Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (4 page)

 
          
Soon
the slightly squeaky, distorted voice of Wexfall in the basement of Miami Air
Traffic Control came back: “Omaha One-One, how copy?”

 
          
Sandino
keyed her mike button. “Four by.”

 
          
“Roger.
Stand by for your final controller.” There was a slight pause as Wexfall handed
over control to the more experienced Gusman, who had the initial flight vectors
set up well before he nodded to Wexfall to accept controller’s responsibility.
“One-One, fly heading one-zero-zero and maintain two thousand feet, your bogey
is at sixty miles and low.”

 
          
Rawlins
made a slight right turn and engaged the autopilot. “Okay, Conk, he’s at sixty
miles low. Go get ’em.”

 
          
“Roger.
Stand by,” Joe Conklin replied on interphone. Now Rawlins’ digital-display
monitor mounted between the pilot and copilot positions in the top center of
the instrument panel activated and began pulsing as the radar began its
pre-programmed search pattern, sweeping sixty degrees on either side of
centerline and twenty degrees up and down. But because the target was only two
thousand feet below the Falcon, Conklin narrowed the pre-programmed radar sweep
to five degrees vertical and twenty degrees horizontal, putting maximum energy
along the range and bearing called out by SLINGSHOT and allowing him to lock
onto the target at the greatest distance.

 
          
A
few moments later the moving radar pips on the screen froze, then began tight
oscillations around a square radar-target symbol. A white diamond superimposed
itself on the target symbol and RADAR LOCK appeared at the top of the screen.
“Radar lock on a fast-moving aircraft, low, fifty miles at ten-thirty
position,” Conklin reported. A few seconds later the radar computed the
target’s airspeed and altitude and began feeding range-and-bearing data to the
crew on the Falcon. “Left ten degrees, closure rate two hundred thirty knots.”

 
          
“Forty-five
miles,” Rawlins confirmed as he completed a left turn to move behind the
target. “Ten minutes to intercept.”

 
          
“How
about giving me the intercept this time, Kevin?” Sandino said over interphone.

 
          
Rawlins
turned to his copilot. “You’re not checked out in night intercepts—”

 
          
“I’ve
had the ground school and one simulator ride.”

 
          
“Can’t
do it until you’ve had actual rides.”

 
          
“How
am I ever going to get checked out if I don’t
do
actual intercepts? I’ve been on the upgrade program for a month
and haven’t had one actual intercept. C’mon, Kev,” Kelly said crosscockpit. Her
voice was different, lower. He looked across at her. “We’ll do it nice and
easy,” she added. “You can take charge whenever you want.”

 
          
What
the hell, Rawlins decided—he was an instructor so it wouldn’t be totally
against the rules to let her do the intercept. She was, after all, a good
stick.

 
          
He
nodded and watched as Sandino put her hands on the control column and
throttles. “I’ve got the aircraft,” she said.

 
          
He
gave the column a little nudge and felt the acknowledging nudge, then let go.
“You got it,” he said. “Go get ’em.”

 
          
Brickell
Plaza
Federal
Building
,
Miami
,
Florida

 
          
There
seemed to be more of these late-night workdays for Rear Admiral Ian Hardcastle,
commander of the Seventh Coast Guard District based in
Miami
. The solitude of the big empty office was a
welcome interlude—and even the paperwork was a welcome diversion from the big,
silent, empty bungalow he had to go home to.

 
          
The
commander of the busiest district in the Coast Guard stood up from his desk,
stretched his long stringy muscles and ran a hand through salt-and-pepper hair
swept back from his forehead in wavy lines. He caught his reflection in the
dark office windows and saw that the blue uniform blouse and navy blue pants
hung a bit looser than before—stress, lack of exercise and a few late nights at
O’Mally’s Tavern . . . His blue eyes were dark in the reflection he studied,
and the overhead fluorescent lights accentuated the gaunt face and deep- set,
narrow eyes. Ghostly, he thought to himself. He could be straight out of one of
his grandfather’s Scottish ghost stories, the ones that haunted the moors in
the dead of night.

 
          
The
sandwich that had passed for dinner was a cold lump in his stomach. Stretching
his aching muscles even more, he felt the occasional twinges of pain in his
wrists and knuckles. Arthritis, a reminder of how old he was getting and how
close to retirement he really was. Hardcastle pulled on his leather flyer’s
jacket, a gift from a retired Coast Guard chief petty officer, and headed up to
the roof of the eight-story office building.

 
          
He
might be getting old, but he wasn’t ready for a rocking chair. Case in point:
the neat little Super Scorpion commuter helicopter parked on the roof was
Hardcastle’s wheels ore all but the worst weather days. The Scorpion could
carry two persons from
Miami
to most of
Florida
’s major cities at twice turnpike speeds and was small enough to fit
into a two-car garage. It had taken the better part of a year to get permission
from the departments of Transportation and Treasury to land the little beauty
on the roof of the
Federal
Building
, but by “bribing” other higher-ranking
persons in the building with offers of free rides he was able to manage it.
Rush-hour commuting was now a thing of the past and quick getaways to
Orlando
or the Keys became possibilities . . .

 
          
Except
now there was no one to share these getaways with. He just didn’t have much
desire to go off on the weekends, and late nights at the office precluded any
joy rides. Besides, most of his friends were also his ex-wife’s friends, and
after their separation he saw little of them.

 
          
He
undid the tiedowns, removed inlet covers and pitot tube covers and stepped into
his little eggbeater. Starting the little Super Scorpion was no more
complicated than starting an automobile, and soon the engine was at idle power,
warmed up and ready to go. He copied a weather report from Miami Flight
Service—warm temperatures, clear skies, balmy breezes—then switched frequencies
to Miami International’s control tower. Since he’d be popping up in the tower’s
airspace as soon as he lifted off the roof he wanted to get clearance
beforehand: “
Miami
tower, Scorpion two-five-six X-ray on Victor, departing
Brickell
Plaza
helipad, destination
Pompano Beach
at one thousand five hundred. Over.”

 
          
“Scorpion
two-five-six X-ray,
Miami
Tower
, good evening, Admiral.” Hardcastle had
been doing this now for three years and was well known to most of the FAA
controllers in south
Florida
. “Sir, hold your position for zero-two minutes, departing
Omaha
traffic from Opa-Locka will be turning over
the city after takeoff. Looks like one of your boys, Admiral.”

 
          
“Two-five-six
X-ray, holding position at
Brickell
Plaza
helipad.” Hardcastle shook his head, mildly
exasperated at the casual slip of established radio procedures by the tower
controller—their short thirty-second conversation could have yielded
information to a smuggler. The only admiral that might be leaving
Brickell
Plaza
Federal
Building
had to be Coast Guard. Now the smuggler
would know that Omaha meant a Coast Guard plane was airborne out of Opa-Locka
heading southwest over the city. Anyone with a fifty- do jlar Radio Shack VHF
scanner could provide intelligence information to drug smugglers.

 
          
But
such thoughts were quickly overshadowed by another—where that
Omaha
jet from Opa-Locka might be going. He
wished he had a descrambler on the Scorpion so he could listen in on SLINGSHOT
or BLOC, the maritime radar-patrol center, but not all the brass in
Miami
could get one of them for a civilian
bug-smasher. What was going on? A drug bust? Routine ops? A rescue?

 
          
“Two-five-six
X-ray, cleared to depart
Brickell
Plaza
helipad, remain clear of the Miami TCA,
proceed VFR to
Pompano Beach
. Over.”

 
          
“Tower,
I’d like to change that clearance,” Hardcastle radioed back. I d like to head
on over to Opa-Locka. Can I get a clearance through the TCA?”

 
          
“Stand
by, sir.” The Terminal Control Area was a place of high- density air traffic
around busy airports where air traffic was tightly controlled. It was asking a
lot, Hardcastle knew, to send a small helicopter right through a TCA at night,
but things quieted down significantly at Miami International right around
nine P.M.
and he figured he might get lucky.

 
          
“Two-five-six
X-ray,
Miami
tower,” the controller began, “if you can
get your whirlygig off the roof and over to the airport right now, and I mean
now,
you are cleared across the TCA at
one thousand feet. You’re going to be head-to-head with a very big, very nasty
747 in about five minutes. Over.”

 
          
Hardcastle
had the rotor clutch engaged on the Scorpion when he made his request, and the
blades were spinning up to takeoff speed shortly after the controller issued
the new clearance. “Two-five-six X-ray is off at this time, leaving one-fifty
for one thousand feet,” he said as he set power and gently eased up on the
collective. “Thanks, Chuck.”

 
          
“Don’t
mention it, Admiral.” Three minutes later Hardcastle was racing across the
brilliantly lit airport, heading north toward
Opa-
Locka
Airport
. .

 
          
Miami
Coast Guard Air Station,
Opa-Locka Airport
,
Florida

 
          
The
CQ was completing his duty log when Hardcastle trotted into the operations
center. Flustered, the Coast Guard lieutenant stumbled to his feet. “Admiral
Hardcastle ...”

 
          
“Jeff,
was that Falcon that just launched on an intercept?” Hardcastle hurriedly asked
the pilot as he studied the duty board on the wall.

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” the CQ, Lieutenant Jeff Teichert, replied. He followed Hardcastle’s gaze
onto the duty board, pointing at the relevant line. “Commander Rawlins and
Lieutenant j.g. Sandino’s crew is in alpha alert.” Quickly Teichert filled Hardcastle
in on the sortie's scenario.

 
          
“Kev
Rawlins is a good stick . . . and Sandino’s good too, but she’s green.”
Hardcastle paused for a moment, then: “Squawking military codes, then switching
to civilian codes? What’s the word from Air Ops?”