Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (35 page)

 
          
Ronald
Gates, newly installed commissioner, opened his mouth to scream but nothing
could be heard over the roaring sound of wind and explosions. His body was
straining against his seat belt, the upper half pinned against the
radar-control console. His hands shot up to his face, covering his death’s
mask.

 
          
“Contact
lost with Three-Four!” Long shouted. “It disappeared off radar!”

           
Geffar got to her feet, tore off her
headset. “Get the Black Hawk ready for takeoff. Broadcast the Nomad’s last
position on all emergency channels. Track that unknown and find out where he
goes. Tactical crew armed and on deck in two minutes.”

 
          
Hardcastle
clicked on the platform’s intercom. “Helipad one, helipad one, prepare to launch
helo. All hands, stand by to launch helo. Customs tactical crew to your helo
immediately. Repeat, Black Hawk tactical crew, report to your helo
immediately.” As Geffar ran outside he punched up the intercom to the lower
hangar deck. “Deck three, this is Admiral Hardcastle. Get the Sea Lion up on
deck and get her ready for takeoff . . . no, I want it up
now.
Spare two plane captains from the Black Hawk launch and get
that Sea Lion on deck
now!”
He threw
off his headset, turned to Curtis Long, who was trying to reach the Navy
Pegasus hydrofoil ship by radio. “Can you handle things here?”

 
          
“What. . . ?”

           
“I’m taking the Sea Lion airborne
to—”

 
          
“That’s
not authorized, we’ve got a plane down and two more in the area. It’s dark,
we’ve got lousy weather. I’m not sure if I can work all of this stuff in a
rescue situation. Taking that thing up there,
sir,
can just screw things up—”

 
          
“I’ve
been notified of a disaster at sea and I’m launching to investigate and
assist.” He headed for the exit, ignoring Long’s following complaints.

 
          
The
rain was coming down in driving sheets now as Hardcastle reached the upper
flight desk and went to the elevator from where the Sea Lion tilt-rotor
aircraft would be raised. The Sea Lion came on deck a few minutes later. The
aircraft, designed to be stowed on board an aircraft carrier or Marine Corps
landing assault ship, was in its below-decks stowed configuration—the rotors on
both engines were folded along the engine nacelles, the nacelles raised
horizontally, and the wing was swiveled around so that the starboard nacelle
was nestled between the Sea Lion’s twin tails and the port nacelle was
suspended out off the plane’s nose. In this configuration the Sea Lion could
almost squeeze inside a space equivalent to a two-car garage but within sixty
seconds reconfigure itself with the flip of a switch into takeoff
configuration.

 
          
As
the plane captains began towing it over to helipad number two Hardcastle jumped
inside and began pulling the safing pins from the Sea Stinger missile pod on the
starboard side and the Chain Gun pod on the port side. By the time the aircraft
was moved onto its helipad, Hardcastle was beginning to strap into the pilot’s
seat. As he did, three men, two Coast Guardsmen and a Customs Service agent,
got in with him.

 
          
“We
heard you and Long talking in the command center, Admiral,” one of the Coast
Guardsmen said. “Seaman Toby Morton, sir. We figured you might like some help.”

 
          
Hardcastle
didn’t argue. “Strap in and get ready,” he said as he put on a helmet. “Who
else is with you?”

 
          
The
three were pulling on headsets they found on the seats and strapping themselves
in. “Seaman First Bill Petraglia and some junior G-man we grabbed on the way.”

 
          
“Anyone
armed?”

 
          
“I
got one M-16 and a coupla clips. The Customs guy has a side- arm.”

 
          
A
moment later the Customs Service agent moved beside Morton. “Agent Jim Coates,
Admiral. Could you use some help in the cockpit? I’m fixed and spin-wing
qualified.”

 
          
“You
just signed up for a free flying lesson, Agent Coates. Get up here.” As Coates
maneuvered over the center console and jumped into the left side copilot’s
seat, Hardcastle activated the Sea Lion’s battery and internal power switches.
Full fuel, full oil and hydraulics, good battery. No time for a complete
preflight. Fortunately the Sea Lion needed no tools or crew chief intervention
to prepare itself for takeoff, also no external power cart to start engines.

 
          
Once
the helipad was clear of ground personnel Hardcastle turned on battery and
internal power and started the Sea Lion’s auxiliary power unit, which supplied
electrical, pneumatic and hydraulic power. That small engine was powerful
enough to swing the wings back to their conventional position, rotate the
engine nacelles to the vertical, move the rotors back into place and spin the
turbine on the port engine up to engine-start speed. Two minutes later both
engines were started, the drift lights and perimeter lights in the helipad were
illuminated and the Sea Lion reconnaissance attack plane was ready for takeoff.
Without waiting for clearance, Hardcastle made a vertical takeoff and
immediately headed toward the Nomad radar plane’s impact area.

 
          
“Omaha
Three-One, this is Hammerhead Four-Nine,” Hardcastle radioed. “I’m airborne,
south westbound.”

 
          
“Four-nine,
this is Three-One. Dammit, Hardcastle,” Geffar was saying, “you are not
authorized to fly the Sea Lion on a Customs mission—”

 
          
“I
called to ask if there was any assistance I could render Three- Four,”
Hardcastle interrupted. “What’s your status?”

 
          
A
pause, then: “All right, all right, I knew you were going to launch
anyway—nothing I could’ve done to stop you. We’re over Three- Four’s impact
area. No sign of the aircraft or of survivors yet. We have a commercial
fisherman twenty, thirty minutes away, and the Pegasus hydrofoil is about an
hour out. We observe two- to four-foot seas out there. You might be able to set
the Sea Lion down and pick up any . . . survivors.”

 
          
“Copy
that, Three-One,” Hardcastle replied. “We can handle the search for survivors.
Instruct the hydrofoil and
Omaha
Four-Zero to intercept those boats involved with the drop.”

 
          
“This’s
no time to be thinking of that,” Geffar said. “We need to concentrate on
rescue—”

 
          
“Dammit,
Sandra, I want them—don’t let them get away!” He didn’t say please.

 
          
Actually
Geffar wanted an excuse to change her mind. She understood where he was coming
from. The noise on the radios had gotten almost unbearable, even on the Customs
Service discrete-operations frequency—units were calling in from all over the
area asking what the hell was happening. “All stations other than designated
Omaha
and Hammerhead units,
clear this channel.
Break. Hammerhead One, this is Three-One.
Vector the Pegasus unit to intercept those boats leaving this area. See if
Four-Zero can intercept target one. Continue to dispatch any available units to
intercept vessels that might be picking up drops along target one’s flight
path.”

 
          
Hardcastle
was over the Nomad radar plane’s impact point a few minutes later. “The
controls for the FLIR scanner are by your right elbow,” Hardcastle told Agent
Coates. “Plug the cables into your helmet and power your IR visor.” He
demonstrated for Coates as they both lowered the infrared-scanner visors over
their eyes. “All right. Can you see the status indicators?” Coates nodded.
“Okay. I’ll activate your helmet. The FLIR scanner will send the infrared
images to your visor. As you move your head the scanner will look in the same
direction. You can zoom in and out and switch from normal to reverse-image with
the controls on your cyclic. If you want to stop, just raise your visor.”

 
          
It
was as Hardcastle described. Coates could look in any direction outside the Sea
Lion’s cockpit—even behind him or in a direction that would normally be blocked
by the fuselage—and the scene he saw through the electronic visors appeared
well lit. As he moved his head the heat-sensitive image moved with him. Tiny
electronic numerals told him the aircraft’s heading, altitude and airspeed as
well as the relative bearing of whatever he was looking at. Several times he
stopped his sweep and used switches on the control stick to zoom in and get a
better look.

 
          
What
he found were bits and pieces of the Nomad, spread out over an area the size of
four football fields. The heat-seeking scanner registered several warm objects
but none were distinguishable as human forms. Pools of fire were everywhere,
obscuring their view. Finally they found what was left of the strongest section
of the plane, the wing-connecting box that joined the wings to the fuselage.

           
“The right side of the connecting
box looks sheared off, probably from the impact with the water,” Coates was
saying. “The left side looks . . . looks blown olf. There’s a big semicircular
hole in the box just inboard of where the engine nacelle would be.”

 
          
Coates
touched the scanner’s zoom controls to get a better look. “Oh, Jesus . . .”

 
          
“What
is it?”

 
          
“I’m
not positive,” Coates said, “but . . . Jesus, I think those are bullet holes
along the top of that connecting box, Admiral. My God, I think someone strafed
the Nomad and shot him down.”

 
          
The
Oval Office,
Washington
,
D.C.

 
          
The Next Morning

 
          
The
President seemed exhausted. Dressed in a somber dark suit and tie, he wore his
silver-rimmed eyeglasses instead of the contact lenses that he had just removed
after several irritating hours. Not having the time to rehearse the hastily
written statement, he sat at his desk with his speech in his hands instead of
reading off the TelePrompTer. He received his cue from the stage director,
straightened his broad athlete’s shoulders and began:

 
          
“My
fellow Americans, by now you may have heard about the horrible incident that
occurred over the waters off the southern coast of
Florida
last night. I will summarize the events as
we know them at this hour, and then announce our response to this atrocity:

 
          
“At
eleven
forty-six
eastern
time last night a United States Customs Service reconnaissance plane with seven
persons on board was attacked and destroyed during an anti-drug surveillance
operation in the
Straits
of Florida
approximately one hundred miles south-southeast of
Miami
. The plane was involved in an operation
tracking boats strongly suspected of carrying drugs into south
Florida
. Shortly after four boats were observed
picking up several objects that Customs investigators believed were drugs, a
high-speed aircraft appeared and before the Customs aircraft could take evasive
action, attacked the reconnaissance plane with large-caliber machine-gun fire.
The plane crashed and was destroyed.

 
          
“There
were no survivors.

 
          
“Along
with the five Customs Service crewpersons on board, casualties included
Commissioner of the Customs Service Ronald Gates, whom I had just sworn in that
same day. The other fatalities were Customs Service pilot Michael Drury,
copilot Jeffrey Crawford, radar officer Jacqueline Hoey, sensor officer William
LaMont and flight engineer George Bolan.

 
          
“Using
recorded analysis provided by a joint Coast Guard-Customs Service unit on the
scene, we have determined that the Customs Service reconnaissance plane was
attacked by a fighter-type aircraft working in concert with the drug smugglers.
We believe the fighter was actually providing air cover for the drug smugglers
as they made several drops to waiting speedboats all across the western
Bahamas
and eastern
Caribbean
. When the smugglers found that our radar
aircraft was vectoring in Coast Guard vessels to make arrests, the smugglers
ordered the Customs plane destroyed.