Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “Tower, -107, seven miles out, request sidestep for ILS three-six right.”

  “107, stand by.” Gayze canted the strip holder for Universal Express 107, which would remind him that he had something to check on with him, then checked the arrivals counter, which held all the strips for arrivals and departures on the three runways. All counters were absolutely full. The traffic from the east was starting to pile up, so a sidestep maneuver—in which a pilot flies an instrument approach to one runway, then must be prepared to immediately transition to another instrument approach, usually on a parallel runway such as Memphis—was probably not going to be an option. “Unable at this time, -107. Continue on the GPS three-six left, you’re number seven, report the outer marker. And give the tower a call on a landline after you land.” So it would take the new guy ten extra minutes to taxi to his cargo gate—an extra fifty gallons of jet fuel, about a hundred bucks. Knowing the Scottish tightwad that owned Universal Express, he was probably going to make the poor pilot pay it back. “Break. United Express- 231, right on intersection golf-golf without delay, ground point seven when clear.” Gayze made a mental note to keep an eye on the Universal Express flight until they made it to their terminal—being new on the job, pissed off at the world, and with a not-so-dynamic captain, on a busy night, this had all the ingredients for trouble.

  “You are going to be thirty seconds late, Roberts!” Cazaux shouted. Ken Roberts was one of Cazaux’s best pilots, and had been with Cazaux almost as long as Taddele Korhonen had been, but he was much younger and far less experienced. He had been with Cazaux for about a year, and was one of his most capable and experienced pilots, but all he had done prior to this had been cargo missions, hauling drugs or weapons or troops to some dirt strip somewhere and back out. He had never done an aerial assault like this before. Further, Roberts was an American, one of the few Americans on Cazaux’s payroll. There had never been any doubt about his loyalty or commitment to following orders—until now. “Push your power up and get back on force timing now! ”

  “But Captain, I was told by the tower to—”

  “The tower is not in command of this flight, / am!” Cazaux snapped. The kid was a nervous wreck—Cazaux had to take the plane back. He slid back into the pilot’s seat, strapped in, took the controls, and slid the throttles up to 85 percent power. “Get back there and stand by on the fucking release mechanism,” Cazaux told Roberts. “And be prepared to release the payloads manually if the automatic system fails. Go!” The kid did as he was told, leaping out of his seat.

  The terrorist switched radio channels to a discrete, scrambled UHF frequency, and keyed the mike: “Number Two, say status?”

  “In the green and ready, lead,” Gennady Mikheyev, one of Cazaux’s newest and most promising pilots, responded. Mikheyev, a former Russian bomber pilot, was in absolute hog heaven at the controls of a Boeing 727-100, a very old but still reliable airliner, one of several aircraft leased from Valsan Partners, a Norwalk, Connecticut, company that specialized in re-engining and refurbishing Boeing 727s. “I wish I could feel more positive about this release system, Captain. It is giving us a lot of problems.”

  “I want results, not excuses, Mikheyev!” Cazaux shouted on the scrambled radio channel. “You wanted this mission—you begged me to let you fly the 727 on the primary strike—and your partners were paid to devise a release system.”

  Mikheyev and several of his fellow Russian aviators devised a complex but clever system to drop their explosives on the primary target—Universal Express’s huge packagehandling facility at Memphis International. The release system was similar to the one designed by Cazaux for the Shorts 300, but ten tall, skinny C08 cargo containers, each carrying fifteen hundred pounds of explosives, would be rolled out of the rear airstair door of the 727.

  But preceding the main explosives string, six Mk 80 five-hundred-pound bombs would be automatically dropped out of the baggage compartments on the starboard side of the 727—these would hit and explode a few seconds before the main explosive charges, ripping off most of the thirty-acre roof of the Universal Express terminal and creating a nice hole for the main explosives containers to pass through.

  Over twelve thousand pounds of explosives would explode inside the building, ensuring maximum destruction.

  The system used a handheld computer and GPS navigation unit to roughly compute ballistics for the drop. Mikheyev had guaranteed fifty-foot accuracy on the string of containers from any altitude and at any airspeed, even though the term “ballistics” that he had used with Cazaux for selling his plan was a real stretch because no actual computations had been done on the ballistic flight path of the cargo containers. Mikheyev had been paid handsomely for the ambitious plan, and now, just minutes from his drop, he was trying to back away from his promise. “I will accept no excuses for failure,” Cazaux warned.

  “Captain, the target is too small,” Mikheyev complained. The intended target was not the super hub, or aircraft parking and package-handling facility—that was mostly open ramp space, conveyor belts, and packages being sorted for delivery, all easily replaceable in relatively short time. The intended target was the westernmost part of the super hub that housed Universal Express’s complex of communications and package-delivery control computers, as well as its main corporate headquarters. The computers cost a whopping three billion dollars to install and modernize over the years—replacing them would cost two to three times that much. Of the entire thirty-acre complex, the target area was about fifteen thousand square feet. With an airliner flying at four hundred feet per second, using a sophisticated but untested release system, there was very little room for error. “I will do my best, but I cannot guarantee—”

  “You will ensure that your drop is precisely on target,” Cazaux shouted on the radio, the anger in his voice barely attenuated by the crackle and warbling of the frequencyhopping system, “or I will personally hunt you and your family down. I know where your family resides in Belize, and I know about your eighteen-year-old mistress. I know the license plate number of the Land-Rover your wife drives. I know which Catholic school your twin daughters go to, and I know that your lovely daughters have just become women .. .” Cazaux let up on the mike button, and sure enough, Mikheyev was letting loose a stream of epithets in Russian.

  “If you fail, I will drag your wife, your mistress, and your daughters before you, have my soldiers sodomize them, then strip their skin off, one by one. You will watch them all die, slowly and painfully.”

  “You bastard!” Mikheyev shouted. He said something unintelligible in Russian, but it was obvious that the force of his anger was subsiding. He knew full well that Cazaux would carry out his threat.

  You are a professional soldier,” Cazaux added in a softer tone after Mikheyev had ceased his protests. “You know the price of failure—death, to you and your family. That is the law of the mercenary. My laws were well known to you before you signed up and before you took your very generous payment for this mission. Failure is not allowed.

  On the other hand, if you succeed, I will see to it that your family is paid the full amount of what is owed to you. They will be made comfortable for the rest of their lives. I give you my word as a soldier, and I have never broken faith with a comrade-in-arms. Failure will be severely punished. Success will be rewarded—even if you do not survive.”

  Cazaux was not going to say anything else to Mikheyev, but the Russian pilot did not reply anyway. He had his choice perfect accomplishment of his mission, or the undignified, horrible death of every woman close to him, then himself.

  Of course, there was only one way Mikheyev could ensure that the target was totally destroyed . ..

  At exactly four miles out, the call came in: “Express- 107, outer marker.”

  Aha, Gayze thought, a new voice! Definitely older, definitely more professional sounding, with a trace of a foreign accent. The Captain was finally awake ... “107, roger, traffic ahead is a MetroLiner one mile descending, you’re number f
ive.”

  “107, contact on the Metro, cancel IFR.”

  This flight was finally starting to sound like they really had a professional pilot at the controls, Gayze thought with relief. Canceling IFR erased the cylinder of protected airspace around his aircraft and really helped to expedite traffic flow, especially since Universal-107 was the one responsible for gumming it up in the first place by keeping his speed up so high. Gayze could now tighten the spacing up on the arrivals and clear out the airspace that much faster. He didn’t know for sure if the Universal pilot could really see the much smaller Fairchild Metro commuter airliner, but he was committed to following it now: “Roger, 107, maintain visual contact with the Metro, squawk 1200, you’re number four now behind the MetroLiner, cleared to land.”

  “Universal-107 cleared to land on the left,” the Universal pilot responded. Couple more minutes, Gayze thought, and this flight would be out of his hair for the night, or at least until it was time for him to turn and depart. Maybe he would be off on break by then.

  “Memphis Tower, American-501, with you level seven.”

  “American-501, good evening, winds three-zero-zero at three, you’re number six, report established on GPS inbound course.”

  “501, wilco.”

  Things were busy, but not too bad. To an air traffic controller, spacing was the name of the game. After ten years, Gayze could look at the lights in the sky and accurately determine a plane’s altitude, speed, and spacing—radar was the best way, but a quick glance at the landing lights usually told him what he needed to know the fastest—

  And now there was a glitch developing and, no surprise, it was from the Universal Express newcomer. There was a noticeable gap in the sequence of landing lights—the Universal Express plane had no lights on, which meant its landing gear was probably not down. “Express-107, check wheels down, wind calm.” No response. “Universal Express-107, Memphis Tower, check wheels down and verify, over.” Gayze didn’t wait for tin answer this time, but said to the tower supervisor in a loud voice, “John, number four for landing three-six left has no lights—and I get no response.”

  Simultaneously, someone else shouted out, “John, I got a NORDO and possible no gear down on two-mile final on two-seven. I think he’s going missed approach.” This was incredible—two radio-out planes landing at once with no radios and no landing lights! The chances of that happening were astronomically high—and so was the potential for disaster.

  “Bill, what’s your NORDO’s altitude?” the supervisor shouted.

  Gayze checked the BRITE scope: “Five hundred and level—he might be going missed too.”

  “Is he turning?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it. Conflict alert procedures!” the supervisor shouted. “Abort all departures! Clear the runways, get on the lights, give those pilots some safe options.”

  The tower supervisor calmly stepped over to his communications console while watching his radarscope. The phone and radio buttons on his console were arranged precisely in conflict alert procedures order, which connected with Memphis International’s two fire departments, the airport security office, the Memphis fire department, and with dispatchers for Universal Express and all of the major airlines on the field. One by one, he hit the buttons without looking at them and calmly started talking: “Victor, Gayze at Memphis Tower, conflict alert procedures, runways three-six left and two-seven, two NORDO aircraft, three inbounds going missed, one takeoff abort... Atlanta Center, Memphis Tower, conflict alert procedures, stand by . . . Memphis Crash Network, Memphis Crash Network, this is Memphis International Control Tower, we have an aircraft collision conflict alert, two no-radio airliners, possible landing-gear malfunction on both, on runways three-six left and two-seven, estimated six souls on board, all stations stand by.” By the time he finished all those calls, the pilots flying the affected planes should have gotten to the “What was that? What the hell did he say?” stage, and the supervisor went through all the buttons once again and repeated his instructions and notifications.

  “Two miles out,” someone called out. With a phone in one ear and the radio earpiece in the other, Gayze scanned the BRITE scope. Both no-radio airplanes had accelerated and climbed slightly, both at about five hundred feet above ground. On the radio, Gayze said, “Express-107, are you able to execute the published missed approach? Ident if you are executing the missed approach.” No response, either on the radio or on the radarscope.

  “Three-six left’s clear!” someone in the tower shouted.

  Thank God, Gayze thought. On the radio, he called, “Express-107, you are clear to land, runway three-six left, winds calm, eight thousand three hundred feet available, rescue equipment has been alerted. Ident if you can hear me, over.” Still no response.

  “107’s deviating right,” the tower supervisor shouted. “The other inbound is deviating right. Neither one of them is executing the proper missed approach, but at least they’re not on a collision course. Still at about five hundred feet.. . Jesus, the other Universal flight is accelerating past two- forty.” There was a speed limit of 240 miles per hour inside Class B airspace—the aircraft that was trying to land on runway two-seven was about to blow past that. “What in hell is going on? They look like they’re doing the exact same thing—they’re both accelerating, both flying at five hundred feet, both screaming towards the runway—”

  “Like a friggin’ air show,” someone else remarked.

  “Think they got stuck flight controls?” another controller wondered aloud. “Or are they trying to rendezvous? Maybe they’re military.”

  “I hope this isn’t some kind of joke,” the tower supervisor said. “I’m gonna kick some asses up in Universal if this is some kind of company stunt.”

  Gayze was still talking on the radios, trying to coach a few of the inbound flights on the proper go-around procedures and coordinating with Memphis Approach for handing off all these airplanes into their lap again. Suddenly he paused, and he looked at the spot of dark sky where Universal flight 107 was, as if he could see directly into the cockpit at the pilot. That voice, the pilot’s voice—not the young kid, but the newcomer, the older, more experienced voice . ..

  It was foreign, slightly French, although the pilot tried hard to conceal it under a phony southern accent. Phony accent, phony call sign, now radio-out and coming in hot... “Jesus, I think this is an attack!” Gayze shouted. “/ think we ’re under attack! ”

  “What? What did you say, Bill?”

  “Damn it, we gotta warn—” But he stopped, confused. Who could they warn? There was nobody to notify. “I think we should wave off Universal-107 and the other inbound Universal flight until we straighten this out.”

  “That’s not the proper procedure,” the tower supervisor said. “The best place for a NORDO plane is on the ground.”

  “They’re not NORDO, they’re attackingGayze shouted.

  “Now hold on, Bill.. .”

  The Shorts Sherpa was a military utility and cargo plane, and had been fitted with a simple drop system for paratroop and small-cargo parachute drops. A long boom mounted below the pilot mast on the nose of the aircraft had three arrows on it, calibrated for drops between eight hundred and two thousand feet and two hundred knots airspeed.

  One minute before drop time, Cazaux ordered Roberts to open the cargo doors and extend the ramp. When the first arrow passed across the intended drop target, Cazaux issued the get-ready signal, pushed the throttles up to full power, and hit the first green release button.

  Ken Roberts watched as a small cannon shot the pilot parachute out the open cargo ramp into the slipstream, and it instantly inflated behind the airplane, putting tension on the release system. When the target—the large main terminal building at the junction of the two angled concourses— passed under the second arrow on the pilot boom, Cazaux hit a red, guarded button. The packing doors on the main parachute case popped open, the pilot parachute pulled the main parachute out of its case, and the latche
s holding the cargo containers released. As soon as the main parachute was fully inflated, it pulled the cargo containers out of the Shorts’ cargo bay with a tremendous thundering sound, like a freight train whizzing by at full speed.

  The chains connecting the cargo containers immediately began to break from the immense strain of the slipstream as soon as the wheels of the container ahead of it left the ramp, so the explosives did not drop together. There was nothing clean or aerodynamic about the containers—they cartwheeled, Frisbeed, and spun all across the sky during their fall to earth. The last two containers, with less inertia than the others, almost did not have enough energy to roll out of the cargo bay, but Cazaux lifted the Shorts’ nose skyward, providing the last nudge necessary. The last two explosives containers weren’t going to hit Cazaux’s intended target—but it was still going to do the job.

  The eighteen-story control tower at Memphis International was located just north of the main terminal complex, where it had a clear view of most of the gates at the main, cargo, and Universal Express terminals and full view of all runways and taxiways.

  Half the tower crew was staring out the windows to the east, waiting to catch a glimpse of the first emergency aircraft; Gayze and the other half were watching out toward the south, staring out into the darkness for the second Universal Express plane and alternately answering questions and vectoring aircraft away from the field. Gayze had a junior controller shining a red signal light at approximately where the northbound Universal flight should be, telling the pilot not to land. Another controller was doing the same toward the east.

  Still no radio contact.

  The southern part of runway three-six left’s hammerhead parking area was brilliantly lit with maintenance floodlights, and as soon as Universal Express-107 crossed just a few hundred yards east of that area, Gayze caught a glimpse of the plane and shouted, “I see 107! Jesus Christ, what is he doing?” The plane was low, but obviously too high to land unless he dumped power and the nose and made a dive for the runway. “I can see him easy—the pilot must be able to see the runway, but he’s gonna miss three- six left by a hundred yards.”