Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  On the GUARD frequency, Himes heard, “Tango X-Ray-311, this is Westfall Air 357-Whiskey, I acknowledge your transmission.” The accent was typical Texas, smooth but firm, maybe a Houstonian. “Our destination is Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, we’ve got the field in sight, and Approach has cleared us to the field. Is there a problem?” ‘Westfall 357-W, this is Tango X-Ray-311, all previous clearances are canceled. You are ordered to land at Meacham Airport. Do not overfly Carswell Air Force Base. We will be escorting you for landing. Lower your landing gear and turn left heading three-four-five. Over.”

  “Roger . . .” Himes was afraid he might argue some more, but just then the airliner banked left and settled on a three-four-zero heading, lining up almost perfectly with Meacham Airport. The landing gear then came down, and Himes had to lower flaps to stay in formation as the airliner decelerated. “Tiger, Westfall-357-W is slant-Romeo direct Meacham at this time, over.”

  “Tango X-Ray-311 copies, descend and maintain two thousand, airport is twelve o’clock, twenty-one miles, contact Meacham Tower on 118.3. Acknowledge.”

  “Switching to Meacham tower, Westfall . . . stand by one, Tango . . .” Oh shit, Himes thought. Here it comes. Obviously, when the landing gear came down, the charter client woke up—those VIP 727s had a bedroom that rivaled anything on the ground—and now he was undoubtedly being heard from. “Ah, Tango X-Ray-311, my client wants to know why we can’t land at DFW. We had a valid clearance from San Antonio. Over.”

  “Westfall 357-W, I don’t have that information, sir, but you must comply with my instructions. All previous clearances have been canceled. You cannot land at Dallas-Fort Worth. Over.”

  “Okay, Tango X-Ray, but I really need to know . . .” There was a momentary rustle on the frequency, like paper being crumpled. Himes looked over to the airliner’s cockpit and saw the copilot rising out of his seat and another man, in a white shirt, tie, and dark beard, drop into his vacated seat. Then, a definitely Middle Eastern voice came on the frequency: “Listen to me, Air Force fighter plane, we land at big Dallas airport. Right now. Right now. You understand . . . ?” And at that, Himes saw the bastard grab the 727’s control wheel and turn it hard to the right—directly in the F-16’s flight path.

  “Holy mother of God!” Himes pulled on his control stick and shoved in full military power. He caught a glimpse of the airliner’s nose rolling toward him, and then a hard slap! under his seat as the airflow buffet from the big airliner hit the F-16. They had missed by just a few feet. Himes continued his climb, raised his flaps, and fought to roll wings- level. When he finally got himself stabilized, he had climbed over five thousand feet above the airliner—it was no longer in sight. “Tiger flight, this is lead, check.”

  “Two’s in,” McCallum reported. “I’ve got you in sight, Ron. I’m at your seven o’clock low.”

  “Stay on the airliner, Jhani.”

  “Thought you needed help, came to see if you needed help.”

  “No, damn it, stay on the target.” Too late now, Himes thought angrily. He switched back to Tiger Control: “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311 flight, we had to break away from the target, he made a sudden turn across our flight path. Over.”

  Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger Control

  Without the fighters tailing the airliner, Kestrel and his weapons controllers had lost their “eyes” on the scene, and without visual contact they had only a two-dimensional radar image to use. “Lost visual contact on the ‘unknown,’ ” the weapons controller shouted to everyone in the weapons section of the radar plane.

  Kestrel leaned closer to his screen. The airliner was fifteen miles out, over Lake Arlington, well outside the safe- fly corridor, five hundred feet below the programmed approach altitude, a little faster than normal, and still heading for Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. According to the rules of engagement, that bastard was dead right now. “Comm, broadcast warning message on GUARD, on all DFW tower freqs, and all DFW regional approach control freqs, try to get that unknown turned westbound.”

  The assigned weapons controller was already back on his radio. “Tango X-Ray-311, this is Tiger Control, your bogey is at two o’clock, three miles, fly heading zero-six-five, descend and maintain angels two.”

  “Tallyho, Tiger,” the lead F-16 pilot reported. “Descending.”

  But it wasn’t going to happen fast enough, and Kestrel knew it. The sonofabitch was heading right for the west terminals of Dallas-Fort Worth. He looked up and saw Hardcastle and Vincenti carefully studying him. “All right, Admiral, Colonel,” he said. “I could use a little advice here.”

  “You still got time to reacquire the intercept,” Vincenti said immediately. “He’s still five minutes from landing. Get on his ass and try to turn him away. If he doesn’t turn by five miles—”

  “—nail him.”

  “Admiral?”

  Hardcastle hesitated. It was he who headed the Pentagon staff that designed the air defense parameters, not more than three days ago. A staff of over one hundred had pored over charts and diagrams of the thirty-three largest airports in the United States, deciding the safest and simplest way an airliner could approach the airport in a hostile situation. In the short space of time they had to work the problem, the staff had designed a plan that, even if a pilot screwed up every possible rule in the book and did everything wrong, there was still a margin of safety that would save a nonterrorist but still destroy a terrorist before he got close enough to bomb a terminal.

  Well, that was theory, done on charts and diagrams and computers. This guy had busted every rule, exceeded every parameter. He could not look more hostile unless he was launching cruise missiles. He should have been dead sixty seconds ago, the minute he turned into the F-16 ...

  But Hardcastle heard himself say, “Continue the intercept,” and all the planning and all the theory went right out the window—as it usually does in situations like this. “Get Approach Control and DFW Tower to divert all other flights. No one approaches DFW until this is sorted out.” Kestrel breathed a sigh of relief that could be heard over the roar of the engines in the AWACS’ cabin, and he had every free technician on board AWACS calling the airliner.

  Aboard an Airtech CN-235 Twin- Turboprop Transport Northwest of DFW Airport

  “Attention all aircraft, air defense emergency in progress over Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, stand by for divert instructions. Hazardous flight precaution, all aircraft, do not approach closer than ten miles of the Dallas-Fort Worth VOR or you may be fired upon without warning.” The message, broadcast on the tower frequency, was repeated several times; then: “Airtech-75-Delta, turn right heading two-four- zero, vectors clear of emergency airspace, sorry for the delay.”

  “Right to two-four-zero, Airtech-75-Delta,” the copilot of the Canadian-built Airtech CN-235 turboprop transport plane replied. He switched frequencies and shook his head, then laughed out loud. “Jesus, what a stupid motherfucker,” he said to his pilot. “That guy’s going to get his ass shot off if he’s not careful.”

  The pilot finished a long drag on his marijuana joint, keeping the pungent smoke in his lungs for a full fifteen seconds before letting it slowly trickle out. “Sounded like a raghead to me,” the pilot said. “Serves him right.”

  “So what are we gonna do?” the copilot asked.

  “What the hell can we do? We bust that ten-mile ring, they’re liable to put a Hawk missile in our face. Better make the turn.” The big transport plane turned right and headed southwest.

  “The boss will be pissed if we don’t make this delivery,” the copilot fretted. “We’re already late as it is.”

  The answer to that one came a few moments later: “Airtech-75-Delta, Dallas Airport has just closed temporarily due to the air defense emergency,” the approach controller told him. “I can give you vectors to Redbird or Meacham. Say intentions.”

  “Stand by one,” the copilot radioed. Cross-cockpit, he said, “Oh shit, the boss is going to skewer us. Now what?” The pilot was too s
toned to care what happened to him. He lazily shrugged his shoulders, enjoying the view. “Hell, we got the gas—let’s head over to Meacham.”

  But as he glanced out the windows to his left, he saw an airport—and, to the west of the airport, something that he had never seen before but had no trouble at all recognizing. “I got an idea,” the pilot said, banking hard left toward the airport and beginning a steep descent. “If we can’t make the delivery, we might as well make a splash.”

  Air Defense Battalion MICC Dallas-Fort Worth Airport*

  “Range eight milds and closing,” Sergeant Pierini said aloud. “Tiger 111 Patriot battery reports confidence down to 0.89. Tiger 112 Patriot battery confidence at 0.92, and Tiger 113 is 0.93. Recommend degrading Patriot and committing HAWK batteries 131 and 132 to engage.”

  “Agree,” Captain Connor said. “Uplink the engagement change to Tiger Control. Engagement status remains HOLD FIRE.” The Patriot missiles at Carswell Air Force Base, Alliance Airport, and Naval Air Station Dallas were still capable of destroying the airliner, but the farther away and lower it flew, the less capable Patriot would be. Patriot would still track the airliner, but now only the HAWK and Avenger missiles would open fire if the order came.

  That order could come any second, Colonel Witt thought as the airliner continued to drive toward DFW. “Even if the pilot of that thing isn’t a terrorist,” she said half-aloud, “he should die in a huge fireball, because he’s so stupid he shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

  “Six miles ... still have a HOLD FIRE command,” Connor reported. “Five-point-five miles . .

  “Stand by batteries 131 and 132,” Witt said. She had reached up over Connor’s head and was repeatedly mashing the battalion klaxon button, warning anyone within earshot to get away from the launchers before a missile motor ignited in their face. “Sarge, notify DFW security, tell them we may be launching.”

  “Target turning!” Connor suddenly shouted. “Unknown eighteen-track heading now two-niner-zero, continuing turn to heading two-seven-zero, climbing through three thousand feet.”

  “Jesus, that sonofabitch was lucky,” Witt exclaimed, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath, the first in what seemed like several minutes. “I hope the feds bust that asshole just for taking five years off my life. Get a poll of the battalion, Jim, and check—” Suddenly, one of the aircraft data blocks on Connor’s radarscope began to blink. “Mike—what is that. . . ?” Pierini caught it at the same moment: “Track ID 4Q121 made a sudden turn toward Alliance Airport,” he reported. “He was on a vector heading from Dallas Tower during the emergency . . . Tiger Control still showing him as a valid track. . . now Tiger is making him an ‘UNKNOWN,’ sir, we’ve got an unknown, number 19, three miles east of Alliance Airport, altitude rapidly decreasing, now less than two thousand feet, airspeed two hundred knots . . . range two miles, still closing, altitude one point five, still decreasing ..

  “Jesus . . Witt hurriedly changed to Tiger Control’s frequency and pulled her headset microphone closer to her lips as she watched the radarscope: “Tiger Control, this is 100,1 need an engagement command on unknown 19 blowing into Alliance,” Witt radioed immediately to the AWACS radar plane. “He’s diving on Alliance Airport, range less than two miles.”

  “Lost contact with Tiger-113,” Pierini shouted. “Datalink is down, switching to landlines . . . hard lines down. No connectivity with Tiger-113.”

  “What the hell happened?” Witt cried. She turned to the VHF radio and tried that—no response. “Shit, we lost everything. Check your systems and do a BIT test.” She clicked on the UHF radio to the Air Force AWACS plane: “Tiger Control, this is 100, check connectivity with Tiger 113, datalink and connectivity lost at Battalion MICC. Over.”

  Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger-90

  “I see it, I see it,” Kestrel said, studying his radar display. The surveillance technicians had assigned an unknown code 19 to the newcomer that had just blown past his approach clearance into Dallas-Fort Worth, and now they had put a giant flashing arrow on the radarscreen, pointing at UNK 19, to get his attention. He was silently kicking himself for not seeing the guy turn toward Alliance Airport earlier, but he was trying to watch a half-dozen major airports at once, and he had turned his attention away from DFW once the Westfall plane had turned away. The tiny blue square that marked the locations of the two Patriot missile batteries at Alliance Airport was gone—not flashing, which would have indicated that the datalink was down but the site was operational, but completely gone, as if it never had been set up. “The Patriot site at Alliance went down. Todd, get one of the fighters over there and have him take a look.”

  As if the fighter pilot had heard him, Kestrel heard, “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311, I’m about fifteen miles southeast of Alliance Airport, following the 727 airliner. I can see a lot of smoke and fire coming from Alliance Airport. I see . . . Tiger, I think I see secondary explosions— yes, definitely secondary explosions. I think one of the Patriot batteries went up.”

  Kestrel swore under his breath, then said, “Where are our unknowns, Senior Director?”

  “One unknown, target ID 18, ten miles east of Meacham Airport,” the Senior Director responded. “One unknown, target ID 19, now two miles northwest of Alliance Airport.”

  “MC, call from Meacham Tower, unknown 18 has requested clearance through the class D airspace westbound, destination Will Rogers Airport.”

  “Denied,” Kestrel said. “I want Tango X-Ray-311’s wingman to intercept unknown 18, and Tango X-Ray-31 l’s leader to intercept unknown 19. Comm, this is MC, I want—”

  “MC, target 19 turning right and descending . . . now heading zero-niner-zero, altitude one thousand ...”

  There was no time to warn this guy, no time for an intercept or visual identification. Kestrel wet his lips, prayed for a cigarette—but there was no time for praying for anything. “MC, unknown 19 passing through heading one-two- zero ...”

  Kestrel reached up and hit a button on his upper-left communications panel, marked simply “B,” and said, “Tiger 100, Tiger, unknown target ID 19, batteries released tight, I repeat, batteries released tight.”

  Air Defense Battalion MICC,

  Dallas-Fort Worth Airport

  The Patriot fire control computer had already placed a blinking diamond symbol around the red caret on the radarscreen marked unk 19, signifying that it was ready to attack the aircraft. Captain Connor reached up to his upper instrument panel and hit a button, activating a loud klaxon in the area of the Patriot missile launchers stationed at Carswell Air Force Base and NAS Dallas. He checked and there was only one blinking diamond on the screen—the Westfall airliner still had a diamond around it, meaning the computer was tracking it as a hostile but was not yet prepared to launch on it. He then pressed a switch on the lower-right corner of his instrument panel marked launch.

  The MICC computer had a choice—the target was within range of Tiger 111, the Patriot site at Carswell AFB, and Tiger 136, a HAWK site at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport— and it selected the northernmost Patriot battery at Carswell, launcher number one. It took only five seconds for the order to be relayed via microwave to the Engagement Control Center van at Carswell, which selected the proper launcher, activated the first two missiles, dumped the initial targeting information to the missiles’ guidance units, released the safeties, and fired the solid rocket motor on missile number one. The first missile’s motor blew out a protective fiberglass rear cover and shot a column of fire and smoke out the back end of the boxlike launcher, and the missile’s quartz dielectric nose cap pierced another fiberglass cover on the front of the missile canister as the missile shot out of the launcher. The launch computer waited three seconds for the first missile to clear the launcher and for the launcher to stop shaking from the exhaust blast of the first missile before commanding the second missile launch.

  Patriot engagements were always done in pairs for maximum effectiveness ...

 
Aboard Airtech 75-D

  “Man oh man, did you see that?” the copilot of Cazaux’s plane shouted gleefully. The pallet of four cluster bomb units they had just dropped on the Patriot missile site at Alliance Airport was doing an unbelievable job. The exploding cluster bombs made the sun-dried brown earth west of the runway look as if it were boiling, with tiny flashes of yellow fire erupting in a large area the size of two full city blocks. Then, one of those tiny explosions would hit next to one of the upraised Patriot launchers, and the whole unit would disappear in a huge explosion that would rock their little transport plane. After one such explosion, one Patriot missile cooked off, and the two terrorists could see it spinning along the ground in wide arcs until it skipped across the runway and plowed into a group of buildings in the northern part of the airport, causing another huge explosion and fire. “Hey, go around once more. I gotta see this again.”

  “No sweat, man,” the totally relaxed pilot murmured, starting a right turn back toward the airport so he could give the copilot a better look out the right cockpit windows. “Hey, that was fun.” He rolled out momentarily, checking outside, then looked over to his copilot and said lazily, “It was nice flyin’ with ya, bud.”

  “Say what?” The pilot pointed out the left cockpit window with his thumb. On the horizon, they could see a white line suddenly appear from the ground, speeding skyward out of sight. He squinted, trying to look up at its origin, but it was too high up and moving too fast to see. “What in the hell’s th—”