Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (44 page)

 
          
“—nail
him.”

 
          
“Admiral?”

 
          
Hardcastle
hesitated. It was he who headed the Pentagon staff that designed the air
defense parameters, not more than three days ago. A staff of over one hundred
had pored over charts and diagrams of the thirty-three largest airports in the
United States, deciding the safest and simplest way an airliner could approach
the airport in a hostile situation. In the short space of time they had to work
the problem, the staff had designed a plan that, even if a pilot screwed up
every possible rule in the book and did everything wrong, there was still a
margin of safety that would save a nonterrorist but still destroy a terrorist
before he got close enough to bomb a terminal.

 
          
Well,
that was theory, done on charts and diagrams and computers. This guy had busted
every rule, exceeded every parameter. He could not look more hostile unless he
was launching cruise missiles. He should have been dead sixty seconds ago, the
minute he turned into the F-16 ...

 
          
But
Hardcastle heard himself say, “Continue the intercept,” and all the planning
and all the theory went right out the window—as it usually does in situations
like this. “Get Approach Control and DFW Tower to divert all other flights. No
one approaches DFW until this is sorted out.” Kestrel breathed a sigh of relief
that could be heard over the roar of the engines in the AWACS’ cabin, and he
had every free technician on board AWACS calling the airliner.

 
          
Aboard an Airtech CN-235 Twin- Turboprop
Transport Northwest of
DFW
Airport

 
          
“Attention
all aircraft, air defense emergency in progress over Dallas-Fort Worth Airport,
stand by for divert instructions. Hazardous flight precaution, all aircraft, do
not approach closer than ten miles of the Dallas-Fort Worth VOR or you may be
fired upon without warning.” The message, broadcast on the tower frequency, was
repeated several times; then: “Airtech-75-Delta, turn right heading two-four-
zero, vectors clear of emergency airspace, sorry for the delay.”

 
          
“Right
to two-four-zero, Airtech-75-Delta,” the copilot of the Canadian-built Airtech
CN-235 turboprop transport plane replied. He switched frequencies and shook his
head, then laughed out loud. “Jesus, what a stupid motherfucker,” he said to
his pilot. “That guy’s going to get his ass shot off if he’s not careful.”

           
The pilot finished a long drag on
his marijuana joint, keeping the pungent smoke in his lungs for a full fifteen
seconds before letting it slowly trickle out. “Sounded like a raghead to me,”
the pilot said. “Serves him right.”

 
          
“So
what are we gonna do?” the copilot asked.

 
          
“What
the hell can we do? We bust that ten-mile ring, they’re liable to put a Hawk
missile in our face. Better make the turn.” The big transport plane turned
right and headed southwest.

 
          
“The
boss will be pissed if we don’t make this delivery,” the copilot fretted.
“We’re already late as it is.”

 
          
The
answer to that one came a few moments later: “Airtech-75-Delta, Dallas Airport
has just closed temporarily due to the air defense emergency,” the approach
controller told him. “I can give you vectors to Redbird or Meacham. Say
intentions.”

 
          
“Stand
by one,” the copilot radioed. Cross-cockpit, he said, “Oh shit, the boss is
going to skewer us. Now what?” The pilot was too stoned to care what happened
to him. He lazily shrugged his shoulders, enjoying the view. “Hell, we got the
gas—let’s head over to Meacham.”

 
          
But
as he glanced out the windows to his left, he saw an airport—and, to the west
of the airport, something that he had never seen before but had no trouble at
all recognizing. “I got an idea,” the pilot said, banking hard left toward the
airport and beginning a steep descent. “If we can’t make the delivery, we might
as well make a splash.”

 
          
Air
Defense
Battalion
MICC
Dallas-Fort
Worth
Airport
*

           
“Range eight milds and closing,”
Sergeant Pierini said aloud. “Tiger 111 Patriot battery reports confidence down
to 0.89. Tiger 112 Patriot battery confidence at 0.92, and Tiger 113 is 0.93.
Recommend degrading Patriot and committing HAWK batteries 131 and 132 to
engage.”

           
“Agree,” Captain Connor said.
“Uplink the engagement change to Tiger Control. Engagement status remains HOLD
FIRE.” The Patriot missiles at Carswell Air Force Base, Alliance Airport, and
Naval Air Station Dallas were still capable of destroying the airliner, but the
farther away and lower it flew, the less capable Patriot would be. Patriot
would still track the airliner, but now only the HAWK and Avenger missiles
would open fire if the order came.

 
          
That
order could come any second, Colonel Witt thought as the airliner continued to
drive toward DFW. “Even if the pilot of that thing isn’t a terrorist,” she said
half-aloud, “he
should
die in a huge
fireball, because he’s so stupid he shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

 
          
“Six
miles ... still have a HOLD FIRE command,” Connor reported. “Five-point-five
miles . .

 
          
“Stand
by batteries 131 and 132,” Witt said. She had reached up over Connor’s head and
was repeatedly mashing the battalion klaxon button, warning anyone within
earshot to get away from the launchers before a missile motor ignited in their
face. “Sarge, notify DFW security, tell them we may be launching.”

 
          
“Target
turning!” Connor suddenly shouted. “Unknown eighteen-track heading now
two-niner-zero, continuing turn to heading two-seven-zero, climbing through
three thousand feet.”

 
          
“Jesus,
that sonofabitch was lucky,” Witt exclaimed, feeling her heart pounding in her
chest. She took a deep breath, the first in what seemed like several minutes.
“I hope the feds bust that asshole just for taking five years off my life. Get
a poll of the battalion, Jim, and check—” Suddenly, one of the aircraft data
blocks on Connor’s radarscope began to blink. “Mike—what is that. . . ?”
Pierini caught it at the same moment: “Track ID 4Q121 made a sudden turn toward
Alliance Airport,” he reported. “He was on a vector heading from Dallas Tower
during the emergency . . . Tiger Control still showing him as a valid track. .
. now Tiger is making him an ‘UNKNOWN,’ sir, we’ve got an unknown, number 19,
three miles east of Alliance Airport, altitude rapidly decreasing, now less
than two thousand feet, airspeed two hundred knots . . . range two miles, still
closing, altitude one point five, still decreasing ..

 
          
“Jesus
. . Witt hurriedly changed to Tiger Control’s frequency and pulled her headset
microphone closer to her lips as she watched the radarscope: “Tiger Control,
this is 100,1 need an engagement command on unknown 19 blowing into Alliance,”
Witt radioed immediately to the AWACS radar plane. “He’s diving on Alliance
Airport, range less than two miles.”

 
          
“Lost
contact with Tiger-113,” Pierini shouted. “Datalink is down, switching to
landlines . . . hard lines down. No connectivity with Tiger-113.”

 
          
“What
the hell happened?” Witt cried. She turned to the VHF radio and tried that—no
response. “Shit, we lost everything. Check your systems and do a BIT test.” She
clicked on the UHF radio to the Air Force AWACS plane: “Tiger Control, this is
100, check connectivity with Tiger 113, datalink and connectivity lost at
Battalion MICC. Over.”

 
          
Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger-90

           
“I see it, I see it,” Kestrel said,
studying his radar display. The surveillance technicians had assigned an
unknown code 19 to the newcomer that had just blown past his approach clearance
into Dallas-Fort Worth, and now they had put a giant flashing arrow on the
radarscreen, pointing at UNK 19, to get his attention. He was silently kicking
himself for not seeing the guy turn toward Alliance Airport earlier, but he was
trying to watch a half-dozen major airports at once, and he had turned his
attention away from DFW once the Westfall plane had turned away. The tiny blue square
that marked the locations of the two Patriot missile batteries at Alliance
Airport was gone—not flashing, which would have indicated that the datalink was
down but the site was operational, but completely gone, as if it never had been
set up. “The Patriot site at Alliance went down. Todd, get one of the fighters
over there and have him take a look.”

 
          
As
if the fighter pilot had heard him, Kestrel heard, “Tiger Control, Tango
X-Ray-311, I’m about fifteen miles southeast of Alliance Airport, following the
727 airliner. I can see a lot of smoke and fire coming from Alliance Airport. I
see . . . Tiger, I think I see secondary explosions— yes, definitely secondary
explosions. I think one of the Patriot batteries went up.”

 
          
Kestrel
swore under his breath, then said, “Where are our unknowns, Senior Director?”

 
          
“One
unknown, target ID 18, ten miles east of Meacham Airport,” the Senior Director
responded. “One unknown, target ID 19, now two miles northwest of Alliance
Airport.”

 
          
“MC,
call from Meacham Tower, unknown 18 has requested clearance through the class D
airspace westbound, destination Will Rogers Airport.”

 
          
“Denied,”
Kestrel said. “I want Tango X-Ray-311’s wingman to intercept unknown 18, and
Tango X-Ray-31 l’s leader to intercept unknown 19. Comm, this is MC, I want—”

 
          
“MC,
target 19 turning right and descending . . . now heading zero-niner-zero,
altitude one thousand ...”

 
          
There
was no time to warn this guy, no time for an intercept or visual
identification. Kestrel wet his lips, prayed for a cigarette—but there was no
time for praying for anything. “MC, unknown 19 passing through heading one-two-
zero ...”

 
          
Kestrel
reached up and hit a button on his upper-left communications panel, marked
simply “B,” and said, “Tiger 100, Tiger, unknown target ID 19, batteries
released tight, I repeat, batteries released tight.”

 
          
Air Defense Battalion MICC,

           
Dallas-Fort
Worth Airport

 
          
The
Patriot fire control computer had already placed a blinking diamond symbol
around the red caret on the radarscreen marked
unk 19,
signifying that it was ready to attack the aircraft.
Captain Connor reached up to his upper instrument panel and hit a button,
activating a loud klaxon in the area of the Patriot missile launchers stationed
at Carswell Air Force Base and NAS Dallas. He checked and there was only one
blinking diamond on the screen—the Westfall airliner still had a diamond around
it, meaning the computer was tracking it as a hostile but was not yet prepared
to launch on it. He then pressed a switch on the lower-right corner of his
instrument panel marked
launch.

 
          
The
MICC computer had a choice—the target was within range of Tiger 111, the
Patriot site at Carswell AFB, and Tiger 136, a HAWK site at Dallas-Fort Worth
Airport— and it selected the northernmost Patriot battery at Carswell, launcher
number one. It took only five seconds for the order to be relayed via microwave
to the Engagement Control Center van at Carswell, which selected the proper
launcher, activated the first two missiles, dumped the initial targeting
information to the missiles’ guidance units, released the safeties, and fired
the solid rocket motor on missile number one. The first missile’s motor blew
out a protective fiberglass rear cover and shot a column of fire and smoke out
the back end of the boxlike launcher, and the missile’s quartz dielectric nose
cap pierced another fiberglass cover on the front of the missile canister as
the missile shot out of the launcher. The launch computer waited three seconds
for the first missile to clear the launcher and for the launcher to stop
shaking from the exhaust blast of the first missile before commanding the
second missile launch.