“I didn’t know ATF was involved, Your Honor,” Lassen said. “We got the information that Cazaux had surfaced only a few hours ago. Can you give me any details on the warrant, sir? Is Agent Fortuna in charge?”
“Your old friend,” Wyman said with a wry smile — the sarcasm in his voice came through loud and clear, even via the wavering secure datalink. “I see you have your Kevlar on — I think you’ll need it, and not just against Cazaux.”
“I’d better try to raise Fortuna on the secure phone, then, Your Honor,” Lassen said. “Thanks again for your help.”
“I have a feeling the shooting is going to start long before you encounter Cazaux,” Wyman said, trying to interject a bit of humor into what promised to be a very humorless scene coming up. “Good luck.” The encrypted datalink buzzed when Wyman hung up, then beeped to indicate the channel was autochecked for security and was clear.
Lassen keyed in a user address key into the transceiver’s keypad, listened for the autocheck tone again, and waited. Seconds later, he heard a cryptic “Tiger One, go.”
Even on an ultrasecure microwave datalink that was virtually untraceable and eavesdrop-proof, Special Agent Russell V. Fortuna still liked using his old Vietnam Recondo code name. “This is Sweeper One, on channel seventeen- bravo,” Lassen replied. Although he disliked using all this code crap, he knew Fortuna would not respond, especially during an operation, unless he used his code name and confirmed the secure datalink channel in use. “What’s your location and status, Russ? Over.”
There was a slight pause, and Lassen could easily envision Fortuna, dressed in his Star Wars semirigid body armor that made him look like an Imperial storm trooper from the movie, shaking his armored head in complete exasperation. “Lassen, what the fuck do you want?” Fortuna finally said. “You may have just blown this operation. You ever hear of communications security?”
“We’re on a secure datalink, Russ. Get off it. I need to know your status. Are you moving against Fugitive Number One? Over.”
“Jesus, Lassen, why don’t you just get on the PA and tell the creeps we’re coming?” There was another short pause, then: “Yeah, we’re ten minutes out. We zeroed in on his operation at Chico, and we’re moving in. Since we didn’t have time to coordinate this strike, do me a favor, get hold of the administrator of the airport and the sheriffs department, and cordon off the airport. Stay on the outside until I give you the word. Over.”
“Russ, we’ve got word that Cazaux has got heavy weapons and high explosives at his location, enough to take out half the airport. SOG is about fifteen minutes out, and we’ve got some Apaches and Black Hawk assault helicopters from the California Air National Guard with us. We’ll back you up.”
“Assault helicopters? Are you nuts?” Fortuna asked. “Cazaux will start shooting the minute he hears one of those things overhead. Keep them away from the airport. Who the hell gave you a warrant authorizing attack helicopters, anyway? Are you going to seal off the airport for me or not?”
“Affirmative, Russ, I’ll take care of that,” Lassen said, pointing to the VHF radio and motioning for the chief of the Special Operations Group, Deputy Marshal Kelly Peltier, to make the initial calls for him. SOG was the Marshals Service’s assault and special weapons team, organized to capture the most violent and heavily armed fugitives. “But hold off on your operation until we get closer, and brief me on your plan of attack.”
“I don’t have time for that shit,” Fortuna snapped. “You can monitor our tactical frequency if you want, but do not, I repeat, do not overfly the airport. We might mistake your choppers as one of Cazaux’s escorts and take a shot at it.”
Special Agent Fortuna was director of the southeast district of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Ex-Marine Corps, all-around weapons expert, and a human dynamo, as gung-ho as any man in the Treasury Department, Fortuna was an expert in small-unit assault tactics— at least in his own mind. He relied on the elements of shock and surprise to overwhelm the bad guys. However, the shock and devastation of his attacks, in Lassen’s view, made up for a lot of sloppy investigative work. Judges gave him warrants regularly because he got results. Lassen liked to gather his deputies, surround a suspect, and wait him out. Although these standoffs took time and manpower, this substantially reduced the risk to his deputies. Fortuna liked to form a strike team, plan an assault, and attack head-on at night with heavy weapons blazing. The result was usually a lot of wounded agents and dead suspects, but the shooting was over long before the TV camera crews arrived. Because of this fundamental difference in tactical style, the two organizations sometimes moved without coordinating with the other.
“Jesus, Fortuna’s gonna play Rambo again,” Lassen said on the helicopter’s intercom so the pilots and the rest of the crew could hear. “Paul, you better plan on setting down on the far side of the runway opposite the action, off-loading the crew, then evacuating the area,” Lassen told his pilot. To his SOG strike team leader he said, “Kel, get on the phone to the chief of the Oakland Flight Service Station and have them issue an emergency airspace restriction in a five-mile radius of the airport. I’ll be the point of contact in charge of placing the restriction. If you hit any delays after nine minutes from now, just get on VHF GUARD on 121.5 and UHF GUARD on 243.0 and broadcast the warning in the blind for all aircraft to avoid the airport. Christ, what a mess.”
“The TV stations will pick up the news if I broadcast on the GUARD channel, Tim.”
“I’m not worried about that — I’m worried about Fortuna taking a shot at us or at some commercial job who wants to land,” Lassen said. “Do it.”
Chico Municipal Airport, California
That Same Time
“Chico ground, LET Victor Mike Two Juliett, ready to taxi from Avgroup Airport Services with information uniform,” Cazaux radioed.
“LET Victor Mike Two Juliett, Chico ground, taxi to runway one-three left via alpha taxiway, wind one-eight- zero at one-three,” came the response from ground control.
“LET Two Juliett,” Cazaux replied.
Russ Fortuna, sitting in the front of the “six-pack” pickup truck, lowered the handheld VHF radio and turned to his deputy strike leader beside him. “Right on time and right where he’s supposed to be,” he said. The six-passenger pickup truck they were riding in cut a comer and sped toward an open gate guarded by an ATF agent and a sheriffs deputy. The three ATF agents sitting in the back of the truck clattered as their armored shoulders bumped against each other. The semirigid Kevlar armor they wore resembled a hockey player’s pads, with thick face, neck, arm, torso, groin, and leg plates that would protect them against heavy machine-gun fire with reasonable mobility. Their helmets were one-piece bulletproof Kevlar shells with built-in microphones, headphones, and flip-up night-vision goggles, powered by a lithium battery pack mounted on the back of the helmet. They wore thickly padded ALICE vests over the armor, with spare ammunition magazines, flash- bang grenades, and .45 caliber automatic pistols in black nylon holsters. The agents carried no handcuffs or restraining devices — this was a hard-target assault all the way. If the suspects weren’t restrained by the sight of pistols and assault rifles, they were going to be suppressed by a bullet in the head. Their main weapons were Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns with flash suppressors; the driver of the truck would man a .50 caliber heavy sniper rifle with a 30x nightscope that was big enough to destroy an aircraft engine with one shot.