Northwest of DFW Airport
“Attention all aircraft, air defense emergency in progress over Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, stand by for divert instructions. Hazardous flight precaution, all aircraft, do not approach closer than ten miles of the Dallas-Fort Worth VOR or you may be fired upon without warning.” The message, broadcast on the tower frequency, was repeated several times; then: “Airtech-75-Delta, turn right heading two-four- zero, vectors clear of emergency airspace, sorry for the delay.”
“Right to two-four-zero, Airtech-75-Delta,” the copilot of the Canadian-built Airtech CN-235 turboprop transport plane replied. He switched frequencies and shook his head, then laughed out loud. “Jesus, what a stupid motherfucker,” he said to his pilot. “That guy’s going to get his ass shot off if he’s not careful.”
The pilot finished a long drag on his marijuana joint, keeping the pungent smoke in his lungs for a full fifteen seconds before letting it slowly trickle out. “Sounded like a raghead to me,” the pilot said. “Serves him right.”
“So what are we gonna do?” the copilot asked.
“What the hell can we do? We bust that ten-mile ring, they’re liable to put a Hawk missile in our face. Better make the turn.” The big transport plane turned right and headed southwest.
“The boss will be pissed if we don’t make this delivery,” the copilot fretted. “We’re already late as it is.”
The answer to that one came a few moments later: “Airtech-75-Delta, Dallas Airport has just closed temporarily due to the air defense emergency,” the approach controller told him. “I can give you vectors to Redbird or Meacham. Say intentions.”
“Stand by one,” the copilot radioed. Cross-cockpit, he said, “Oh shit, the boss is going to skewer us. Now what?” The pilot was too stoned to care what happened to him. He lazily shrugged his shoulders, enjoying the view. “Hell, we got the gas — let’s head over to Meacham.”
But as he glanced out the windows to his left, he saw an airport — and, to the west of the airport, something that he had never seen before but had no trouble at all recognizing. “I got an idea,” the pilot said, banking hard left toward the airport and beginning a steep descent. “If we can’t make the delivery, we might as well make a splash.”
Air Defense Battalion MICC
Dallas-Fort Worth Airport
“Range eight milds and closing,” Sergeant Pierini said aloud. “Tiger 111 Patriot battery reports confidence down to 0.89. Tiger 112 Patriot battery confidence at 0.92, and Tiger 113 is 0.93. Recommend degrading Patriot and committing HAWK batteries 131 and 132 to engage.”
“Agree,” Captain Connor said. “Uplink the engagement change to Tiger Control. Engagement status remains HOLD FIRE.” The Patriot missiles at Carswell Air Force Base, Alliance Airport, and Naval Air Station Dallas were still capable of destroying the airliner, but the farther away and lower it flew, the less capable Patriot would be. Patriot would still track the airliner, but now only the HAWK and Avenger missiles would open fire if the order came.
That order could come any second, Colonel Witt thought as the airliner continued to drive toward DFW. “Even if the pilot of that thing isn’t a terrorist,” she said half-aloud, “he should die in a huge fireball, because he’s so stupid he shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”
“Six miles… still have a HOLD FIRE command,” Connor reported. “Five-point-five miles.
“Stand by batteries 131 and 132,” Witt said. She had reached up over Connor’s head and was repeatedly mashing the battalion klaxon button, warning anyone within earshot to get away from the launchers before a missile motor ignited in their face. “Sarge, notify DFW security, tell them we may be launching.”
“Target turning!” Connor suddenly shouted. “Unknown eighteen-track heading now two-niner-zero, continuing turn to heading two-seven-zero, climbing through three thousand feet.”
“Jesus, that sonofabitch was lucky,” Witt exclaimed, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath, the first in what seemed like several minutes. “I hope the feds bust that asshole just for taking five years off my life. Get a poll of the battalion, Jim, and check—” Suddenly, one of the aircraft data blocks on Connor’s radarscope began to blink. “Mike — what is that…?” Pierini caught it at the same moment: “Track ID 4Q121 made a sudden turn toward Alliance Airport,” he reported. “He was on a vector heading from Dallas Tower during the emergency… Tiger Control still showing him as a valid track… now Tiger is making him an ‘UNKNOWN,’ sir, we’ve got an unknown, number 19, three miles east of Alliance Airport, altitude rapidly decreasing, now less than two thousand feet, airspeed two hundred knots… range two miles, still closing, altitude one point five, still decreasing…
“Jesus. Witt hurriedly changed to Tiger Control’s frequency and pulled her headset microphone closer to her lips as she watched the radarscope: “Tiger Control, this is 100,1 need an engagement command on unknown 19 blowing into Alliance,” Witt radioed immediately to the AWACS radar plane. “He’s diving on Alliance Airport, range less than two miles.”
“Lost contact with Tiger-113,” Pierini shouted. “Datalink is down, switching to landlines… hard lines down. No connectivity with Tiger-113.”
“What the hell happened?” Witt cried. She turned to the VHF radio and tried that — no response. “Shit, we lost everything. Check your systems and do a BIT test.” She clicked on the UHF radio to the Air Force AWACS plane: “Tiger Control, this is 100, check connectivity with Tiger 113, datalink and connectivity lost at Battalion MICC. Over.”
Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Tiger-90
“I see it, I see it,” Kestrel said, studying his radar display. The surveillance technicians had assigned an unknown code 19 to the newcomer that had just blown past his approach clearance into Dallas-Fort Worth, and now they had put a giant flashing arrow on the radarscreen, pointing at UNK 19, to get his attention. He was silently kicking himself for not seeing the guy turn toward Alliance Airport earlier, but he was trying to watch a half-dozen major airports at once, and he had turned his attention away from DFW once the Westfall plane had turned away. The tiny blue square that marked the locations of the two Patriot missile batteries at Alliance Airport was gone — not flashing, which would have indicated that the datalink was down but the site was operational, but completely gone, as if it never had been set up. “The Patriot site at Alliance went down. Todd, get one of the fighters over there and have him take a look.”
As if the fighter pilot had heard him, Kestrel heard, “Tiger Control, Tango X-Ray-311, I’m about fifteen miles southeast of Alliance Airport, following the 727 airliner. I can see a lot of smoke and fire coming from Alliance Airport. I see… Tiger, I think I see secondary explosions— yes, definitely secondary explosions. I think one of the Patriot batteries went up.”
Kestrel swore under his breath, then said, “Where are our unknowns, Senior Director?”
“One unknown, target ID 18, ten miles east of Meacham Airport,” the Senior Director responded. “One unknown, target ID 19, now two miles northwest of Alliance Airport.”
“MC, call from Meacham Tower, unknown 18 has requested clearance through the class D airspace westbound, destination Will Rogers Airport.”
“Denied,” Kestrel said. “I want Tango X-Ray-311’s wingman to intercept unknown 18, and Tango X-Ray-31 l’s leader to intercept unknown 19. Comm, this is MC, I want—”
“MC, target 19 turning right and descending… now heading zero-niner-zero, altitude one thousand…”