Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (11 page)

 
          
Unfortunately,
there was one switch McKenzie did forget.

 
          
On
a normal intercept, the 150,000-candlepower identification light on the left
side of the nose was used to illuminate the target—on a Special-9 covert
intercept, the light was supposed to be out. The large, bright beam, twice as
bright as an airliner’s landing lights, was on full bright as McKenzie made her
approach toward the target, and, because it was a crystal-clear night and he
was flying five miles behind and to his leader’s right side, Vincenti didn’t
notice the light was on.

 
          
It
was the Stork who saw it first, high and far off in the distance, to the right
rear of the LET L-600 and almost blocked from view by the right wing and engine
nacelle. The horizon was dark, and the single, unblinking light was like a
laser beam aimed right at them. He grasped Cazaux’s right sleeve and pointed.
The Belgian mercenary had to get up out of his seat to get a glimpse of the
light. “I see it,” Cazaux acknowledged. It was hard to judge distances at
night, but the brightness of the light could mean that the aircraft, if it was
an airliner, was pretty far off in both distance and altitude.

           
But it wasn’t an airliner—Cazaux
knew it right away.

 
          
It
was moving fast and turning with them, not crossing their path. It was
intercepting
them, no doubt about it.
“Puta,
Stork,” he said, “they found us
already, the fuckers. I think they zeroed the Air Force in on us.”

 
          
The
Stork pointed to the
San Francisco
sectional chart and chattered away in a strange mixture of Ethiopian,
English, and Spanish.

 
          
“Relax.
There is nothing they can do to us.”

 
          
“Say
what?”
Jefferson
“Krull” Jones asked, staring out the
windows with eyes so wide that the whites could be seen in the dark cockpit.
“There’s an Air Force jet out there? Is it gonna gun us down?”

 
          
“Relax,”
Cazaux said casually. “I have been intercepted dozens of times by the American
Customs Service, the Coast Guard, and the Drug Enforcement Agency—even an Army
helicopter. I have
never
been fired
upon. I do not think they have the authority to kill anyone in peacetime
without due process.”

 
          
“Was
that before or after you blew up a bunch of cops and an entire airport, my
man?” Krull asked. “Maybe this might be the time they let those flyboys
‘accidentally’ let a few missiles fly.” Krull motioned out the cockpit
windscreen to the inky blackness of eastern
California
and the
Sierra Nevada
mountain range ahead. “Looks pretty black
out there, Captain. A pretty good place to splash a bunch of gunrunners.”

 
          
“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-wing 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?”