"Take the bottom of the block, I got the top, and I got the radios. Take spacing. I have the lead." "Roger, you have the lead," Vincenti replied, descending to twenty-four thousand feet and pulling power back to 80 percent. He tuned up his radar, preparing to lock on to her when she passed by.
"Foxtrot Romeo, your bogey is at eleven o'clock, ninety miles, turright heading three-three-zero, maintain angels twenty," the weapons controller at SIERRA PETE directed.
McKenzie acknowledged the call. She had pushed the power up to nearly full military power, anxious to get the intercept going, and Vincenti had to hit the afterburner to catch up once her fighter passed by and assumed the lead.
"Foxtrot Romeo, your bogey is heading southwest-bound, altitude nine thousand five hundred, airspeed two-two-five knots, squawking VFRIEND, call when tied on." That was the "setup" call, probably the last radio call before the F's AN/APG-66 radar would pick up the target, helping to get the pilots oriented. Once the radar locked on and the proper target identified, the fire control computer would present steering cues on the H.u.d, or heads-up display, a transparent electronic screen in front of the pilot that allowed the pilot to read flight, radar, and weapon information without looking down into the cockpit.
McKenzie's radar was picking up several air targets at altitudes between five to twenty thousand feet, but there were not many aircraft flying around at eleven o'clock at night. About two minutes later, at a range of about forty miles, McKenzie locked on to an aircraft that met the last reported radar track information perfectly: "SIERRA PETE, Foxtrot Romeo has radar contact on a bogey at thirty-eight miles, angels nine-point-five, bearing zero-one-zero." "Foxtrot Romeo, that's your bogey." "Roger. Foxtrot Romeo is judy, request clearance for the Special-9." "Foxtrot Romeo, this is SIERRA PETE, you are cleared for Special-9 procedures." "Foxtrot Romeo copies," McKenzie said, the excitement spilling over in her voice.
Vincenti had to smile to himself. This was certainly not McKenzie's first intercept, or even her first night intercept, but it was one of her most important. He remembered his first no shit real-world night intercept well, a Chinese airliner suspected of being a spy plane that was "drifting off course" and trying to fly over the Alameda Naval Base near Oakland. That was over fifteen years ago.
That was just one of the things Vincenti remembered in what had been, for him, a pretty good career. He got into flying back in the 1960's, after receiving his bachelor of arts degree in political science from West Virginia State University in 1967.
He'd attended college on a football scholarship. The typical jock. But unlike a lot of jocks who went on to illustrious jobs like selling cars and getting flabby, Vincenti was unable to avoid the draft and ended up in Officer Candidate School, where he received a commission and attended pilot training in 1968. He flew 113 missions in Vietnam in the F-100 Super Sabre fighter-bomber and the F-4Do Phantom II fighter bomber from 1969 to 1973, as well as holding command positions in various tactical units.
Vincenti went on to the Air Command and Staff College upon returning from Vietnam and joined tactical and training units in New Jersey and Arizona, but was later involuntarily separated from the active-duty Air Force, after his second divorce. He got a position with the California Air National Guard in 1978.
Except for a brief deployment to Germany in 1986 and 1987, Vincenti had been flying F-106's, F-4Ds and F-16 fighters from the Fresno Air Terminal for seventeen years.
And speaking of flying... his mind immediately returned to the situation at hand. In this intercept, McKenzie still had to remember her procedures and not get caught up in the excitement. Vincenti checked a plastic-covered decoder device strapped to his left leg, sliding a yellow plastic marker to the fifth row of characters, then keyed his mike button: "SIERRA PETE, Foxtrot Romeo flight, authenticate echo-echo." "SIERRA PETE authenticates india," came the reply. It was the correct reply. All intercept instructions that might place a fighter within close proximity of another aircraft in a potentially unsafe manner had to be authenticated, whether or not weapons were expected to be employed, using the daily authenticator cards issued to every pilot.
Hopefully, this one omission was going to be the last one for Linda McKenzie tonight, Vincenti thought ruefully. Well, that's what wingmen were for--back up the leader at all times.
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 gun-runners." "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 California-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, Captainea"...Jones said, sitting back into the spot he had picked out in a corner 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 I.f.r (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-turn 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, Also. Stand by." She wasn't taking the hint. He had no choice: "Lead, I'm on your left wing. Check your damn switches! was 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 ATF, 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 equals.
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 Sanjose, 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.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 7
