Reports from their corporate headquarters confirmed that three of Shayhidi's masters and their crews had abandoned their cargo ships, one at Grays Harbor, Washington, another in Singapore, and the third in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Their employer was offering huge salary bonuses to captains and crew members who stayed with their ships.
The captain of the Savanna Lorenzo, Enrico Antonellia, a crusty Italian with thirty-eight years of command-at-sea experience, was not the least bit worried about the cruise. The old sea dog calmly assured his faithful crew that nothing could happen to them in the benign Gulf of Mexico.
As a final assurance to any doubters, the master explained that he was going to remain in close proximity to the East Coast of the United States. No one in a submarine, American or otherwise, would dare risk coming that close to land.
Unfortunately, the skipper was wrong, but not dead wrong. While the crew of the cargo ship Savanna Lorenzo was being rescued by a U. S. Navy frigate, the fragmented vessel and most of its cargo was settling to the bottom of the gulf. A few tons of the floating perishable goods were providing a feeding frenzy for thousands of fish.
Twenty minutes after the picturesque sunset faded from the Gulf of Mexico, the officers and crew of HMS Trafalgar were beginning their long voyage home to the United Kingdom. All hands agreed they would certainly have one hell of a sea story to tell their grandchildren.
Sam Bertorini, founder and CEO of Bertorini Development Corporation, was flying his company Raytheon Beech C-90B King Air from State College, Pennsylvania, to Millville, New Jersey. He had stopped to pick up a close friend, Pennsylvania State University business professor Arnold Pezzella. Whenever Bertorini s company was considering a new construction project, in this case an upscale apartment complex, Pezzella acted as a trusted consultant and sounding board.
Flying VFR at 15,500 feet on a star-studded night, Bertorini requested flight following from the New York Air Route Traffic Control Center. Although the controller was busy with IFR traffic, he accommodated Bertorinis request.
A self-made multimillionaire, Sam Bertorini was accustomed to bending the rules and getting away with it. A multiengine-rated private pilot with no instrument rating, Bertorini flew with a professional pilot whenever the weather was questionable. If the forecast looked reasonably good, he took pride in flying his twin-engine turboprop himself.
His aircraft insurance clearly stated that a professional, instrument-rated C-90 simulator-trained pilot had to be on board every time King Air N44SB left the ground, but as his former flight instructors could attest, minor details like rules and regulations never slowed Sam the Man Bertorini.
Pezzella, who had been in the passenger cabin studying a pro forma balance sheet, joined Bertorini in the cockpit.
"Sam, I want to go over these numbers with you, make a few suggestions I think will help."
"Sure. Think we re going in too light?"
"Want to wait and discuss this over dinner?" Pezzella asked, buckling his restraining harnesses.
Bertorini glanced at him in the soft light of the cockpit. "No, always open to fresh ideas."
"Well, it s not the retroactive effect of the financing that concerns me." Pezzella opened his spiral binder. "It's the unknown quantity of renters available at these prices."
"What do you mean?" Bertorini turned down the volume on the aircraft radio and pushed back the headset over his right ear. "There are masses of renters in that area."
Pezzella studied the numbers. "You're on the borderline between renters who can afford this kind of apartment complex and people who can afford to get into a new home, a starter home."
"You think we're overpriced for the amenities?"
"I won't really know until I check the demographics and some other data. Being that close to Delaware Bay could be a problem."
The men continued their conversation while the King Air approached the dividing line between New York Center airspace and Washington Center's area of responsibility.
Sitting at his radarscope in the faintly lighted room at New York Center, Dwight Moffitt was getting more nervous by the minute. "King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo, New York Center."
A new father of less than three hours, Moffitt was trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He waited a few seconds and spoke slowly and deliberately. "King Air November Four-Four Sierra Bravo, New York Center, do you read?"
Moffitt swore to himself. He tried again and then waited a few seconds. "King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo, do you copy?"
Silence.
Becoming more concerned, Moffitt called one more time. "Four-Four Sierra Bravo: If you read Center, ident."
There was no return from the King Air's transponder.
"King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo," Moffitt said, in a tight voice. "You are about to enter restricted — prohibited — airspace! Turn left to zero-two-zero now — left zero-two-zero!"
No reply.
God, don't let this happen to me, not tonight! Moffitt contacted Washington Center on the landline and quickly explained the situation. The Washington controller frantically tried to establish contact with the King Air. Time was running out and there was nothing he could do. The distraught controller continued to call the wayward aircraft until a supervisor relieved him.
"Thumper Zero-Eight;' the controller radioed to a marine corps AH-1W Super Cobra attack helicopter, "we have a situation. Traffic at your nine o'clock, passing left to right, about to penetrate prohibited airspace! No radio, no comm!"
"Thumper has the target," Captain Humberto Chavez said, as he armed his weapons. "How far, how soon, will he break the cone?"
"Approximately twenty seconds."
"Confirm traffic at my ten o'clock is the target?"
"That's correct — that's the target. Now at your eleven o'clock!"
"Zero-Eight."
Immersed in his conversation with Pezzella, Sam Bertorini suddenly realized he needed to begin his descent. He programmed the autopilot to commence descending at 500 feet a minute. Feeling pressured to get down as expeditiously as possible, Bertorini looked at the enroute Low Altitude Chart his professional pilot used for instrument flying.
He changed radio frequencies and tried to call Washington Center. They could hear him, but he couldn't hear the controller. Bertorini finally realized the volume on his radio was turned down, but it was too late.
Captain Chavez had no other choice. Orders were orders and they were unambiguous. He rolled in behind the civilian King Air. God, I hope this isn't a mistake! After the Sidewinder locked onto the target, Chavez steeled himself and took the shot. The air-to-air missile streaked straight for the turboprop.
Sam Bertorini reached for the control knob at the same instant the King Air penetrated the fifteen-statute-mile Prohibited Area around the Salem Units 1 and 2 nuclear power plants near Salem, New Jersey.
"Washington Center," Bertorini radioed, "King Air Four—"
The Sidewinder slammed into the left engine and exploded. The left wing promptly separated between the engine and the fuselage. Pinned into their seats by heavy G forces, Bertorini and Pezzella knew they were going to die in the next few seconds. They also knew there was absolutely nothing they could do to prevent it.
Chavez and his copilot in the front seat of the Super Cobra gunship watched the blazing King Air roll over to the left and spin downward out of control. The C-90B plunged nose first into the ground near Interstate 95 and the New Castle County Airport, Wilmington, Delaware.