“Cactus Niner-Seventy-Three, traffic alert, pop-up target, ten o’clock, three miles, no altitude readout,” they heard the controller at Bay Approach call to another aircraft.
“Nine-Seventy-Three, searching, no joy,” the pilot of the Southwest Airlines commuter, a Boeing 737 airliner out of Oakland International, responded. The pilot sounded bored. Spurious radar targets caused by birds, fog, smog, or high humidity were common in this area. At night, airplanes had their lights on, and if it didn’t have lights on, it wasn’t an airplane. After all, who wanted to hit another plane in midair?
“There he is,” Cazaux said, pointing out the window, high and slightly to the right. The aircraft could not be identified as to type, but there was no missing it — it was ablaze in landing, recognition, position, and anticollision lights. The turbofan-powered airliner was much faster than Cazaux’s L-600, but he had the cutoff angle. Cazaux pulled back on the yoke and turned left, putting the LET L-600 directly on an intercept course, climbing above three thousand feet.
“Niner-Seven-Three, Bay Approach, traffic appears to be maneuvering, now at eleven o’clock, two miles.”
“Nine-Seventy-Three, still searching, no joy,” came the reply.
“He cannot see us,” Cazaux said. He reached down and flicked on his landing lights. “How about now?”
“Nine-Seventy-Three has contact on the traffic,” the commuter pilot radioed. “Say his altitude again?”
“Still no Mode C on your traffic,” the air traffic controller responded. “You should be passing in front of him.” “Not so fast,” Cazaux said. He turned farther left to increase the cutoff angle, maintaining his climb rate. “How about now?”
“Collision alert, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, turn thirty degrees right immediately!” the air traffic controller shouted over the radio. The commuter plane’s lights altered shape as the plane turned. Cazaux laughed as he imagined what the occupants on board that red-eye flight were experiencing — heads banging off shoulders and windows, necks creaking in pain, coffee splashing, flight attendants scrambling for balance.
“That bastard turned right into me!” the pilot of the commuter plane shouted, forgetting proper radio discipline. “Bay Approach, be advised, that guy turned right into me. I want his tail number and controller tapes!”
“Roger, Cactus Niner-Seven-Three, I have your request, contact Bay Approach now on one-three-five point four. Break. Aircraft on the three-zero-zero degree radial, twelve DME fix from Oakland VOR, be advised, you are entering San Francisco Class B and Oakland Class C airspace without a clearance, and you have entered the thirty-mile Mode C veil without a Mode C readout. Remain clear of Class B and C airspace and contact Bay Approach on one-two- seven point zero. Acknowledge.”
Henri Cazaux laughed. “Oh, this is perfect, perfect!” he cackled.
“We coulda gotten killed, you crazy motherfucker,” Krull said, shaking his head.
“Mr. Krull, our death warrants were signed the second I heard that Air Force pilot’s voice on the radio,” Cazaux said, stone-serious. “He wants revenge, and he is willing to ruin his career in order to get it. We are fighting for our lives.” Then, just as quickly as it had gone away, the broad smile was back. “And if I am fortunate, I will take a few American citizens out with me before we die.”
With that, he turned the LET L-600 back toward San Francisco and began another descent, aiming right for the international airport itself.
“Foxtrot Romeo-01, radar contact, ten miles southwest of Travis Air Force Base,” the military air defense controller SIERRA PETE reported. Through a massive communications and radar relay network, military controllers from southern California could talk to and track on radar all military interceptors anywhere. “You should have been relayed instructions for landing at Beale, sir. Are you experiencing difficulty?”
“Negative, SIERRA FETE,” Vincenti replied. “Who’s the senior director tonight? John? Marie?”
“This is Colonel Berrell, Al,” John Berrell responded, cutting in on the Weapon Control Team channel. “I’m the SD, and Bravo is on the floor as well.” Bravo was the code name for the deputy director of the Southwest Air Defense Sector, Navy Captain Francine Tellman. “What in hell are you doing? I ordered you to land at Beale for a debriefing.”
“John, I want permission to engage Cazaux’s plane over the bay,” Vincenti said.
“Say again, Foxtrot Romeo?”
“You heard me, John,” Vincenti said in a calm, even voice. “Cazaux’s driving directly at San Francisco International. He’s flying right into the path of the arriving and departing traffic — he made one airliner almost do a backflip trying to avoid a midair. I believe he’s got another load of explosives on board that cargo plane, and that he’s going to drop them somewhere — on the city, on the airport, I don’t know where. I’ve got a judy on him, about thirteen miles north of SFO. He crosses the Bay Bridge into San Francisco Bay in about one minute. I want permission to bring him down as soon as he crosses the Bay Bridge. Over.”
“Al, I can’t upchannel that,” Berrell said. “I know how much you want Cazaux…”
There was silence for a moment; then, a woman’s voice came on the channeclass="underline" “Foxtrot Romeo-01, this is Bravo.” Vincenti recognized Francine Tellman’s cutting, no-nonsense voice immediately. “I’m ordering you to land at Beale Air Force Base immediately. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”
“If you want Henri Cazaux, Francine, I can take him. Just give me permission.”
“You’ve got your orders, Foxtrot Romeo-01. Comply with them or I’ll court-martial you the minute you step off that plane. And you had better start using proper radio procedures.”
“Francine,” Vincenti said, ignoring her last request, “he tried to ram an airliner, and now he’s headed right for the stream of arrivals into SFO.”
“I can see that, Vincenti, we’re tracking him as well,” Tellman said. Obviously she gave up trying to use proper radio discipline as well. “I also know that you 've violated almost as many federal air regulations as Cazaux has. Bay and Travis TRACON and Oakland Center are screaming bloody murder about you blasting through their airspace. Now get the hell out of there and land at Beale.” There was a slight pause, then she added, “Please. ”
Vincenti alternately loosened and tightened his grip on the control stick. This was the turning point, he thought. He was still outside San Francisco Class B airspace, and he could easily climb above eight thousand feet to get above the airspace to stay legal. If Cazaux tried something, he’d still be in a position to act. He considered doing the old “radio-out” routine — go radio-out, squawk emergency, then turn everything back on when Cazaux was safely away from traffic — and as long as he stuck to his story they’d have to believe him. But either way, Henri Cazaux would be getting away with murder. “I can’t do it, Francine,” Vincenti said.
“Cut the crap, Vincenti,” Tellman hissed angrily. “Stay out of the Class B airspace. That’s an order. Don’t trash a long and successful career because of Cazaux. You did your job. Break off your pursuit, now. If there’s another incident because of you busting into B airspace, I won’t be able to keep you out of Leavenworth.”