Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (76 page)

 
          
“Sorry,
sir, you were having a bad dream.”

 
          
“Sorry,
it’s been one long damned day. What’s going on?” Tanner held out a hand to ask
for quiet as he listened intently on his headset. “Tanner, what the hell is
going on?”

 
          
“No
...” Tanner paused again and Hardcastle was about to rip the headset from the
controller when Tanner rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head with
exaggerated exasperation. “Those damned Dolphins,” he said, “they’re getting
hosed—”

 
          
“One
of
our
Dolphins? We lost a chopper?
Who . . . ?”

 
          
“No,
sir. The
Miami
Dolphins. The Buffalo Bills are kicking their
butts all up and down Joe Robby Stadium—”

 
          
Hardcastle
wanted to kill him. “That’s what you got me up for?" “Well, I . . . you
were having a bad dream, sir, and I thought . . .” He paused, looked at
Hardcastle’s murderous expression, muttered an apology, then made his way to
the front of the cabin. The amused expressions of crewmembers around Hardcastle
had disappeared as well.

 
          
A
few minutes later Hardcastle made his way forward to accept a cup of coffee
from a contrite Lee Tanner. But as he returned to his seat he had the same
feeling he’d had before he dreamed off into a nightmare. Only now the bad
feeling was about a reality yet to come . . .

 
          
Miami
Air
Route
Traffic
Control
Center
,
Miami
,
Florida

 
          
“
Miami
Center
, this is Sun and Sand three-fifty-one, with
you at one-two thousand. Good evening.”

 
          
The
air traffic controller in charge of frequency 127.30, the southern sector of
Miami Air Route Traffic Control, hit the frequency- control button. “Sundstrand
Air Three-Five One, ident.” The controller, who had already received the
flight’s overw'ater flight plan filed several hours earlier from
Willemstad
Airport
on the
island
of
Curacao
in the
Netherlands Antilles
had already picked out the newcomer’s radar
blip as it inched its way across the Santaren Channel, now one hundred fifty
miles south of
Miami
and heading toward
Fort Lauderdale
. He watched the blip with the altitude readout and the code for an
unknown target light up with a bright yellow box around the data block,
indicating that the pilot had hit his ident button. There he was, dead on time,
dead on course.

 
          
“Sundstrand
three-five-one, radar contact at one-two thousand. Good evening to you.”

 
          
The
pilot replied by two friendly clicks on his transmitter. These pilots liked to
call themselves “Sun and Sand” instead of Sundstrand—they were the principal
air-shuttle service from
Florida
,
Georgia
and
Texas
to the
Netherlands
Antilles
with
their casinos and beaches. Lucky devils. They spent their off days either in
the casinos in
Curacao
or the beaches in
Miami
. Real tough life.

 
          
An
outside network radio channel suddenly beeped to life with an insistently
flashing button on the main keyboard channel. The controller knew that call was
from the Zoo—the Border Security Force controllers in south
Miami
. The Hammerheads—or as the air traffic
controllers sometimes called them, the HammerZ?ram,y—had a direct line with
every agency with a radar scope in the entire southeast United States, and they
used it a lot, too much, the controllers felt, with questions and orders for
the pilots under FAA control.

 
          
FAA
air-traffic controllers might be responsible for traffic separation and
sequencing, but the new air-traffic regulations said that the Border Security
Force had final authority over who was allowed into American airspace at all
times. And they used their authority frequently and sometimes at the most
inopportune moments. Usually seconds after assigning a pilot a certain altitude
or heading to clear traffic the Hammerbrains would call and ask the controllers
to check the guy’s identification and flight plan, tell the controllers to
issue a different heading or altitude, even make the guy orbit or divert to a
different destination. It didn’t matter that there were a dozen jets lined up
behind the guy waiting to get in, or that the guy was low on fuel or didn’t
speak English that well. The Hammerbrains didn’t have to deal with the pilots.
No. It was the
Miami
Center
controllers who got the complaints about
clearance changes and deviations, not Border Security.

 
          
And
their machines ... It was not unusual for the Hammerbrains to send out a
half-dozen planes into a crowded approach-corridor or intersection without a
word of coordination or acknowledgement. And the unmanned planes, the ones
controlled from dozens, sometimes hundreds, of miles away, were the scariest.
One day one of those ten-thousand-pound remote-controlled mosquitos was going
to fly through the cockpit of a 747 for sure.

 
          
Border
Security planes also would soon stop acknowledging calls from anyone other than
their own controllers when the action was getting hot. The FAA controllers
would then have to get on the direct phone line and relay critical traffic
advisories and warnings to the Border Security controllers. Even that broke
down sometimes, and the FAA controllers had no choice but to clear the airspace
for a hundred miles around a Border Security fur-ball intercept to avoid
collision alerts with civil traffic.

 
          
The
Miami
Center
controller, Kravitz, put down his coffee
cup. If he waited too long, he thought, the damned Hammerbrains would ring his
supervisor. He hit the flashing button. “Kravitz, southeast seven. Good
evening, Aladdin,” Aladdin being the call-sign of the Border Security Force
headquarters unit located in south Miami near, very appropriately, he thought,
the Miami Zoo.

 
          
“I
need a verification on Sierra-Alpha three-five-one,” a no-nonsense female voice
said.

 
          
No
“hello,” no “good evening,” no nothing. Typical Hammerbrain. “What exactly do
you need,
ma’amP”

 
          
“We
show his altitude as one-two thousand. Does that check?” “Yes, it does.
One-two-point zero-five—he’s fifty feet off his altitude. Want me to bust him
for you?” That was not wise, he told himself. The brass on both sides reviewed
these running transcript tapes. Stop with the humor, Kravitz.

 
          
No
appreciative reaction, though, from the lady. "That’s a bit low for a
commercial plane so far off shore. We need to know why he’s flying at twelve
thousand and if he’s going to stay at that altitude.” Kravitz wondered what the
big deal was. “I’ll ask him, if you really need the information. May I ask why
the inquiry?”

 
          
“Our
records show the Sundstrand planes are normally higher until crossing the ADIZ.
They’re equipped with speed brakes, so their pattern has been to fly high and
do a steep idle-power descent in the terminal area. He is not following the
profile.”

 
          
Kravitz
shook his head. Border Security bitches with their superpowered computers could
be a real bite in the ass. “You want me to quiz this pilot because he’s flying
a few thousand feet lower than normal?”

 
          
“He’s
flying within three thousand feet of HIGHBAL’s altitude,” she said, as if that
explained everything.

 
          
“He’ll
be passing forty miles west of restricted airspace, ma’am,” Kravitz said. “I
think your beautiful blue balloon is safe.” The HIGHBAL radar balloon was
flying near its maximum altitude tonight, protected by thirty miles of
restricted airspace and by routes that were at least twenty miles outside that
restricted zone. Besides, it was lit up like a sausage-shaped Christmas tree.
No one ever went near it and its nearly two-mile-long tether—hitting them could
ruin a pilot’s whole day real fast.

 
          
“I
need to know the reason, Mr. Kravitz.” Boy, this one really had a stick up her
ass.

 
          
“Stand
by, please, ma’am,” Kravitz said with exaggerated politeness. He hit the
ground-to-air frequency button. “Three-five-one..
Miami
Center with a request.”

 
          
“Go
ahead.”

 
          
“State
the reason for your present altitude, sir.”

 
          
“Say
again?”

 
          
“Border
Security requests the reason for your present altitude and how long you intend
on staying at one-two zero, sir.” Mention Border Security this time, so maybe
they’ll
take the heat.

 
          
“I
didn’t know I needed a reason to stay at this altitude, Center,” came the
confused reply.

 
          
“You
don’t need a reason to stay at one-two-zero, sir. You’re clear of traffic.
Border Security requests a reason why you decided to fly at that altitude and
how long you intend on staying there. Over.”

 
          
“I
intend on staying there until it’s time to land,” came the reply that Kravitz w
⁷
as
expecting. The pilot’s raised voice emphasized a much stronger Latino accent
this time—no doubt the guy was a Latino pilot who worked at masking his
normal-accented English, a common practice, since a lot of controllers,
employers and customers w'ere prejudiced against Latino pilots, believing them
to be not as well trained as Anglos.

 
          
“I
copy, three-five-one. Any reason why you chose this particular altitude, sir?”

 
          
“What
is this, Center? I pick an altitude, and you tell me if I’m cleared to fly that
altitude. That’s how it always goes. Would you like me at a different
altitude?”

 
          
“Negative,
three-five-one. You’re cleared on course at one-two thousand. This request
originated from U.S. Border Security Force controllers in
Miami
. If you wish you can speak with them on
frequency one-one-two point five-five.”

 
          
“I
don’t wanna talk to no goddamn Border Security. I’m following the rules. Why I
bein’ hassled?” The Latino accent was very strong now, and for the first time
Kravitz felt a touch of apprehension. This pilot seemed to be losing it. There
was a slight pause, then: “Sorry about that, Center. I lost my head. We’ll flip
over to one-one two point five-five.”

 
          
“Three-five-one,
cleared off Center frequency, monitor GUARD, report back up on my frequency,”
Kravitz said.

 
          
“Three-five-one.”

 
          
Kravitz
immediately dialed up the Border Security’s flight common frequency and put it
on his headset, loud enough to hear the transmissions but not loud enough so
his assigned calls would be drowned out; then he leaned over and told the
controllers near him about the interchange that was about to take place. Boy,
this, he thought, is going to be good , .