The copilot sputtered in his right seat, trying to contain his nervous laugh. Deddy had sweated completely through his shirt. He looked like he might get sick to his stomach at any moment as he glanced up at Chavez. This Habib guy had gotten into his head somehow.
The radio crackled to life, spewing what sounded like very angry Bahasa Indonesian.
“He is ordering me to return to Manado,” Deddy said.
“Tell him you’re unable,” Chavez said. “Tell him his shipment will remain intact, but you have a stop to make first. Tell him in English. Do it now.”
Deddy tentatively relayed the information. He released the mic and shook his head. “Habib is from Maluku. People from that island can be very rough. He is a pilot, but he is also — How do you say it? — an enforcer. If he had guns he would shoot us down right now.”
“Well, he doesn’t,” Adara said.
Chavez squeezed Deddy’s shoulder. He was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind. “We’ll be fine as long as you fly this airplane. Why are you so scared of this Habib character?”
Deddy took a deep breath. “He is my brother-in-law.”
“That’s good,” Adara said. “He won’t harm family, right?”
“He has never liked me,” Deddy said. “This will be a good excuse. Whatever happens, I am dead.”
Chavez wanted to say, That’s what you get for peddling the shit you have in the back of the plane, but he kept it to himself.
“One thing at a time, Deddy,” he said instead. “Worry about flying the plane for now. I don’t want to have to depend on Chuckles over there if I don’t have to.”
Chavez keyed the mic, transmitting on Guard — a frequency military and civilian aircraft alike would monitor. He spoke rapid-fire English using the hey-you-this-is-me pattern aviators and war-fighters understood.
“Justice One, Cheyenne. You have an ETA?”
The leader of two F-15 Eagles answered quickly. “Cheyenne, Justice One.” The pilot sounded young, maybe thirty, but probably not even that. Young and earnest. The mixture of cocky humility common to most pilots Chavez had ever encountered came through clearly in his voice. Just a kid, really, but an old soul, living his dream entrusted with a multimillion-dollar airframe over a dark and lonely ocean on the far side of the world. Chavez imagined him building models of F-15 Eagles a decade before. Hell, he was not likely much older than Chavez’s son in the great scheme of things.
“We’re four minutes, your position,” Justice One said. “Radar shows you have company.”
“Roger that, Justice,” Chavez said. The two fighter pilots knew they were to have picked up a high-value item in Manado, and now that item was with Ding and Adara. Chavez had been able to brief them on the threat of the Hawker without talking about Calliope on an open radio frequency.
The F-15 leader spoke again. “Cheyenne, squawk 1500 for me so I know who’s who.”
Chavez bumped the seat back until Deddy adjusted the transponder.
“Tally ho,” the flight leader said. “I have you. We’re three minutes…” He paused. “Tricky. The other aircraft just squawked 1500 as well, and then disappeared from my screen.”
Adara moved to look out the right window, then the left window, before turning to shake her head at Chavez. “I don’t see it.”
Chavez pointed up. “I think he’s flying above us.”
“Or below,” the younger Indonesian pilot said between nervous hiccups.
“That is not likely,” Deddy corrected his protégé. “Habib can still maintain distance and separation above us. Below, he would be blind.”
Chavez put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Keep her straight and level. And slow us down. That should make it more difficult for him to maneuver his jet.”
Deddy shook his head. “The Hawker is faster than us, but it can fly almost as slowly. And we are heavy with product.”
The F-15 came across the radio again. “Piper Cheyenne, Justice, your company is camped out on top of you about thirty meters. Are there any friendlies on board the Hawker?”
“That’s a negative, Justice,” Chavez said.
“Copy, Cheyenne,” the F-15 leader said. “Stand by… Hawker, Hawker, this is a United States Navy aircraft over international waters. You are endangering the lives of United States citizens. I order you to turn left ninety degrees immediately.”
In the aircraft world, immediately meant just that.
Justice One spoke again, a hint of the barrio in his accent now.
“Cheyenne, Justice One, are you familiar with a head-butt maneuver?”
“I am,” Chavez said.
“Stand by to see one up close.”
Chavez barely had time to explain to a sweating Deddy and his hiccupping copilot before the F-15 looped in front of the Cheyenne, cutting directly across the nose in full afterburner, flaring to display the array of missiles under the wings as it shot by. The roaring Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines shook the much smaller aircraft in a terrifying show of force.
“He’s sticking with you, Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said. “Rules of Engagement are crystal clear on this. Stand by to decrease throttle and break right on my mark, going for avoidance. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Wilco.” Chavez made sure Deddy understood the plan and then grabbed a handful of seat leather.
“Three… two… one… mark!”
Deddy did what he was told and banked the Cheyenne 60 degrees to the right. The G-force of the skidding turn felt as if it might drive Chavez’s feet through the cabin floor.
A moment later, Justice One crackled over the radio again. “No go, Cheyenne. He’s sticking tight with you. Too close for a shot with a Sparrow. The missile wouldn’t be able to differentiate.”
Chavez had thought about asking for the M61A1 Vulcan rotary cannon, but he didn’t like the image. The F-15 Eagle had to really put on the brakes to get back down to the speed of sound, and Chavez didn’t relish the idea of eating any stray 20-millimeter rounds when they came screaming by.
He was struck with a sudden idea. “Justice One, Cheyenne.”
“Yes, sir, go for Justice One.”
Damn, this kid is calm.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the F-15 pilot said. “I’m with you there. Stand by.”
Deddy gave Chavez a shaky thumbs-up to show he understood the plan.
Justice One gave the preparatory command to break right again on his mark, only this time, he gave it in Spanish.
Chavez began to translate — and it would have worked, had they not hit turbulence, causing the Hawker, still pancaked in tight above, to drop enough that her belly struck the horizontal stabilizer on top of the Cheyenne’s T-tail.
The plane lurched and began to dive.
Deddy pushed a button on his yoke, then followed up by turning a manual wheel forward of the middle console.
His voice was quiet. Taut. “They have damaged the pushrods that control the elevators. The trim tab will help some, but we must land. Now.”
“Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said, surprise evident in his voice. “Did the Hawker just collide with you?”
“Affirmative, Justice One,” Chavez said. “Good chance he damaged his landing gear.”
“He won’t need landing gear if you can give me separation. Can you still control the airplane?”