“I sure hope you’re right, Captain,” Jones said, sitting back into the spot he had picked out in a comer of the cockpit. “And if you ain’t, I don’t want to know about it. I just hope it’s over fast.”
When the target’s altitude dipped below the hemispheric altitude for his direction of flight, Vincenti became concerned. When his altitude dipped below the IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) minimum safe altitude in this area, he was more concerned — and when it drifted to within a few hundred feet of the rapidly rising terrain ahead, Vincenti was positive that they had been discovered. A quick S-tum to McKenzie’s portside confirmed it: her big ID light was on full bright. The target must’ve seen the light and was attempting to descend into the mountainous terrain ahead.
Their Special-9 covert intercept was blown. Well, no use in embarrassing McKenzie. Vincenti keyed his mike button: “Foxtrot Romeo, station check.”
“I’ll make the call when I’m ready, Two, just stand by.”
“Foxtrot Romeo lead, I recommend a station check. I’m complete.”
“Later, Al. Stand by.”
She wasn’t taking the hint. He had no choice: “Lead, I’m on your left wing. Check your damn switches!”
The ID light went out immediately this time — Vincenti could almost feel her exasperation at her mistake, now that she realized what the target was doing and why. A few moments later, just as Vincenti was worrying about whether or not she was going to do something about the new development, he heard McKenzie on the command radio. “SIERRA PETE, this is Foxtrot Romeo. I believe the target aircraft got a visual on us. He has descended very close to the terrain in this area. Request further instructions.” The weapons controller replied with a simple “Stand by, Foxtrot Romeo,” and McKenzie and Vincenti were left with their thoughts and doubts as they closed in on the target.
“How in hell did they see the fighters closing in on them in the middle of the night?” Charles Lofstrom, Deputy Director and Chief of Operations for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, thundered over the phone. In the fifteen minutes since the F-16 fighters had been scrambled against Cazaux, the BATF, the Marshals Service, the Air Force, and the FAA were on a conference call, and Colonel Berrell had just finished briefing the conference members on the status of the chase. “I’ve worked with night intercepts before — done properly, the pursuer can close to within a few dozen yards without the suspect realizing a thing.”
“It doesn’t matter how it happened — it happened,” U.S. Marshal Collins Baxter of the Eastern District of California interjected. “The problem is, the possibility exists that Cazaux knows he’s being tailed.”
“Let’s shoot the bastard down, then,” Agent Lofstrom said irritably. “I can get a warrant.”
“We can't shoot him down, and that’s that,” Captain Tellman said. “I thought this was explained to you, Lofstrom.”
“I know what you said, Captain, but I also know that I got a federal judge that will give me a warrant ordering you to take all necessary actions to stop Cazaux from escaping.” “A federal judge can’t compel the Air Force to do anything, especially kill someone. If such a warrant existed, and if you asked me to follow its instructions, I would turn it over to my superior officer for evaluation, who I’m sure would turn it over to his superior… you get my drift, Lofstrom? I suggest you try a different approach.”
Tellman’s statement of the obvious infuriated Lofstrom, but he decided that trying a different approach might not be a bad idea: “I don’t mean shoot him down, as in terminate him,” Lofstrom said. “What I meant was, scare him. Fire across his flight path, something like that.”
“Agent Lofstrom, as I explained to you earlier, the only way our pilots are authorized to fire their weapons is to kill someone,” Tellman said, shaking her head in exasperation. “We don’t try to scare anyone by spraying the skies with twenty-millimeter shells.”
“You do it in the Navy — you know, a shot across the bow.”
“Only when we know precisely and absolutely that no one is in the way when the shell splashes down,” Tellman explained. “Racing across north-central California at three hundred miles an hour and ten thousand feet in the air, there’s no way of knowing who’s under those rounds. And this would be done at night, at close quarters. We can’t take the risk.”
“You can’t take the risk? What about my agents? What about the innocent victims at that airport? Christ, it’s not Santa Claus we’re chasing!” Lofstrom exclaimed. “Lady, Henri Cazaux is probably responsible for killing more human beings in the past three years than your precious Navy has since Vietnam.”
“All the same, Lofstrom,” Tellman said, “I won’t put my forces in a situation where they may have to do that. Law enforcement should have gotten the suspect on the ground, alive. My interceptors can’t do the job for you in the air.” “Then the suspect gets away with murder,” Lofstrom said angrily, “and I won’t allow that to happen. Six of my best agents died tonight, Captain Tellman, and I want Cazaux to pay for what he did. Your planes are in a position to do that — and I want some action!”
“Look, this argument is getting us nowhere,” Timothy Lassen said via his portable scrambled phone from the parking ramp at Chico Airport, where his Black Hawk helicopter had set down — the open ramp was the only part of the airport not substantially damaged. “We’ve got the Air Force interceptors trailing the suspect, and he’s got to come down sometime. It’s doubtful if he has the fuel reserves to make it all the way into Mexico, but if he does, let’s get DEA and the State Department on the horn and get permission to do a joint capture. We set up a helicopter relay for his route of flight, and we keep the Air Force fighters on the suspect’s tail, augmented with Customs trackers and anyone else that can help. We send the helicopters down to recover the guns if he tries to drop them, and we’ll know his exact location if he tries to land.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Lofstrom said. “It takes time to set up a relay system, and days to coordinate with the Mexican government for law-enforcement support.” “Cazaux will be airborne for at least two, and more likely three hours,” Lassen said. “I’ve already got the California Air National Guard alerted, and I’ve got access to all the helicopter support I need. We can get permission for the choppers to cross state lines.”
“So how in hell are your choppers in California going to chase down a fixed-wing flying over Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico?” Lofstrom asked. “Unless they’re right in Cazaux’s flight path, they won’t be able to catch up, even if they launched right this second. We’ve got to get Cazaux turned away from Mexico if we want any chance of nailing him — and the best thing we’ve got right now is the Air Force. Those pilots have got to turn Cazaux westbound. Even if he just slows him down or gets him to make a few turns or descend, it’ll disorient him and may give us a chance to surround him. If he tries to fight out of the trap, we can legally blast him out of the sky and be done with all this nonsense,” Lofstrom said to Tellman. “So how about it, Captain? Can your hotshot pilots force Cazaux to turn or descend? You say your pilots can’t safely fire a few shots across his bow — I say they can. Crowd him so he’s forced to turn away…?”
“We don’t have procedures for any of that, Agent Lofstrom,” Tellman replied. She thought about it for a moment, checking the aircraft’s position, then: “However, at the target’s present position, I think our crews may be able to safely fire their cannon without endangering themselves, the suspect, or anyone on the ground. I can pitch the idea to NORAD and Air Combat Command and get a response in a few minutes.”