“Roger,” Vincenti replied — just before he pulled hard on his control stick in a tight loop. When he emerged from the loop, he was just south of the Bay Bridge in a fifteen-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, heading “down the ramp” right at San Francisco International Airport. There were very few aircraft on his radarscope, and only one aircraft near San Francisco International was not transmitting any air traffic transponder codes — that had to be Cazaux. “Foxtrot Romeo-01 is tied on radar and accepts MARSA with unidentified aircraft,” Vincenti radioed. “I suggest you get on the radio and try to get Oakland to keep its planes on the ground, too. I don’t think it’ll be safe for any other planes to be flying around over San Francisco Bay right about now.”
“Say that last transmission again, Foxtrot Romeo- 01…?” San Francisco Tower called. But there was no reply.
Taddele Korhonen, at the controls of the LET L-600, had pushed the throttles up to full power, and they were skimming across the top of the piers, docks, and warehouses of the Port of San Francisco, west and south of the Bay Bridge. “Why the hell we flyin’ so low to the city?” Jefferson “Krull” Jones asked. He and Henri Cazaux were in the cargo bay of the L-600, removing some of the packets of money and cocaine from the second pallet. “You gonna drop all those explosives on San Francisco, too?”
“Of course not,” Cazaux replied. “The loss of the Stinger missiles was regrettable and will dearly affect my business, but all is not lost if I can salvage the explosives and ammunition. Besides, we are still flying. As long as we’re airborne, there is hope.”
Suddenly, the chatter on the air traffic control channel seemed to cease. The quiet caught Cazaux’s attention as easily as a loud gunshot. Then he heard, “Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, San Francisco Tower copies, stand by… United Twelve-Oh-Four, cancel takeoff clearance. Delta Five-Niner-Eight, hold your position. TWA Five- Eighty-One, go around, contact Bay Approach…”
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Jones asked. “Sounds like they’re clearin’ everybody out.”
“That is exactly what they’re doing,” Cazaux said. “But why?”
“Attention all aircraft, emergency air traffic operations in effect, expect delays. Amflight Two-Zero-Niner-Niner, clear to land, keep your speed up on final and land past the intersection of runway one-niner right. Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are radar contact, one-one miles north of the San Francisco VOR at eight thousand five hundred, what are your intentions?”
“Foxtrot Romeo-01 requesting emergency descent through Class B airspace at five-zero-zero knots and MARSA operations with the suspect aircraft,” came the reply.
“Foxtrot Romeo Zero One… that’s the damn fighter again!” Jones said. “Man, he’s back on our tail!”
“They will never give him a clearance to descend at five hundred knots through dense airspace like this,” Cazaux said. “Impossible.”
“Roger, Foxtrot Romeo-01, you are cleared to descend through Class B airspace at your most expeditious airspeed to the block surface to two thousand feet within five nautical mile radius of San Francisco VOR, and you are cleared MARSA with the NORDO aircraft. Stay on this frequency.”
“Jesus, they just gave him carte blanche,” Cazaux said, stunned. “A tower controller is not authorized to give such a clearance!”
“Well, he just did it,” Jones sneered. “And now he’s gonna be gunnin’ for our asses. What the hell we gonna do now?”
Cazaux looked like a balloon that was pricked with a pin and was slowly losing air.
For the first time, Jones saw real depression, real defeat in his face. He stared out the open end of the L-600 as if he could see the F-16 diving down on them, could see the cannon muzzle flashing, could see the heavy 20-millimeter shells peppering him and his plane. “We can surrender, man,” Jones continued. “Tell him we give up. It’s better than dyin,’ man.”
“I will never give up!” Cazaux said emphatically. “I will never surrender!” He went over to the intercom panel and hit the mike button: “Stork, fly over San Francisco International Airport, right over the terminal buildings.” The L-600 banked left and descended in response. Cazaux switched the intercom switch to the VHF radio: “Attention, F-16 fighter, this is Henri Cazaux. I have several thousand pounds of explosives on board this aircraft, and I will release them on San Francisco International Airport unless you depart this area.”
“You’ll be dead long before you reach the airport, Cazaux,” a voice said over the frequency. “I show you two minutes to the airport, and I’m in missile range right now.” Vincenti hoped the bluff would work — he wasn’t carrying any missiles at all, and he wouldn’t be in optimum gun range for another thirty to forty seconds. “Jettison the explosives right now, into the bay, and then fly away from the airport straight down the bay. After that, I’ll direct you to make a turn over the bay north, and we’ll land at Alameda Naval Air Station.”
To Jones, Cazaux shouted, “Get that second pallet ready to drop.” On the radio, he asked, “How do I know you will not kill me after I do all that you order?”
“I’m not giving you any guarantees, you sonofabitch, except this — if I don’t see your course altered away from land, you’ll be dead in three seconds. What’s it going to be?”
“Very well, I am dumping the explosives overboard right now. Do not fire your missiles.” He motioned to Krull, and he and the big loader pushed the second pallet of military gear out the cargo ramp, just a few hundred yards east of Fullers Point, north of the airport. Cazaux then picked up the microphone and switched to intercom: “Stork, decrease speed and execute a turn back to the north… and then turn directly towards San Francisco International again and go to full throttle.” Back on VHF: “All right, I have done as you asked. I have dropped the explosives, and I am turning north. Hold your fire. I broadcast my surrender to all who can hear my voice on this frequency. I am surrendering to the United States Air Force, for assurances that I will not be fired upon. You are all my witnesses in case there is a so- called unfortunate accident.”
“You gonna do it?” Jones shouted over the windblast and the roar of the engines through the open cargo ramp. “You gonna drop the last pallet on San Francisco International? Holy shit! He’ll put a missile up our asses for sure… Jesus, mother of god…”
“If he had missiles, he would have killed us long ago,” Cazaux decided. “He has only guns, like the first fighter. I believe he will wait until we fly down the center of San Francisco Bay, then open fire. I am hoping he cannot follow us if we slow down and turn. No one threatens me and gets away with it.” He dropped the microphone, then went over to a rack with several backpack-style parachutes and pulled one off. “We’ll drop the explosives on San Francisco International, then parachute to safety. The Stork will put the plane on autopilot and join us.”
“We’re not dropping anything,” Jones said. As Cazaux began fastening his parachute harness, Jones reached down and pulled a small automatic pistol from an ankle holster. “Hold your hands straight out from your sides and turn around.”
“What is this?” Cazaux asked, a trace of amusement in his eyes.
“U.S. Marshal, Cazaux,” Jones said. He retrieved a wallet from a back pocket, flipped it open to reveal a five- pointed star, and tucked the wallet in his belt. “You’re under arrest, motherfucker. I said turn around.”