Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (107 page)

 
          
“Lion
Two-One flight of two, leaving ten thousand for four thousand,” Hardcastle
replied. He was in the lead Sea Lion aircraft, with ex-army helicopter pilot
Rachel Sanchez as his copilot: Rushell Masters and Sandra Geffar were in Lion
Two-Two flying in formation with him. They were just on the
U.S.
side of the border paralleling Salazar’s
course. Hardcastle was using the PNVS goggles to locate terrain and other
obstructions. “Give me the MMR on ‘MW SEARCH,’ Rachel,” Hardcastle said as they
passed eight thousand feet.

 
          
“You
got it. Multi-mode radar to ‘OPR,’ mode set to millimeter- wave radar search,
built-in test completed, and you’ve got a green light.” Sanchez had activated the
Sea Lion’s millimeter-wave radar system; the ten-inch-diameter radar would help
detect small obstructions in the plane’s flight path such as power lines and
radio towers, dangerous features that were usually undetectable even with a
high- quality night-vision system. The MWR impulses were transmitted to
Hardcastle’s night-vision goggles as a thin white line across his field of
view; if an obstruction was detected the line would squiggle and jump in the
area of the strongest radar reflections.

 
          
“I’ve
got a good trace,” Hardcastle said. He continued his descent and leveled off at
four thousand feet; the radar altimeter read about fifteen hundred feet. They
were on the western edge of the Stockton Plateau of southern Texas—although the
terrain was generally flat and rolling, the high desert terrain also showed a
few cliffs and dangerous valleys with power lines strung across them that had
very often trapped unwary pilots. “MWR to standby.” Sanchez flipped off the
radar for him; they were still high enough to clear all obstacles in the area.

 
          
“Target
at your
eleven o’clock
,
ten miles, altitude five hundred feet, speed two hundred knots,” Hardcastle
said.

 
          
“He
might as well be a thousand miles away,” Sanchez said irritably. “We still
can’t touch him without clearance to cross into Mexican airspace.”

 
          
“Elliott
said he’d get it, so he will,” Hardcastle said.

 
          
“And
what if he doesn’t? We’re up here watching the biggest drug shipment in history
go down right before our eyes."

 
          
“Give
it a rest, Rachel,” Hardcastle said. “Everything that can be done is being done
. . .” It sounded lame even to Hardcastle too. Sanchez was only saying what she
was thinking. The only thing that kept the Hammerheads away from getting the
Cuchillos was a line on a map. There was no such line out here in the dead of
night, flying the nap of the earth. One push on the stick, one nudge of the
power control, and he’d have this smuggler in his sights.

 
          
“Target
now at two hundred feet AGL, airspeed one-fifty,” the controller aboard the P-3
Orion radar plane reported. “Lion flight, recommend you maintain your altitude
to insure terrain clearance. We show you at one thousand six hundred AGL at
this time.”

 
          
“Checks,
Shark,” Hardcastle replied, verifying the Orion’s readout with the radar altitude.
“Shark, I know the target’s making a drop. Are you
positive
he’s in
Mexico
?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
Two-One. Well south of the border, five miles southwest of San Antonio de
Bravo. He’s not taking any chances.”

 
          
“There’s
no runway for a hundred miles—he’s sure as hell not getting ready to land,”
Hardcastle said. “It’s pitch-black dark outside—he’s sure as hell not
sightseeing. You showing any other aircraft in this area?”

 
          
“Negative,
Lion flight. Normal traffic in and around
Juarez
and
El Paso
, nothing in this area.”

 
          
“So
th
e federales
aren’t here. Great. So
much for support from the Mexicans. Where’s our clearance? If they don’t want
to get this guy why not let us do it? Has any one of those bozos from
Washington
called yet?”

 
          
“Negative,
Two-One. We’ll notify you as soon as they do.”

 
          
If
they do . . . Hardcastle thought.
“This is stupid, what a waste—” “Lead, this is Two-Two,” Geffar radioed over to
him. “What are we going to do? Bore more holes in the sky?”

 
          
Hardcastle
was tempted to ignore the P-3 controllers and conduct the intercept on his
own—it would have been easy, if not legal, to say that in his opinion the
suspects were in the
United States
. Instead he hit the mike button: “Sit
tight, Two-Two. We’ll go when we get clearance.”

 
          
"Lion
Two-One flight, this is Shark. I have two high-speed aircraft heading
northeast-bound from
Chihuahua
, range seven-zero miles, speed one-three zero knots. I’m picking up
Mexican Air Force modes and codes. Looks like your
federales
are on the way after all.” “Are they heading for the
target aircraft or the drop point?” “Neither right now,” the controller
replied. “They’re heading northeast towards Ojinaga, about fifty miles south of
here. They may be heading for the border on a standard patrol sweep, or it may
just be a liaison flight—cargo or passengers only. They may not know that a
drop is in progress.”

 
          
“Or
care,” Sanchez said cross-cockpit.

 
          
“Shark,
is there any way to contact them?” Hardcastle asked. “Can we find their
tactical frequency? I don’t want to alert the smugglers if I can help it.”

 
          
“I
can contact Chihuahua Approach or Monterey Flight Following on a land line and
see if they’ll give me that information. Stand by.” A two-minute pause, then:
“Two-One, this is Shark. Negative on your request.
Chihuahua
has no air-traffic-control contact with
that flight. They did verify that it was a Mexican Air Force border-patrol
flight but they won’t give me his tactical frequency. I have the phone number
of the district border-patrol headquarters. I’ll see if I can get anywhere with
that.
Chihuahua
said that flight does monitor GUARD
channel.”

 
          
The
two Sea Lion interceptors had moved as close to the border as they could—they
were directly overflying the center of the Rio Grande River. Off in the
distance, a few miles south of the tiny village of San Antonio de Bravo,
Hardcastle could see clusters of headlights spaced about a hundred feet apart,
with vehicles racing from one group of lights to the other. With the PNVS
zoomed to maximum magnification, Hardcastle could just make out a few trucks
and vans encircling a small, tubular object.

 
          
“Shark,
I see trucks and vans around what appears to be a cylindrical container. There
are groups of trucks, each about a hundred feet apart. I think that plane made
a drop just south of San Antonio de Bravo.” Hardcastle flipped up his
night-vision sight system, reached over to the center multi-function display
and entered the VHF GUARD emergency channel frequency into the number-two
radio. Before Sanchez could ask what he was going to do, Hardcastle hit the
mike button: “Attention, Mexican Air Force helicopter on northeasterly heading,
thirty miles west of
Ojinaga
,
Mexico
, this is the United States Border Security
Force on GUARD. We are five miles south of San Antonio de Bravo over
Rio Grande
. We have observed a suspected drug drop in
this vicinity and have suspects in view. We request you divert to San Antonio
de Bravo and contact us on VHF frequency one-one-two point five-five for
further information. Please acknowledge. Over.”

 
          
Sanchez
nodded to Hardcastle as he lowered his visor once again. “I guess it was the
only thing we could do,” she said. “But the smugglers had to have heard that
message . . . they’re bound to run now.” Hardcastle had transitioned to full
helicopter mode and was flying gentle circles around the Rio Grande, just on
the other side of the border from the suspected drop site—without a telescope
night- vision system it was unlikely they could be spotted by the smugglers. “I
just hope th
e federales
hightail it
over here now.”

 
          
And
then on the Hammerheads’ common tactical frequency they heard, “United States
Border Security Force, this is Pajaro One- Seven-One flight of two on frequency
one-one-two point five-five. We read you. Over.”

 
          
“Pajaro
One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One Flight of two. Can you divert immediately
to San Antonio de Bravo to investigate a suspected drug delivery? We are in
pursuit of a suspect and believe he has made a drug drop in this area. Over.”

 
          
“Affirmative,
Lion Two-One. We were notified of this by our headquarters. Hold your position.
We are vectoring now.”

 
          
“Lion
flight, that Mexican helicopter is turning toward you,” the P-3 reported. “His
ETE is fourteen minutes.”

 
          
“Shark,
get on the phone again and call Aladdin,” Hardcastle said. “In fourteen minutes
these guys on the ground will be gone. We need permission to cross
now.
”

 
          
“Roger,
Two-One. We’ll rattle their cage again.” But a moment later: “Lion flight, be
advised, the target is descending once again and slowing. Looks like another
drop. This one is twenty miles north of your position, right along the border.”

 
          
“Copy
that. Two-Two, break off and catch up with that air target. Keep him under
surveillance as long as you can.”

 
          
“Roger,
Two-One,” Rushell Masters replied. “Shark, Lion Two- Two is proceeding
northward as a solo.”

 
          
“Roger,
Two-Two. Squawk normal, fly heading three-five five, take eight thousand feet,
your target is twenty miles.
El Paso
altimeter, two-niner-niner-eight.”
Hardcastle turned and watched as the second AV-22, which had dropped into a
hover just a few yards off Hardcastle’s left wing, banked hard left and sped
away.

 
          
But
when Hardcastle looked back at the drop zone, he felt another wave of
frustration wash over him. The trucks and vans that had clustered around the
drop zone now began to pull away from the area, scattering in all directions.
The smugglers were escaping . . . “Pajaro One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One,
the suspects on the ground are leaving the area. Two trucks seem to be heading
in your direction. They’re paralleling the river. Will you be able to spot
them?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
Two-One,” the Mexican helicopter pilot replied. “We are night-vision-goggle
equipped. Stand by.”

 
          
Hardcastle
translated the AV-22 left so he could keep as many vehicles in view as
possible, but he soon had to leave the larger group and focus in on the two
large trucks that were speeding along the low hills and gullies of the
Rio Grande
. A few long minutes later, Hardcastle could
see flashing lights and an occasional searchlight beam stab into the darkness
and sweep across the ground. Soon the searchlight beam stopped its sweeping
search-pattern and held steady on one of the retreating trucks. The second
Mexican helicopter peeled off and hit the second truck with another searchlight.

 
          
On
the scrambled tactical frequency Hardcastle reported, “Shark, this is Two-One.
It looks like those Pajaro choppers got—” Suddenly a burst of fire erupted from
one of the helicopters, and the searchlight beam began to swerve and jab in
every direction. As the glare of the searchlight cut off, Hardcastle could see
volleys of heavy automatic-weapons fire erupting from both trucks. “They’re
under attack ...”

 
          
Screaming
in Spanish was heard on the Hammerheads’ frequency.
“Ayuda, ayuda, Pajaro . . . ataque paia fusil enemigo
. . .
ayuda