“Now you’re talking, lady,” Lofstrom said on the scrambled phone link. “Lassen, get your choppers airborne and spread out across his flight path. If this works, he’ll be forced to head westbound and eat up more fuel, and we can nail him in California.”
“Agent Lofstrom, the suspect is carrying a planeload of explosives, and I think the last thing you want to do is steer him over any populated areas,” Agent Lassen radioed in. “I recommend either getting him to land at an isolated airfield in the Sierras or shooting him down over the Sierras. If he flies over Sacramento, or Stockton, or San Jose, or San Francisco, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“I agree,” Captain Tellman said. “Tactically, keeping him over sparsely populated areas is better because it gives our pilots more options.”
“Listen, I’m all in favor of seeing the man blown out of the sky,” Lofstrom said. “I’ll throw a fucking party for you if you do it. But just letting him orbit over the Sierras, hoping he’ll dump his cargo, or forcing him to crash-land in the Sierras, means he’ll have a chance to get away. It’ll take a half a day to send our search teams up into the hills to be ready to pick him up — there’s no time for that. Cazaux’s an expert in mountain survival — he could survive for weeks up there. Have the fighters corral him into the hands of our choppers and SOG units in the valley. In case he jumps I’ll get State working on a cross-border or joint capture with Mexico — the taco-crunchers owe Cazaux plenty over the years. You know, I think we got the bastard now.”
Cazaux completed a steep right bank as the Stork searched out the cockpit windows in the direction of the turn. Krull searched out the windows in the entry door for any sign of pursuit. Instead of turning left back to course, Cazaux made another unexpected bank to the right, hoping to catch their pursuers. But the darkness was absolute— not even the stars were shining anymore. Cazaux eased the L-600 back on course, then accomplished another fast turning maneuver. “I don’t see them anymore,” Taddele “Stork” Korhonen said cross-cockpit to Cazaux. “The light has disappeared.”
“They obviously discovered their error,” Cazaux said. “Whoever it was, they could be heading back to base.”
“Or they could be right on our butts,” Jefferson “Krull” Jones observed. “What are you gonna do, man?”
“I need not do anything,” Cazaux said. “We will either die when they open fire on us or we will be allowed to continue. But I don’t think they have the stomach for a fight. They will follow us and try to capture us when we land.” “So you got something planned for them at the landing zone, Captain?” Krull asked.
“That will be a surprise, Krull,” Cazaux said. “Right now, I want you to—”
Suddenly a flash of blue-orange light erupted just a few feet away from the right side of the LET L-600, and the loud, unmistakable brrrrrr! of a high-speed, heavy-caliber cannon could be heard over the roar of the engines. They saw another tongue of fire flash, causing a stroboscopic effect that froze the L-600’s right propellers; then, an impossibly bright white searchlight flashed directly into Cazaux’s face. All three men on the flight deck of the L-600 were instantly blinded. The searchlight began to blink in rapid flashes of three, followed by a pause, then another group of three flashes, a pause, then a third group of three — the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization) signal that an armed interceptor aircraft is following you.
“Attention on the aircraft under my searchlight, this is the United States Air Force,” a female voice came over the radio on the emergency GUARD channel. “You are surrounded by two armed U.S. military fighter aircraft. By order of the U.S. Department of the Treasury and the U.S. Justice Department, immediately turn right to a heading of two-four-zero and lower your landing gear. If you do not comply, you will be fired upon. Acknowledge immediately. Over.”
“They were on our tail the whole time!” the Stork yelled. He instinctively tried to bank away from the F-16 that was so close to his front windscreen, but Cazaux held the controls firm. “What do we do? What should we do?”
“Get a grip, Stork,” Cazaux ordered, pushing the Ethiopian’s hands away from the control yoke. He quickly shut off the aircraft’s transponder, the radio device that transmitted standard identification and tracking data to FAA air traffic control — no use in trying to pretend they were a regular flight anymore. “We are not going to surrender to the authorities. Never! I will not give them the satisfaction.” The cannon on the F-16 flashed again near the right windscreen, and the searchlight pierced the darkness of the L-600’s cockpit. Cazaux’s eyes had just gotten readjusted to the darkness, and the hot white light was painful this time. “Attention on the L-600, this is your last warning.”
“No!” Cazaux shouted. “Fuck you, bitch!”
“Lower your landing gear immediately!” the female voice shouted once again on the GUARD radio channel. “This is your final warning!”
“Look out!” Korhonen shouted. The glare of the F-16’s searchlight revealed how close they were getting to the mountains ahead — they could see the tops of trees in the glare of the fighter’s position and anticollision lights. They had been forcing him lower and lower toward the rising terrain, he realized. He would be forced to use more power, and more fuel, to climb over the terrain, or be diverted left or right around it. Every minute he wasted on these unplanned maneuvers was another minute farther from his objective.
“Bastards!” Cazaux shouted. “You want me, you take me — but I will take you to hell with me!” And at that, Cazaux threw the LET L-600 into a steep right turn into the F-16 fighter.
Not surprisingly, the F-16 effortlessly dodged away — his maneuver was totally expected. They were toying with him, Cazaux realized, a very real cat-and-mouse game. That hard turn probably cost him his scheduled landing in Mexico. If Cazaux was correct about their position, he knew that the terrain was rising much faster to the left, and a turn in that direction might be fatal. He had no choice — he had to turn right and climb.
“You are not going to make it to your destination, mister!” the female Air Force pilot radioed. “Federal agents are in helicopters all the way from here to the Mexican border waiting to pick you up when you land, and there are more fighters and radar planes on their way to track you, so flying low won’t help you. Your best option is to follow me and surrender.”
Korhonen and Jones were staring at Cazaux, worried. The powerful searchlight on the F-16 revealed every tension line, every quivering muscle in the terrorist’s face. For the first time, they saw real despair in that face, like a wild animal caught in a trap. “What you gonna do, Captain?” Jones asked him.
“What can I do? I need time to think!” Cazaux snapped. “I try to tell myself that they will not open fire, that they will not shoot this plane down, but I am not so sure now. It’d be too easy for them to make a convenient ‘mistake,’ and this countryside is sparse enough that they wouldn’t endanger anyone if they send this plane crashing into the ground. I need time to think.” He paused for a few moments, his fingers nervously massaging the well-worn horns of the control yoke; then he turned the LET L-600 farther right, pulled off a notch of power and, to the Stork’s surprise, lowered the landing gear and turned on all the exterior lights.
“What are you doing, Captain?” the Stork shouted over the roar of the gear in the slipstream.