Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (13 page)

 
          
Explosion
...

 
          
Fireball...

 
          
He
certainly had enough ingredients on board to create plenty of very big explosions
and fireballs. “Take the aircraft,” he told the Stork as he unfastened his lap
and shoulder belts. “Do whatever they say, follow any vectors they give you,
until I give the word.”

 
          
“We
are
landing?”
the Stork asked
incredulously. “We will
land?”

 
          
“Not
unless they shoot out the engines, Stork, and then they will still have a fight
on their hands. Mr. Krull, give your night-vision goggles to Stork and follow
me.” He stepped out of his seat and hurried aft.

 
          
There
was not much room, and the two men had difficulty squeezing themselves between
the cargo on the pallets and the cold aluminum aircraft fuselage. Krull thought
he couldn’t make the tight squeeze, but as if by magic he sucked it all in when
it came time to squeeze around the forward pallet—he didn’t want one
unnecessary bit of clothing or skin to touch the crates of high explosives
stacked atop that pallet. Krull didn’t have any fear of those explosives when
they were on the ground or being loaded, but now up there in the air, being
swayed and bounced around, it seemed as if they were tiny thin eggshells
waiting to. ..

 
          
“Grab
two cases of grenades from that pallet and bring them to me, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux
shouted over the roar of the engines.

 
          
Krull’s
eyes widened in absolute horror. “Say
what
...
?”

 
          
“Damn
it, stop stalling! Loosen those straps and bring two crates of grenades back
here on the double.”

 
          
Loosening
the cargo netting and withdrawing those two cases was one of the most
terrifying things Krull had ever done—all he could see was the
Styrofoam-shrouded canister of PETN in the center of the pallet. Every inch he
moved the two grenade cases meant loosening the white foam blocks, and in his
mind’s eye he could visualize the explosive crystals sloshing around, the
molecular heat building, the blinding flash of light as the unstable chemicals
exploded, detonating the rest of the explosives they carried, then destroying
the aircraft in a big jet fuel fireball. His own strength amazed him—he held
one thirty
-pound case of grenades securely in one hand
while maneuvering other crates and bags around to fill the gap and secure the
PETN canister, while keeping his balance against the occasional turbulence and
swaying. Cazaux offered him no help except to take the first crate of grenades
and begin working.

 
          
When
Krull brought the second case of grenades back to Cazaux, he couldn’t believe
what the terrorist was doing— he had released all of the cargo straps on the
entire pallet of Stinger missiles and was placing the grenades in between the
missile coffins, with the safety pins removed and the arming handles held in
place—barely—by the loosened crates! “What the fuck are you doin,’ man?” Krull
shouted.

 
          
“Doing
a little creative mine-laying, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, wearing a twisted
smile. “I am going to attack the law enforcement officers on the airport below
us.”

 
          
“You
gonna
what?”                              
*

 
          
“The
Stinger missile motors will explode, but they need a booster,” Cazaux said
calmly. “The grenades will do, but I don’t have time to rig up a contact fuse.
But if we push this pallet outside while we’re above one hundred and
twenty-eight feet aboveground, the grenades will explode before the pallet hits
the ground. The results should be most rewarding.”

 
          
“You’re
really fuckin’ crazy, man.”

 
          
But
Cazaux ignored him. He put on a headset and clicked open the intercom button:
“Stork, I want you to make a normal approach to the runway they designate. Let
me know when we’re one mile from the runway. Just before touchdown I want you
to maneuver over the vehicles that will undoubtedly be parked on the side of
the runway. Then I want you to go to full throttle and climb over them. When we
pass two hundred feet, signal me. Do you understand?” Cazaux didn’t wait for a
response—they would have only one shot at this, so either Korhonen would do it
or he wouldn’t. “After that maneuver, I want you to fly as low as you can go
westbound. Stay over the interstate and keep the power up. Low altitude and
speed is the only protection we’ll have when they come after us.”

 
          
Linda
McKenzie had never felt such an overwhelming sense of accomplishment as she did
that night as they approached Mather Jetport. They had just assisted in the
capture of one of the world’s most wanted terrorists—and
she
led the intercept! Her minor switch slipup at the beginning of
the intercept would certainly be forgotten. In fact, this seemed to be having a
better result than a covert Special-9 intercept would have had.

 
          
The
feds and the cops were certainly out in force to put the suspect on ice. Both
sides of Mather’s two-mile-long runway were choked with flashing lights, and
more were pouring onto the former military base—the entire parking ramp in
front of the old base-operations building was bumper-to-bumper emergency
vehicles. Streets were being cordoned off all around the facility. The
five-mile exclusion zone around Mather had been breached years ago, but
residential sprawl had not yet totally closed in on the base, so the area
around the airport was only sparsely dotted with residences.

 
          
“You’re
cleared to land on two-two left, Cazaux,” McKenzie radioed to the L-600. “Stop
straight ahead on the runway and don’t try to turn off.”

 
          
“I
understand,” a strange voice replied. It wasn’t Cazaux—probably the copilot.
Could Cazaux have escaped? Once they went to radar tracking instead of visual
tracking, someone could have parachuted from the aircraft without their
noticing. Capturing the plane and the weapons on board was good, but Cazaux
himself was the big prize.

 
          
“Henri
Cazaux, this is Special Agent Fortuna of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and
Firearms, U.S. Treasury Department,” a voice cut in on the channel. “I’m the
on-scene, commander. We are tracking you with Stinger missiles and helicopter
gunships. If you try to evade capture, we are authorized to open fire on your
aircraft. Do you understand, Cazaux?”

 
          
“Russ?
Is that you?
Ca va bien, mon ami?”
a
thick, French- accented voice came on over the channel. “How is
America
’s famous Nazi storm trooper doing?” It was
Henri Cazaux’s voice—he was still on the plane. This was going to be one sweet
evening, McKenzie thought.

 
          
“You
wouldn’t be so cheerful if you knew how many guns and missiles we got on you
right now, Henri,” Fortuna radioed back. “Make a nice pretty landing. You’re on
the news from coast to coast.”

 
          
“I
would not want any of your gunners’ fingers to twitch on the triggers,
Russell,” Cazaux said. “Would you please ask them to lower their weapons? I
have decided to surrender—I will take my chances with the American justice
system.”

 
          
“You
might as well get used to the sight of guns pointed at you, Cazaux,” Fortuna
said, “because that’s what you’re going to see every waking minute of your life
from now on. Now get off my radio frequency and do as you’re ordered. We’ve got
this entire area closed off, and we’ve got the green light to blow your ass out
of the sky. Don’t screw it up.”

 
          
“It
will be good to see you again too,
mon
ami. ”
Cazaux laughed.

 
          
They
were now less than two miles from the runway. McKenzie had made the decision to
stay with the cargo plane for the entire approach, flying to the left and
slightly behind the L-600—and she kept her 20-millimeter cannon armed and the
pipper within a few mils of Cazaux’s plane. If given the signal, she could
squeeze off a one-second burst that would certainly shear off the L-600’s left
engine nacelle and propeller and send the cargo plane spiraling into the
ground, away from the more populated areas of the town of Rancho Cordova north
of the airfield and into the vacant tracts of land to the south. She was not
sure where Vincenti was, but she assumed he would keep both aircraft in sight
at all times and be ready to assist, track, or attack if something went wrong.

 
          
“Keep
it coming, Cazaux,” Fortuna radioed again. “Keep that airspeed down—and if we
hear the power come up on those engines, that’ll be our signal to open fire.”

 
          
“I
understand, Russ,” Cazaux radioed. He switched quickly to intercom: “Stork—how
far?”

 
          
“One
mile now, sir.”

 
          
Cazaux
hit a switch on the aft cargo-bay bulkhead, and the cargo ramp began to lower
and the upper ramp door began to retract upward into the cargo bay. The
electrically actuated upper door was fully raised in just a few seconds; the
ramp, powered by large hydraulic arms, took considerably longer. “Get on the
front of that pallet, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, wearing an evil grin, “and stand
by on that last toucari clamp.”

 
          
Krull
had just barely made his way forward to the front of the pallet when he heard
the engines rapidly spooling up to full power. “Get ready!” Cazaux shouted. He
switched to the comm channel on the intercom and shouted into the microphone,
“Russell, my friend, hold out your hands and close your eyes—I’m going to give
you a
big
surprise!” then dropped the
microphone and grasped a bulkhead handhold.

 
          
At
that instant, the cargo plane heeled sharply upward. Korhonen’s timing was
perfect: when Cazaux looked out of the open cargo doors, all he saw was dozens
of emergency vehicles clustered near the intersection of the main runway and
the large midfield taxiway.

 
          
“Now!”
Cazaux shouted. “Release!”

 
          
Krull
pulled on the clamp lever, but nothing happened— it was jammed. He struggled
with it, but the steeply angled deck had pulled the straps tight, and the
curled toucan clamp would not budge. “It ain’t goin’, man!” Krull shouted.

 
          
But
Cazaux was already moving. Struggling against the steeply sloped deck, Cazaux
reached across the pallet, his large switchblade knife in his hands, and cut
the remaining strap. The pallet did not need a push by anyone—sliding on the
rollers embedded in the floor of the self-loading cargo hold, the pallet picked
up speed rapidly and actually seemed to fly for several feet before it
disappeared from view.

 
          
Just
as McKenzie thought it was all coming to an end, when she could fly her F-16
back to
Fresno
and receive the warm congratulations of her
friends and commanders, all hell broke loose.

 
          
The
LET L-600 heeled sharply right just a few feet from the ground, right over the
biggest cluster of emergency vehicles lining the north side of the runway. The
move took her by surprise—she was concentrating more on lining up with the
south edge of the runway and keeping the Fighting Falcon in control as she
followed the L-600 down the glide path. She applied right stick to follow, but
the fighter wallowed and started to sink, and she goosed the power back up to
80 percent. Her next responsibility was to get the gun- sight back on target,
but at her present speed and angle of attack, that was impossible. Then the
L-600 went into a steep climb, passing virtually directly in front of the
pipper. “Control, this is Foxtrot Romeo Two, do I have permission to fire?” she
radioed.

 
          
“No!”
a frantic voice shouted. “Don’t fire! Hold your fire!” But McKenzie realized
that the voice didn’t identify himself, and it could be anyone giving that
order—even Cazaux himself. She brought the landing gear handle up, then put the
aux flap switch to
extend,
which
would keep the trailing-edge flaps down while the gear was up and allow her to
fly slower and stay in control.