“It is the ultimate game of chicken,” Cazaux said with a grin on his face, “the ultimate game of Russian roulette.” He changed his radio frequency to Bay Approach, listening in as the busy controllers vectored aircraft for landings into Oakland, Martinez, Alameda, Hayward, and San Francisco International. They were already approaching the northern shore of San Pablo Bay, with the city of Vallejo on their left and the dark forested expanse of Marin County on their right, illuminated by the lights of small communities along Highway 101. Soon they were over San Pablo Bay at one thousand feet, traveling three miles per minute through the wispy fog and haze.
“Cactus Niner-Seventy-Three, traffic alert, pop-up target, ten o’clock, three miles, no altitude readout,” they heard the controller at Bay Approach call to another aircraft.
“Nine-Seventy-Three, searching, no joy,” the pilot of the Southwest Airlines commuter, a Boeing 737 airliner out of Oakland International, responded. The pilot sounded bored. Spurious radar targets caused by birds, fog, smog, or high humidity were common in this area. At night, airplanes had their lights on, and if it didn’t have lights on, it wasn’t an airplane. After all, who wanted to hit another plane in midair?
“There he is,” Cazaux said, pointing out the window, high and slightly to the right. The aircraft could not be identified as to type, but there was no missing it—it was ablaze in landing, recognition, position, and anticollision lights. The turbofan-powered airliner was much faster than Cazaux’s L-600, but he had the cutoff angle. Cazaux pulled back on the yoke and turned left, putting the LET L-600 directly on an intercept course, climbing above three thousand feet.
“Niner-Seven-Three, Bay Approach, traffic appears to be maneuvering, now at eleven o’clock, two miles.”
“Nine-Seventy-Three, still searching, no joy,” came the reply.
“He cannot see us,” Cazaux said. He reached down and flicked on his landing lights. “How about now?”
“Nine-Seventy-Three has contact on the traffic,” the commuter pilot radioed. “Say his altitude again?”
“Still no Mode C on your traffic,” the air traffic controller responded. “You should be passing in front of him.” “Not so fast,” Cazaux said. He turned farther left to increase the cutoff angle, maintaining his climb rate. “How about now?”
“Collision alert, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, turn thirty degrees right immediately!” the air traffic controller shouted over the radio. The commuter plane’s lights altered shape as the plane turned. Cazaux laughed as he imagined what the occupants on board that red-eye flight were experiencing—heads banging off shoulders and windows, necks creaking in pain, coffee splashing, flight attendants scrambling for balance.
“That bastard turned right into me!” the pilot of the commuter plane shouted, forgetting proper radio discipline. “Bay Approach, be advised, that guy turned right into me. I want his tail number and controller tapes!”
“Roger, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, I have your request, contact Bay Approach now on one-three-five point four. Break. Aircraft on the three-zero-zero degree radial, twelve DME fix from Oakland VOR, be advised, you are entering San Francisco Class B and Oakland Class C airspace without a clearance, and you have entered the thirty-mile Mode C veil without a Mode C readout. Remain clear of Class B and C airspace and contact Bay Approach on one-two- seven point zero. Acknowledge.”
Henri Cazaux laughed. “Oh, this is perfect, perfect!” he cackled.
“We coulda gotten killed, you crazy motherfucker,” Krull said, shaking his head.
“Mr. Krull, our death warrants were signed the second I heard that Air Force pilot’s voice on the radio,” Cazaux said, stone-serious. “He wants revenge, and he is willing to ruin his career in order to get it. We are fighting for our lives.” Then, just as quickly as it had gone away, the broad smile was back. “And if I am fortunate, I will take a few American citizens out with me before we die.”
With that, he turned the LET L-600 back toward San Francisco and began another descent, aiming right for the international airport itself.
“Foxtrot Romeo-01, radar contact, ten miles southwest of Travis Air Force Base,” the military air defense controller SIERRA PETE reported. Through a massive communications and radar relay network, military controllers from southern California could talk to and track on radar all military interceptors anywhere. “You should have been relayed instructions for landing at Beale, sir. Are you experiencing difficulty?”
“Negative, SIERRA FETE,” Vincenti replied. “Who’s the senior director tonight? John? Marie?”
“This is Colonel Berrell, Al,” John Berrell responded, cutting in on the Weapon Control Team channel. “I’m the SD, and Bravo is on the floor as well.” Bravo was the code name for the deputy director of the Southwest Air Defense Sector, Navy Captain Francine Tellman. “What in hell are you doing? I ordered you to land at Beale for a debriefing.”
“John, I want permission to engage Cazaux’s plane over the bay,” Vincenti said.
“Say again, Foxtrot Romeo?”
“You heard me, John,” Vincenti said in a calm, even voice. “Cazaux’s driving directly at San Francisco International. He’s flying right into the path of the arriving and departing traffic—he made one airliner almost do a backflip trying to avoid a midair. I believe he’s got another load of explosives on board that cargo plane, and that he’s going to drop them somewhere—on the city, on the airport, I don’t know where. I’ve got a judy on him, about thirteen miles north of SFO. He crosses the Bay Bridge into San Francisco Bay in about one minute. I want permission to bring him down as soon as he crosses the Bay Bridge. Over.”
“Al, I can’t upchannel that,” Berrell said. “I know how much you want Cazaux ...”
There was silence for a moment; then, a woman’s voice came on the channel: “Foxtrot Romeo-01, this is Bravo.” Vincenti recognized Francine Tellman’s cutting, no-nonsense voice immediately. “I’m ordering you to land at Beale Air Force Base immediately. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”
“If you want Henri Cazaux, Francine, I can take him. Just give me permission.”
“You’ve got your orders, Foxtrot Romeo-01. Comply with them or I’ll court-martial you the minute you step off that plane. And you had better start using proper radio procedures.”
“Francine,” Vincenti said, ignoring her last request, “he tried to ram an airliner, and now he’s headed right for the stream of arrivals into SFO.”
“I can see that, Vincenti, we’re tracking him as well,” Tellman said. Obviously she gave up trying to use proper radio discipline as well. “I also know that you 've violated almost as many federal air regulations as Cazaux has. Bay and Travis TRACON and Oakland Center are screaming bloody murder about you blasting through their airspace. Now get the hell out of there and land at Beale.” There was a slight pause, then she added, “Please. ”
Vincenti alternately loosened and tightened his grip on the control stick. This was the turning point, he thought. He was still outside San Francisco Class B airspace, and he could easily climb above eight thousand feet to get above the airspace to stay legal. If Cazaux tried something, he’d still be in a position to act. He considered doing the old “radio-out” routine—go radio-out, squawk emergency, then turn everything back on when Cazaux was safely away from traffic—and as long as he stuck to his story they’d have to believe him. But either way, Henri Cazaux would be getting away with murder. “I can’t do it, Francine,” Vincenti said.
“Cut the crap, Vincenti,” Tellman hissed angrily. “Stay out of the Class B airspace. That’s an order. Don’t trash a long and successful career because of Cazaux. You did your job. Break off your pursuit, now. If there’s another incident because of you busting into B airspace, I won’t be able to keep you out of Leavenworth.”
Vincenti swore loudly into his oxygen mask. Cazaux was about twenty miles ahead of him, flying just north of Treasure Island. In less than a minute he’d be over the San Francisco Bay Bridge. He could turn right a
nd be over the city of San Francisco in another minute, or over the Golden Gate Bridge in three minutes; or continue straight ahead for four minutes and be over San Francisco International Airport. It was like watching a tornado move across a prairie, not knowing which way it was going to go, praying it would go one way but not the other.
“Vincenti. . . Al,” Tellman tried once more, “break off your pursuit, now. ”
“Damn you all to hell, ” Vincenti muttered as he shoved in full afterburner and pulled the nose skyward. In sixty seconds, he was level at eighty-five hundred feet, above the San Francisco Class B airspace and on the proper hemispheric altitude for his direction of flight. He was flying above the city of Richmond and barreling toward Oakland when Cazaux crossed the Bay Bridge, heading directly for San Francisco. On his backup VHF radio, he called, “Bay Approach, Foxtrot Romeo-01 on one-two-seven point zero, F-16 active air intercept, level eight thousand five hundred, ten miles north of Oakland VOR, requesting Class B clearance, vectors to intercept unidentified aircraft crossing west of the Bay Bridge, and requesting speed to four-zero-zero knots, over.”
“Foxtrot Romeo-01, Bay Approach, unable your request,” the air traffic controller responded. “I don’t show you as an active air intercept—I’ll have to check with your air defense sector people. Squawk four-three-zero-zero, maintain present course and altitude, remain clear of San Francisco Class B airspace. Break. United Three-Seventy- Two, turn left heading one-five-zero and slow to your approach speed for separation. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner- Niner, keep your speed up, sir, traffic at your seven o’clock, three miles, an unidentified aircraft, altitude unknown ...”
The stress in the controller’s voice was painfully obvious, and Vincenti knew why. As soon as he heard a break, Cazaux interjected, “Approach, my target is that unidentified aircraft, and I’ve got him tied on radar. Let me intercept him and I’ll try to get him out of your arrival pattern, over.”
“Several aircraft talking at once, everyone please shut up and listen,” the irritated controller said. “Foxtrot Romeo-01, I said unable, maintain your present course and stay clear of the Class B airspace. Delta Fourteen, turn left heading two-zero-zero, descend to five thousand, vectors for VOR runway one-niner left arrival. United Eight-Twenty- Two, descend and maintain six thousand ...”
It was impossible to cut through the rapid-fire controller’s instructions. Vincenti thought about doing a rapid descent and dropping right on Cazaux’s tail, but now it was far too dangerous—the closer Cazaux was to San Francisco International, the more aircraft he was mixing around, and the harder it would be to stay away from the traffic.
Well, he had done at least part of what he was ordered to do—stop the pursuit—but he wasn’t ready to give up on Henri Cazaux. Vincenti still had an hour of fuel to bum, ( and plenty of suitable bases nearby to choose from. Better wait up here, clear of all the traffic and confusion, and watch to see what the maniac Cazaux had in mind.
On his backup radio—no use in listening to Francine , Tellman and the rest of the Southwest Air Defense Sector yell at him—he switched over to San Francisco Tower and set up an orbit above the Class B airspace so he could watch Cazaux on radar. He felt completely useless, orbiting thousands of feet above his prey, but there was absolutely nothing he could do except listen to the horrible tragedy un- I fold below him.
“Unidentified aircraft over the port of San Francisco, this is San Francisco Tower on GUARD,” the frantic tower controller radioed on the VHF emergency frequency. “You have entered Oakland Class C airspace without proper radio callup, and you are on course to enter San Francisco Class B airspace without a clearance. There are numerous aircraft departing San Francisco at your twelve o’clock position.”
The controller tried a different tactic: he decided to assume that the pilot of the aircraft was in trouble—perhaps it was the wife flying after her husband had a heart attack, or a kid had stolen a plane to go for a joyride and was aiming for the biggest airport he could see. No use trying to threaten him or her—better to offer plenty of options while protecting the airspace and the legitimate aircraft already in it.
“You must execute a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and fly away from San Francisco because there are a lot of very big airliners in your vicinity and you could get hurt,” the controller said, trying hard to control his anxiety and anger. “If you can hear me, it is important that you turn around and head back towards the north bay or toward Sacramento, right now. You don’t have to reply, just turn away from San Francisco until we can get some of these planes out of your way, and then we can help you get oriented . . . TWA Five-Eighty-One, roger, report the outer marker. .. Unidentified aircraft flying over the Seagram’s sign heading towards San Francisco Airport, you must turn away right now . . . American Three-Seventy-Two, traffic alert, two o’clock, altitude unknown, NORDO aircraft in Class B airspace, stay with me until you’re clear and be prepared to maneuver... Delta Four-Twenty-Two, I can’t give you that, we’ve got NORDO VFR traffic in the area, unless you declare an emergency I’m going to have to send you back to FAITH intersection for the ILS ...”
Vincenti dropped his oxygen mask in absolute frustration. The air traffic situation around San Francisco and Oakland was going haywire, all because of one madman.
He had to do something!
He refastened his mask and keyed his mike: “San Francisco Tower, Foxtrot Romeo-01, over the Bay Bridge at eight thousand five hundred, be advised that VFR NORDO aircraft is at one thousand feet. He is a LET L-600 cargo plane piloted by a suspected terrorist. I strongly suggest you hold all departures on the ground, divert all arrivals, and let me take care of the bastard. Over.”
The radios were completely, utterly silent after that—it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the San Francisco Bay area. The word “terrorist” had that effect on people, and now his reign of terror was being felt here, now.
Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the tower controller radioed, “Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, San Francisco Tower copies, stand by.” It was not the same “stand by” issued by the other controllers, which in effect meant “don’t bother me”—this “stand by” meant “wait while I clear a path for you.” “United Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your position. TWA Five-Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach. Delta Fourteen, go around, stay with me until advised. Attention all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner- Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your intentions?”
“Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft,” Vincenti replied. “MARSA” stood for “military accepts responsibility for separation of aircraft,” and although it usually applied only to military formation flights or aerial refueling, Vincenti wanted to use it to intercept Cazaux.
“Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01,” the tower controller said. Although air traffic control tower controllers rarely issued clearances other than “cleared for takeoff’ and “cleared to land,” this was obviously an unusual and dangerous situation. “You are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your most expeditious airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five nautical mile radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the NORDO aircraft. Stay on this frequency.”
“Roger,” Vincenti replied—just before he pulled hard on his control stick in a tight loop. When he emerged from the loop, he was just south of the Bay Bridge in a fifteen-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, heading “down the ramp” right at San Francisco International Airport. There were very few aircraft on his radarscope, and only one aircraft near San Francisco International was not transmitting any air traffic transponder codes—that had to be Cazaux. “Foxt
rot Romeo-01 is tied on radar and accepts MARSA with unidentified aircraft,” Vincenti radioed. “I suggest you get on the radio and try to get Oakland to keep its planes on the ground, too. I don’t think it’ll be safe for any other planes to be flying around over San Francisco Bay right about now.”
“Say that last transmission again, Foxtrot Romeo- 01 ... ?” San Francisco Tower called. But there was no reply.
Taddele Korhonen, at the controls of the LET L-600, had pushed the throttles up to full power, and they were skimming across the top of the piers, docks, and warehouses of the Port of San Francisco, west and south of the Bay Bridge. “Why the hell we flyin’ so low to the city?” Jefferson “Krull” Jones asked. He and Henri Cazaux were in the cargo bay of the L-600, removing some of the packets of money and cocaine from the second pallet. “You gonna drop all those explosives on San Francisco, too?”
“Of course not,” Cazaux replied. “The loss of the Stinger missiles was regrettable and will dearly affect my business, but all is not lost if I can salvage the explosives and ammunition. Besides, we are still flying. As long as we’re airborne, there is hope.”
Suddenly, the chatter on the air traffic control channel seemed to cease. The quiet caught Cazaux’s attention as easily as a loud gunshot. Then he heard, “Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, San Francisco Tower copies, stand by . . . United Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your position. TWA Five- Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach ...”
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Jones asked. “Sounds like they’re clearin’ everybody out.”
“That is exactly what they’re doing,” Cazaux said. “But why?”
“Attention all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your intentions?”
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