“I understand your problem, Approach, but let’s deal with this guy first,” Kestrel interjected. “Reroute the guy either to one of the satellite airports or back to San Antonio — he can’t land at DFW, Alliance, or Love.”
“I thought the procedure stated that you military types would visually identify any aircraft that was not on a flight plan or that was not following his clearance.”
“That’s correct,” Kestrel said. “If he tries to fly toward the primary airport in Class B airspace without a flight plan, without a clearance, or if he’s not following his clearance, he will be intercepted.”
“So why not just intercept this guy, visually check him out; then make the decision to let him land?”
“Sir, that’s not the purpose of the procedure,” Kestrel said patiently. “The purpose of an intercept is not to visually identify him, but to shoot him down as far away from the primary airport and from populated areas, if that becomes necessary.”
“Why do you want to shoot him down, for God’s sake?” “I don’t want to shoot him down,” Kestrel said. He looked at Hardcastle, who was listening in on the conversation with an expression of absolute disbelief on his face. Sir, the aircraft does not have a proper flight plan in the system — that’s a violation, and it makes him a suspected terrorist. He’s approaching a high-volume primary airport in Class B airspace, one of the airports designated as a high-value asset by the federal government. He’s supposed to be on the Acton Two arrival, but I have him three miles east of HULEN intersection and one thousand feet low.”
“Is he on a vector?”
I don’t know, sir,” Kestrel said, ready to tear his hair out in utter frustration. He turned to his Senior Director, who nodded his head “yes” at the question. “My senior director says he is on a vector, Approach, but that doesn’t matter. All I know is that he doesn’t have a flight plan, he’s not on a published standard arrival routing, and he’s not on a published approach procedure. I’m asking you to divert him to a satellite airport or back to his departure airport.” There was a slight but maddening pause, then: “Okay, Tiger Control, I… sir, it’s really busy here, and I’m not quite sure what the problem is…”
“I’m trying to explain it to you, if you’d just listen to me.” “I didn’t catch that last, Tiger,” the supervisor said in a detached, bureaucratic way that told everyone listening in that he heard what Kestrel said but was ignoring him. “If you think you’ve got a terrorist situation, perhaps I’d better turn you over to the chief of security operations or the deputy director. Stand by one.”
Hardcastle keyed his headset mike button: “Dallas Approach, this is Admiral Ian Hardcastle speaking. I’m the Special Assistant to the President for Air Defense Operations.” Kestrel was shaking his head at Hardcastle, silently asking him not to get into it, but it was too late now. “I’m in charge of this antiterrorist operation. I’m ordering you to divert this suspect aircraft away from Dallas-Fort Worth Airport until his identity can be verified. Do you understand me?”
“Who is this again?”
“This is Admiral Hardcastle, Special Assistant to the President.”
“President of… the United States? Is that what you’re saying?”
Hardcastle’s back stiffened angrily, his cheek muscles quivering. He grasped his headset mike, pulled it closer to his lips, and shouted, ‘The name’s Hardcastle, sir. I am the man who is going to make your life miserable if you don’t comply with my instructions.”
“Ah… right—Mister Hardcastle.” It was obvious by the controller’s voice that he wasn’t accustomed to being threatened and he was done talking. “I’m turning you over to the deputy facility director — you can make your requests and your threats to him. Stand by, please.” And the line went dead, replaced by soothing mood music.
“Damn it, he cut us off,” Kestrel said. On intercom, he said to his senior director, “Todd, divert Tango X-Ray-311 for an ID intercept on target ID 35T90. Classify that target ID as ‘unknown.’ Transmit an alert to Tiger units 112, 113, 131, and 132, but send a HOLD FIRE and have all units acknowledge.” Kestrel turned to Hardcastle and said bitterly, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Admiral. The shit’s starting to pile up real fast.”
Air Defense Battalion Master Information and Coordination Central, DFW Airport
Lieutenant Colonel Valerie Witt was breathing heavily from the run from the control tower to the access elevator that took her up to the roof of terminal 2W. This was where her Master Information and Coordination Central van was! set up, as she hurried into the van and stood between the battalion engagement officer, Captain Jim Connor, and the battalion fire unit technician, Master Sergeant Mike Pierini, in the front of the cab. “What do we got, Jim?”
“Tiger Control just made this guy an UNKNOWN,” Connor replied, tapping the eraser point of his pencil on his radarscreen. “No flight plan on him. Tiger is scrambling two fighters, and they’ve alerted NAS Dallas and Carswell Patriot batteries and HAWK units 131 and 132. We’ve acknowledged the HOLD FIRE order.”
Witt relaxed and got her breathing under control. It was just another alert, probably the fifteenth one since she set up operations here less than two days ago. As it was during the Persian Gulf War of 1991, the brass aboard the AWACS radar planes flag everybody even marginally suspect as UNKNOWN during the first few days of a conflict. When the friendly forces became more organized, everyone got more comfortable, and procedures became better understood and more routine, the numbers of alerts decreased, even to the point where engaging a SCUD missile was considered routine. This was shaping up to be the same. Witt checked the status readouts — yes, every Patriot, HAWK, and Avenger fire unit was reporting “HOLD FIRE.” The unknown was still over thirty miles out, well within range of Patriot and coming within range of HAWK batteries in a few minutes. The Air Force fighters were airborne, and MICC had a solid track on them. No crisis yet.
Witt studied the battalion engagement officer’s radarscreen as the fighters converged on the suspect airliner. The airspace for fifty miles around Dallas-Fort Worth had been divided up into safe-fly corridors, which corresponded to the FAA’s published STAR, or Standard Terminal Arrival, procedures. The corridors were like gradually narrowing chutes beginning at four radio navigation beacons surrounding DFW, angling down from the higher en route altitudes to lower terminal and approach altitudes. If they were heading toward DFW in a threatening way — a combination of high airspeed, low altitude, not following airways, and no identification beacon meant “threatening” to the Patriot fire control computers — any aircraft straying outside the safe-fly corridors could legally be shot at by Patriot surface-to-air missiles. Inside twenty miles to the airport, the corridors became narrow funnels, and within two miles of the runway, the safe-fly zone was a thin tube only a few hundred feet wide. Although Patriot missiles could hit a hostile plane anywhere along its route of flight, even at very low altitude and close to the terminal buildings, their assigned fire area was from twenty to fifty miles from DFW. The HAWK missiles; would engage between twenty and two miles from the termi- [nal buildings, and the Avenger Stinger missiles and .50- caliber cannons would engage inside two miles.
“I don’t get it — what’s going on here?” Witt murmured. Until a few seconds ago, this new unknown had been a reg-, ular inbound, a private Boeing 727 executive corporate or charter job, squawking all its normal beacon codes and doing generally normal things in a very confusing airspace system. Now, the Air Force AWACS radar crew had made it an “unknown.”