instantly blinded. The searchlight began to blink in rapid flashes of three, followed by a pause, then another group of three flashes, a pause, then a third group of three—the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization) signal that an armed interceptor aircraft is following you.

  “Attention on the aircraft under my searchlight, this is the United States Air Force,” a female voice came over the radio on the emergency GUARD channel. “You are surrounded by two armed U.S. military fighter aircraft. By order of the U.S. Department of the Treasury and the U.S. Justice Department, immediately turn right to a heading of two-four-zero and lower your landing gear. If you do not comply, you will be fired upon. Acknowledge immediately. Over.”

  “They were on our tail the whole time!” the Stork yelled. He instinctively tried to bank away from the F-16 that was so close to his front windscreen, but Cazaux held the controls firm. “What do we do? What should we do?”

  “Get a grip, Stork,” Cazaux ordered, pushing the Ethiopian’s hands away from the control yoke. He quickly shut off the aircraft’s transponder, the radio device that transmitted standard identification and tracking data to FAA air traffic control—no use in trying to pretend they were a regular flight anymore. “We are not going to surrender to the authorities. Never! I will not give them the satisfaction.” The cannon on the F-16 flashed again near the right windscreen, and the searchlight pierced the darkness of the L-600’s cockpit. Cazaux’s eyes had just gotten readjusted to the darkness, and the hot white light was painful this time. “Attention on the L-600, this is your last warning.”

  “No!” Cazaux shouted. “Fuck you, bitch!”

  “Lower your landing gear immediately!” the female voice shouted once again on the GUARD radio channel. “This is your final warning!”

  “Look out!” Korhonen shouted. The glare of the F-16’s searchlight revealed how close they were getting to the mountains ahead—they could see the tops of trees in the glare of the fighter’s position and anticollision lights. They had been forcing him lower and lower toward the rising terrain, he realized. He would be forced to use more power, and more fuel, to climb over the terrain, or be diverted left or right around it. Every minute he wasted on these unplanned maneuvers was another minute farther from his objective.

  “Bastards!” Cazaux shouted. “You want me, you take me—but I will take you to hell with me!” And at that, Cazaux threw the LET L-600 into a steep right turn into the F-16 fighter.

  Not surprisingly, the F-16 effortlessly dodged away—his maneuver was totally expected. They were toying with him, Cazaux realized, a very real cat-and-mouse game. That hard turn probably cost him his scheduled landing in Mexico. If Cazaux was correct about their position, he knew that the terrain was rising much faster to the left, and a turn in that direction might be fatal. He had no choice—he had to turn right and climb.

  “You are not going to make it to your destination, mister!” the female Air Force pilot radioed. “Federal agents are in helicopters all the way from here to the Mexican border waiting to pick you up when you land, and there are more fighters and radar planes on their way to track you, so flying low won’t help you. Your best option is to follow me and surrender.”

  Korhonen and Jones were staring at Cazaux, worried. The powerful searchlight on the F-16 revealed every tension line, every quivering muscle in the terrorist’s face. For the first time, they saw real despair in that face, like a wild animal caught in a trap. “What you gonna do, Captain?” Jones asked him.

  “What can I do? I need time to think!” Cazaux snapped. “I try to tell myself that they will not open fire, that they will not shoot this plane down, but I am not so sure now. It’d be too easy
for them to make a convenient ‘mistake,’ and this countryside is sparse enough that they wouldn’t endanger anyone if they send this plane crashing into the ground. I need time to think.” He paused for a few moments, his fingers nervously massaging the well-worn horns of the control yoke; then he turned the LET L-600 farther right, pulled off a notch of power and, to the Stork’s surprise, lowered the landing gear and turned on all the exterior lights.

  “What are you doing, Captain?” the Stork shouted over the roar of the gear in the slipstream.

  “I am buying time, Stork,” Cazaux said. “With the gear down, their fingers will stay off the cannon trigger—I hope. Keep this plane headed toward Sacramento or Stockton— any population center you can see. The longer we stay over populated areas, the less likely they will shoot.”

  “Fly a heading of three-zero-zero for Mather Jetport,” the female Air Force pilot radioed. Mather Jetport was a former Air Force base that had been taken over by the county of Sacramento and turned into a commercial cargo and airliner maintenance facility. It had a long two-mile- long runway and was an Air National Guard helicopter gunship base. They would have plenty of firepower support to help capture Cazaux and secure the cargo plane. “You have two F-16 fighters on you now, both within one mile. Do not deviate from course unless instructed. Do you understand? Over.”

  Cazaux keyed the microphone button: “Mais oui, mademoiselle. I understand. I do not know why you are doing this. You obviously have confused me with someone else. I have done nothing wrong. But I will follow your instructions. Can you activate your position lights, mademoiselle? I cannot see you.”

  “I have visual contact on you just fine,” the Air Force pilot replied. “Stay off this frequency unless instructed to reply.”

  It was the reply he was hoping for: “Mr. Krull, in the second pallet, gray metal case, a pair of night-vision goggles. Get them quickly.” On the radio, Cazaux continued: “Obviously you accuse me of doing something so wrong as to threaten to shoot me down—I think a relatively minor crime such as talking too much cannot be any worse,” Cazaux said, using his best, most urbane, most lighthearted voice. “You sound like a very young and pretty woman, mademoiselle. Please tell me your name. Over.” There was no response—Cazaux did not expect one. He pulled back another notch of power and lowered five degrees of flaps— not enough to be noticed by the fighter, but enough so he could safely slow down another ten to twenty knots. As he fed in some elevator trim to maintain altitude at the slower airspeed, he said cross-cockpit, “Let’s see how slow the F-16 fighter can fly, shall we?”