Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (71 page)

 
          
“Devil,
your bandit is
one o’clock
,
thirty miles low.”

 
          
There
were lots of radar targets out there—dozens of planes were stacked up over
Washington-National and Dulles—but only one at that azimuth and range. Vincenti
locked the radar blip up, using the F-16 ADF’s IFF interrogator to see if the
target was transmitting any air traffic control codes or signals—nothing.
This had better not be. another fucking hot
dog TV show crew,
Vincenti said to himself. “Devil-03, judy,” he reported
to the AW ACS controller.

 
          
The
fire control computer put the bandit at two thousand feet, just a few hundred
feet above ground. His ground- speed was 360 knots and his closure speed was
250 knots. He was going to intercept the bandit only about ten miles north of
the capital, so he nudged the throttle to zone 5 afterburner. The airspeed
indicator went over 1.0. There was no sddden sound as he broke the speed of
sound, no jolt, no vibration, nothing except the ground was going by real
damned fast. “
One o’clock
,
twenty-eight miles.”

 
          
‘That’s
your bandit, Devil,” the controller said.

 
          
“Control,
Devil, say my engagement instructions again for this target,” Vincenti radioed.
He thought he’d try a little gamesmanship here—hopefully the crew of that plane
would get spooked and turn around. “Your last instructions to me were to keep
this bandit clear of P-56 and
Washington-National
Airport
. No matter what I hear on the radio, even
if they claim to be an authorized TV crew on assignment, am I clear to engage
at will? Over.”

 
          
“That
voice sounds familiar,” another voice came on the frequency. “Do we know each
other, Devil? Have we met?”

 
          
The
voice sent chills down Vincenti’s spine.
It's
him,
he thought.
Shit—it’s Cazaiuc.
It was the same voice he heard over
Sacramento
before Linda was killed.
It’s Cazaiuc. He's on board that fake
Executive-One-Foxtrot
. Vincenti keyed the mike button: “Cazaux, this is
Lieutenant Colonel—this is A1 Vincenti, the partner of the pilot you killed
over
Sacramento
. Remember me?”

 
          
“Who
can ever doubt the existence of the Fates now, I ask you?” Cazaux asked with
laughter in his voice. “There are indeed mysterious forces at work, Colonel
Vincenti, that have put us back together once again. But aren’t you the one that
is supposed to be keeping the skies safe from men like myself, dear Colonel?”

 
          
Vincenti
was going to reply, but the
master
caution
light snapped on again, and he saw a
fuel
indication in his heads-up display. This time the caution
light said
aft fuel low,
meaning
that the fuel quantity in the aft reservoir tank had dropped below four hundred
pounds. It would run dry in just a few moments if he stayed in afterburner
power. When the
fwd fuel low
light
came on, he had about two minutes of fuel remaining before they flamed
out—perhaps only about twenty or thirty seconds in afterburner power. A normal
landing would be impossible if he stayed in afterburner power. He ignored it
and keyed the mike: “I’m not going to warn you again, Cazaux. You will turn
westbound, lower your landing gear, and head west or north, right
now,
or I’ll blow you out of the fucking
sky. This time I won’t hesitate. I’ve got plenty of reasons to flame your ass,
Cazaux. Do it, or you die. That’s my final warning.”

 
          
The
answer was immediate: “Very well,” Cazaux said simply, and, to Vincenti’s
surprise, the 747 banked right and turned toward the west. “Now you have
promised you won’t fire on me.” Cazaux snickered. “I have your word, don’t I,
Colonel? We are on an open frequency—there are probably thousands of people
listening to us. You promised not to harm me if I turned away.”

 
          
“I
promised,” Vincenti said. He immediately chopped the throttle back to
90-percent power to try to conserve every pound of fuel possible. “But if you
try to evade me or don’t follow my instructions, I won’t hesitate to open
fire.”

 
          
“I
assume your Leather Control has heard our conversation as well?” Cazaux asked.

 
          
“We’re
listening, Cazaux,” the controller replied. “You’re within range of a Hawk
missile site right now. I suggest you keep going westbound.”

 
          
“Very
well,” Cazaux radioed back, chuckling. “I will take my chances with your
federal court system. I understand your federal courts have no death penalty,
correct? Life in one of your fine American prisons will suit me just fine.”

 
          
A
few moments later, as Cazaux’s plane was about to fly over the
Potomac
just south of
Rockville
,
Maryland
, Vincenti banked left and joined on the tail of the massive 747. Sure
enough, the plane had been painted to look like Air Force One, except the paint
was peeling off in several locations and the lettering was not perfect,
although very believable. From a distance, it definitely looked like Air Force
One.

 
          
“Devil,
Control, I show the bandit headed westbound,, targets have merged. Do you have
him in sight?”

 
          
Before
Vincenti realized he was talking on an open frequency, he replied,
“Affirmative, Control, I’m joined on the bandit. His landing gear is down. The
aircraft is a 747, resembling a VC-25. It—” Just then the 747 started a steep
left turn, the landing gear retracted, and the airliner began, to accelerate
rapidly. “Cazaux, stop your turn. Head westbound
now.
”

 
          
“Too
bad, Colonel Vincenti,” Cazaux said firmly. “Too bad you were given a plane
with no weapons. You could have been a hero today.”

 
          
“I’m
warning you, Cazaux, turn back or I’ll fire.”

 
          
“You
have not been truthful with me, Colonel.” Cazaux snickered again. “I am the man
who killed your Linda McKenzie, the man who terrorized the world’s supposedly
greatest nation, the one who destroyed your fighters and rendered your entire
air defense system useless and inadequate. I am your nemesis, Colonel Vincenti.
If you had weapons, Colonel, you would have not hesitated to attack. You have
obviously closed inside both missile and gun range, and we are over open
territory, with little danger to innocents on the ground—you would have fired
on me if you had the ability. You do not. Nor do I expect any of the Hawk
missiles sites you lied about to engage. My men have taken care of all of them
very effectively.”

 
          
The
747 rolled out, now heading eastbound, and Cazaux added, “And look,
Colonel—with typical government efficiency, your National Park Service still
has not turned out i the lights in your capital. We are perhaps twelve miles
away, and I can see your
Capitol
Building
very clearly. It is so simple—line up on
the Iwo Jima Memorial and the
Washington
Monument
. How convenient of you to provide me with
such beautiful landmarks. I was hoping to hit the White House, but I’m afraid I
won’t see it in time. But I can see the Capitol Building very clearly, up on
that hill by itself lit up so brightly, so that shall be my target. Good night,
Colonel. You did everything you could. Your government certainly cannot fault
you.”

 
          
Vincenti
swore loudly in his oxygen mask and pushed the throttle back up to military
power, banking hard to cut off the turn and stay close on the 747. But as soon
as he moved the throttles to the mil power detent, the
master caution
light came on for the third time, this time with the
fwd fuel low
caution light on. At
military power, burning ten thousand pounds of fuel per hour, Vincenti had less
; than sixty seconds of fuel left...

 
          
He
knew what had to be done—it was the only option i left to him now.

 
 
          
Near The Mall That Same Time

           
The radio in Harley’s car was
already a jumble of confusion. She had automatically pulled out of the FBI
parking garage onto E Street, heading west toward the Treasury Department, but
after pulling onto Pennsylvania Avenue, passing the Hotel Washington, she heard
another radio report of terrorists sighted near the Washington Monument, and
she turned south onto Fifteenth Street and roared off in that direction, her
little emergency light flashing away atop the dashboard.

 
          
“Why
wouldn’t they let us get our sidearms back?’
¹
. Hardcastle asked in
between radio reports.

 
          
“Because
the FBI is filled with paranoids,” Harley said, “or else they were told not to
release them—that might be Judge Wilkes’s idea of throwing her authority
around. Doesn’t matter—we don’t need the popguns anyway. There’s a reason I
wanted to take my car.” Hardcastle had never considered his trusty Colt .45
automatic a “popgun,” and he hoped Deborah had something better in mind.

 
          
They
raced down
Fifteenth Street
, across
Constitution Avenue
, and found a plain sedan stopped on the
east walkway, about two hundred yards from the
Washington
Monument
. A chunky, gray-haired black plainclothes
or off-duty D.C. Police officer with an “ass-duty spread” was standing behind his
sedan, pointing a .38 revolver toward the monument and trying to raise someone
on his hopelessly jammed police radio. Harley skidded to a stop, popped open
her trunk, and jumped out of the car, holding her gold Secret Service badge up
for him to see. “Secret Service. What do you got, officer?”

 
          
“Automatic
gunfire from two perps near the monument, hit a D.C. cruiser over there,” he
said, pointing to a stopped D.C. Police cruiser just barely visible on the
other side of the
Washington
Monument
. He was a good three hundred yards
away—obviously the cop had no intention of getting any closer with just a .38.
Smart thinking. “Just blew up an Army missile jeep with a damned bazooka.”

 
          
Harley
met Hardcastle at the trunk of the car—he was wisely reaching for the heavy,
dark-blue bulletproof vests he found. “You always carry two vests in your
trunk?” Hardcastle asked.

 
          
“Sometimes
I
wear
two vests, Ian,” Harley said.
“I’m not proud, believe me.” She flipped down a flap on the front and back of
the vests, revealing the words
treasury
agent.
She then lifted the floor carpeting, unlocked a padlock, lifted a
large metal door covering her spare tire well, and lifted out two short,
futuristic-looking bullpup rifles with green plastic stocks that seemed to
comprise the entire body of the gun itself. “Steyr AUGs. Familiar with them?”

 
          
“Used
them all the time in the Coast Guard and the Hammerheads,” Hardcastle said. He
shoved two 30-round magazines into his pants pockets, slammed one magazine
home, charged the weapon, and set it on
safe.
They hopped back into the car and drove off toward the
Washington
Monument
.

 
          
Over
Arlington
,
Virginia
That Same Time

           
The 747 was over
Arlington
now, skimming over the trees and buildings.
It looked as if it were going to hit the apartment buildings north of the Iwo
Jima Memorial, but Vincenti knew they were not Cazaux’s target. The 747 now
filled the windscreen. They were almost at the memorial, yet he couldn’t see
anything but the reflection of the lights of
Arlington
and
Washington
off the mottled white paint of the 747.