Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

“Copy,” the communications officer responded. A second later he responded, “SMOC on button four, SD. Call sign ‘Midnight.’ ”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, who’s that?” Milford asked. He had flipped over to the Washington, D.C., sector radar display, where a large electronic arrow was pointing at a low-flying, fast-moving radar target flying right through the middle of D.C., just a few miles from the Capitol. “Jesus, who is that? Who gave him clearance to fly down there?”

  “Washington Approach has him, sir,” Tate reported after checking with the Comm section. “It’s an F-16 from Atlantic City, Devil Zero-Three. Looks like he’s on a Beltway tour.”

  “Who gave him that?”

  “Washington Approach cleared him, sir,” Tate responded. “National Tower is talking with him too. He’s VFR.”

  “I don’t believe it, I just don’t believe it,” Milford said angrily. “Two days ago we were ready to blow planes like that out of the sky twenty, thirty miles away—now we’re letting them fly practically up to the front door of the White House. And he’s not even under a proper flight plan! What are we doing up here if ATC keeps on clearing guys to cruise around anywhere they want? Are we supposed to be able to stop this guy if he turns out to be a terrorist?”

  Milford switched his comm panel to Washington Approach’s direct phone line. The reply came: “Washington Approach, Poole.”

  “Mr. Poole, this is Major Milford, aboard Leather Niner- Zero, the radar plane assigned to your sector,” Milford responded. “You’ve got a Devil-03 flying VFR through the center of National’s Class B airspace—I’d like him out of there as soon as possible.”

  “Any particular reason, Major?”

  “Any particular reason. . . ? Sir, we’re in the middle of an air defense emergency/” Milford shouted, trying to keep his composure on the landline. “The FAA may have taken down the special flight restrictions and approach funnels; but we’re still responsible for stopping possible terrorist aircraft from entering Class B airspace. It really complicates our job having unauthorized VFR traffic flying through the middle of one of the most vital airspaces in the country. Is that good enough for you, Mr. Poole, or do I need to talk with the TRACON supervisor?” .

  “All right, all right, Major, I get the point,” the controller responded, clearly exasperated at the threat but not wanting to make waves. “How about we give him present position direct Nottingham direct Atlantic City International, and no more Beltway tours unless we coordinate with you first?” “That sounds fine, Mr. Poole, thank you,” Milford said. “Leather-90 out.” He punched off the phone line, stripped off his headset, and wearily rubbed his eyes and face. “Man, what is it with these controllers?” he murmured. “It seems like every one of them believes it’s not going to happen to them, so they treat everything like situation-normal. I’m sick and tired of FAA controllers giving these pilots anything they ask for, and then us getting blamed when the pilot turns out to be a terrorist . . . look, there’s another VFR flight, busting the Class B airspace.” Milford pointed at a new target just marked as UNKNOWN by the Surveillance section. It was a slow-moving target flying northwest toward Washington Executive Field or Potomac Airport, traveling less than two miles per minute—a light plane doing some sightseeing. “We ought to blow that guy away just as a warning.”

  “Executive-One-Foxtrot’s been cleared to descend,” Tate reported. “He’s twenty miles northeast of Pottstown VOR.” “He’s going to have to get his tail down if he wants to make RONNY intersection by eight thousand,” one of the weapons controllers behind Tate remarked as he watched the VC-25 make its descent. RONNY intersection, fifty miles north of Andrews Air Force Base, was the usual turn- point for VIP planes landing at Andrews—it gave the pilots a nice long straight-in approach, with little traffic and few turns to disturb the passengers.

  “Good thing the President’s not on board,” another WC said. “I heard the Steel Magnolia pitches a fit and tries to shit-can the whole flight crew if her ears do so much as pop while she’s in Air Force One.”

  “She’s got bigger things on her mind these days ... like how to keep her and the President from being indicted.” Everyone chuckled.

  “There he goes,” the first weapons controller reported, monitoring Executive-One-Foxtrot’s data block and mentally calculating the descent rate by watching the altitude readout. “He’s doing at least fifteen hundred feet a minute in the descent. I think heads are going to roll tonight.”

  “Just everybody settle down and monitor the transponder changeover up here,” Tate said. Before passing through ten thousand feet, Air Force VIP aircraft like Executive-One- Foxtrot switched their transponders to a discrete code, usually 2222, used only in the terminal area to alert controllers so they can give the plane expedited service. When the changeover occurred, the target usually disappeared off the radarscreen for about twelve seconds until the new code was picked up by the radar computers—if the controllers weren’t ready for the changeover, they got very frantic and sometimes pushed the panic button.

  Milford went back and scanned his other four vital sectors. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Air traffic had not returned to normal by any means, but in the past few days travel at night had virtually disappeared, and now it was making a comeback. Fewer restrictions on flight routing, more controller discretion, and less reliance on published arrival and departure procedures really helped to clear things up. That newcomer, the slow-moving VFR flight that had originated somewhere in eastern Maryland, was now over Nottingham VOR, still headed northwest— its course would take it south of Andrews Air Force Base, but it was definitely on its way to busting the Class B airspace. That idiot deserved to get his license pulled, Milford thought.

  “Any ID on that VFR flight out there, AS?” Milford asked the Airborne Surveillance section.

  “Still checking, MC.”

  Jesus, Milford thought, what an asshole. The air defense emergency had not been officially canceled, although the FAA did announce that flights were not required to follow the special-arrival corridors into the nation’s busiest airports anymore. It was also not hard to hide all of the long- range Patriot missile sites being taken down all over the country.

  “MC, no IFF changeover on that Executive-One-Foxtrot flight.”

  Milford immediately flipped back to the Washington, D.C., Class B airspace radar display and zoomed his presentation in, putting the VC-25 A on the top of the scope and Andrews Air Force Base, the plane’s destination, on the bottom. His heart immediately started to beat a bit faster. Executive-One-Foxtrot was at RONNY intersection, inbound on the ILS approach to runway one-eight left, passing through eight thousand feet—and still no transponder code changeover.

  The crews flying those VIP jets never made mistakes like that, never.

  The next question was how to notify the crew of their omission. Although it was certainly not required that the VC-25 crews change their transponder codes or accept any expedited service, it was generally not a good idea for any of the President’s jets to be delayed in the air, especially when the President was on the road. But blabbing it on an open-frequency was probably not a politic idea, either. Milford flipped his radio panel over to the 89th Air Wing’s Special Mission Operations Center, the ones that were in constant contact with all of their VIP planes: “Midnight, this is Leather-90 on SMOC common, over.”

  “Leather-90, this is 89th Wing SMOC, stand by.” There was a lengthy pause, probably so the senior controller at Andrews could look up in his call-sign book to see who “Leather” was. Then: “Go ahead, -90.”

  “I’m tracking your SAM-2800, Executive-One-Foxtrot, fifty-two miles north of ADW inbound. Can you ask him to change over his IFF? Over.”

  “Say again, -90?”

  “I repeat, I am tracking Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound to ADW, and he has not changed over his IFF to terminal procedure codes. Can you notify him to change his transponder code? Over.”

  There was another slight pa
use, probably so the senior controller could ask the VC-25 crew if they were squawking the right code and to change it immediately if they had forgotten. Milford watched his radar display, expecting the code to change at any moment . . . but it did not. “Ah . . . Leather-90, sir, we can’t verify the location of our SAM flights to you on this channel. You’ll have to contact us on a secure landline or secure datalink. Over.”

  “What the hell is this guy talking about?” Milford muttered. “The whole friggin’ world knows that this plane’s up there.” On the radio, he said, “Midnight, I’ve got a valid military flight plan for SAM-2800 and an FAA ALNOT on Executive-One-Foxtrot, IFR from Manchester, New Hampshire, to Andrews. He’s less than fifty miles north of Andrews inbound for landing. He’s been airborne for well over an hour. I think it’s a little late to play hide-and-seek games with this one. All I want is to have him change over his IFF. Over.”

  After another interminable pause that was about to drive Milford nuts and had now gotten the attention of the entire. AW ACS crew, the SMOC controller came back: “Leather- 90, I’ve been directed to tell you by the senior controller here that there is no SAM-2800 or Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound for landing at Andrews. All of our assets are accounted for, and none are inbound to Andrews at this time. You have a faker on your hands.”

  Milford felt the blood drain out of his face, and his stomach muscles tensed so tightly that he felt as if he were going to throw up. “Shit, shit, shit, ” he cursed loudly. On the radio, he shouted, “Midnight, are you sure?”

  “I can’t tell you on this channel where the VC-25s are, Leather,” the SMOC controller said, “but I can tell you they’re not inbound to Andrews. All of our other assets are nowhere near ADW. Closest one departed a half-hour ago, destination Langley.”

  “Damn it, I can’t believe this,” Milford said. Tate and the * other weapon controllers were waiting for their instructions—he had to act now... “Comm, this is the MC, contact Washington Approach and Washington Center, advise them we’re declaring an air defense emergency for the Bal- timore-Washington Class B airspace. I need the airspace cleared out and instructions issued to that 747 to stay out of Class B airspace. Surveillance, MC, mark radar target P045Y as ‘unknown.’ Maureen, do we have anybody suited up? Do we have a chance to get this guy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tate responded immediately. “Two F-16s— tactical birds, not interceptors—on ready five alert at Andrews.”

  “Scramble them,” Milford ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Tate acknowledged. She had her finger on the scramble button as soon as she heard there was something wrong with Executive-One-Foxtrot. On aircraft-wide intercom, Tate announced, “All stations, all stations, active air scramble Andrews, unknown target P045Y designate as ‘Bandit- V ... MC, Alpha-Whiskey One-One and One-Two acknowledging the klaxon; Weapons One, interceptors coming up to you on button two.”

  “Who else we got, Maureen?” Milford asked.

  “Next-closest units we have are F-16 ADF interceptors at Atlantic City and tactical F-15s at Langley,” Tate responded. “ADFs at Atlantic City are on ready five alert, but their ETE is at least ten minutes at zone 5. The F-15s at Langley can get there in five minutes, but they’re not on ready five alert.”

  “Call Langley and tell them to get anything they can airborne,” Milford said. “Put A-City on engines-running cockpit alert at the end of the runway in case Bandit-1 tries to bug out or if the fighters at Andrews are bent. Get a tanker from Dover or McGuire airborne and put him over Nottingham VOR for refueling support—all the out-of-towners are going to need gas if they arrive over DC on full afterburner.”

  “What’s the order for Alpha-Whiskey flight, sir?” Tate asked.

  Milford checked his radarscope. The now-unknown 747 was only forty miles out; at his airspeed, traveling six to seven miles per minute, he would be over the Capitol in five minutes. “If Bandit-1 turns away and does not enter Class B airspace, the order is to intercept, ID, and shadow,” Milford said. “If Bandit-1 enters Class B airspace, the order is to engage and destroy from maximum range. Comm, get the National Military Command Center senior controller on button four.”

  Milford then reached up to his primary radio channels and selected the common channel linking the fifteen Hawk missile sites and the twenty Stinger man-portable shoulder-fired missile platoons assigned to Washington-Dulles, Washington-National, Andrews Air Force Base, Baltimore International, and the Capitol district, and said, “All Leather units, this is Leather-90, air defense emergency for Washington Dulles, National, and Baltimore Tri-Cities Class B airspace, radar ID P045Y is now classified ‘unknown,’ target designate ‘Bandit-1,’ stand by for engagement, repeat, stand by for engagement.”

  For the moment, the slow-moving VFR flight was forgotten ...

  Andrews Air Force Base That Same Time

  “Andrews Tower, Alpha-Whiskey-11 flight, active air scramble, taxi and takeoff northwest.”

  “Alpha-Whiskey-11 flight, Andrews Tower, taxi runway three-six right, wind one-seven-zero at five, altimeter three- zero-zero-one, expect immediate takeoff clearance crossing the hold line, intersection Bravo takeoff approved, seven thousand five hundred feet remaining.”

  It took considerably less than five minutes for the two F- 16A crews from the 121st Fighter Squadron “Guardians,” District of Columbia Air National Guard, to run to their jets, start engines, and begin to taxi. No matter what someone at the Department of Justice said, they knew they were the last line of defense for the nation’s capital. Not only did the Guardians refuse to revert back to normal air defense operations, but they kept themselves in advanced states of readiness in order to cut down on response times. All idletime crew activities had been moved from the alert facility to the aircraft shelters, so crews were no more than six ladder steps from their cockpits, and runway 36 Right had been designated the “alert runway,” so it was always clear and unused except for absolute emergencies. By the time the echoes of the three long klaxon blasts were gone, immediately the roar of two Pratt & Whitney F100-P-200 turbofan engines replaced them.

  Both planes—not ADF (Air Defense Fighter) F-16s, but standard battlefield combat models—carried four AIM-9L Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles, ammunition for the 20- millimeter cannon, and one centerline fuel tank. They reached the hold line in less than a minute, performing last- second flight-control checks and takeoff checklist items on the roll. “AW flight, clear for takeoff to the northwest unrestricted, contact approach,” Andrews Tower radioed.

  “AW flight, clear for takeoff, go button three.”

  “Two.”

  For safety’s sake at night, the fighters performed a standard in-trail takeoff instead of a formation takeoff. The leader turned onto the runway, not bothering to set his brakes but plugging in the afterburner as soon as he was aligned with the runway centerline. The wingman started counting to himself when he saw his leader’s fifth-stage afterburner light, and although he was supposed to wait ten seconds, he started his takeoff roll on eight. Smoothly he pushed his throttle to military power, checked his gauges, cracked the throttle to afterburner range, watched the nozzle swing, and checked the fuel flow and exhaust pressure ratio gauges, pushed the throttle smoothly to zone five, and...

  There was a bright flash of light ahead, like a lightning strike on the horizon or a searchlight sweeping down the runway. The pilot heard no abort calls, either from his leader or the control tower, so he continued his takeoff, clicking off nosewheel steering and shifting his attention from the gauges to the runway when he passed decision speed. He then ...

  There was another bright flash of light, and then the pilot saw a ball of flames tumbling across the runway, spinning to the left across the infield, then back to the right across his path. He was already past his decision speed—he was committed for the takeoff because he no longer had enough pavement if he tried to stop now. He still considered pulling the throttle to idle, but his training said no, you’ll never stop, take it in the air, contin
ue, continue ...

  The second F-16 plowed directly into the fireball that was his lead F-16. He thought he had made it through safely, but his engine had ingested enough burning metal and debris to shell it out in seconds. The pilot tried for a split second to avoid the fireball by turning left toward the other runway, but when he saw the fire light, saw his altitude as less than a hundred feet above ground and sinking rapidly, he did not hesitate to pull the ejection handle.

  “Shit the bed, we got both those motherfuckers!” one of Cazaux’s soldiers shouted gleefully.

  “Damn straight,” his partner responded. They were in a hiding place between two maintenance hangars on the west side of the western parallel runway, in clear view of both runways and especially the alert fighter ramp. They wore standard military fatigues and combat boots, except both wore no fatigue shirts—that was common during after-duty hours in the summer. After nightfall, they had successfully planted a series of radio-activated claymore mines along both runways, which they activated when they heard the klaxon and were tripped when the hot engines of a plane were detected by infrared sensors. “Now let’s get the hell out of here. We got thirty seconds to get to the rendezvous point or Ysidro will go without us.” The terrorists activated switches on the radio detonators, which would set off small explosives in the devices several minutes later or if they were disturbed so investigators wouldn’t be able to use them as evidence or as clues to their whereabouts.

  They tried to leave their hiding place on the street side near a dark parking lot, but the explosion on the runway had attracted a lot of attention faster than they anticipated, and they had to wait for several security police cars to whiz past. But as they crouched in the shadows waiting for the cars to pass, there was a sharp bang! right behind them, followed by the sputtering and sizzling of burning wire and circuitry. One of the self-destruct devices in the mine detonators had gone off early—and it had attracted the attention of a security police patrol on the ramp side of the hangars. The blue-and-white patrol car skidded to a stop, and the security police officer saw the smoking and burning box and shined a car-mounted floodlight in between the hangars, immediately impaling the two men hiding on the other side in the powerful beam.