Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (15 page)

 
          
“Okay,
but remember you might not have all your brakes, and you have no speedbrakes,”
Vincenti said. “Use aerodynamic braking all you can, and use every inch of the
runway. Go get ’em, babe.”

 
          
“Thanks,
Al,” McKenzie said; then she added, “We should’ve done it, Al, you know that,
don’t you? It would’ve been
sooo
good.”

 
          
Leave
it to Linda McKenzie to think about sex just seconds before making a
220-mile-per-hour flameout approach in the dark to a strange airfield in a
damaged F-16 fighter, Vincenti thought grimly.

 
          
He
did not reply, because there was no time. With Vincenti flying just a few feet
above the right edge of the runway, McKenzie hit the pavement, traveling at 210
knots.

 
          
...
and the worst-case scenario happened.

 
          
The
nose gear never came down, but McKenzie held the fighter’s nose high in the air
to let the jet’s fuselage create enough drag to slow down. A stream of fire
trucks began their chase after her down the runway. Suddenly, Vincenti saw a
flash of light—sparks caused by the damaged right fuel tank separating from the
wing and dragging the runway. The fighter’s nose slammed hard into the runway,
then began to spin clockwise. Fire erupted in the engine compartment and right
wing—and then McKenzie ejected. Vincenti caught a glimpse of two full bums of
her seat’s ejection motors before he passed the runway and began his climbout.

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo Zero One, this is
McClellan
Tower
, say your intentions.”

 
          
Vincenti
knew the runways would be closed at McClellan and Mather, the two large
military-capable airports in
Sacramento
.
Metro
Airport
was just a few miles away— they might send
him there, although the Air Force didn’t like to send armed combat aircraft to
civil airports. Beale and Travis Air Force Bases were both less than fifty
miles away, and he had plenty of fuel to make it all the way back to Fresno Air
Terminal. He wanted to see Linda, wanted to stay with his flying partner. No
doubt they’d be convening an accident board, and as the original flight leader
and close chase plane he’d be the star witness.

 
          
Screw
’em, Vincent thought angrily. He jammed the throttle to MIL power and keyed the
radio button: “Tower, Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting handoff to Approach and
vectors to the suspect aircraft that just overflew Mather.”

 
          
“Roger,
Foxtrot Romeo, stand by.” The wait did not last long: “Foxtrot Romeo-01, your
control requests you land at Beale as soon as possible. You can contact
Sacramento Approach on one-one-nine point one.”

 
          
Vincenti
turned his aircraft south westbound, not northbound, and began searching the
skies with radar for a target.

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01, did you copy? You are requested to land at Beale. Over.”

 
          
Vincenti
cut off the tower controller’s insistent orders by tuning the radio to
Sacramento Approach Control’s western sector frequency. “Sacramento Approach,
Foxtrot Romeo- 01 with you climbing to six thousand, active air scramble,
requesting vectors to the suspect aircraft that overflew Mather, over.”

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01, Sacramento Approach, roger, last reported position of your target is
at
one o’clock
,
approximately fifty-three miles, altitude unknown. You are leaving my airspace,
contact Travis Approach on one-two-seven point one-five.”

 
          
That
wasn’t much of a vector, but it was enough. A minute later Vincenti picked up a
low-flying aircraft thirty- two miles to the west, at the foot of the coastal
mountains between
Sacramento
and
San
Francisco
, traveling at two hundred knots at only a few hundred feet above the
terrain.

 
          
That
had to be Cazaux.

 
          
He
was trying to sneak away under local radar, avoiding the TRACON (Terminal Radar
Approach Control) center near Travis Air Force Base. “Travis Approach, Foxtrot
Romeo-01 requesting clearance to intercept the aircraft at my
twelve o’clock
, thirty-one miles, with a three-hundred-
knot closure rate. Over.”

 
          
Henri
Cazaux’s characteristically ice-cold heart started to pump superheated lava
through his veins as he listened in on the exchange between the Air Force
fighter and the civilian radar controllers: “Foxtrot Romeo-01, Travis Approach,
maintain two-fifty maximum airspeed, stay clear of Travis class D airspace, and
stand by on your request.”

           
“The wingman is after us,” Cazaux
said to the Stork. “I thought they’d both land after the bitch was hit.” He
shrugged. “I was wrong.”

 
          
“He
was ordered to land,” the Stork said incredulously. “He was ordered to land!
Why is he disobeying orders?”

 
          
“Revenge,”
Cazaux said simply. “Something I know all about. And this fighter jock, he
smells revenge. This pilot is the real leader, not the other. She was the
inexperienced one. This one ... will not let us live. He will try to kill us.”

 
          
“Oh,
great!” Jones moaned. “You mean that Air Force jet’s gonna flame us? What the
hell we gonna do?”

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01, Travis Approach, sir, reduce speed and do not exceed two-five-zero
knots indicated, do you copy?” they heard once again on the radio. “Reduce
speed
now
. . . leaving my airspace,
Foxtrot Romeo-01, contact Bay Approach on one-two-seven point zero. How do you
copy, Foxtrot Romeo-01?”

 
          
“He
ain’t answerin’ back,” Jones said. “What’s he doin’?”

 
          
Cazaux
switched the radio to the same frequency, which was the terminal radar
controller for the dozens of major airports in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Still no response, no check-in. “This man, he is no longer taking orders from
either his superiors or the federal aviation authorities,” Cazaux said. “He is
going to pursue us until... the end game.”

 
          
“What
the hell does
that
mean?” Jones
shouted.

 
          
“It
means he’s a renegade, you idiot. He will put a two- second burst of cannon
fire into this aircraft, whether or not he receives orders to the contrary,”
Cazaux said calmly. “That will be approximately one hundred depleted uranium
shells about twice the size of your thumb, weighing approximately one pound,
hitting us with supersonic force. He will blow this plane apart as easily as a baby
bursting a soap bubble ... get it?”

 
          
His
eyes scanned out the window to the south, toward
San Francisco
,
Oakland
, Alameda Naval Air Station,
Hayward
, and
San Jose
—the
San Francisco
Bay
region, busy even late at night. The
landing lights of dozens of aircraft filled the skies. Like gigantic strings of
Christmas lights, the airliners formed long sparking lines of light in the sky,
strung out for nearly a hundred miles in all directions, all sequenced to land
at their various air terminals. Finally Cazaux said, “That way,” and moved the
control yoke hard left and pushed, descending even farther toward the dark,
light-sparkled earth below.

 
          
“What
now, man?”

 
          
“We
cannot escape the pilot who pursues us,” Cazaux said. “So perhaps we can force
him to retreat—if he will.”

 
          
“How
you gonna do that?” But Krull soon realized how. In just a few minutes, the
answer was obvious—they were heading right for
San Francisco
International
Airport
, the locus of the greatest number of those
strings of light in the sky.

 
          
He
was heading directly into the airspace of one of the busiest airports in the
United States
.

 
          
“Oh,
shit . . . you’re gonna fly into the middle of all
that?”

           
“It is the ultimate game of
chicken,” Cazaux said with a grin on his face, “the ultimate game of Russian
roulette.” He changed his radio frequency to Bay Approach, listening in as the
busy controllers vectored aircraft for landings into
Oakland
,
Martinez
,
Alameda
,
Hayward
, and San Francisco International. They were
already approaching the northern shore of San Pablo Bay, with the city of
Vallejo on their left and the dark forested expanse of Marin County on their
right, illuminated by the lights of small communities along Highway 101. Soon
they were over
San Pablo
Bay
at one thousand feet, traveling three miles
per minute through the wispy fog and haze.

 
          
“Cactus
Niner-Seventy-Three, traffic alert, pop-up target, ten o’clock, three miles, no
altitude readout,” they heard the controller at Bay Approach call to another
aircraft.

 
          
“Nine-Seventy-Three,
searching, no joy,” the pilot of the Southwest Airlines commuter, a Boeing 737
airliner out of Oakland International, responded. The pilot sounded bored.
Spurious radar targets caused by birds, fog, smog, or high humidity were common
in this area. At night, airplanes had their lights on, and if it didn’t have
lights on, it wasn’t an airplane. After all, who
wanted
to hit another plane in midair?

 
          
“There
he is,” Cazaux said, pointing out the window, high and slightly to the right.
The aircraft could not be identified as to type, but there was no missing it—it
was ablaze in landing, recognition, position, and anticollision lights. The
turbofan-powered airliner was much faster than Cazaux’s L-600, but he had the
cutoff angle. Cazaux pulled back on the yoke and turned left, putting the LET
L-600 directly on an intercept course, climbing above three thousand feet.

 
          
“Niner-Seven-Three,
Bay Approach, traffic appears to be maneuvering, now at
eleven o’clock
, two miles.”

 
          
“Nine-Seventy-Three,
still searching, no joy,” came the reply.

 
          
“He
cannot see us,” Cazaux said. He reached down and flicked on his landing lights.
“How about now?”

 
          
“Nine-Seventy-Three
has contact on the traffic,” the commuter pilot radioed. “Say his altitude
again?”

 
          
“Still
no Mode C on your traffic,” the air traffic controller responded. “You should
be passing in front of him.” “Not so fast,” Cazaux said. He turned farther left
to increase the cutoff angle, maintaining his climb rate. “How about now?”

 
          
“Collision
alert, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, turn thirty degrees right immediately!” the
air traffic controller shouted over the radio. The commuter plane’s lights
altered shape as the plane turned. Cazaux laughed as he imagined what the
occupants on board that red-eye flight were experiencing—heads banging off
shoulders and windows, necks creaking in pain, coffee splashing, flight
attendants scrambling for balance.

           
“That bastard turned right into me!”
the pilot of the commuter plane shouted, forgetting proper radio discipline.
“Bay Approach, be advised, that guy turned right into me. I want his tail
number and controller tapes!”