Brown, Dale - Independent 04 by Storming Heaven (v1.1) Page A

150,000-candlepower identification light on the left
side of the nose was used to illuminate the target—on a Special-9 covert
intercept, the light was supposed to be out. The large, bright beam, twice as
bright as an airliner’s landing lights, was on full bright as McKenzie made her
approach toward the target, and, because it was a crystal-clear night and he
was flying five miles behind and to his leader’s right side, Vincenti didn’t
notice the light was on.
                 It
was the Stork who saw it first, high and far off in the distance, to the right
rear of the LET L-600 and almost blocked from view by the right wing and engine
nacelle. The horizon was dark, and the single, unblinking light was like a
laser beam aimed right at them. He grasped Cazaux’s right sleeve and pointed.
The Belgian mercenary had to get up out of his seat to get a glimpse of the
light. “I see it,” Cazaux acknowledged. It was hard to judge distances at
night, but the brightness of the light could mean that the aircraft, if it was
an airliner, was pretty far off in both distance and altitude.
                But it wasn’t an airliner—Cazaux
knew it right away.
                 It
was moving fast and turning with them, not crossing their path. It was intercepting them, no doubt about it. “Puta, Stork,” he said, “they found us
already, the fuckers. I think they zeroed the Air Force in on us.”
                 The
Stork pointed to the San Francisco sectional chart and chattered away in a strange mixture of Ethiopian,
English, and Spanish.
                 “Relax.
There is nothing they can do to us.”
                 “Say
what?” Jefferson “Krull” Jones asked, staring out the
windows with eyes so wide that the whites could be seen in the dark cockpit.
“There’s an Air Force jet out there? Is it gonna gun us down?”
                 “Relax,”
Cazaux said casually. “I have been intercepted dozens of times by the American
Customs Service, the Coast Guard, and the Drug Enforcement Agency—even an Army
helicopter. I have never been fired
upon. I do not think they have the authority to kill anyone in peacetime
without due process.”
                 “Was
that before or after you blew up a bunch of cops and an entire airport, my
man?” Krull asked. “Maybe this might be the time they let those flyboys
‘accidentally’ let a few missiles fly.” Krull motioned out the cockpit
windscreen to the inky blackness of eastern California and the Sierra Nevada mountain range ahead. “Looks pretty black
out there, Captain. A pretty good place to splash a bunch of gunrunners.”
                 “Shut
the fuck up. You don’t know a damn thing.” The big black hoodlum had vocalized
Cazaux’s own fear—this time, after so many close calls and so much death, the
authorities might want Henri Cazaux out of the way for good. There was no one
better to do it than the U.S. Air Force. Who would mourn his loss or condemn
the United States for such an act? He had enemies all over
the world, of every religion and nationality. The only ones to be sorry might
be the bounty hunters who would be cheated out of the reward money.
                No, he was not sure that the fighters would not open fire.
                 He
thought about their route of flight. To try to stay away from ground radar,
Cazaux had chosen to fly on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevadas, as low as
he dared to go. The sectional aeronautical charts gave maximum elevation
figures for each thirty-by-thirty-mile block of land, and he would simply add
five hundred feet to each quadrangle elevation—that would put his plane well
below radar coverage but safely above the terrain. But that wouldn’t faze an
airborne radar, such as from a fighter. Without extensive jamming equipment or
fancy flying, Cazaux had no hope of trying to break a radar lock. If ordered to
fire,