Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (105 page)

 
          
“Aladdin,
the suspect is doing a hard descent,” Sherrey reported. “He’s heading for the
deck at five thousand feet a minute—that guy must have steel balls to do a
wingover in a
Cheyenne
at night.”

 
          
“We
copy, Three-Three,” Annette Fields replied. “Can you maintain contact?”

 
          
“My
I-Team guys are weightless in the back but I can still see him okay. I can
maintain contact. You better check with the Sky Lions, though.”

 
          
“Roger,”
Field said. “Break. Hawk Four-One, did you copy?”

 
          
“Roger
that,” McLanahan replied aboard the E-2 Hawkeye radar plane orbiting forty
miles away. “The drones are descending too. IVe got radar contact with both the
suspect and the Three-Three. We also have IR contact on several surface targets
near
Lower Mate-
cumbe Key ... I think that’s our drop. I’ve
got two Sky Lions on auto-intercept on the confirmed surface targets.”

 
          
“Copy
all, Four-One.”

 
          
“Three-Three
copies all.” Sherrey let the speed increase as he continued his own hard
descent. “He better pull up soon,” Sherrey’s copilot murmured.

 
          
“He’s
still nose low and wing high,” Sherrey said. “Even if he does get level he
might sink right down into the drink.”

 
          
But
the suspect plane did not crash. Slowly, inexorably, the big turboprop leveled
its wings. It seemed to hang motionless in the green-and-white
infrared/night-vision video-screen. Sherrey was still positive the plane would
pancake in, but after several moments it was obvious that the smugglers made
it.

 
          
“Pretty
dammed good flying,” Sherrey’s copilot said.

 
          
“Luck
of the devil,” Sherrey muttered. He kept the AV-22 coming down until he was at
one thousand feet above the water, well above and behind the low-flying
smuggler. “Luck of the devil ...”

 
          
The
copilot had the WET SNOW-beacon system on as soon as the plane leveled off and
took a reading as soon as he was sure
Trujillo
had the big turboprop back under control.
“Five degrees left, ten seconds,” the copilot shouted.
Trujillo
’s chest was heaving from the exertion, but
he slapped the plane to the left and worked to inch the plane down to one
hundred feet, one hundred twenty knots, the precalculated drop parameters.
“Drop crew, stand by . . . stand by . . .
now.
”

 
          
They
had no fancy sled drop devices—two men in the back of the
Cheyenne
just started sliding the fifty-kilo
canisters out the door as fast as they could. In thirty seconds they had slid
all ten bullet-shaped canisters out the door. “Drop completed.
Go.
” “Cargo in the water,” Sherrey’s
copilot called out as he saw the canisters fly out the
Cheyenne
’s cargo door.

 
          
“I
got it, I got it,” Sherrey said, talking to himself more than anyone else. “I’m
breaking off from the
Cheyenne
. I-Team, stand by.” Sherrey rotated the engine-nacelle switch up, which
swung the Sea Lion’s twin engines to the vertical position. As he did so the
AV-22’s controls changed from standard aircraft rudders and ailerons to
helicopter cyclic and collectives. He quickly dropped down to just a few feet
above the water and hovered yards away from three canisters he could see
bobbing in the water.

 
          
“I’ve
got a canister just ten yards on the right,” he said as he settled the big
plane down for a gentle water landing. “I-Team, out.” In the cargo bay of the
AV-22 the five-man I-Team slid their rigid-hull inflatable boat off the rear
cargo ramp and into the water. With the helmsman wearing a set of night-vision
goggles he was able to pick out the canisters. Sherrey water-taxied the AV-22
clear so his rotor wash wouldn’t capsize the RHIB, and the I-Team members threw
a rope around the canister and lashed it to their boat.

 
          
Just
as they pulled the floating canister to the side of the RHIB the helmsman
announced from his helmet-mounted radio: “I’ve got a boat at
three o’clock
, closing fast ...”

 
          
“Get
back aboard,” Sherrey shouted over the radio. But just as he called out the
orders Sherrey could see winks of light coming from the approximate position of
the newcomer—they were being fired on.

 
          
“Aladdin,
this is Three-Three,” Sherrey radioed. “We’ve got hos- tiles at our
three o’clock
. Shots fired. I-Team taking heavy fire. We’re
recovering the I-Team and can’t lift off.” The copilot unbuckled and headed
back to the cargo bay, ready to help the I-Team back in.

 
          
“Break.
Three-Three, this if Four-One,” McLanahan suddenly cut in from the E-2 Hawkeye
radar lane. “Stand by, we’re coming in.” The helmsman standing up in the RHIB
was the first to fall to the fusillade of bullets from the attackers. Several
of the I-Team flattened themselves down and began to return fire with sidearms,
while two others helped the wounded helmsman and began to steer the RHIB back
to the cargo ramp. “Four-One, get down here,” Sherrey shouted. “We’re taking
heavy fire ...”

 
          
And
out in the darkness beyond the right engine nacelle Sherrey saw a brilliant
flash of light and a yellow streak of fire race across the sky, heading to the
surface. A moment later there was an explosion just fifty yards away. One of
the Sea Lion drones following the surface ships it had detected with its
infrared scanner had fired a Sea Stinger missile at the oncoming boat. Moments
later a second missile plunged into the attacker’s boat, creating a mushroom of
fire rolling across the ocean. And the boat began to burn fiercely, lighting up
the sky for hundreds of yards.

 
          
“Three-Three,
I’ve got another Sky Lion moving in to your position,” McLanahan radioed from
the E-2. “Do you need further assistance?”

 
          
Negative.
Your wind-up toys did a nice job,” Sherrey said. “Stand by.” He turned in his
seat. “How’s Joe?”

 
          
The
helmsman’s right arm was covered with blood but he was sitting up, alert, and
could wave back at Sherrey. “I’m okay, get those sons of bitches.”

 
          
“You
sure, Joe?” The helmsman waved again. “The drones got the pickup boat. Crack
that case open and let’s see what we got.” Steel bands were cut off the
fiberglass canister, and after a quick check for explosives, triggering devices
or other booby traps they opened the case—because the smuggler’s pickup crew
often had to open a case to disperse the load it was rarely booby-trapped, but
it was a good idea to be sure. What they found was fifty one-kilo bricks of a
grayish-white powder. One of the I-Team members brought out a test kit, and
they cut into one brick and dumped a knifeful into a vial of cobalt cyanimide.
“Pure as my baby sister,” he called out.

 
          
“Secure
that back ramp and get strapped in,” Sherrey ordered. He had already lifted off
and was starting his pursuit before the copilot made it back into his seat.

 
          
Major
Jose Trujillo aboard the
Cheyenne
shoved the throttles back to full power and started a steep climb after
making the drop. As he passed through five thousand feet they started to hear
snatches of radio transmissions from
Miami
Center
: “. . . Charlie, if you can hear me,
contact
Miami
Center
on one-one-eight-point-two-five. Repeat,
Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, come up this frequency immediately.”

 
          
“
Miami Center
,
Del
Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, we can hear you fine, sir,” the Cuchillo
pilot said. “I’ve been identing, can you see my beacon now?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
niner-zero-niner-Charlie,” the controller said. The
Cheyenne
was now passing six thousand eight hundred
feet. “I show you level at eight thousand five hundred. You didn’t acknowledge
my calls.”

 
          
“I
heard you fine,”
Trujillo
replied. “I guess I was hitting the wrong button, sorry ...”

 
          
“Copy.”
A few moments later the
Miami
Center
controller got back on the radio: “Del Sol
zero-niner-Charlie . . . ah, sir, you have traffic at your
six o’clock
, five miles.”

 
          
Trujillo
hesitated—usually the air traffic
controllers didn’t report traffic behind you because they knew you probably
couldn’t see it, and in any case they usually reported the other aircraft’s
altitude and type of aircraft. Finally he said, “Roger, Center. Can’t see him.”

           
Another pause, longer than the
first, ten: “Del Sol zero-niner- Charlie, switch to frequency one-one-two point
five-five.”

 
          
The
two Cuchillos pilots looked at each other. They knew what that frequency
was—the Border Security Force’s air-surface common channel. They had been
discovered.

 
          
They
worked without talking.
Trujillo
immediately turned south, pushed the throttles up to full power and
pushed the nose down to lose altitude. Meanwhile the copilot shut off the IFF
transponder and double-checked that all the exterior lights were off.

 
          
“Carmen
Del Sol niner-zero-niner-Charlie, this is the Border Security Force,” Ken
Sherrey radioed from his AV-22 on the international GUARD emergency channel.
“We show you exiting your flight corridor and assigned altitude. You are
currently on the
Marathon
zero- niner-two-degree radial at twenty-five
DME, heading south, currently at five thousand feet and descending. You are in
violation of
United States
border security procedures. Maintain your
present altitude and lower your landing gear. Contact me at VHF frequently
one-one-two-point-five-five or on VHF GUARD one-two-one-point- five.”

 
          
One
of the cargo crewmembers rushed up the cockpit. “What’s going on? What are you
doing?”

 
          
“Shut
up and sit down . . .” But just then a brilliant beam of light stabbed into the
Cheyenne’s cabin from the left side, flashing along the fuselage and wings
before settling on the pilot.

 
          
“The
Hammerheads, they’ve found us . . .” Looking out the windows on the left side,
the crewman could see the flashing warning lights and the white spotlight very
close behind. “They’re right behind us,
seven o’clock
, about a half mile. Can you outrun them?”

 
          
Trujillo
pulled the sun visor around to his left to
try to block out the bright NightSun spotlight. “What do you think?” the pilot
said. “We head south and try to get out of
U.S.
waters before they open fire.”

 
          
“It’s
no use to try to run,” the voice said on the radio. “We got one of your
canisters, we got the drugs, we saw you drop the canister—we even got your
pickup boat.” The spotlight began to flash slowly, the beam swinging in and out
of the cockpit and across the left wing. “I can see faces in the windows,
people, which means this warning message and my searchlight have been seen.
Lower your landing gear and start a right turn now or we will open fire.”