Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (66 page)

 
          
“Copy,”
the communications officer responded. A second later he responded, “SMOC on
button four, SD. Call sign ‘
Midnight
.’ ”

 
          
“Thanks.”

 
          
“Hey,
who’s that?”
Milford
asked. He had flipped over to the
Washington
,
D.C.
, sector radar display, where a large electronic arrow was pointing at a
low-flying, fast-moving radar target flying right through the middle of D.C.,
just a few miles from the Capitol. “Jesus,
who
is that?
Who gave him clearance to fly down there?”

 
          
“Washington
Approach has him, sir,” Tate reported after checking with the Comm section.
“It’s an F-16 from
Atlantic City
, Devil Zero-Three. Looks like he’s on a Beltway tour.”

 
          
“Who
gave him
that?”

 
          
“Washington
Approach cleared him, sir,” Tate responded. “
National
Tower
is talking with him too. He’s VFR.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe it, I just don’t believe it,”
Milford
said angrily. “Two days ago we were ready
to blow planes like that out of the sky twenty, thirty miles away—now we’re
letting them fly practically up to the front door of the White House. And he’s
not even under a proper flight plan! What are we doing up here if ATC keeps on
clearing guys to cruise around anywhere they want? Are we supposed to be able
to stop this guy if he turns out to be a terrorist?”

 
          
Milford
switched his comm panel to Washington
Approach’s direct phone line. The reply came: “Washington Approach,
Poole
.”

 
          
“Mr.
Poole, this is Major Milford, aboard Leather Niner- Zero, the radar plane
assigned to your sector,”
Milford
responded. “You’ve got a Devil-03 flying VFR through the center of
National’s Class B airspace—I’d like him out of there as soon as possible.”

 
          
“Any
particular reason, Major?”

 
          
“Any
particular
reason
. . .
?
Sir, we’re in the middle of an air
defense
emergency
/”
Milford
shouted, trying to keep his composure on
the landline. “The FAA may have taken down the special flight restrictions and
approach funnels; but we’re still responsible for stopping possible terrorist
aircraft from entering Class B airspace. It really complicates our job having
unauthorized VFR traffic flying through the middle of one of the most vital
airspaces in the country. Is that good enough for you, Mr. Poole, or do I need
to talk with the TRACON
supervisor?”           .

 
          
“All
right, all right, Major, I get the point,” the controller responded, clearly
exasperated at the threat but not wanting to make waves. “How about we give him
present position direct Nottingham direct Atlantic City International, and no
more Beltway tours unless we coordinate with you first?” “That sounds fine, Mr.
Poole, thank you,”
Milford
said. “Leather-90 out.” He punched off the phone line, stripped off his
headset, and wearily rubbed his eyes and face. “Man, what is it with these
controllers?” he murmured. “It seems like every one of them believes it’s not
going to happen to them, so they treat everything like situation-normal. I’m
sick and tired of FAA controllers giving these pilots anything they ask for,
and then us getting blamed when the pilot turns out to be a terrorist . . .
look, there’s another VFR flight, busting the Class B airspace.”
Milford
pointed at a new target just marked as
UNKNOWN by the Surveillance section. It was a slow-moving target flying
northwest toward Washington Executive Field or
Potomac
Airport
, traveling less than two miles per minute—a
light plane doing some sightseeing. “We ought to blow that guy away just as a
warning.”

 
          
“Executive-One-Foxtrot’s
been cleared to descend,” Tate reported. “He’s twenty miles northeast of
Pottstown VOR.” “He’s going to have to get his tail down if he wants to make
RONNY intersection by eight thousand,” one of the weapons controllers behind
Tate remarked as he watched the VC-25 make its descent. RONNY intersection,
fifty miles north of Andrews Air Force Base, was the usual turn- point for VIP
planes landing at Andrews—it gave the pilots a nice long straight-in approach,
with little traffic and few turns to disturb the passengers.

 
          
“Good
thing the President’s not on board,” another WC said. “I heard the Steel
Magnolia pitches a fit and tries to shit-can the whole flight crew if her ears
do so much as pop while she’s in Air Force One.”

 
          
“She’s
got bigger things on her mind these days ... like how to keep her and the
President from being indicted.” Everyone chuckled.

 
          
“There
he goes,” the first weapons controller reported, monitoring
Executive-One-Foxtrot’s data block and mentally calculating the descent rate by
watching the altitude readout. “He’s doing at least fifteen hundred feet a
minute in the descent. I think heads are going to roll tonight.”

 
          
“Just
everybody settle down and monitor the transponder changeover up here,” Tate
said. Before passing through ten thousand feet, Air Force VIP aircraft like
Executive-One- Foxtrot switched their transponders to a discrete code, usually
2222, used only in the terminal area to alert controllers so they can give the
plane expedited service. When the changeover occurred, the target usually
disappeared off the radarscreen for about twelve seconds until the new code was
picked up by the radar computers—if the controllers weren’t ready for the
changeover, they got very frantic and sometimes pushed the panic button.

 
          
Milford
went back and scanned his other four vital
sectors. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Air traffic had not returned
to normal by any means, but in the past few days travel at night had virtually
disappeared, and now it was making a comeback. Fewer restrictions on flight
routing, more controller discretion, and less reliance on published arrival and
departure procedures really helped to clear things up. That newcomer, the
slow-moving VFR flight that had originated somewhere in eastern Maryland, was
now over Nottingham VOR, still headed northwest— its course would take it south
of Andrews Air Force Base, but it was definitely on its way to busting the
Class B airspace. That idiot deserved to get his license pulled,
Milford
thought.

 
          
“Any
ID on that VFR flight out there, AS?”
Milford
asked the Airborne Surveillance section.

 
          
“Still
checking, MC.”

 
          
Jesus,
Milford
thought,
what an asshole.
The air defense emergency had not been officially
canceled, although the FAA did announce that flights were not required to
follow the special-arrival corridors into the nation’s busiest airports
anymore. It was also not hard to hide all of the long- range Patriot missile
sites being taken down all over the country.

 
          
“MC,
no IFF changeover on that Executive-One-Foxtrot flight.”

 
          
Milford
immediately flipped back to the Washington, D.C., Class B airspace radar
display and zoomed his presentation in, putting the VC-25 A on the top of the
scope and Andrews Air Force Base, the plane’s destination, on the bottom. His
heart immediately started to beat a bit faster. Executive-One-Foxtrot was at
RONNY intersection, inbound on the ILS approach to runway one-eight left,
passing through eight thousand feet—and still no transponder code changeover.

           
The crews flying those VIP jets never
made mistakes like that,
never.

 
          
The
next question was how to notify the crew of their omission. Although it was
certainly not required that the VC-25 crews change their transponder codes or
accept any expedited service, it was generally not a good idea for any of the
President’s jets to be delayed in the air, especially when the President was on
the road. But blabbing it on an open-frequency was probably not a politic idea,
either. Milford flipped his radio panel over to the 89th Air Wing’s Special Mission
Operations Center, the ones that were in constant contact with all of their VIP
planes: “Midnight, this is Leather-90 on SMOC common, over.”

 
          
“Leather-90,
this is 89th Wing SMOC, stand by.” There was a lengthy pause, probably so the
senior controller at Andrews could look up in his call-sign book to see who
“Leather” was. Then: “Go ahead, -90.”

 
          
“I’m
tracking your SAM-2800, Executive-One-Foxtrot, fifty-two miles north of ADW
inbound. Can you ask him to change over his IFF? Over.”

 
          
“Say
again, -90?”

 
          
“I
repeat, I am tracking Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound to ADW, and he has not
changed over his IFF to terminal procedure codes. Can you notify him to change
his transponder code? Over.”

 
          
There
was another slight pause, probably so the senior controller could ask the VC-25
crew if they were squawking the right code and to change it immediately if they
had forgotten.
Milford
watched his radar display, expecting the code to change at any moment .
. . but it did not. “Ah . . . Leather-90, sir, we can’t verify the location of
our SAM flights to you on this channel. You’ll have to contact us on a secure
landline or secure datalink. Over.”

 
          
“What
the hell is this guy talking about?”
Milford
muttered. “The whole friggin’ world knows
that this plane’s up there.” On the radio, he said, “Midnight, I’ve got a valid
military flight plan for SAM-2800 and an FAA ALNOT on Executive-One-Foxtrot,
IFR from Manchester, New Hampshire, to Andrews. He’s less than fifty miles
north of Andrews inbound for landing. He’s been airborne for well over an hour.
I think it’s a little late to play hide-and-seek games with this one. All I
want is to have him change over his IFF. Over.”

 
          
After
another interminable pause that was about to drive
Milford
nuts and had now gotten the attention of
the entire. AW ACS crew, the SMOC controller came back: “Leather- 90, I’ve been
directed to tell you by the senior controller here that there is no SAM-2800 or
Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound for landing at Andrews. All of our assets are
accounted for, and none are inbound to Andrews at this time. You have a faker
on your hands.”

 
          
Milford
felt the blood drain out of his face, and
his stomach muscles tensed so tightly that he felt as if he were going to throw
up. “Shit, shit,
shit,
” he cursed
loudly. On the radio, he shouted, “
Midnight
, are you sure?”

 
          
“I
can’t tell you on this channel where the VC-25s are, Leather,” the SMOC
controller said, “but I can tell you they’re not inbound to Andrews. All of our
other assets are nowhere near ADW. Closest one departed a half-hour ago,
destination
Langley
.”

 
          
“Damn
it, I can’t believe this,”
Milford
said. Tate and the * other weapon controllers were waiting for their
instructions—he had to act
now
...
“Comm, this is the MC, contact Washington Approach and Washington Center,
advise them we’re declaring an air defense emergency for the Bal-
timore-Washington Class B airspace. I need the airspace cleared out and
instructions issued to that 747 to stay out of Class B airspace. Surveillance,
MC, mark radar target P045Y as ‘unknown.’ Maureen, do we have anybody suited
up? Do we have a chance to get this guy?”