Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (79 page)

 
          
“Except,
of course, for his drug smuggling,” Elliott said quietly, the tension
nonetheless loud and clear in his voice.

 
          
“His
alleged
drug smuggling,” Johnson
corrected. “If we’re going to indict him we might as well start thinking
legally.”

 
          
“If
we
can
indict him,” McKyer said. He
looked at Elliott—it was obvious that McKyer did not think highly of the White
House’s esteemed trouble-shooter. “Our best evidence that this Salazar is in
Haiti
was obtained from American servicemen
flying a Russian plane uninvited into Haitian airspace. Not exactly prime
evidence for a grand jury. Fruit of the poison tree, I think is the legal
expression.”

 
          
“That
mission was an authorized government secret operation, general, Martindale said
quickly. “We can protect our sources and methods, and the evidence is still
admissable in any court in this country.”

 
          
“We
have to do this thing right,” the President said. His tone signalled that this
meeting was definitely coming to an end. “If we don t have a solid legal
footing, unless the guy does something stupid like ... I don t know, like
attack the United States or one of our ships in the Caribbean, we can’t move
against him—”

 
          
I
believe he already has, sir,” Elliott said. “We’re analyzing the photos we took
over Verrettes to see if we could possibly match a plane there with the wreckage
of the plane shot down over the
Everglades
two years ago, as well as some of the other drug planes seized or destroyed
since. I think we can find enough evidence to prove that one of Salazar’s
planes attacked and destroyed our Coast Guard patrol plane.” Elliott stood.
“But I can’t emphasize enough, Mr. President—that base at Verrettes is a major
threat to our national security.”

 
          
“It
won’t fly, Brad,” the President replied. “Analyzing those photos is a positive
step, and if you find something that we can go on, then we 11 take it up then.
Otherwise we’ll continue with what we’re doing. The President stood and
straightened his warm-up jacket. “Thank you all for coming. Sorry to keep you
up at such a late hour.”

 
          
A
few of the Cabinet sidled up to the President to speak with him privately.
Pledgeman began herding Elliott, McLanahan and the others out of the Situation
Room when a silenced phone began flashing its ringer-light on the table in the
center of the room. Simultaneously, beepers on the belts of several persons in
the room went off, including those of
Preston
,
Curtis and Elliott.

 
          
Preston
’s aide answered the phone as the men cut
off their beepers. “Message from the communications center, sir,” the aide
said. As
Preston
moved to the phone the aide motioned to
Elliott. “Call for you, sir, from your headquarters. The comm center says it’s
an urgent.”

 
          
Elliott
took the receiver, listened, then in a loud voice to get the others’ attention,
said, “Say that again.” A moment later he said, “I’ll be in touch,” and hung
up.

 
          
“The
aerostat radar balloon site in the
Bahamas
has been destroyed by an air attack, Mr.
President,” Elliott said in a loud voice. The announcement silenced every voice
in the room. “Both Border Security Force air-staging platforms are now believed
to be under attack by light aircraft.”

 
          
Hammerheads One Air Staging Platform

 
          
Angel
Mink’s digital color display was in a ten-mile range, configured so as to show
both Lion Two-One, the AV-22 tilt-rotor launched from the Hammerhead One platform
only moments before, and the Sundstrand Air target aircraft. The two aircraft
were on opposite sides of the rectangular screen, like knights at opposite
sides of the lists ready to charge.

 
          
And,
virtually superimposed over the computer symbol representing the Hammerheads’
aircraft, was the symbol representing the Hammerhead One platform. Less than
ten miles away—about two more minutes—and the plane, whatever its intention,
would be right on top of them.

 
          
“Two-One,
your target is at
eleven o’clock
,
nine miles,” she reported. “You are clear to engage. Suggest left turns to
evade. Seagull One is at your
four o’clock
, five miles, on auto intercept.”

 
          
“Roger.”
The AV-22’s pilot sounded even more worried than Mink. Then: “Two-One has a
judy. Two-One has radar contact, maneuvering to intercept.”

 
          
“Negative,”
Michael Becker cut in. “You’re not doing a tail chase, Two-One. We don’t have
the time. Engage at long range, then pivot and engage again. Use your
aircraft’s capabilities and stay behind him.” On interphone Becker directed,
“Keep broadcasting warning messages, dammit.” There was still a glimmer of
hope, remote now, that this guy was lost or disorientated and had started
flying off course and toward the platform at the same moment that CARABAL went
off the air.

 
          
“Target
altitude now one thousand and descending,” Mink reported to the command-center
crew. “Seven miles from Two-One and closing,
twelve o'clock
, now five miles.”

 
          
“Mike,
Homestead
is launching alert fighters in support,”
one of the controllers reported. “We’ve got one F-16, designation Trap One,
thirty miles out and closing at Mach one point two. Two are heading toward
Key West
and one toward Hammerhead Two.” Mink
expanded her scope to include the Air Force F-16.

 
          
“Two-One,
missiles away,” the pilot on the AV-22 reported. He was shooting at the Sea
Stinger missile’s extreme range-limit, at a head-on propeller-driven target at
low altitude—the odds of a hit were not good. A controller began broadcasting
navigation-warning messages to alert aircraft and vessels in the area.

 
          
The
result was not long in coming. “Miss,” the pilot aboard the AV-22 reported, “I
didn’t have a solid lock-on. I’m lining up on him again.”

 
          
“The
F-16 is at twenty miles, now at Mach one point two,” Mink reported. “He says he
has a radar lock on both aircraft and he wants the V-22 to move away.”

 
          
“What’s
his ETA?”

 
          
“Ninety
seconds to intercept,” Mink said. “Same as the target’s ETTA to the platform.”

 
          
Becker
hesitated. The AV-22 was only miles away from the intruder but it would take
him precious seconds to maneuver for a high probability of a hit—the AV-22’s
weapons were not designed for long-range attacks but for rear-quarter attacks
within visual range. By the time the AV-22 had a chance to really get into
position to stop the intruder it could be too late.

 
          
The
F-16 had a long-range radar-guided missile—it was probably ready to strike
right now at twenty-miles’ range. It could also close in quickly and finish the
job with its murderous twenty-millimeter multibarrel air-to-air cannon. But if
it missed on its high-speed head- on pass it would be too late to stop the
intruder—an F-16 travelling at Mach one had a turn-radius of over thirty miles,
especially with its restrictive fuel tanks, fuel load, and weapons load that prevented
the pilot from pulling high-g turns. It could not reattack in time before the
target reached the platform.

 
          
And
there was another problem nagging at his brain—what if this guy
wasn’t
an attacker at all? His records
didn’t check out and he was certainly doing some very suspicious things, and it
was happening at the same time their radar post in the
Bahamas
was apparently under attack. But records
were known to be wrong, pilots often did weird and unexplainable things
(especially at night, overwater and during confusing incidents such as this),
and the attack (if it
was
an attack)
in the
Bahamas
and this incident
could
be a
monstrous coincidence . . .

 
          
“Are
there any responses to our warning calls?” Becker asked.

 
          
“Nothing,
Mike.”

 
          
“I
need clearance for the F-16 to move in, Mike,” Mink said. “Sixty seconds to
intercept. He’s decelerated just above the Mach for weapons release but he’s
coming in hot.”

 
          
“Damn
it,” Becker muttered, “keep making warning calls. Tell him he’s about to be
blown out of the sky.” He knew he had just been paralyzed into indecision but
he had no choice but to take the time to think this one through . . .

 
          
The
Border Security Force wasn’t supposed to strike at a target without visual
identification and communication—that had been a Hardcastle concern when he was
drawing up the Hammerheads’ lethal-intercept concept. They had always waited
until they positively communicated with an intruder with visual hand or light
signals before even considering an attack. Usually the sight of a Seagull drone
flying off your wing, or a Sea Lion tilt-rotor airplane with guns and missiles
was enough to scare most intruders into submission. Not all, but most. The one
common denominator in all this was that they gave the intruder ample time to
comply with warning signals before attacking—and that always meant positive
visual signals. Without relying on radios, the intruders always knew they had
been caught, and the ones that chose to ignore the warnings were the ones that
got smoked . . .

 
          
“Michael
. . .”

 
          
But,
damn it, this time was different, wasn’t it? The situation with the terrorist
group in
Haiti
, the attack in the
Bahamas
, the increased tension ... he couldn’t let
anything happen to the platform. Fifty people on his platform were counting on him.
He had a responsibility ... to protect the
public,
not just the Hammerheads. A wrongful death would destroy everything that Ian
Hardcastle had worked so long to achieve. He couldn’t attack this guy without
positive I.D. no matter what he was doing, no matter what the potential threat.
He had to be sure . . .

 
          
“Tell
Two-One to intercept and identify that bastard,” Becker ordered. “Tell the F-16
to break off the attack and stand by.”

 
          
“Trap
One, Trap One, disengage and clear,” Mink called over the radio. On interphone
she said, “F-16 is climbing . . . he’s clear.” Seconds later they heard a
rolling rush of sound, then a sharp BOOM that rattled the windows of the
command center as the sonic wave swept over the platform.

 
          
“I
want a standard intercept, light signals and warning flares,” Becker shouted.
“Get on his ass, get a light in his cockpit but don’t attack until he sees your
FOLLOW ME
lights. Is that clear?”

 
          
“Two-One
copies. I’m turning and moving into position. My lights are on him and he’s not
responding.”

 
          
“Thirty
seconds to arrival.”

 
          
“Two-One
has radar lock . . . Two-One has missile lock. Am I clear to engage?”

 
          
“Get
beside him, Two-One,” Becker ordered. “Close to gun range. Try a warning shot
...”

 
          
“I
can see the platform, Becker,” the pilot called out. “He’s heading right for
the platform. He’s too close, I’ve got a missile lock. Am I clear to engage?”

 
          
“Hold
your fire. Get beside him. Make him turn away ...”