Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (17 page)

 
          
Vincenti
dropped his oxygen mask in absolute frustration. The air traffic situation
around
San
Francisco
and
Oakland
was going haywire, all because of one
madman.

 
          
He
had to do something!

 
          
He
refastened his mask and keyed his mike: “
San Francisco
Tower
, Foxtrot Romeo-01, over the
Bay
Bridge
at eight thousand five hundred, be advised
that VFR NORDO aircraft is at one thousand feet. He is a LET L-600 cargo plane
piloted by a suspected terrorist. I strongly suggest you hold all departures on
the ground, divert all arrivals, and let me take care of the bastard. Over.”

 
          
The
radios were completely, utterly silent after that—it was as if all the air had been
sucked out of the
San Francisco
Bay
area. The word “terrorist” had that effect
on people, and now his reign of terror was being felt here, now.

 
          
Finally,
after what seemed like a very long time, the tower controller radioed, “Roger,
Foxtrot Romeo-01,
San Francisco
Tower
copies, stand by.” It was not the same
“stand by” issued by the other controllers, which in effect meant “don’t bother
me”—this “stand by” meant “wait while I clear a path for you.” “United
Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your
position. TWA Five-Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach. Delta Fourteen,
go around, stay with me until advised. Attention all aircraft, emergency air
traffic operations in effect, expect delays. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner- Niner,
clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of
runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one miles
north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your
intentions?”

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at
five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft,” Vincenti
replied. “MARSA” stood for “military accepts responsibility for separation of
aircraft,” and although it usually applied only to military formation flights
or aerial refueling, Vincenti wanted to use it to intercept Cazaux.

 
          
“Roger,
Foxtrot Romeo-01,” the tower controller said. Although air traffic control
tower controllers rarely issued clearances other than “cleared for takeoff’ and
“cleared to land,” this was obviously an unusual and dangerous situation. “You
are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your most expeditious
airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five nautical mile
radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the NORDO aircraft.
Stay on this frequency.”

 
          
“Roger,”
Vincenti replied—just before he pulled hard on his control stick in a tight
loop. When he emerged from the loop, he was just south of the Bay Bridge in a
fifteen-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, heading “down the ramp” right at San
Francisco International Airport. There were very few aircraft on his
radarscope, and only one aircraft near San Francisco International was not
transmitting any air traffic transponder codes—that had to be Cazaux. “Foxtrot
Romeo-01 is tied on radar and accepts MARSA with unidentified aircraft,”
Vincenti radioed. “I suggest you get on the radio and try to get
Oakland
to keep its planes on the ground, too. I
don’t think it’ll be safe for any other planes to be flying around over
San Francisco
Bay
right about now.”

 
          
“Say
that last transmission again, Foxtrot Romeo- 01 ... ?”
San Francisco
Tower
called. But there was no reply.

 
          
Taddele
Korhonen, at the controls of the LET L-600, had pushed the throttles up to full
power, and they were skimming across the top of the piers, docks, and
warehouses of the
Port
of
San
Francisco
, west and south of the
Bay
Bridge
. “Why the hell we flyin’ so low to the
city?”
Jefferson
“Krull” Jones asked. He and Henri Cazaux
were in the cargo bay of the L-600, removing some of the packets of money and
cocaine from the second pallet. “You gonna drop all those explosives on
San Francisco
, too?”

 
          
“Of
course not,” Cazaux replied. “The loss of the Stinger missiles was regrettable
and will dearly affect my business, but all is not lost if I can salvage the
explosives and ammunition. Besides, we are still flying. As long as we’re
airborne, there is hope.”

 
          
Suddenly,
the chatter on the air traffic control channel seemed to cease. The quiet
caught Cazaux’s attention as easily as a loud gunshot. Then he heard, “Roger,
Foxtrot Romeo-01,
San Francisco
Tower
copies, stand by . . . United
Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your
position. TWA Five- Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach ...”

           
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Jones
asked. “Sounds like they’re clearin’ everybody out.”

 
          
“That
is exactly what they’re doing,” Cazaux said. “But why?”

 
          
“Attention
all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays.
Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and
land past the intersection of runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are
radar contact, one-one miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand
five hundred, what are your intentions?”

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at
five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft,” came the
reply.

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo Zero One . . . that’s the damn fighter again!” Jones said. “Man, he’s
back on our tail!”

 
          
“They
will never give him a clearance to descend at five hundred knots through dense
airspace like this,” Cazaux said. “Impossible.”

 
          
“Roger,
Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your
most expeditious airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five
nautical mile radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the
NORDO aircraft. Stay on this frequency.”

 
          
“Jesus,
they just gave him carte blanche,” Cazaux said, stunned. “A tower controller is
not authorized to give such a clearance!”

 
          
“Well,
he just did it,” Jones sneered. “And now he’s gonna be gunnin’ for our asses.
What the hell we gonna do now?”

 
          
Cazaux
looked like a balloon that was pricked with a pin and was slowly losing air.

 
          
For
the first time, Jones saw real depression, real defeat in his face. He stared
out the open end of the L-600 as if he could see the F-16 diving down on them,
could see the cannon muzzle flashing, could see the heavy 20-millimeter shells
peppering him and his plane. “We can surrender, man,” Jones continued. “Tell
him we give up. It’s better than dyin,’ man.”

 
          
“I
will
never
give up!” Cazaux said
emphatically. “I will never surrender!” He went over to the intercom panel and
hit the mike button: “Stork, fly over
San Francisco
International
Airport
, right over the terminal buildings.” The
L-600 banked left and descended in response. Cazaux switched the intercom
switch to the VHF radio: “Attention, F-16 fighter, this is Henri Cazaux. I have
several thousand pounds of explosives on board this aircraft, and I will
release them on
San Francisco
International
Airport
unless you depart this area.”

 
          
“You’ll
be dead long before you reach the airport, Cazaux,” a voice said over the frequency.
“I show you two minutes to the airport, and I’m in missile range right now.”
Vincenti hoped the bluff would work—he wasn’t carrying any missiles at all, and
he wouldn’t be in optimum gun range for another thirty to forty seconds.
“Jettison the explosives right now, into the bay, and then fly away from the
airport straight down the bay. After that, I’ll direct you to make a turn over
the bay north, and we’ll land at Alameda Naval Air Station.”

 
          
To
Jones, Cazaux shouted, “Get that second pallet ready to drop.” On the radio, he
asked, “How do I know you will not kill me after I do all that you order?”

 
          
“I’m
not giving you any guarantees, you sonofabitch, except this—if I don’t see your
course altered away from land, you’ll be dead in three seconds. What’s it going
to be?”

 
          
“Very
well, I am dumping the explosives overboard right now. Do not fire your
missiles.” He motioned to Krull, and he and the big loader pushed the second
pallet of military gear out the cargo ramp, just a few hundred yards east of
Fullers Point, north of the airport. Cazaux then picked up the microphone and
switched to intercom: “Stork, decrease speed and execute a turn back to the
north . .. and then turn directly towards San Francisco International again and
go to full throttle.” Back on VHF: “All right, I have done as you asked. I have
dropped the explosives, and I am turning north. Hold your fire. I broadcast my
surrender to all who can hear my voice on this frequency. I am surrendering to
the United States Air Force, for assurances that I will not be fired upon. You
are all my witnesses in case there is a so- called unfortunate accident.”

 
          
“You
gonna do it?” Jones shouted over the windblast and the roar of the engines
through the open cargo ramp. “You gonna drop the last pallet on San Francisco
International? Holy shit! He’ll put a missile up our asses for sure . .. Jesus,
mother of god ...”

 
          
“If
he had missiles, he would have killed us long ago,” Cazaux decided. “He has
only guns, like the first fighter. I believe he will wait until we fly down the
center of
San Francisco
Bay
, then open fire. I am hoping he cannot
follow us if we slow down and turn. No one threatens me and gets away with it.”
He dropped the microphone, then went over to a rack with several backpack-style
parachutes and pulled one off. “We’ll drop the explosives on San Francisco
International, then parachute to safety. The Stork will put the plane on
autopilot and join us.”

 
          
“We’re
not dropping anything,” Jones said. As Cazaux began fastening his parachute harness,
Jones reached down and pulled a small automatic pistol from an ankle holster.
“Hold your hands straight out from your sides and turn around.”

 
          
“What
is this?” Cazaux asked, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

 
          
“U.S.
Marshal, Cazaux,” Jones said. He retrieved a wallet from a back pocket, flipped
it open to reveal a five- pointed star, and tucked the wallet in his belt.
“You’re under arrest, motherfucker. I said turn around.”

 
          
“If
you fire that gun in here, Marshal Jones, you will blow us all to hell.”

           
“It would be worth it to watch you
die, Cazaux,” Jones said. “Step away from there, across the plane, facing the
wall. Move.” As Cazaux moved slowly in front of the third pallet toward the
left side of the cargo bay, Jones reached the intercom panel: “Stork, this is
Jones. Don’t turn back towards
San Francisco
. Fly north down the middle of the bay. I’m
a federal marshal, and you’re under arrest. If you turn towards land, I’ll—”