The Threat

“None other. They don’t know we’re listening to their airport communications. Over-the-horizon radar should report them any minute now.”

They sat watching the display. “Flight profile match,” one of the console operators called.

Quintero said, “This is terrific intel. Usually all we get is rumors, vague locations. This was spang on the money.”

An aircraft symbol popped up on the screen, west of Bucaramanga. Simultaneously they got confirmation from a Customs Service — modified P-3 patrolling off the Mosquito Coast of Nicaragua. Dan was impressed. Dozens of icons winked and crept over Colombia. Somehow they’d plucked Nuñez’s out of that welter and mountain return, and locked on it as it headed north.

“Subject TOI’s gone black,” a grille at his elbow reported.

“No transponder return,” Bloom explained. “He’s turned it off. Hoping if we’re tracking him, that’ll shake us off.”

“Will it work?”

“Not a chance,” Quintero said.

* * *

An hour later Gallery reported in. She held a small business-type jet, transponder off, no radars or other emitters active. It was traveling at 240 knots at forty thousand feet, northbound across the Gulf of Venezuela for the open sea. Quintero told the command duty officer to launch the ready E-2C, the plane that would control the air assets that would carry out the intercept. They’d need time to get into position in the Straits of Florida.

Dan was surprised to see that the Colombian’s intended flight path, outlined in orange, led across eastern Cuba. After the overwater leg, he’d make landfall at Montego Bay, then turn slightly west for Ciego de Avila. Quintero said Castro had no problem granting flight clearance to civilian aircraft. It meant ready cash — five thousand dollars just to cross the island from south to north — and the Cubans were desperate for foreign exchange. The intercept would take place just south of point “Ursus,” where Miami-bound traffic split off from the stream continuing north to Bimini. Far enough north and offshore so that the surprised pilot, and his no doubt enraged passengers, would have too little reserve fuel to duck back into Cuban airspace.

Over the next hours Dan and Quintero drank coffee as the orange pip crept north. The F-16s launched. The E-2 vectored them. At midnight pizza came in. ATOI 3 was holding a steady course at flight level 410. Forty-one thousand feet, Quintero explained, the most economical altitude for a light jet. “A direct flight from Colombia to Miami, he’s operating at the extreme limit of his range. Usually the coke flights, they come in over the Bahamas and air drop.”

“The Air Force does your interceptions?”

“Strictly speaking it’s Air Guard. Usually we have either Customs Citations up with them, or sometimes the Marine OV-10s out of New River, for identification. To make absolutely sure you’ve got who you think you’ve got. But a corporate jet like this is too fast for the turboprops to catch. We’re just going to have the F-16s identify. They’ve got night vision now anyway.”

The display showed the various aircraft closing steadily. Two moving southwest, the fighters; from the south, their quarry boring along straight and level. “Put it on the speakers,” Quintero said. A chief flicked a switch at the comm panel.

Minutes later they heard an unhurried voice. “Hawk One, contact bogey. Bull’s-eye 360, thirty miles track north. Hawk One flight unplug, Hawk Two cleared fluid. Bogey course three-zero-five. Throttle back … let’s take this slow. He’s traveling without lights. Appears to be twin-engine private jet. I can just make out the winglets.”

“That’s our boy. Can you get a tail number?”

“Not from astern. Stand by as I move up on him.”

Dan could close his eyes and see them sliding into position. Staying on the bogey’s six, the blind spot on almost every aircraft ever built. Quintero said that typically the interceptors identified a drug aircraft, then returned to base while the slower, longer-legged tracker bloodhounded it to the drop point. But tonight the fighters would visually ID with night vision goggles, and escort this bogey all the way to touchdown, and the open arms of U.S. law enforcement.

The pilot again, tin-can hollow as what Dan assumed was a satellite relay bounced his signal over hundreds of miles. “Okay, there he is … got a nice glow off the engine. Throttling back to 250 knots. Hold him now bearing 295. Hawk One weapons safe.” The wingman must have rogered, though it didn’t come through the speaker. “Confirm arming switches off. Initiate lock-on … lock-on.”

The command duty officer glanced their way. “Permission for close pass and visual ID?” Quintero eyed Dan, who nodded. The admiral gave a thumbs-up.

“Hawk One, this is Clear View. Shadow VID,” came over the net.

“Roger, beginning phase two. I’ll pitch up and throttle back to match speed while I call him on thirty-two eight.”