Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (16 page)

 
          
“Roger,
Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, I have your request, contact Bay Approach now on
one-three-five point four. Break. Aircraft on the three-zero-zero degree
radial, twelve DME fix from Oakland VOR, be advised, you are entering San
Francisco Class B and Oakland Class C airspace without a clearance, and you
have entered the thirty-mile Mode C veil without a Mode C readout. Remain clear
of Class B and C airspace and contact Bay Approach on one-two- seven point
zero. Acknowledge.”

 
          
Henri
Cazaux laughed. “Oh, this is
perfect
,
perfect!” he cackled.

 
          
“We
coulda gotten killed, you crazy motherfucker,” Krull said, shaking his head.

 
          
“Mr.
Krull, our death warrants were signed the second I heard that Air Force pilot’s
voice on the radio,” Cazaux said, stone-serious. “He wants revenge, and he is
willing to ruin his career in order to get it. We are fighting for our lives.”
Then, just as quickly as it had gone away, the broad smile was back. “And if I
am fortunate, I will take a few American citizens out with me before we die.”

 
          
With
that, he turned the LET L-600 back toward
San Francisco
and began another descent, aiming right for
the international airport itself.

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01, radar contact, ten miles southwest of Travis Air Force Base,” the
military air defense controller SIERRA PETE reported. Through a massive
communications and radar relay network, military controllers from southern
California
could talk to and track on radar all
military interceptors anywhere. “You should have been relayed instructions for
landing at Beale, sir. Are you experiencing difficulty?”

           
“Negative, SIERRA FETE,” Vincenti
replied. “Who’s the senior director tonight? John? Marie?”

 
          
“This
is Colonel Berrell, Al,” John Berrell responded, cutting in on the Weapon
Control Team channel. “I’m the SD, and Bravo is on the floor as well.” Bravo
was the code name for the deputy director of the Southwest Air Defense Sector,
Navy Captain Francine Tellman. “What in hell are you doing? I ordered you to
land at Beale for a debriefing.”

 
          
“John,
I want permission to engage Cazaux’s plane over the bay,” Vincenti said.

 
          
“Say again,
Foxtrot Romeo?”

 
          
“You
heard me, John,” Vincenti said in a calm, even voice. “Cazaux’s driving
directly at San Francisco International. He’s flying right into the path of the
arriving and departing traffic—he made one airliner almost do a backflip trying
to avoid a midair. I believe he’s got another load of explosives on board that
cargo plane, and that he’s going to drop them somewhere—on the city, on the
airport, I don’t know where. I’ve got a judy on him, about thirteen miles north
of SFO. He crosses the
Bay
Bridge
into
San Francisco
Bay
in about one minute. I want permission to
bring him down as soon as he crosses the
Bay
Bridge
. Over.”

 
          
“Al,
I can’t upchannel that,” Berrell said. “I know how much you want Cazaux ...”

 
          
There
was silence for a moment; then, a woman’s voice came on the channel: “Foxtrot
Romeo-01, this is Bravo.” Vincenti recognized Francine Tellman’s cutting,
no-nonsense voice immediately. “I’m
ordering
you to land at Beale Air Force Base immediately. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”

 
          
“If
you want Henri Cazaux, Francine, I can take him. Just give me permission.”

 
          
“You’ve
got your
orders,
Foxtrot Romeo-01.
Comply with them or I’ll court-martial you the minute you step off that plane.
And you had better start using proper radio procedures.”

 
          
“Francine,”
Vincenti said, ignoring her last request, “he tried to ram an airliner, and now
he’s headed right for the stream of arrivals into SFO.”

 
          
“I
can
see
that, Vincenti, we’re
tracking him as well,” Tellman said. Obviously she gave up trying to use proper
radio discipline as well. “I also know that
you
've
violated almost as many federal air regulations as Cazaux has. Bay and
Travis TRACON and
Oakland
Center
are screaming bloody murder about you
blasting through their airspace. Now get the hell out of there and land at
Beale.” There was a slight pause, then she added,
“Please.
”

 
          
Vincenti
alternately loosened and tightened his grip on the control stick. This was the
turning point, he thought. He was still outside San Francisco Class B airspace,
and he could easily climb above eight thousand feet to get above the airspace
to stay legal. If Cazaux tried something, he’d still be in a position to act.
He considered doing the old “radio-out” routine—go radio-out, squawk emergency,
then turn everything back on when Cazaux was safely away from traffic—and as
long as he stuck to his story they’d have to believe him. But either way, Henri
Cazaux would be getting away with murder. “I can’t do it, Francine,” Vincenti
said.

 
          
“Cut
the crap, Vincenti,” Tellman hissed angrily. “Stay out of the Class B airspace.
That’s an
order.
Don’t trash a long
and successful career because of Cazaux. You did your job. Break off your
pursuit,
now.
If there’s another
incident because of you busting into B airspace, I won’t be able to keep you
out of
Leavenworth
.”

 
          
Vincenti
swore loudly into his oxygen mask. Cazaux was about twenty miles ahead of him,
flying just north of
Treasure
Island
. In less
than a minute he’d be over the
San Francisco
Bay
Bridge
. He could turn right and be over the city
of
San
Francisco
in another minute, or over the
Golden Gate
Bridge
in three minutes; or continue straight
ahead for four minutes and be over
San Francisco
International
Airport
. It was like watching a tornado move across
a prairie, not knowing which way it was going to go, praying it would go one
way but not the other.

 
          
“Vincenti.
. . Al,” Tellman tried once more, “break off your pursuit,
now.
”

 
          
“Damn
you all to
hell,
” Vincenti muttered
as he shoved in full afterburner and pulled the nose skyward. In sixty seconds,
he was level at eighty-five hundred feet, above the San Francisco Class B
airspace and on the proper hemispheric altitude for his direction of flight. He
was flying above the city of
Richmond
and barreling toward
Oakland
when Cazaux crossed the
Bay
Bridge
, heading directly for
San Francisco
. On his backup VHF radio, he called, “Bay
Approach, Foxtrot Romeo-01 on one-two-seven point zero, F-16 active air
intercept, level eight thousand five hundred, ten miles north of Oakland VOR,
requesting Class B clearance, vectors to intercept unidentified aircraft
crossing west of the Bay Bridge, and requesting speed to four-zero-zero knots,
over.”

 
          
“Foxtrot
Romeo-01, Bay Approach, unable your request,” the air traffic controller
responded. “I don’t show you as an active air intercept—I’ll have to check with
your air defense sector people. Squawk four-three-zero-zero, maintain present
course and altitude, remain clear of San Francisco Class B airspace. Break.
United Three-Seventy- Two, turn left heading one-five-zero and slow to your
approach speed for separation. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner- Niner, keep your speed
up, sir, traffic at your seven o’clock, three miles, an unidentified aircraft,
altitude unknown ...”

 
          
The
stress in the controller’s voice was painfully obvious, and Vincenti knew why.
As soon as he heard a break, Cazaux interjected, “Approach, my target is that
unidentified aircraft, and I’ve got him tied on radar. Let me intercept him and
I’ll try to get him out of your arrival pattern, over.”

 
          
“Several
aircraft talking at once, everyone please
shut
up
and listen,” the irritated controller said. “Foxtrot Romeo-01, I said
unable,
maintain your present course and
stay clear of the Class B airspace. Delta Fourteen, turn left heading
two-zero-zero, descend to five thousand, vectors for VOR runway one-niner left
arrival. United Eight-Twenty- Two, descend and maintain six thousand ...”

 
          
It
was impossible to cut through the rapid-fire controller’s instructions.
Vincenti thought about doing a rapid descent and dropping right on Cazaux’s
tail, but now it was far too dangerous—the closer Cazaux was to San Francisco
International, the more aircraft he was mixing around, and the harder it would
be to stay away from the traffic.

 
          
Well,
he had done at least part of what he was ordered to do—stop the pursuit—but he
wasn’t ready to give up on Henri Cazaux. Vincenti still had an hour of fuel to
bum,
₍
and plenty of suitable bases nearby to choose from. Better
wait up here, clear of all the traffic and confusion, and watch to see what the
maniac Cazaux had in mind.

 
          
On
his backup radio—no use in listening to Francine , Tellman and the rest of the
Southwest Air Defense Sector yell at him—he switched over to
San Francisco
Tower
and set up an orbit above the Class B
airspace so he could watch Cazaux on radar. He felt completely useless,
orbiting thousands of feet above his prey, but there was absolutely nothing he
could do except listen to the horrible tragedy un- I fold below him.

 
          
“Unidentified
aircraft over the
port
of
San
Francisco
, this is
San Francisco
Tower
on GUARD,” the frantic tower controller
radioed on the VHF emergency frequency. “You have entered Oakland Class C
airspace without proper radio callup, and you are on course to enter San
Francisco Class B airspace without a clearance. There are numerous aircraft
departing
San
Francisco
at your
twelve o’clock
position.”

 
          
The
controller tried a different tactic: he decided to assume that the pilot of the
aircraft was in trouble—perhaps it was the wife flying after her husband had a
heart attack, or a kid had stolen a plane to go for a joyride and was aiming
for the biggest airport he could see. No use trying to threaten him or
her—better to offer plenty of options while protecting the airspace and the
legitimate aircraft already in it.

 
          
“You
must execute a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and fly away from
San Francisco
because there are a lot of very big
airliners in your vicinity and you could get hurt,” the controller said, trying
hard to control his anxiety and anger. “If you can hear me, it is important
that you turn around and head back towards the
north bay
or toward
Sacramento
, right now. You don’t have to reply, just
turn away from
San Francisco
until we can get some of these planes out of your way, and then we can
help you get oriented . . . TWA Five-Eighty-One, roger, report the outer
marker. .. Unidentified aircraft flying over the Seagram’s sign heading towards
San Francisco Airport, you
must
turn
away right now . . . American Three-Seventy-Two, traffic alert, two o’clock,
altitude unknown, NORDO aircraft in Class B airspace, stay with me until you’re
clear and be prepared to maneuver... Delta Four-Twenty-Two, I can’t give you
that, we’ve got NORDO VFR traffic in the area, unless you declare an emergency
I’m going to have to send you back to FAITH intersection for the ILS ...”