Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (37 page)

 
          
They
found Major Patrick McLanahan in the drone repair shop manning a control
console. A Seagull drone was on a test stand, looking like some giant
prehistoric flying reptile on a perch. Its large infrared TV camera swiveled
around to stare at Geffar and Hardcastle as they entered.

 
          
“What
happened the other night?” Geffar asked.

 
          
“The
data-link between the Seagulls and the platform is weak at the extreme range of
HIGHBAL,” McLanahan told them. “
Bahamas Route
six-four is seventy miles north of us. Both
us and Caribbean Balloon were operating at max range and performance, the drone
should have locked on easy.” CARABAL, the Caribbean Balloon, was a former Coast
Guard aerostat located on
Grand Bahama
Island
forty miles east of
Freeport
. The whole aerostat network, including the
one at Cape Canaveral, the Navy’s KEYSTONE unit at Key West and the future
Hammerhead Two site off the west Florida coast near Sarasota, were to allow the
Hammerheads to fly Seagull or Sky Lion drones anywhere from Jacksonville,
Florida, in the north, to Governors Harbor in the Bahamas to the east, and to
the very edge of Cuban airspace to the south. “I’ve finished a test of the
drone and it seems okay. We’ll start looking at the data-link system next.
Meantime I’d limit the range of an intercept to, say, sixty miles from this
platform, or to the maximum range of the aerostat. Let the system work, it might
be a transient fault.”

 
          
“Sixty
miles won’t cover much,” Hardcastle added. “We’ll have to fill in our coverage
with manned aircraft.”

 
          
Geffar
and Hardcastle then went to the elevator for a ride up to the control center.
Behind the rows of consoles was the senior controller, Hardcastle’s former
aide, Michael Becker, who had transferred his commission to the Border Security
Force along with his boss. The place was a smaller version of the
command-and-control centers for such as the Strategic Air Command and the North
American Air Defense Command.

 
          
Geffar
and Hardcastle put on headsets and logged into the computer. Immediately one of
the monitors began to scroll a list of messages, a few flagged for Geffar’s
attention by Rushell Masters, the Hammerhead’s chief of air operations based at
Homestead Air Force Base. She called up the communications screen on her main
console monitor and dialed his office.

 
          
“Glad
you called,” Masters said. “The FBI just arrested one of the cleaning women
that works on the base. Said they caught her near the flight line with a VHF
radio. She had a forged green card, too. They think she might have been spying
on us out here and may have been relaying flight information for some time.
FBI’s got her in
Miami
.”

 
          
“Spying
for who? Colombians?”

 
          
“That’s
their speculation.”

 
          
“Can
we get someone over there to question her?”

 
          
An
uncomfortable pause, then: “I tried. They said I don’t have clearance to
interrogate one of their prisoners.”

 
          
“But
you’ve done that before—”

 
          
“As
a Customs investigator,” Masters said. “They said they’ve got no guidance on
the status of Border Security Force people. A crock if you ask me.”

 
          
“We’ll
get right on it, Rush. Anything else?”

 
          
“The
boys can’t wait to get their hands on some Sea Lions. Are they on their way?”

 
          
“You’ll
be getting six of them. As soon as they get repainted and reconfigured for fuel
and weapons we qualify everyone on platform landings. After that we’ll be
putting four of them here on Hammerhead One and keeping the other two at
Homestead
for training. I understand we’ve gotten a
dozen more applicants for pilot, too— things are lookin’ up.”

 
          
“I’ve
got a call into Brad Elliott about intelligence clearances,” Hardcastle said as
Geffar closed the channel to
Homestead
. “That’s good news about getting more
pilots. It’s about time.”

 
          
“I’m
glad to see we’re finally getting the V-22’s,” Geffar said. “We have the pilots
but no aircraft. We’ve got to qualify everyone on platform landings, day and
night, then get the scheduling worked out. And don’t worry about budgets. Let
Elliott fight those battles. That’s his job. He knows what he’s doing. He’s
supposed to be buddy- buddy with half of Congress, and the other half is in awe
of him for whatever the hell he was involved with last year from his base in
Nevada
—”

 
          
He
was interrupted by a call from Becker. “Traffic alert. An unknown, origin
possible from
Nassau
. Not on any airways. Low altitude, slow mover. If he stays on course
he’ll cross the FIR in five minutes.”

 
          
“We’re
on, gang,” Geffar said, turning back on her console. “Check the computer logs,
begin radio warnings on all frequencies.”

 
          
“Computer
log enabled and running,” Becker acknowledged.

 
          
“Attention
all aircraft, attention all aircraft,” the controllers began, “this is the
United States Border Security Force. Unknown aircraft on the
one-five-five-degree radial, four-zero miles southwest of South Bimini VORTAC,
six-five miles east of Biscayne Bay VORTAC, you are about to enter
United States
restricted airspace without authorization.
Contact me on frequency one-two-one point five or reverse course. All aircraft
on this frequency, check your position and report to your inbound controller.”
The warning was repeated several times, on over a dozen frequencies and in
Spanish. That broadcast was a warning to all other aircraft and vessels within
a hundred miles of
America
’s shorelines—the Hammerheads are watching,
we can see you, and we will intercept if you do not respond.

 
          
“No
response,” one of the controllers reported to Geffar and Hardcastle. “Crossing
the FIR now.” The FIR, Flight Information Region, was a boundary of airspace
where different nations or different air traffic control procedures went into
effect. In the airspace east of Miami, where the distances between Bahamian,
Cuban and U.S. airspace were very short, the Border Security Force controllers
began broadcasting warning messages when aircraft crossed the FIR instead of
the Air Defense Identification Zone, even though the Hammerheads’ authority did
not legally begin until an aircraft crossed the ADIZ. “Estimating ten minutes
to ADIZ penetration.”

 
          
“He’s
altering course farther south,” Becker said. “He’ll fly right over us. His
altitude is one thousand feet.” Becker had put the HIGH-

 
          
BAL’s
radar display on the center screen. The computer, which constantly displayed
the target’s flight data, had also predicted the aircraft’s course and time of
arrival at a variety of different airports in the area. “This might explain
things—the computer predicts this guy’s heading for the Sunrise Beach Club.”

 
          
Geffar
shook her head in exasperation. That explained a lot. The Sunrise Beach Club on
the northern tip of
Key
Largo
was one of
the most exclusive residential communities in
Florida
.
Sunrise
Beach
residents returning from a weekend in
Nassau
or
Freeport
—many of whom were politicians, corporation
chairmen, or retired bigwigs— frequently assumed that they were allowed to
cruise any time into
Sunrise
Beach
without prior notice.

 
          
But
Geffar and Hardcastle weren’t about to let anyone go. “Let’s get Customs moving
towards
Sunrise
Beach
,” she told Becker. “Bring a Seagull up on
deck and prepare for launch. Let’s get an ID on this guy.”

 
          
Hardcastle
said, “Why don’t we take this one? We deserve it.”

 
          
“In
a Sea Lion?” Hardcastle nodded. “I haven’t flown that hybrid since the
demonstration flight with the Vice President,” GefiFar said. “I don’t think so
. . .”

 
          
“You’ve
been working hard,” Hardcastle said. “You need a refresher flight. I’m current
in the V-22. This looks like a pretty simple intercept—some retired doctor who
forgot to turn his radio on. What do you say?”

 
          
Geffar
hesitated, but only for a moment. She logged off the commander’s computer
console, tossed her headset on the desk. “Okay, Hardcastle. Let’s go flying.”

 
          
They
waited for the plane, a single-engine Cessna 210, to fly over the platform,
then took off directly behind it. They were a few miles from the inside
boundary of the ADIZ when they pulled up alongside the plane and made
themselves visible to the pilot.

 
          
“Cessna
three-Victor November, this is the United States Border Security Force,” Geffar
radioed as they tucked in off the Cessna’s left side, about fifty feet away.
“You are in restricted airspace and are in violation of
United States
law. We will direct you to a landing area.
Follow this aircraft or you will be considered hostile.” The pilot clearly saw
the Sea Lion but sat there and stared at it. He wore a headset but made no
reply.

 
          
“Cessna
Three-Victor-November, acknowledge instructions. Over.” This time, as GefiFar
edged closer to the Cessna, she could see the pilot gesturing at something.
“Three-Victor-November, I am not receiving any reply. If you can hear me, wave
your hand or wag your wings.” The man in the pilot’s seat waved casually,
actually managed a smile.

 
          
“I
don’t believe this, the guy can hear me ... I think I recognize this guy, too.”
She clicked on her microphone. “Cessna Three-Victor- November, wave if you can
not
respond on the radio.” Again,
another quick wave.

 
          
“Radio-out,”
Hardcastle said. “He can hear but he can’t talk back.”

 
          
“I
do
recognize him,” Geffar said. “He’s
some hotshot attorney . . . wait a minute. Three Victor-November? Max Van Nuys,
I think his name is. He represents real estate developers and investors all
over the
Caribbean
.”

 
          
“A
spoiled playboy, you mean,” Hardcastle added. “I’ve heard of him. He owns most
of
Miami
Beach
,
or at least acts like he does. Anyone with a custom-airplane registration has
got to be a prima donna.”

 
          
“If
he has a radio malfunction and if he’s lost his navigation equipment, flying
over the platform makes sense,” GefiFar said. “He can use that as a visual
checkpoint, then fly west and he'll find the Sunrise Beach Club airport.”

 
          
“But
that doesn’t explain why he’s up here, flying from
Nassau
or somewhere in the
Bahamas
to
Florida
without a flight plan or Customs
clearance,” Hardcastle said. “I don’t give a damn who he is. We either divert
him to Opa-Locka or bust him at
Sunrise
Beach
.”

 
          
“Cessna
three-Victor-November, wave if your destination is
Sunrise
Beach
Airport
.” The wave could be seen. “Be advised
Sunrise
Beach
is not an airport of entry. Without prior
permission from Customs you must land at an airport of entry. We will escort
you to
Opa-Locka
Airport
for inspection.”