Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (5 page)

 
          
“Continue
to track, identify if possible and advise,” Teichert told him, reading from the
log. Not sure if he should instruct the admiral on something he might already
be aware of, Teichert continued anyway: “Air Ops won’t decide for at least an
hour whether to launch a Customs Service sortie.”

 
          
“Doesn’t
make sense,” Hardcastle said. “Did they ask for a military unit?”

 
          
“Nothing
on that has come over, sir.”

 
          
“Where
are they now?”

 
          
“I
haven’t been tracking them,” Teichert said uneasily. He turned on the descrambler
to listen in on the radio conversations, and Hardcastle went to a map of the
southeastern
United States
, the
Gulf of Mexico
and the
Caribbean
, ready to plot the Falcon’s position as it
continued its pursuit.

 
          
Aboard the Coast Guard Falcon Reconnaissance
Jet

 
          
“Three
miles. One thousand feet above, closure rate twenty knots.”—Rawlins’ Falcon
crew with Sandino at the controls had maneuvered to five miles of the plane
with lights off, then circled around behind the quarry and was approaching
carefully from the rear and slightly off its left side.

 
          
The
Falcon’s FLIR, its forward-looking infrared scanner slaved to point in the same
azimuth and elevation as the APG-66 radar, had locked onto the red-hot plane
against the cold-winter ocean at ten miles. Cloud cover was minimal and the
FLIR maintained a solid auto-track lock on the suspect aircraft.

 
          
“This
guy’s burning up,” Conklin said. “Range two point eight, one thousand feet
below us, closure rate twenty knots. His engines are white hot.”

 
          
“He’s
probably leaned way back to save fuel,” Rawlins said. Reducing the ratio of
fuel to air m the carburetor saved on fuel but greatly increased the engine’s
operating temperature, which caused the striking infrared image on Conklin’s
screen.

 
          
“We
need some profile info for the tape, radar,” Sandino said over intercom.
Rawlins pulled out a book of aircraft silhouettes. “Single or twin? Looks like
a twin to me.”

 
          
“That
checks, Lieutenant,” Conklin said. “Twin. Big sucker—looks like a medium-range
commuter plane. High-wing, engine nacelles look like they’re under the wing.
Big boxy shape. I’m getting it all on tape.”

 
          
“Any
numbers yet?”

 
          
“Still
too far,” Conklin said. “Two miles, closure rate fifteen.”

 
          
Rawlins
noticed Sandino fidgeting at the controls. Up until now her procedures had been
excellent, acknowledging all position calls, making the right corrections, not
getting too anxious to close on the target. Now she was tense, alternately
squeezing and kneading the throttles and control wheel. The jet began to feel
as jittery as Sandino looked. “Ease up, Grade.”

 
          
“I
... I got a little dizzy . .

 
          
Rawlins
positioned his hands near the controls but did not grab them. Staring out into
a dark sky and focusing in on a tiny spot created a sensation, autorotation,
where the spot begins to spiral around by itself. It was very easy to lose
one’s sense of up and down, so much so that you would begin to steer the jet to
follow the images your mind was creating. A lot of planes, he knew, were lost
that way.

           
“Your wings are level, Gracie.”
Grabbing the controls would have caused her to go into a panic to regain
control, and being only a few hundred feet above water and travelling at four
hundred feet per second, going out of control even for a few seconds would be
fatal. “Wings level. Take a look at the horizon, get your bearings, don’t
fixate on him. Relax.” The jiggling in the jet’s flight-path subsided, as she
took a deep breath and relaxed her grip on the steering column.

 
          
“Thanks,
Kev.”

 
          
“One
point five miles, closure fifteen.”

 
          
“Keep
it coming, Gracie,” Rawlins said. “Nice and easy.”

 
          
“Range
one point two miles, five hundred feet below, closure twenty knots.”

 
          
“Ease
off,” Rawlins said. “Keep it under fifteen this close.” Sandino made a barely
perceptible throttle change and the big jet settled in to a more comfortable
closure rate.

 
          
Time
seemed to crawl along. The white image of the plane on the screen grew, its two
wing-mounted engines glowing brightly. Conklin zoomed the FLIR to its maximum
magnification as he studied the image on his screen.

 
          
“Look
at that nose . . .” Conklin said, comparing the image to his own copy of the
aircraft-identification book. “Commander, I make this guy as a Shorts 330 light
cargo plane, like an Air Force Sherpa,” Conklin said, speaking out aloud for
the benefit of the running video tape, which also recorded all radio
conversations. “Those suckers can carry over three thousand pounds of cargo.
Looks like a false cargo door on the plane's port side as well, maybe styrofoam
or cloth.”

 
          
The
image grew in size, and more details on the plane could be seen. Rawlins stared
at the FLIR screen. “No nav radio antennae visible. No wheel pants. No aft
cargo door. These guys ripped out every extraneous piece of metal to save
weight.” Rawlins was on the radio to Opa-Locka, relaying the aircraft’s
description for retransmission to the Customs Service.

 
          
“Range
three zero hundred feet, one hundred feet below, closure fifteen knots,”
Conklin reported. “You’re right, it looks like a smuggler’s plane to me . . .
hey, it looks also like they spray-painted over their registration numbers ...”

 
          
Sandino
checked the radar readouts on the screen. “C’mon, Conklin,” she said, her fists
tight on the controls. “Read the damn numbers.”

 
          
On
interphone Rawlins asked, “Any chance of reading those numbers, Conk?”

 
          
“Wait
. . . wait . . . yes, I think I can get ’em. There’s only a thin coat of paint,
and the numbers underneath are warmer than the paint.” As the image on the
screen grew larger Conklin punched off the auto-track function of the FLIR,
which had locked onto the plane’s left-engine nacelle, and slewed the FLIR
scanner back along the plane’s fuselage.

 
          
Sandino
was becoming more and more edgy as they moved closer. “Conk . .

 
          
“Few
more seconds and I’ll—

 
          
Suddenly
Conklin saw the side of the plane near the cargo door grow dark and a man could
be seen inside the plane, moving around. There was a hint of motion . . . then
a long tongue of blinding white light lashed out toward the Falcon,
obliterating the entire infrared image in a yellow-and-white haze. In the
cockpit all Rawlins and Sandino saw was a bright flash of light cutting through
the darkness from somewhere on the horizon . . .

 
          
“Gun!”
Conklin called out. “Port turn.”

 
          
Rawlins
was barely able to grab the controls, put in full throttle and haul the jet
into a left turn before the heavy caliber bullets from the smuggler’s plane
found their target. The shells ripped through the heavy Plexiglas canopy on the
right side, one shell hitting Kelly Sandino in the face, others tearing across
her right shoulder before Rawlins could fully turn away. The shells continued
to rip through the fuselage, a few piercing the pressure skin and pinging
around inside the cabin, before the fusillade found the starboard turbofan engine.
One shell pierced the first and second stage turbine blades, sending shards of
metal blasting through the engine and tearing apart fuel lines. The engine
exploded as the ruptured fuel lines pumped a gallon of volatile jet fuel onto
the growing fire every few seconds.

 
          
The
loss of the right engine sent the Falcon jet into a wild swing to the right as
Rawlins held in the hard left turn. Now the jet was twisting in two directions
at once, which combined with the loss of the right engine’s thrust bled off precious
airspeed needed to keep the thirty-thousand-pound jet flying. As if the jet had
been plucked from midair, it hung in a full-stall at ninety degrees of bank,
then fell directly downward and crashed into the sea.

 
          
Hardcastle
stood smoking a cigar in the CQ’s office, staring out the window towards the
flight line. Teichert was still juggling phones and radios, trying to keep at
least three different agencies up on what was going on with the suspected drug
smugglers. Hardcastle had considered trying to help the swamped clerk but that
would probably just make the guy even more nervous, he decided.

 
          
The
ground-support crews had just finished towing a HH-65A Dolphin helicopter out
of its hangar in preparation for its backup flight, and Hardcastle was watching
the ground crew get her ready to fly when another phone rang—but, instead of a
friendly jingle this one blew a whistle that sounded like the doomsday
trumpets. Teichert lunged for a large red button on his console as he picked up
a grease pencil and the receiver.

 
          
A
warning horn sounded inside the ready room and out on the flight line as
Teichert clicked on a microphone. “Scramble, scramble, helo two, aircraft down
over ocean, four souls on board, button one. Repeat, helo two, aircraft down
over ocean, four souls on-board, vector on button one.” The maintenance men put
final touches on their work and moved clear as the flight-and-rescue crews ran
out the doors toward the waiting chopper.

 
          
“What
the hell happened, Teichert?” Hardcastle shouted over the horn.

 
          
“SLINGSHOT
lost contact with our Falcon. They say the plane may have crashed.”

 
          
Hardcastle
turned to watch as the HH-65 started engines and made ready for takeoff, then
turned angrily toward the CQ. “Jeff, I want another Dolphin, a flight crew and
two armed men on-board and ready for takeoff in five minutes.” Teichert wasn’t
going to second-guess the admiral this time—he called another Dolphin crew
together without another word.

 
          
When
the Dolphin flight crew—two pilots, a crew chief/hoist operator, and rescue
specialist—reported to the CQ’s office, Hardcastle was the one issuing orders.
“We’re going after that smuggler—the first Dolphin will get the Falcon crew.
Lieutenant McAlister, get your helo ready to go in five. I’ll sign the flight
orders—get going/ The pilot, copilot and crew chief hurried off. Hardcastle
scanned the paperwork Teichert began putting on the desktop, then told
Roosevelt, the rescue man, to go to the armory and check out two M-16s, web
gear, body armor and an ammo pack apiece. “Be on board that Dolphin by the time
I get out there. Move.” Teichert tossed
Roosevelt
the keys to the armory as he rushed off,
then put his finger on every place Hardcastle had to sign on the flight orders.
He took a deep breath. “Sir, are you sure you know what you’re doing—”

 
          
Hardcastle
gave the pilot a look. “Button it, Teichert . . .”

 
          
“Sir,
I’m responsible for the procedures being followed around this ready room. You
have the authority to take a helo, its crew, and rifles, sir, but when they ask
me how come I let you do it . . .”

 
          
“You
did your job,” Hardcastle said, finishing with the paperwork as
Roosevelt
hurried up to the admiral carrying weapons
and combat gear. Hardcastle quickly buckled on a web belt and Velcroed on the
body armor. “You followed orders and you questioned those orders when they
didn’t make any sense,” he went on to Teichert as he affixed a three-clip ammo
pouch to the belt. “Report my orders and my actions to Area headquarters if you
think you have to, or call your commander, Captain Harbaugh.” Hardcastle
grabbed an M-16 from
Roosevelt
and headed out toward the flight line,
where the scream of a Dolphin helicopter’s turbines could be heard.