“Give those choppers full priority, SD,” Milford said as he studied the sudden flurry of aircraft over the capital and the surrounding area. “Get their tactical frequency from ‘Palisade,’ or use GUARD to vector them around Bandit-1 when they’re ready to—”
Then he stopped, and his jaw dropped open in surprise. Washington Approach and National Tower was clearing out the airspace around the city — inbound air traffic was stacking up as high as forty thousand feet in orbit areas all i around the Class B airspace — and Milford was mentally I dismissing the outbound flights… all but one… “My I God… Jesus, Maureen — Devil-03. He’s an F-16, isn’t 1 lie?”
“Devil…” The senior director had completely dis- U missed the flight from her mental catalog of aircraft around D.C. after the mission commander kicked him out of the airspace, but now it was coming back… She punched up his call sign and expanded her scope until she saw the blinking datablock: “God… Weapons One, you still got Devil-03? He’s three miles west of Nottingham.”
“I got him,” the weapons controller said.
“Take Devil-03 on — no, disregard, take him on GUARD channel, don’t bother with a discrete channel. Maybe whoever is flying Bandit-1 will hear what’s going on and get the hint.”
“I got him, I got him,” First Lieutenant Ed Flynn, flying the Weapons One control station, repeated excitedly. He switched his radio to 121.5, the GUARD international emergency channel, and radioed, “Devil-03, this is Leather Control on GUARD, how do you read?” To himself, Flynn and everyone else on that AW ACS radar plane were praying that the pilot of Devil-03 would respond…
… and Vincenti was praying that someone would call, him, because air traffic control or anyone at Andrews Air Force Base command post was not taking his radio calls. He had been trying frantically to contact someone, anyone, and offer his assistance ever since he heard the air defense emergency declared. “Leather Control, this is Devil-03 on GUARD, I read you loud and clear, how me?”
“Devil, I need you to turn left to a heading of two-niner- five and descend and maintain three thousand feet, right now, acknowledge.”
Vincenti had racked his F-16 ADF into a tight, seven-G turn and was on the new heading in three seconds. H$ began feeding in throttle until he was at full military power. “I’m on your heading, Leather,” Vincenti reported. “Is this a vector to the bandit?”
“That’s affirmative,” the controller replied, trying to keep his breathing and voice as normal as he possibly could. “Your bandit is one o’clock, forty miles low. I need your best speed to the intercept, Devil, what can you give me?”
Checking his fuel gauge, Vincenti made a quick mental calculation, then turned the throttle past the detent and clicked in zone 3 afterburner. The airspeed gauge slowly eased upward, the Mach meter hovering very close to 1.0, the speed of sound. “That’s it, Leather,” Vincenti said. “Are we going over to tactical frequency?”
“Negative, Devil,” another, slightly older voice cut in. “No time for that now — besides, I want our bandit to hear all this. Devil, we believe your target is a Boeing 747. It may be painted to resemble a VC-25 or some other VIP aircraft, but it is not, I repeat, it is not a VC-25. This has been verified by numerous independent sources. It is not carrying any VIPs or any government officials — it is believed to be carrying hostiles. We are tracking a second aircraft south of the capital, slow-moving, tracking toward the capital. Whoever they are, they have not responded to our radio calls to turn away from Class B airspace. Both aircraft are definitely hostile. I want you to keep both aircraft away from the entire area, but especially Prohibited Areas P-56, Washington-National and Dulles airports. Your priority is Bandit-1 west to the north; we have other interceptors inbound that might be able to catch the guy to the south. Take Bandit-1 west or north if you can do a visual intercept on them; take Bandit-2 south. Are you familiar with the prohibited areas, Devil?”
“Affirmative,” Vincenti responded. P-56A and — B was prohibited airspace over The Mall and the U.S. Naval Observatory.
Vincenti checked his weapons status, which was a joke. He carried no weapons or ammunition, just videotape for the gun camera. At least I’ll get some great pictures of the chase, Vincenti thought wryly. Of course, maybe the bandit is really radio-out, or maybe a passenger is flying the thing and can't answer, or maybe he'll turn away when he sees me or he 'll give it all up and follow me out of the area.
Just then, a large yellow MASTER CAUTION light illuminated on Vincenti’s eyebrow panel, and he heard a female voice on interphone saying, “BINGO… BINGO… BINGO.” It was a reminder that he had enough fuel to get back to Atlantic City. Plenty of airfields out here, he thought. No way Pm turning back. But it was a bad sign. At afterburner power, he was burning fuel at fifty thousand pounds per hour — he was going to be running on fumes very soon.
“Devil, your bandit is one o’clock, thirty miles low.”
There were lots of radar targets out there — dozens of planes were stacked up over Washington-National and Dulles — but only one at that azimuth and range. Vincenti locked the radar blip up, using the F-16 ADF’s IFF interrogator to see if the target was transmitting any air traffic control codes or signals — nothing. This had better not be. another fucking hot dog TV show crew, Vincenti said to himself. “Devil-03, judy,” he reported to the AW ACS controller.
The fire control computer put the bandit at two thousand feet, just a few hundred feet above ground. His ground- speed was 360 knots and his closure speed was 250 knots. He was going to intercept the bandit only about ten miles north of the capital, so he nudged the throttle to zone 5 afterburner. The airspeed indicator went over 1.0. There was no sddden sound as he broke the speed of sound, no jolt, no vibration, nothing except the ground was going by real damned fast. “One o’clock, twenty-eight miles.”
‘That’s your bandit, Devil,” the controller said.
“Control, Devil, say my engagement instructions again for this target,” Vincenti radioed. He thought he’d try a little gamesmanship here — hopefully the crew of that plane would get spooked and turn around. “Your last instructions to me were to keep this bandit clear of P-56 and Washington-National Airport. No matter what I hear on the radio, even if they claim to be an authorized TV crew on assignment, am I clear to engage at will? Over.”
“That voice sounds familiar,” another voice came on the frequency. “Do we know each other, Devil? Have we met?”
The voice sent chills down Vincenti’s spine. It's him, he thought. Shit — it’s Cazaiuc. It was the same voice he heard over Sacramento before Linda was killed. It’s Cazaiuc. He's on board that fake Executive-One-Foxtrot. Vincenti keyed the mike button: “Cazaux, this is Lieutenant Colonel — this is A1 Vincenti, the partner of the pilot you killed over Sacramento. Remember me?”
“Who can ever doubt the existence of the Fates now, I ask you?” Cazaux asked with laughter in his voice. “There are indeed mysterious forces at work, Colonel Vincenti, that have put us back together once again. But aren’t you the one that is supposed to be keeping the skies safe from men like myself, dear Colonel?”
Vincenti was going to reply, but the MASTER CAUTION light snapped on again, and he saw a FUEL indication in his heads-up display. This time the caution light said AFT FUEL LOW, meaning that the fuel quantity in the aft reservoir tank had dropped below four hundred pounds. It would run dry in just a few moments if he stayed in afterburner power. When the FWD FUEL LOW light came on, he had about two minutes of fuel remaining before they flamed out — perhaps only about twenty or thirty seconds in afterburner power. A normal landing would be impossible if he stayed in afterburner power. He ignored it and keyed the mike: “I’m not going to warn you again, Cazaux. You will turn westbound, lower your landing gear, and head west or north, right now, or I’ll blow you out of the fucking sky. This time I won’t hesitate. I’ve got plenty of reasons to flame your ass, Cazaux. Do it, or you die. That’s my final warning.”