Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (6 page)

 
          
The
intersection up ahead near the control tower appeared deserted, with no
aircraft or vehicle movement at all. Floodlights were on around and inside the
Avgroup Aviation Services hangar. Cazaux’s plane was just visible, taxiing away
from the front of the hangar. Fortuna clicked on his radio: “I’ve got the plane
in sight. I’m moving in.”

 
          
“Unit
one, this is two,” the driver in Fortuna’s van radioed. “I’ve got five
individuals walking west along the taxiway away from the Avgroup hangar. Some
of the people are definitely suspects. They’re carrying packages, but I can’t
tell what they might be. I don’t see any weapons or radios. I can take them
with two of the security team and position the others to flank the target and
block him from the west.”

 
          
“Do
it,” Fortuna radioed.

 
          
Two
ATF agents dismounted from the van and silently trotted into position, taking
cover near some parked airplanes. The five men practically walked right up to
them, never noticing them or the van just a few dozen yards in front of them in
the darkness. As soon as the driver of the van saw the five men’s hands go
up—they were carrying small bundles, and through their night-vision goggles
they could clearly see they were bundles of cash—the van sped forward to take
up its position to surround Cazaux’s plane.

 
          
“Drop
those packages,” one of the ATF agents shouted.
“Now!”
The bundles of money spilled from their hands and hit the
ground—and then the whole world seemed to erupt in a flash of light and a huge
ear-shattering explosion.

 
          
“I
told them to count the money,” Henri Cazaux mused as he put the tiny remote
detonator transmitter in his flight bag beside his seat. Off in the distance,
they could see a truck burning brightly alongside the Avgroup Aviation Services
hangar. Krull, squatting between the pilots’ seats to watch the takeoff, stared
out the forward windscreen in horror. “Joining my outfit is looking like a
better idea all the time, isn’t it, Mr. Krull?”

 
          
“No
shit... Captain,” he responded. The Stork grinned, showing the newcomer his few
remaining tobacco-stained teeth. Cazaux turned off the telescopic nightscope he
had been using to monitor the ATF agents’ approach, then handed it to Krull,
who placed it carefully into a padded case. “I never did care for them white
boys anyway. Fuck ’em.”

 
          
“You
work hard and keep your mouth shut, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, shoving the
throttles forward and picking up speed along the north terminal buildings, “and
we will enjoy a long and profitable relationship. I don’t care what color your
skin is. Cross me, inform on me, or speak to anyone about my operation or
myself, and you’ll be crow food too. That I promise.”

 
          
“I
get the message.”

 
          
“Aircraft
on taxiway bravo near the tower, this is
Chico
ground, hold your position and acknowledge.
Orders from the sheriffs department. Say your call sign,” the ground controller
radioed.

 
          
“Checklists,
Stork, checklists,” Cazaux shouted crosscockpit. He reached across the cockpit
and flipped on the engine ignition switches—if the engines faltered during
takeoff, leaving the igniters on would help to restart them quickly. “Mr.
Krull, your job is to watch this indicator. When it hits sixty, punch this
button to start the stopwatch. . You will count down precisely twelve seconds
and give me a warning beginning five seconds before the sweep hand reaches
twelve seconds, using the words ‘ready, ready,’ then ‘now’ in a loud voice when
the clock reads twelve seconds. Do you understand?”

 
          
“What
the hell for, man?”

 
          
“I
told you, keep your mouth shut and pay attention, Mr. Krull, and you’ll do fine
in my organization,” Cazaux said. “Do you understand what I just told you?”

 
          
“Yeah,
yeah, I got it.”

 
          
“Very
good. This is an acceleration test, Mr. Krull. You see, we’re not going to take
the long runway—we’re taking the short runway, one-three right. The twelve
seconds is our safety margin—we have twelve seconds to go from sixty knots to
one-twenty. If we don’t do it, we won’t take off. Simple enough.”

 
          
“Then
we better make it, man,” Krull said, “because whoever’s chasin’ us ain’t gonna
be too happy about us set- tin’ off a stick of dynamite in their faces.”

 
          
“True
enough. Oh—hit that button for me right there, if you would.” Krull reached
over to a small aluminum box mounted atop the glareshield above the instrument
panel, took a look at Cazaux, who was busy with the checklists, and at the
Stork, who was grinning with complete mirth at him. Krull hit the button ...

 
          
...
and a ring of volcanoes appeared to erupt all around them, with huge thick
geysers of fire shooting into the sky, obscuring the buildings on the east ramp
near the control tower. One by one, private airplanes and crop dusters were
sent spinning into the air by the explosions. The explosions were set in
precise patterns, causing a rippling effect across the airport—as soon as the
L-600 taxied past a spot, the explosions would cut off the taxiway and obscure
them with fire and smoke. “Jesus Christ, what in hell... ?”

 
          
“It
is so pitifully easy to set explosives on airports in
America
,” Cazaux said. “Offer to wash a windshield
or paint a few stripes on the ground, and pilots in this country will let you
do anything you want around their planes. But I am disappointed—only about half
of my detonators are going off. I think I’ll have a talk with those Mexican
dealers. They owe me a refund.” Krull felt as if he was in some kind of hellish
nightmare—the airport was systematically being destroyed all around them, and
Henri Cazaux was chatting on about business matters as if the explosions were
just the twinkling of fireflies. Krull saw one explosion erupt under the
control tower, but the darkness and smoke obscured his view and he couldn’t see
if the concrete and steel structure hit the earth.

 
          
“Rather
like setting up dominoes in a row and watching to see if the pattern completes
itself, no?” Cazaux asked Krull. “You cannot help but watch. The disaster is
magnetic.”

 
          
Sixty
seconds ago, Special Agent Russell Fortuna was in command of three trucks
filled with seventeen heavily armed ATF agents—now, two trucks had disappeared
in balloons of fire, and his own truck was abandoned and they were taking cover
behind it. Like a freight train out of control, the six agents were helpless as
the columns of fire erupted all around them. A small single-engine Cessna with
a Playboy bunny painted on the tail disappeared in a flash of light and an
ear-splitting sound only twenty yards away, shattering the windshield in the
truck and blowing out two tires. Two agents were dazed, one finding blood
oozing from a ruptured eardrum in one ear. All the rest appeared unhurt—four
out of a strike team of eighteen. Aftermath of a typical Henri Cazaux ambush.

 
          
“Team
two, check in . . . team two, check in,” Fortuna tried on the portable radio.
Nothing. ‘Team three ...” He didn’t try team three anymore, because he
saw
those poor bastards get blown away
when the booby traps Cazaux’s thugs were carrying went up. “Damn it, somebody
answer me!”

 
          
“Russ,
this is Tim,” Chief Deputy Marshal Lassen radioed. “I’ve been monitoring your
frequency. What’s your situation?”

 
          
“The
target booby-trapped this entire airport,” Fortuna replied. “No reply from my
two support units.” He was not about to say on an open frequency, scrambled or
not, that both his assault trucks had been blown sky-high. “Suspect is taxiing
to the northwest for takeoff on runway one-three left. What’s your position?”

 
          
“We’re
five minutes out, Russ,” Lassen replied. “We’ll try to block the runways.”

 
          
Lassen’s
three-helicopter SOG team was less than five minutes out—they were close enough
to see the burning aircraft, like large bonfires, dotting the darkness around
the airport. The runway lights, taxiway lights, and tower rotating beacon were
all out. The flight crew of the Black Hawk had to lower night-vision goggles in
place to find the airport. The moving shape of the large cargo plane was now
visible, moving rapidly down the inner taxiway. Only a few dozen yards and
Cazaux would be at the end of runway one-three left, lined up for takeoff. “I
want one Black Hawk in the middle of one-three left,” Lassen radioed to his
other helicopters, “and the Apache hovering at the southeast end to cover.
We’ll fly overhead and take one-three right in case he tries to use the shorter
runway. I want—”

 
          
Suddenly
a bright flash of light erupted on the ground ahead of them, and a streak of
light arced out across the sky, heading right for them. Lassen’s Black Hawk
banked hard left, away from the second Black Hawk, which was flying along in
formation on their right. The streak disappeared immediately, and Lassen was about
to ask what it was when a brilliant burst of light flashed off to their right.
The second helicopter was illuminated by an orange-blue sheet of fire on its
left side. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot of the second Black Hawk
radioed. “Hunter Two has taken some ground fire. One engine on fire, losing oil
pressure. We’re going down!”

 
          
“Hunter
One, this is Wasp,” the pilot of the Apache attack helicopter radioed. “I have
a vehicle at the spot where that missile came from. Three men. They appear to
have another man-portable missile and are preparing to fire. Request permission
to engage.”

 
          
Lassen
didn’t hesitate—he had run this very scenario in his head a dozen times since
putting the request for the AH- 64 Apache helicopter into the California Air
National Guard. His warrant, signed by Judge Wyman, specifically said that he
could not use the Apache’s weapons unless they were under attack—well, they
were definitely under attack. “Request granted, Wasp,” Lassen radioed
immediately. “Clear to fire.”

 
          
He
was about to ask his pilot where the Apache was, but he found out himself a
moment later as several bursts of rocket fire flashed just a few yards away,
the strobe light-like flashes freezing the rotors of the deadly Apache gunship.
The Apache launched at least two missiles, and both hit the same spot on the
ground ahead, creating a mushroom of fire. Lassen saw a swirl of light on the
ground, jumping and looping and cartwheeling in the air like a comet gone
crazy—an unfired Stinger or Redeye missile round cooking off, he guessed.

 
          
“Target
suppressed, two secondary explosions, target destroyed,” the Apache pilot
reported.

 
          
“Good
shooting, Wasp,” Lassen radioed. ‘Take the end of runway one-three left, keep
the suspect aircraft in sight, and attempt to block its taxi path.”

 
          
“Wasp
copies.” But a moment later, the pilot came back: “Hunter, this is Wasp,
suspect aircraft is lined up on runway one-three right, repeat, one-three
right
, and he appears to be on his
takeoff roll. Am I clear to fire?”

 
          
Lassen
put his night-vision goggles back in place and searched the airport, now less
than a mile away. Sure enough, Cazaux had decided not to taxi all the way to
the long runway—he was on the short runway and already starting his takeoff
run. It would be impossible to block his path now. But he could still stop
him—the Apache gunship had a 20-millimeter cannon that could shred Cazaux’s
plane in two seconds, plus at least two more wire-guided TOW (Tube-launched,
Optically-tracked, Wire-guided) missiles that would rid the earth of Henri
Cazaux once and for all. One word from him, and Cazaux would be a flaming hole
in the earth.

 
          
“Hunter,
this is Wasp, am I clear to engage? Over.”

 
          
Henri
Cazaux had killed a handful of ATF agents that night alone, plus killed or
injured his deputy marshals on the second helicopter, plus any unlucky
civilians who were on that airport when Cazaux decided to destroy it to cover
his escape. Add all those souls to the list of his victims in the past several
years. And those were only the ones Cazaux
himself
had killed that were known to the Justice Department—he was undoubtedly
responsible for hundreds, perhaps thousands of other deaths because of his
gun-smuggling and terrorist activities.