"I ain't paying you nuthin," man," he said.
"You got your own damned plane, man, you can get me in." "Just stick the nigger in with the rest of the baggage," one of the other loaders suggested with a laugh.
A stern glare from the Belgian mercenary silenced the loader.
"You will need a passport for some of our destinations," Cazaux said, "and it costs a lot to get a good document." He shrugged. "Part of the price of doing business." The anger rising in the black man's chest was enough to raise the air temperature in the hangar several degrees.
"Trust me," Cazaux said reassuringly.
The guy finally relented, handing Cazaux the money and hopping aboard the L-600. The others were hustling toward the side hangar door as fast as they could. They were sure the big black guy was going to turn up dead in a very short period of time, like as soon as he closed the hangar doors.
"You are the one they called Krull?" Cazaux asked the one remaining loader.
"Yeah," the black man replied.
"Is that your real name?" The man hesitated, but only for a second: "Hell no, Captain.
And I'll bet you ain't no captain, either." Cazaux knew the man's real name was jefferson jones, that he was just paroled from a Florida state penitentiary, serving three of seven years for armed robbery, and that he had a common-law wife and two kids. An arrest for dealing drugs, no conviction, and an arrest for selling guns, again no conviction. A small-time hood, dabbling in crime and so far not demonstrating any real aptitude for it.
Cazaux's sources described this one as a good worker, good with a gun, more intelligent than most foot soldiers, a quick temper when provoked but otherwise quiet. "Good answer, my friend," Cazaux said.
"I saw your dossier." "Say what?" Big eyes growing wide with surprise.
"Your records. I know you are telling the truth.
Lying to me is fatal, I assure you." "You're the boss," Krull said. "I ain't lying to you." "Very well." Cazaux knew that jones had used a variety of weapons in his years as an armed thug, and Cazaux had chosen him, whether Krull knew it or not, over all the other hirelings as a possible recruit.
"You begin work immediately. Open those hangar doors, close them after we taxi clear, hop aboard, then close this door like so." Cazaux showed him how to close and latch the large rear cargo door, and Krull left to see to the hangar door. He had no trouble opening the manually operated steel doors, and soon the warm California night air was seeping into the hangar. Time to get moving.
"Prepare to start engines," Cazaux shouted forward to the Stork.
"I want taxi clearance right now. Report our position on the field as the Avgroup cargo terminal, not this location. Let's go." He bent to make one last check of the cargo straps before heading up to the cockpit.
Aboard an Army UH-60 Assault Helicopter That Same Time The image on the nine-inch color monitor wavered as the helicopter passed by some electrical transmission lines, but the picture steadied as soon as they were clear. "I didn't hear you that time, Marshal Lassen," Federal District Court judge joseph Wyman, Eastern District of California, said.
"Repeat what you just said." "Your Honor, I said that because Henri Cazaux is extremely dangerous, I must be granted extraordinary latitude for this capture," Chief Deputy Marshal Timothy Lassen said into the videophone, a suitcase helicopter seat across from Lassen. Lassen, age forty-eight, was the number-two man in charge of the Sacramento office of the U.s. Marshals Service, Eastern District of California. He was speaking on a secure voicestvideostdata microwave link to the federal courthouse in Sacramento while speeding southward only one thousand feet above ground toward Chico Municipal Airport. Lassen's lean frame was now artificially beefed out with a thick Kevlar body armor vest over a loose-fitting black flight suit, recently purchased from a mail-order catalog for this particular mission; a black vest with the words udds.
MARSHAL in green covered the bulletproof vest.
His boots were scuffed-out survivors of the Marshals Service Academy Training Course at Quantico, Virginia, and used since then only for duck hunting. He wore a plain black baseball cap backwards and a headset to speak on the videophone over the roar of the helicopter's twin turboshaft engines.
Judge Wyman had been summoned to his desk at midnight to issue an arrest and search warrant for Lassen's operation. Even distorted by the scrambled microwave linkup and the occasional interference, it was obvious that the judge was not happy." "Latitude" is one thing, Deputy," Wyman said irritably, "but your warrant justification reads like something out of the frontier West." "I think that's a slight exaggeration, Your Honor." The videophone system was full duplex, like a regular telephone, but it would not easily tolerate interruptions--Lassen's interjection went unheard: "I'll buy a no-knock and use of military transport aircraft for the raid, Deputy, but the gunship is out." "Your Honor... Your Honor, excuse me," Lassen said, repeating himself to successfully interrupt the judge, "Henri Cazaux is the number-one fugitive on our most-wanted list, with fifty-seven federal warrants issued for him to date. He is an internationally known terrorist and arms dealer. He's the biggest gunrunner in southwestern Europe, his efficiency and ruthlessness is putting the Italian Mafia to shame in southern Europe, and now he's in the United States, where he's been connected to several attacks against military arsenals.
He has stolen everything from Band-Aids to glide bombs, and he knows how to use them all--he's ex-Belgian Special Forces and an accomplished pilot. He has the Marshals, the FBI, a.t.f, and the state police outgunned in every category. We have to use military air just to even the odds." Judge Wyman shook his head at the videophone unit's camera lens on his desk and continued: "Use of deadly force? Use of military aircraft and weapons? Dead or alive? What is this, a vendetta? I will not sign a "dead or alive" warrant, Deputy." "Your Honor, Cazaux is known to have killed four federal officers this year," Lassen said. "He hasn't used anything smaller than an M-16 or AK-47 infantry rifle on any of his victims, and one marshal was believed to be killed by a direct hit by a forty-millimeter grenade, a weapon used for punching holes in walls and bunkers. We identified the dead agent by recovering one of his fingers that had been blown nearly a hundred yards away." It was the judge's turn to interrupt--Lassen stopped talking when he saw Wyman talking, and the judge's stern voice came through as soon as Lassen stopped talking: "dis.. have to remind me of any of that, Deputy," Wyman said, "and I'm very familiar with an M206 grenade launcher and its effects, thank you. I fully understand how dangerous Henri Cazaux is. But the objective of a warrant issued by this court is to grant legal permission to arrest a fugitive suspect, not carry out an assault--or an execution." "I assure you, Your Honor, my objective is to capture Cazaux and bring him to trial," Lassen said. "But I cannot accomplish this mission safely without substantial firepower. Cazaux is a killer, Your Honor.
He has demonstrated that he will fight it out, kill any lawenforcement agents nearby, use the weapons he smuggles for his own defense, even kill his own workers, rather than be captured.
He's like a raccoon caught in a trap, Your Honor, except he won't hesitate to chew off someone else's leg to escape. I need extraordinary powers if I'm to try to apprehend him. If I don't get them, I will not send my men in." "Don't you give me ultimatums, Deputy Lassen," Wyman said angrily.
"I'm trying to emphasize how dangerous Henri Cazaux is, Your Honor," Lassen continued quickly. "I attached an FBI psychological profile.
Cazaux was imprisoned and abused by GIS when he was a child, and he turned to violence even-was "Say again, Deputy Lassen?" Wyman interrupted. "I thought Cazaux had never been in prison?" "As a minor, he was caught on a U.s.
Air Force cruise missile base in Belgium, selling hashish to U.s. security policemen," Lassen explained.
"He was turned over to the Belgian authorities, but not before being imprisoned and repeatedly raped by the guards for two days. I heard they even shoved nightsticks up him. And he was only fifteen years old. He kills foreign servicemen on sight, Ju
dge--he always has.
I think he'll target my SOG troops the same--" "I understand what you're telling me, Deputy," Wyman interrupted, "but even though he may seem like one, I want him brought to justice, not killed like a rabid dog.
Don't ask this court for the power of life and death, then refuse to carry out your duties if you don't get it. You want my signature on a warrant, mister, you follow by my rules.
"I'm deleting the "dead or alive" condition --you will bring Cazaux and his men in alive, or you will explain to me and the Attorney General of the United States why you failed to do so, and I assure you, Deputy, your career and where you spend the night--at home, or in a federal prison cell--will hang on your response. And you may use any military aircraft to transport your agents and for observation, but they may not approach closer than five hundred meters from the suspects, and they may not use their weapons unless fired upon by the suspects. Now, are you going to abide by my orders, Deputy Lassen?" He had no choice. Wyman was the most cold-blooded of the federal judges and magistrates in the District, and if he had objections to any aspect of a warrant, it was best not to argue. The way was still clear to do whatever it might take to put Cazaux out of business, but an unwarranted death would mean the end of Lassen's career. It might be worth a twenty-year career for the chance to end Cazaux's miserable life, but playing by the rules was important to Timothy Lassen.
Carrying a gun, a badge, and a federal warrant made a man pretty big in some people's eyes, and it was easy to start believing that justice was whatever you chose to make it, especially with sociopathic killers like Cazaux. Lassen was determined not to let his Constitutionally mandated power corrupt him. Lassen was also determined not to fuck up his career at this point, no matter who they were pursuing. Tall, with an athletically lean frame and dark hair and brown eyes, Timothy Lassen had been with the Marshals Service since 1970, and had several assignments in both California and Oregon. For eight of those years (from 1980 to 1988) he had served in the Special Operations Group (Sog). He was the SOG deputy commander from 1988 to 1990 and then reassigned to the Sacramento office as Deputy U.s. Marshal in 1991.
"Yes, Your Honor," Lassen replied.
"Good. I want Cazaux as bad as you do, Lassen, but you've got to do this one by the book or the circuit court will put us both out of business." Wyman raised his right hand, and in the passenger section of the Black Hawk helicopter, Lassen did likewise. "Do you swear," Wyman recited, "that all the information in these warrants are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and do you swear to abide by the regulations and restrictions contained herein and execute these warrants to the best of your ability?" I swear, Your Honor." Wyman signed three documents and handed them to an assistant, who unclipped the pages and sent the pages one by one into a fax machine connected to the same secure communications link.
Seconds later, the warrants appeared in the plain-paper fax machine on board the Black Hawk assault helicopter. A recent Supreme Court decision ruled that the fared copy of a warrant sent via a secure datalink was as good as the original. "I'll be standing by here in case you need me, Lassen. I'm with you all the way." "Thank you, Your Honor," Lassen said.
"My clerk tells me that Judge Seymour signed a series of warrants for a.t.f the same time period," Wyman said. a.t.f, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, a division of the Department of the Treasury, was involved with the regulation of restricted, high value goods such as liquor and weapons. "Since I wasn't briefed on their involvement, I assume you're not working with a.t.f on this one." "I didn't know a.t.f was involved, Your Honor," Lassen said.
"We got the information that Cazaux had surfaced only a few hours ago.
Can you give me any details on the warrant, sir? Is Agent Fortuna in charge?" "Your old friend," Wyman said with a wry smile-- the sarcasm in his voice came through loud and clear, even via the wavering secure datalink. "I see you have your Kevlar on--I think you'll need it, and not just against Cazaux." "I'd better try to raise Fortuna on the secure phone, then, Your Honor," Lassen said.
"Thanks again for your help." "I have a feeling the shooting is going to start long before you encounter Cazaux," Wyman said, trying to interject a bit of humor into what promised to be a very humorless scene coming up. "Good luck." The encrypted datalink buzzed when Wyman hung up, then beeped to indicate the channel was autochecked for security and was clear.
Lassen keyed in a user address key into the transceiver's keypad, listened for the autocheck tone again, and waited. Seconds later, he heard a cryptic "Tiger One, go." Even on an ultrasecure microwave datalink that was virtually untraceable and eavesdrop-proof, Special Agent Russell V. Fortuna still liked using his old Vietnam Recondo code name. "This is Sweeper One, on channel seventeen-bravo," Lassen replied.
Although he disliked using all this code crap, he knew Fortuna would not respond, especially during an operation, unless he used his code name and confirmed the secure datalink channel in use. "What's your location and status, Russ? Over." There was a slight pause, and Lassen could easily envision Fortuna, dressed in his Star Wars semirigid body armor that made him look like an Imperial storm trooper from the movie, shaking his armored head in complete exasperation. "Lassen, what the fuck do you want? was Fortuna finally said.
"You may have just blown this operation. You ever hear of communications security ?" "We're on a secure datalink, Russ.
Get off it. I need to know your status. Are you moving against Fugitive Number One? Over." "Jesus, Lassen, why don't you just get on the PA and tell the creeps we're coming?" There was another short pause, then: "Yeah, we're ten minutes out. We zeroed in on his operation at Chico, and we're moving in. Since we didn't have time to coordinate this strike, do me a favor, get hold of the administrator of the airport and the sheriff's department, and cordon off the airport.
Stay on the outside until I give you the word.
Over." "Russ, we've got word that Cazaux has got heavy weapons and high explosives at his location, enough to take out half the airport.
SOG is about fifteen minutes out, and we've got some Apaches and Black Hawk assault helicopters from the California Air National Guard with us. We'll back you up." "Assault helicopters? Are you nuts?" Fortuna asked. "Cazaux will start shooting the minute he hears one of those things overhead.
Keep them away from the airport. Who the hell gave you a warrant authorizing attack helicopters, anyway? Are you going to seal off the airport for me or not?" "Affirmative, Russ, I'll take care of that," Lassen said, pointing to the VHF radio and motioning for the chief of the Special Operations Group, Deputy Marshal Kelly Peltier, to make the initial calls for him.
SOG was the Marshals Service's assault and special weapons team, organized to capture the most violent and heavily armed fugitives.
"But hold off on your operation until we get closer, and brief me on your plan of attack." "I don't have time for that shit," Fortuna snapped. "You can monitor our tactical frequency if you want, but do not, I repeat, do not overfly the airport. We might mistake your choppers as one of Cazaux's escorts and take a shot at it." Special Agent Fortuna was director of the southeast district of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Ex-Marine Corps, all-around weapons expert, and a human dynamo, as gung-ho as any man in the Treasury Department, Fortuna was an expert in small unit assault tactics--at least in his own mind. He relied on the elements of shock and surprise to overwhelm the bad guys. However, the shock and devastation of his attacks, in Lassen's view, made up for a lot of sloppy investigative work.judges gave him warrants regularly because he got results.
Lassen liked to gather his deputies, surround a suspect, and wait him out. Although these standoffs took time and manpower, this substantially reduced the risk to his deputies. Fortuna liked to form a strike team, plan an assault, and attack head-on at night with heavy weapons blazing. The result was usually a lot of wounded agents and dead suspects, but the shooting was over long before the TV camera crews arrived. Because of this fundament
al difference in tactical style, the two organizations sometimes moved without coordinating with the other.
"Jesus, Fortuna's gonna play Rambo again," Lassen said on the helicopter's intercom so the pilots and the rest of the crew could hear. "Paul, you better plan on setting down on the far side of the runway opposite the action, off-loading the crew, then evacuating the area," Lassen told his pilot. To his SOG strike team leader he said, "Kel, get on the phone to the chief of the Oakland Flight Service Station and have them issue an emergency airspace restriction in a five-mile radius of the airport. I'll be the point of contact in charge of placing the restriction. If you hit any delays after nine minutes from now, just get on VHF GUARD on 121.5 and U.h.f GUARD on 243.0 and broadcast the warning in the blind for all aircraft to avoid the airport.
Christ, what a mess." "The TV stations will pick up the news if I broadcast on the GUARD channel, Tim." "I'm not worried about that--I'm worried about Fortuna taking a shot at us or at some commercial job who wants to land," Lassen said.
"Do it." Chico Municipal Airport, California That Same Time "Chico ground, LET Victor Mike Two-juliett, ready to taxi from Avgroup Airport Services with information uniform," Cazaux radioed.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 3
