Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (77 page)

 
          
Hammerhead One Air Staging Platform

 
          
“Border
Security, this is Sundstrand Air three-fifty-one on one-one- two point
five-five.”

 
          
Angela
“Angel” Mink—a name she had tried to live down by joining the Coast Guard ten
years earlier before transferring to Border Security—was the controller in
charge of the southern sector of Hammerhead One’s area of responsibility. Her
sector extended from
Puerto
Rico
to the center
of
Cuba
and as far south as
Hispaniola
.
Although the Hammerheads could only engage targets inside the boundaries of the
Air Defense Identification Zone, which was very narrow in Mink’s sector, she
routinely tracked and studied radar targets throughout her area.

 
          
With
her long blond hair, sculptured face and athletic figure, Angel Mink looked
like her name sounded. Both her name and appearance were the opposite of her
personality—shy, introverted, intellectual and all business on the platform.
Her specialty, as Kravitz had guessed, was using the extraordinary power of the
Border Security Force’s computer network on nearly every radar target on sea or
air within her sector.

 
          
The
altitude readout of Sundstrand Air Flight 351 got the computer database’s
attention right away, and she had put it up on the duty controller’s
attention-list. With Geffar still on the beach recovering from her injuries,
Michael Becker was in command of Hammerhead One; Becker had a trainee, Ricardo
Motoika, in the duty controller’s seat and was giving him a continuing lesson
on how to keep track of the three main screens and the dozens of other messages
and events going on in the command center.

 
          
Becker
stepped away now from the raised commander’s platform over to Angel Mink’s
station, moved his headset’s microphone away to prevent eavesdropping over the
command center’s interphone and leaned over behind her left shoulder. “What’s
so interesting?” he asked.

 
          
“Sun
and Sand flight coming back from
Curacao
,”
Mink told him, swiveling her microphone out of the way and wetting her lips
with a sip of water. “I think that’s where you should take me when we go on
leave together next month.”

 
          
“We’re
going on leave together? Since when?”

 
          
“Since
I just fantasized it,” she replied. “You and me, on the white sand beaches,
skinny-dipping at
midnight
with a bottle of champagne.”

 
          
“All
this time, I thought you were working over here.”

 
          
“I
am a woman, Commander Becker ...”

 
          
“Prove
it, Technician Mink.”

 
          
“...
We women can recall mountains of information on a suspected smuggler or
terrorist, plan a romantic vacation and fantasize about a wildly passionate
night with a gorgeous tight-assed hunk all at once. Too bad you men can think
of only one thing at a time.”

 
          
“Then
think about this, woman,” Becker told her. “The beaches in
Curacao
have pink sand, not white. You fall asleep
after one glass of champagne. And I already made reservations for us at the
Barra
Palace
in the Barra da Tijuca. Look that up on
your computer when you get some free time, Technician.” He moved his microphone
back to his lips. “Tell Ricardo what you got, Angel.”

 
          
“Ricardo,
I’ve got Sundstrand three-five-one on flight common,” Mink reported. He nodded
an acknowledgement as he searched the three high-definition screens for the
plane’s data block.

 
          
“Use
your console screen to get the story on the event you want first,” Becker told
him. He demonstrated how to call up Mink’s screen onto the duty-controller’s
console and how to dial in the proper radio frequencies. “Some other things you
should be thinking about: notifying the commander if he or she is around,
ascertaining the status of your flight deck and aircraft and thinking about how
much time you have from the target’s present position to when you need to make
an intercept. That means thinking about the Seagull’s performance factors,
available crew, maintenance status of your Sea Lion planes—”

 
          
“All
that just because Angel buzzed me about a scheduled inbound?” Ricardo Motoika
interrupted. “Nothing’s happened yet and you’re saying that I should be
planning to take the guy down.” “C’mon, Ricardo, you’ve been a radar controller
for the Navy,” Becker said. “When you buzzed the CIC deck officer with a target
that looked flaky, what was his usual reaction?”

 
          
Motoika
nodded, remembering back to his eight years as a combat air controller aboard
the now-decommissioned U.S.S.
Coral Sea.
“You’re
right. He got the flight boss or the OOD on the horn and got the word on the
status of the flight deck and alert lines.”

 
          
“Your
controllers here are the same breed. They see so many targets that when one
really stands out it’s usually serious. Okay. On your other screens you should
have the video of the drone-catapult area called up, maybe with the ready
status of the Seagulls superimposed on the same screen, and on the other you
might want the flight status of the Sea Lion crews or deployed vessels in the
area. Be able to brief the platform commanders on the situation when they check
in. You buzzed Angel, you better be able to explain why. Meanwhile, have your
controller talk to the target and find out what his story is.” Becker nodded to
Mink, who turned to her radios:

 
          
“Sundstrand
Air three-five-one, this is the Border Security Force, radar contact,
one-zero-five miles south of
Miami
at one-two-thousand feet. Sir, verify your
intentions to stay at your present altitude. Over.”

 
          
“Yes,
ma’am, three-five-one would like to stay at twelve thousand until cleared to
descend into
Fort Lauderdale
. I’m in an entry corridor, I’m at the minimum enroute altitude, I’ve
got a flight plan and I’ve got clearance. Is there a problem?”

 
          
“We
thought you might be having difficulty maintaining your normal cruise altitude,
three-fifty-one,” Mink replied. She was making this up as she went along.
Something
was wrong there, but so far
everything the guy was doing was legal. “Are you encountering any problems,
adverse flight conditions?”

 
          
“Negative,
we’re fine . . . We heard reports about rougher air higher so we decided to
stay down here and enjoy the view. Over.” “Bingo,” Mink said half-aloud. She
called up the National Weather Service’s upper-air weather charts for south
Florida
and the
Caribbean
. High pressure dominated the entire region,
with a southerly flow of air. She clicked on her interphone to the duty
controller: “NWS says negative turbulence at his normal cruise altitude, and no
pilot reports of any turbulence all night, Ricardo. He’d have a thirty-
five-knot tailwind at his normal cruise altitude. Where he is, he’s got a
twelve-knot tailwind.”

 
          
Ricardo
paused, then shook his head. “So he’s not flying at the most economical
altitude. He’s dead on course, dead on time, and he’s following all the rules.
What do we have on him? Nothing.” He turned to Becker. “Right?”

 
          
Becker
said nothing. Technically the guy was legit—but if he had a controller who was
suspicious it was best not to drop things until everyone was satisfied. “Play
it out, Ricardo. You’re the duty controller.” He motioned to Mink, who had turned
around in her seat watching their exchange. “Work with your controllers.”

 
          
Ricardo
nodded, then said, “Angel, I want you to piss this guy off again. Tell him
we’re going to divert him. Get his passenger list, home base, cargo, all that
stuff and compare it with the flight plan he filed.”

 
          
Mink
nodded and turned back to her radios: “Copy all, three-fifty- one. Sir, we’re
having difficulty verifying your Customs clearance request. We must instruct
you to divert to
Opa-Locka
Airport
for inspection. Please acknowledge. Over.”

 
          
“Say
again,
Border Security?” came the
thick Latino accent once again, louder and angrier than ever. “You want me to
go
where?”
“
Opa-Locka
Airport
,” Mink repeated. “Sundstrand Air three-
fifty-one, by order of the deputy chief of Border Security Forces unit one you
are directed to proceed immediately by the most direct route, avoiding known
restricted areas, and land at Opa-Locka Airport, Miami, and report immediately
to the Customs Service inspection station there for records and aircraft
inspection. This order is directive in nature, and deadly force is authorized
to enforce compliance.

           
“Opa-Locka is currently VFR, landing
runway two-seven right, visual or ILS approach in use. We will advise
Miami
Center
of your new destination. Maintain heading
and altitude and remain on this frequency. I will provide further traffic
separation and flight routing. Sundstrand Air three-five one, acknowledge new
clearance.”

 
          
The
pilot was already responding ... when Mink released her mike button they heard
“. . . Can’t do this ... I have clearance to
Fort Lauderdale
, I am gonna hang you by your titties,
puta sucia
... I demand to speak with
your supervisor right now. Over.”

 
          
“Three-fifty-one,
I’ve notified my supervisor, please stand by,” Mink said. She didn’t mind him
sounding off on the open channel— this guy was going to get clobbered when he
landed. The Hammerheads I-Team and the Customs Service CET at
Miami
International
Airport
, who would by now be rolling toward
Opa-Locka
Airport
, would be listening in and would not take
kindly to this guy’s popping off.

 
          
“You
had better get him on the line, lady,” the pilot retorted. “You guys are crazy.
I don’t have no passengers on board. You can do your inspection at
Fort Lauderdale
. They got facilities there. Why don’t you
do your damned inspection there?”

 
          
Mink
was typing on her keyboard, then sat waiting on the computer to retrieve the
information she requested. “I’m calling up his Customs clearance form to be
sure,” she told Ricardo. “But I think he’s supposed to have passengers.”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Excuse
me, Ricardo,” another controller cut in. “Just a notice. Looks like CARABAL has
dropped off the line.” He was referring to the aerostat radar balloon facility
at the Hammerheads’ land base on
Grand Bahama
Island
one hundred twenty miles east of
Palm Beach
. Michael Becker moved back to his
commander’s console to check out the report himself.

 
          
“Make
sure it’s logged in to our system, then give them a call and see what’s up.”

 
          
“You
got it.”

 
          
“I’m
not getting anything from
Grand Bahama
on the radio,” Becker said. “I’ll give them a try on the phone.”

 
          
“Got
it, Ricardo,” Angel Mink suddenly chimed in. “His Customs declaration form says
eight passengers, all Americans. Social Security numbers, drivers’ license
numbers, the works.”