Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (38 page)

 
          
Van
Nuys nodded his head to signal that he understood, then suddenly Van Nuys
seemed very agitated, snapping his head back and forth, looking down, up at the
Sea Lion every now and then, fear in his expression.

 
          
“Smoke!”
Hardcastle shouted. “I see smoke coming out from under his cowling.”

 
          
“In
the cockpit, too,” GefiFar said. She clicked open the channel. “Cessna
three-Victor-November, we see smoke coming from under your engine compartment
and in your cockpit. Disregard intercept instructions. We will proceed to
Sunrise
Beach
airport. Follow us. Do not acknowledge.”
GefiFar could see Van Nuys frantically nodding his head. The smoke directly in
front of the windshield was being cleared away by window defroster vents and by
overhead cabin vents, but the smoke in the cockpit was getting worse.

 
          
“Mayday,
Mayday, Shark Two-Zero,” Hardcastle called out on the emergency channel.
“Position twenty-five miles southeast of Biscayne Bay, heading two-zero-zero,
altitude one thousand feet, airspeed one hundred twenty knots. We are in
formation with Cessna three-Victor-November, type Cessna 210, one soul on
board. The Cessna appears to have smoke in the cockpit and he is partial
radioout. We are enroute for emergency formation landing at
Sunrise
Beach
airport.”

 
          
“Cessna
three-Victor-November, lower your landing gear,” Geffar said. “Maintain this
airspeed until we get closer to touchdown.” The long, spindly landing gear
began to drop down, but abruptly stopped in mid-extension.

 
          
“Three-Victor-November,
recycle your landing gear.” Nothing. Van Nuys was maintaining altitude with the
V-22 but seemed to be having trouble staying on a straight course. Geffar moved
out to about eighty feet to stay away from the Cessna’s widening swings but
crept back in so Van Nuys would not lose sight of her.

 
          
“Three-Victor-November,
we are ten miles from landing. We will start a gradual descent and slow to
ninety knots indicated airspeed. Lower one notch of flaps and begin slowing to
ninety knots.” No flaps came out. The Cessna was slowing but things seemed to
be getting worse.

 
          
“It
may be an electrical failure or alternator fire,” Hardcastle said. “He’ll have
to shut his alternator before he starts a bagger fire in his engine
compartment.” GefiFar relayed the instructions but the smoke continued.

 
          
“Three-Victor-November,
we are five miles out. Recycle your landing gear once more, or try manual
extension.” Still no movement—they were stuck fast. “Okay,
three-Victor-November, you’ll have to prepare for a gear-up landing. If you
can’t move your flaps, leave the flap switch in the intermediate position.
We’ll give you a shallow approach at ninety knots. When we see you over the
threshold, set your mixture switch to cutoff, shut off your fuel system and
turn your battery switch and magnetos off to reduce the chance of a fire. Good
luck.”

 
          
Van
Nuys was a little wilder in his approach as they got closer to the runway but
he hung in there as they got closer to touchdown. At the end of the runway they
were about twenty feet off the ground. The Cessna’s landing gear looked as if
it had moved down another foot—the wheels were exposed and clear of the
fuselage but the gear was still unsafe. And still no flaps. “Crossing the
threshold . . . now!” Geffar and Hardcastle could see the propeller spin down
and finally stop. Van Nuys was keeping his cool—he even had the presence of
mind to crank the engine’s starter a few times to angle the propeller blades so
they would not strike the ground on impact.

 
          
Touchdown.
The man was obviously a skilled pilot He let the back end of the fuselage skid
in first, then as if doing it all by feel, slowly nestled the plane down on the
partially extended wheels. The gear wasn’t locked down so it did not support
the Cessna’s weight, but Van Nuys kept on flying the plane, gliding the belly
in. Suddenly the Cessna spun sharply to the left, skidded on its nose, and
swerved across the runway and into a shallow ditch on the west side of the
field.

 
          
Geffar
swung the Sea Lion off to the north end of the runway about a hundred yards
from the Cessna and brought the tilt-rotor aircraft to an abrupt landing, then
ran toward the crippled Cessna. Suddenly fire trucks and rescue vehicles came out
of nowhere, nearly sideswiping her, and screeched to a halt in front of the
Cessna. A fireman with a captain’s white helmet went out toward Geffar and told
her to stop and stay clear.

 
          
Geffar
nodded. “We’re equipped to medevac Mr. Van Nuys if necessary,” she said.

 
          
The
fire chief looked at her with surprise and suspicion. “How did you know it was
Van Nuys?”

 
          
“We
tracked him in from the
Bahamas
. We intercepted him near our platform and
followed him here. We got a pretty good look at him.”

 
          
The
fire chief looked over Geffar’s shoulder at the Sea Lion tilt- rotor aircraft,
then back at her. “You were close enough to get a look at Van Nuys’ face—flying
that?”

 
          
“So
it
is
Van Nuys . . .”

 
          
“That’s
who owns the plane here at
Sunrise
Beach
and that’s who filed the flight plan.”

 
          
“Border
Security didn’t receive a flight plan. He violated Customs entry procedures.
We’ll have to talk to him—”

 
          
“Stay
here.” The fire chief then headed back toward the trucks encircling the plane,
speaking into his walkie-talkie. At that instant, a loud hissing sound could be
heard and mountains of white, foulsmelling chemical foam began spraying over
what they could see of the aircraft.

 
          
“How
is he?” Hardcastle asked as he came up to Geffar.

 
          
“I
don’t know, they won’t let me any closer. The chief said it was Van Nuys, said
he had filed a flight plan.”

 
          
“We
sure as hell didn’t get it. Neither did FAA or Customs.”

 
          
An
ambulance raced onto the runway, and a stretcher was brought out.

 
          
“We
should secure that airplane,” Hardcastle said. “Even though we know who the
pilot is and now know his destination he’s still in violation. That plane has
to be secured.” Geffar nodded but her mind was somewhere else. “I’ll radio
Homestead
and tell them to send an , investigation
team.

 
          
“I’ll
take some statements and secure the plane,” she said and walked over to the
crash site.

 
          
Van
Nuys was just being hoisted onto the stretcher when she got to the plane. He
was strapped securely onto the plywood backboard, heavy straps under his chin
and across his forehead securing his head and neck onto the board. Van Nuys was
dark and athletic, big hands crossed on his midsection. It took four paramedics
to raise his large frame onto the stretcher and carry him into the ambulance.
GefiFar stepped over to the rear door of the ambulance and watched Van Nuys
being wheeled inside. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted GefiFar and
raised a hand to the men carrying him.

 
          
“You’re
the one who intercepted me?” The words came out raspy and hoarse. “You were the
pilot of that . . . amazing machine out there?”

 
          
Geffar
nodded. “Sandra GefiFar, Border Security Force, Mr. Van Nuys—”

 
          
“Max.”

 
          
Geffar
was only human. Here was a man in obvious pain, about to take an ambulance
ride, somehow able to be not only friendly but interested ... in the V-22, of
course . . . “You saved my life. Thank you.”

 
          
He
tried to stretch out a hand toward her, but the movement sent a shock of pain
through him. The paramedics hustled him inside the ambulance and drove off, and
the fire trucks left shortly afterward.

 
          
Hardcastle
was inspecting the wreckage of the Cessna when Geffar returned. The plane lay
on its right side, right wingtip crumpled into the sandy soil between the
runway and the taxiway, the fuselage sitting on the ground, the landing gear
sprawled out underneath like the legs of a newborn colt. It was covered with at
least twelve inches of gooey chemical foam that smelled like formaldehyde and
sawdust. The fuselage was crumpled a bit in the middle, but it was remarkably
intact, with no sign of explosion or fire . . . Well, Hardcastle thought, Van
Nuys had sure kept his cool. “Investigation unit’s on the way,” he told Geffar as
she stood beside him. “They’re going to need a shovel and protective gear to
clear that gunk out. It’s weird, though, no sign of fire, only minor wing
fuel-tank damage.”

 
          
One
of the fire trucks drove over to Hardcastle and Geffar, and two firemen stepped
out of the truck carrying chains and thick nylon towing straps. A moment later
the fire chief walked over to them from the crash site.

 
          
“I’m
Police Chief Joseph Hokum. I’ve received a call from UNICOM. They’d like you to
move your .. . whatever that thing is at the end of the runway. They have
inbound trafific.”

 
          
“The
runway’s closed until further notice,” Geffar told him. “Since this is an
uncontrolled field we’re leaving the V-22 there for now as a reminder. You
can’t move the Cessna yet either. We have an investigation team on the
way—they’ll advise you when you can move the plane—”

 
          
“An
investigation team?”

 
          
“This
plane was involved with a Customs and Defense Department violation,” Hardcastle
told him. “The area will be sealed off until the investigators are done. You’ll
have to divert any inbounds somewhere else.”

 
          
“Hey,
you don’t have jurisdiction here.
Sunrise
Beach
is private and I’m the security department
here. I’ve got to clear the damage and reopen this runway.” He turned and
jabbed a finger at his men, ordering them to continue working.

 
          
Geffar,
the adrenaline still pumping through her from the excitement of the pursuit and
crash, shocked everybody, including herself. She took three quick steps toward
Hokum, grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him backward.

 
          
“Why,
you—” He reached inside his coat and Hardcastle saw an under-the-arm holster
with the butt end of a very large gun.

 
          
Hardcastle
was on the case fast. He clipped the man under his jaw, hard, knelt down on the
man’s chest, pulled a nine-millimeter automatic from the chief s holster and
tossed it aside, then rolled the man over on his stomach and yanked his coat
back down over his arms.

 
          
“What
the
hell?”

 
          
“He
tried to pull a gun on you,” Hardcastle said, drew his own nine millimeter SIG
Sauer automatic and used it to motion toward the firemen. “Move away from the
plane. Now.” They did. “Take off your coats.” They did. All of them were
wearing guns. “Drop those holsters on the ramp.”

 
          
They
looked once at their chief on the ground, slowly unfastened their holsters and
let them slide off.

 
          
Hardcastle
pulled out his walkie-talkie and thumbed the mike. “Shark, this is Two-Zero.”

 
          
“Go
ahead, Two-Zero,” Becker replied from the Hammerhead One platform.

 
          
“We
have a situation here at
Sunrise
Beach
, Mike. Send a chopper with a couple of
officers out from
Homestead
or Shark to our location.”