The F-35s slow down and take a position on port and starboard less than a hundred feet away.
One of them starts blinking a light at me.
It's Morse code.
— … -..- -. -..- / ….-.. - .-. …. / —- / — .-. …. - . -. .-.. / … — ….- ….- / —.-. / — …. / … …. -- / -.. --.- — . -.-.-
My brain translates it automatically for me:
DIXON SWITCH TO CHANNEL 344 OR BE SHOT DOWN.
Yeah, yeah. They're bluffing. I pretend to not be able to read what they said and make sure my balaclava is firmly around my head.
.-. / — .- . --.- / — .- —..- / — .-. - . /..- . -.. .-. … — .- . -.. / — ….. …
WE KNOW YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THIS.
Damnit.
38
Point of Entry
Let’s assume for a moment that they’re bluffing. I still have the very real problem that I now have a fighter escort. While I’ve got more fuel left than they have range, there will be others to replace them. Plus the fact that this means I’m definitely being tracked from the air.
Dang it. I’ll bet they’re using some DEA anti-drug AWACS plane to track me. It’s all part of the Department of Homeland Security. They were probably able to task one of those planes to look for me.
Well, congratulations, guys, your inter-agency international collaboration worked.
I’ll sleep well at night on my prison bunk, knowing that a terrorist will have a hard time pulling off this particular trick.
The moment I open my radio channel and talk to them I’m going to confirm their suspicion. I’m also going to give them the opportunity to tell me where to land unless I want to be shot down.
Let’s think this through. I’m still over Mexican airspace. While my escorts have permission to intercept me, I’m assuming their ground coordination isn’t exactly going to be topnotch. A lot of the desert I’m flying over is lawless territory controlled by the cartels.
The pilots onboard the F-35s are telling their commander that they were able to flash me the Morse code signal.
They have to decide if they follow through with their threat or just wait and see where I land. I’ve got less than two hours of fuel left.
I reach down to check another chart and the cockpit is bathed with intense green light.
Holy crap! They’re trying to blind me with a laser!
If I hadn’t been looking down I’d be crashing!
The light vanishes and I hear the roar of the two escorts as they pull away.
What the hell was that about?
The light bathes the cockpit again. I keep my eyes shut and fumble around for a visor.
I find a folded up reflective sun shade and put it in the window. The green light goes away, but I leave the visor anyway.
What was that? It didn’t appear to be coming from the F-35s. In fact, they left before the second burst.
Was that from a satellite? Do the Russians have some kind of space laser they can blind pilots with?
Hell…why not? The ones on the K1 almost poked a hole in my heat shield. It would be even less difficult to have a space-based laser that could bathe a window in blinding light if you could track the object.
Man, I’m learning all kinds of fascinating facts about Russian weaponry. I should write a book about it in my next life.
Okay, so the Russians really, really don’t want me landing where the F-35s were about to tell me.
The upside is the F-35 pilots had to have seen that laser light. So maybe they’re entertaining the idea that I’m not just one lone wacko who decided to go on the most epic joyride ever.
That still doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got an AWACS tracking me and the American military ready to meet me on the ground.
FLASH! There’s the green light again.
Okay, I get it! The Russians really want to blind me and see me crash.
Maybe that’s the solution…
As much as I had my heart set on orange chicken, I don’t think I’m going to make it to El Paso.
I wait for another flash of light then tilt the stick towards the ground, making it look like I totally lost control. Which I kind of sort of have.
This is a very stupid dive. Right now my trackers have got to be wondering what the hell is going on. So do I.
I’m counting on the notion that the Russians only knew where to look once they saw the fighters escorting the passenger jet. Until then they were afraid to use their laser, lest they blind the wrong plane.
The ground is coming up fairly fast. I’m only a few miles from the border. What happens if I crash right on the middle?
Let’s not crash. Instead, focus on that tiny patch of highway directly below me. I doubt there’s anybody there right now. Let’s land this thing and get as far away as possible before anyone shows up.
I level out my descent just enough to make it possible for me to actually land the plane instead of use it to dig a bunker.
I lower my landing gear and get ready for one bumpy ride.
As I count off the seconds, I adjust my wing flaps and get ready for a reverse thrust to limit how much road I have to take up.
5
4
3
Is that a god damn bus!???
What the hell, people!
I pull up and to the left. My wing tip almost scrapes into the ground. Christ! Now I’m flying over open desert filled with shrubs.
Damnit.
I have to land this thing.
BOOM!!! The back wheels hit the earth.
Full reverse thrust!
This thing is bucking like crazy.
Keep it steady!
BAM!!! My front wheels hit the ground and I see stars.
Watch your rudder!
BANG!!! My front gear hits something large and the nose bounces into the air.
SLAM!!! I feel my harness yank into me as I’m pulled back into my seat.
Don’t let this thing tip!
I hold the stick steady and keep an eye on my rudder and flaps, mindful of overreacting and sending the plane into a death spiral.
I’m decelerating…
It’s shaking a little less…
A cloud of dust passes the cockpit window as the wind overtakes me.
And I’ve stopped.
I wait a few tense seconds in case something is about to explode. Not that I can do anything about it.
CRACK!!!
The nose drops ten feet and I’m looking at the desert from a totally different angle.
The front gear must have snapped right off. At least it waited until after I came to a stop.
Wait? Is that a metal fence wrapped around the nose?
Holy crap.
I not only crossed the border, I took the fence with me.
At least I’m on American soil.
I undo the latch on the cockpit window and slide it to the side.
The wind is cool on my face as I take in a breath of fresh air. The sun, climbing over the horizon, looks spectacular.
You’re not dead yet, David.
Look at that view…. If we find our way out of here, we’ll be home free…sort of.
Wait, is that a siren?
39
Border Patrol
Seriously? My moment of freedom is ruined before I even get one lungful of fresh desert air. In the distance, kicking up a dusty tornado as it races along the furrow I dug in the ground, is a sand-colored Humvee.
It’s coming at me from the Mexican side of the border and the whoop-whoop sound of its siren is vaguely different than a US civilian or military one. I mean, it’s not blaring La Cucaracha, but I’m petty sure this is Mexican military or border police.
Did they see me attempt to land and come to help? Or were they warned I’m coming? The former means I might have a chance to slip away. The latter means I’ll be slapped into handcuffs the moment they get inside.