GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel

by Mike McNeff

  Copyright 2011 Mike McNeff

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No

  Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution – You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial – You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works – You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

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  Cover Design by Sean Dailey

  Edited by Rachel Leach

  ISBN 978-1-935961-38-3

  DISCOUNTS OR CUSTOMIZED EDITIONS MAY BE AVAILABLE FOR EDUCATIONAL AND OTHER GROUPS BASED ON BULK PURCHASE.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960956

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Pilot/Officer Thomas McNeff and Paramedic/Officer Richard Stratman of the Arizona Department of Public Safety who were killed in the line duty on October 2, 1983 after rescuing over thirty people from raging flood waters, and to all law enforcement officers who have given their last full measure protecting and serving their communities all over this world.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing a novel is a journey with many stops at way stations to rest and calibrate your compass. At each way station there are people who offer help and encouragement. My writers group, Just Write on the Coupeville Wharf, was and is a major way station. Bob Mayer got me focused on my writing, as he has done for hundreds of writers. My critique group, Rowena Williamson, Mare Chapman, Hanna Rhys Barnes, and Audrey Mackaman are a source of unrelenting honesty about my writing. Rowena and my sister, Cathy Shaw, each helped shape the original manuscript into something with promise. Ken Shear and my Booktrope team made the book the best it can be. Most importantly, my wife Linda has loved me for over thirty-four years, no matter what new direction my restless mind decides to wander.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  ONE

  SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE! We have a target!” The intercom blared through the U.S. Customs Air Support offices.

  Sergeant Robin Marlette, supervisor of the Arizona Department of Public Safety Narcotics Special Enforcement Unit, jumped up from his desk and ran to the steel door leading to the flight line. He could hear the rush of footsteps behind him as his squad and the U.S. Customs crew poured out of other offices and the ready room. He hit the metal bar on the door and burst into the warm Phoenix summer night, then ran down the dimly lit tarmac to the sinister-looking UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter. He fervently hoped for a jump on a drug smuggler, his favorite thing to do as a cop.

  When he reached the chopper, the mechanic had the doors open wide. Robin could just make out the name “Jumpin' Jack Flash” on the nose of the Blackhawk. He climbed in and moved to the middle OD green canvas seat of the first row facing the rear of the aircraft. Robin picked up his Galil ARM 7.62 mm rifle from the seat and sat down.

  The smell of JP4 jet fuel added to the aroma of a military aircraft permeating his senses—a comfortable smell to him. He put on his intercom headset and hit the toggle switch, slipped on his tactical vest, and locked in the buckles. A quick check confirmed all of the gear on his vest was secure. Robin snapped himself into his seat harness.

  The other six men of the squad and two U.S. Customs agents were doing the same thing. The two Customs pilots already pushed the throttles to full power as they quickly completed the scramble checklist. Two Customs Air Interdiction Officers manned a 7.62 mm Mini-gun in each gunner's window.

  Robin listened as the pilot, Jack Moore, better known as “Jumpin' Jack Flash,” talked to the control tower at Sky Harbor Airport. The heat inside of the Blackhawk drew sweat from Robin's pores.

  “Sky Harbor, Lima Two-One advising law enforcement scramble for one-eight-zero.”

  “Roger, Lima Two-One. Cleared for immediate departure, one-eight-zero. Winds calm, barometer two-zero-zero-niner…and good hunting.”

  “Lima Two-One, roger.”

  Robin gave his team thumbs up and got thumbs up from all members.

  “Robin, we ready?” Jack asked.

  “Ready, Jack. Blast off.”

  The big bird, now screaming with the combination of its twin jet engines and rotors, bounded off the ramp into the night sky.

  “Lima Two-One, Quarterback.” Jack called the U.S. Air Force Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) aircraft tracking the target on radar.

  “Go ahead, Lima Two-One. This is Quarterback.”

  “Lima Two-One, Quarterback, requesting target info.”

  “Lima Two-One, your target is an aircraft that crossed the border at Lochiel, Arizona at two hundred and fifty feet doing one hundred and fifty knots. Target is currently eight nautical miles northwest of Patagonia. Poppa One-Nine is locking on to him now. Your current intercept is one-five-zero for sixty-one miles.”

  “Roger, Quarterback. Copy intercept one-five-zero for sixty-one miles.”

  Robin knew Poppa One-Nine was a U.S. Customs Lear Jet equipped with the same look-down, shoot-down radar used in the F-16 fighter jet. He felt the Blackhawk bank as Jack turned to intercept the target aircraft.

  “Poppa One-Nine, Quarterback. We have target locked now twenty-eight nautical miles south of Tucson at five hundred feet doing one hundred and fifty knots. Heading is three-three-five.”

  “Roger, Poppa One-Nine. Your target is confirmed.”

  “Roger, Quarterback. We also have the target on FLIR. Target is a Cessna 210 running dark.”

  “Roger, Poppa One-Nine. Lima Two-One, you copy Poppa One-Nine?”

  “Lima Two-One, Quarterback, we copy Poppa One-Nine and will start com with him.”

  “Roger, Lima Two-One. Quarterback out.”

  Robin breathed in cooler air as the Blackhawk gained altitude. The radio traffic told him the Customs Lear Jet chase plane locked the same target on their radar as the AWACS had on theirs and watched it through a Forward Looking Infra Red sensor. The AWACS made the transfer of the target because it flew a “training” mission. The Air Force couldn't officially do interdiction missions in the Continental United States due to the latest court interpretations of the Posse Comitatus law. Robin briefly contemplated the obvious absurdity. The target, flying at a low altitude and running dark without its navigation lights on, was likely a drug smuggler.

  “Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine. Do you have us on radar yet?” Jack asked.

  “Lima Two-One, give me a squawk for positive ident.”

  “Roger, Poppa One-Nine. Lima Two-One squawking one-two-one-zero now.”
>
  “Okay, Lima Two-One, I've got you standby.”

  Jack didn't reply to the chase plane. He sounded almost bored on the radio, but Robin knew from past experience Jack had a short fuse for chase planes not giving frequent updates on intercept headings. On two occasions, a suspect aircraft got away because the Blackhawk jumped the strip too late. More than a few seconds of “standby” pegged Jack's patience.

  “Poppa One-Nine, would you mind giving us intercept distance?” Jack's irritation crept in to his previously calm voice.

  “Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. Intercept heading is still good distance is fifty-six miles.”

  “We're going dark,” Jack told his co-pilot Oscar Leighton over the intercom. The Blackhawk now flew without navigation lights.

  “Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. Target just went into a steep climb. Standby, standby Lima Two-One, the target is now at four thousand feet. Lghts on!” Excitement raised the pitch in Poppa One-Nine's voice.

  “What do you think, Robin?” Jack asked.

  “Sounds like the ol' pop-up trick to me. This guy's a definite target.”

  “Looks good to me,” Jack agreed.

  “Roger, Poppa One-Nine. Advise us at five miles,” Jack told the chase plane.

  “Roger, Lima Two-One.”

  Robin quickly went over his equipment again. He hit the bottom of the magazine in his rifle to make sure it was seated correctly. His heart beat against his ballistic vest. At a closure rate of over three hundred knots, things would begin to happen fast. Eight minutes later, Poppa One-Nine's voice crackled over the radio.

  “Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. Target is now five miles from you, at four thousand feet, lights still on. He should be coming down your left side.”

  “Lima Two-One, Roger,” Jack replied.

  Everyone on the helicopter began searching the night sky for the suspect aircraft. Robin watched as the men nearest the windows strained in their harnesses to get a better view. Suddenly, Oscar's voice came excitedly over the intercom.

  “I got 'em at eleven o'clock low.”

  “I see him,” Jack said.

  A few seconds later, Robin felt the Blackhawk go into a diving left turn. The helicopter began pulling “G's,” pushing Robin into the seat. Jack maneuvered the Blackhawk behind and slightly below the aircraft, putting the chopper in the target aircraft's blind spot.

  “Robin, we are passing Casa Grande on the left,” Jack advised. “If we keep on this course, my bet is he's headed for Rainbow Valley.”

  “That would be nice,” Robin replied. “Like doing a jump in our own back yard.”

  Robin's squad and the Customs agents made many arrests and follow-up investigations and spent hundreds of hours conducting surveillance in Rainbow Valley. They knew every inch of the desolate desert area in between the Sierra Estrella and the Maricopa Mountains, southwest of Phoenix. Hundreds of places to land an airplane made it a favorite destination for air smugglers.

  “Target is losing altitude and turning west,” Oscar said.

  “It looks like he is going to land,” Jack observed.

  “Are his lights still on?” Robin asked.

  “That's affirm,” Jack replied.

  “He may be doing a decoy landing at Casa Grande airport,” cautioned Robin.

  “Roger,” Jack answered.

  “Either of you guys have the night vision on?” Robin asked.

  “Yes, Mother Marlette,” Oscar replied in a sarcastic voice.

  Robin saw Burke Jameson flipping the bird towards Oscar's position up front. Robin turned in his seat only to see Oscar giving him the finger. Robin blew a kiss to Oscar, who chuckled and shook his head as he turned back forward. The helicopter's roar buried the team's laughter, but it eased the growing tension.

  “The target is on final for Casa Grande,” Jack said.

  “Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. It looks like the target is landing,” the chase plane said.

  “Standby, Poppa One-Nine,” Jack replied. “He may be faking..”

  “Roger, Two-One.”

  “He's gone dark! He's gone dark!” Oscar said with elation.

  “There's no doubt about it now,” Robin drawled. “Some time tonight that boy is going to get a gun screwed in his ear.”

  “Amen, brother,” Jack replied.

  Oscar watched the suspect aircraft through the night vision goggles and said, “The target is now headed west-northwest from Casa Grande.”

  “Poppa One-Nine, Lima Two-One. What's your read on the target?” Jack asked the chase plane.

  “Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine, the target is heading two-niner-niner at five hundred feet, doing one hundred and ten knots and accelerating.”

  “Roger, One-Nine.”

  Robin breathed more quickly now, his heart still beating against his vest. His eyes moved over his team. Even in the dimmed cabin lights, he could the see the anticipation in his men. Each man fidgeted with equipment, making sure to be ready for the jump out of the helicopter. They only knew Jack would position the load of drugs at twelve o'clock off the nose of the helicopter—nothing else was certain. The team called it “jumping into the Twilight Zone.”

  “Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine. The target is slowing down.”

  “Roger, One-Nine. I'm going into a hover. Let me know when the target appears to be final.” Jack dropped the Blackhawk down to one hundred feet and hovered. This standard tactic prevented alerting any ground crew waiting for the air smuggler to the presence of the Blackhawk.

  “Lima Two-One, the target is circling about four miles north of you,” the chase plane advised.

  “Roger, One-Nine.”

  “Robin, it looks like he's trying to land at Alvey's,” Jack said.

  “I'll take your word for it, Jack, because I can't see where we are.”

  “Sorry, pal. I keep forgetting you can't see what I see.”

  “It's okay, Jack. If you're wrong, I get your wife and first born.”

  “No, no,” Jack laughed, “not my first born!”

  “Lima Two-One, Poppa One-Nine. Target appears to be on final and there are two pairs of headlights on the strip.”

  “Roger, One-Nine. Here we go, gang,” Jack added on the intercom.

  G-forces pressed Robin into his seat as the powerful Blackhawk surged upward. He reached to his forehead and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. He then pulled the straps of his seat harness tight.

  “I got com,” Robin said as calmly as he could.

  “Roger,” Jack responded.

  “Assault team,” Robin began, “this will be a full team deployment. We have one aircraft and at least two vehicles. The strip is Alvey's. Anybody not understand?” Nobody spoke up. “Go to portables,” Robin ordered. All team members removed their headsets and hung them from the hooks on the helicopter ceiling. They kept their portable radios off until they left the aircraft. Robin communicated by hand signal now because he stayed plugged into the intercom so he could talk to Jack.

  “Target is down,” growled Oscar as he watched through the night vision.

  The Blackhawk raced towards Alvey's strip at maximum speed, skimming the desert floor with a payload of armed and determined men. Robin looked at his squad. Their faces locked on him, waiting for his signals. No one laughed now. This was a dangerous time.

  TWO

  The Blackhawk hit the ground in what Jack liked to call a controlled crash, jarring the men in the troop compartment.

  “Searchlight on!” Oscar advised.

  Robin was reaching for his harness release when the chopper shot back into the air and went almost into a ninety-degree bank. He looked out the left window and saw the big rotor blades just barely clearing the sagebrush and mesquite dancing in the rotor wash. If Robin didn't have the utmost confidence in Jack's and Oscar's flying abilities, he would' probably be more than just a little concerned for his life. Still, an awe-filled “Jesus Christ!” fell from his lips, only to disintegrate in the roar of the Blackhawk's engines and r
otors.

  “Hang on,” Oscar yelled. “We're having to herd these fuckers!”

  Jack flung the Blackhawk all over the sky. The men in the troop compartment were slammed against seat and harness. From past experience, Robin knew the vehicles on the ground were attempting to run, but Jack maneuvered the Blackhawk in front them, trying to force the suspects to abandon their vehicles. After sixty seconds of being herded by the madman in the giant, angry Blackhawk, the suspects bailed from the trucks.

  The Blackhawk's landing gear slammed into the ground again. “Go! Go! Go!” Jack yelled into the intercom.

  “Roger!” Robin yelled back. Robin moved his arms out to his sides and pointed to the doors on both sides of the chopper. Immediately both doors slid open and men jumped out in prearranged sequence. Robin, the last man out, tossed his headset, popped his harness, and turned on his portable radio. As he came to the door he charged his rifle, engaged the safety, and jumped out the left side of the helicopter into a thick, stinging swirl of dust kicked up by the chopper's rotors. The Blackhawk's three million candlepower searchlight illuminated the dust. It all merged with the screaming jet engines, making Robin feel like he had jumped into hell.

  The whole assault team knelt down on one knee in front of the Blackhawk. Each man covered his face and the action of his weapon to protect him from the whirlwind of dust. This gave Jack and Oscar a chance to do a head count and verify all men on the assault team did get out and were in front of the chopper. Jack pulled on the collective lever and the Blackhawk jumped back into the sky.

  “Wedge formation! Emmett, you're point!” Robin ordered. The team quickly formed a wedge with Robin in the middle and started moving forward.

  “Shots fired! Shots fired!” Someone screamed into the radio.

  Robin started to press his mic button to talk, but several men transmitted at the same time, causing a garbled mess of static and half-words to come over the headset. He did make out somebody saying “two o'clock,” so he looked over to his right. He then heard gunfire and saw flashes about forty yards away. The sickening snap of a bullet went by his ear.