Once through the gate, the truck headed along rows of small-aircraft hangars on their right. A high-wing Cessna was taxiing toward them, flashing its landing light, and the driver of the truck turned on emergency flashers to warn the plane’s pilot to stay away. Another truck, an eight- passenger van with smoked windows, was directly behind them, loaded with six more ATF agents in full ballistic armor and combat gear. This van, and another one heading across the airport to encircle Cazaux, each carried six fully equipped agents.
“Give me a rundown of the location.”
The deputy strike leader opened an airport guide to the paper-clipped pages. “Avgroup Airport Services is the large parking area southeast of the control tower, closest to the departure end of runway thirteen left,” he replied. “One large hangar east, one more southeast, one more north. Pretty open otherwise. From the northwest gate, we’ll have to come in from the north between this hangar and the tower. That way we can cut off his taxi route.”
“But he could use the parallel runway instead of the longer one, right? We should cover both runways.”
“Runway thirteen right is only three thousand feet,” the deputy strike leader said. “The LET L-600 needs a good five thousand feet even for a best-angle takeoff, and more if Cazaux’s got it loaded down with fuel and cargo. In addition, he’s got a strong crosswind — that’ll cut down his takeoff capability even more. I think he’ll have to take the long runway.”
“All the same, I want unit three to go around east of the tower, down taxiway delta, and take up a position on the east side of runway one-three right in this intersection,” Fortuna said. “That way he can cover the departure end of runway thirteen right and block the long runway if we need to.”
“That’ll only leave two units on Cazaux,” the deputy strike leader said. “The airport’s pretty big — if he rabbits, we might lose him. If they got choppers, we might want to bring the Marshals in on this after all.”
“It’s too late to bring them in now,” Fortuna decided. “Once we get Cazaux’s plane stopped, we’ll have the Marshals move in, but I want to move into position before anyone else appears in the line of fire.” The deputy strike leader got on the tactical radio to issue his instructions.
The intersection up ahead near the control tower appeared deserted, with no aircraft or vehicle movement at all. Floodlights were on around and inside the Avgroup Aviation Services hangar. Cazaux’s plane was just visible, taxiing away from the front of the hangar. Fortuna clicked on his radio: “I’ve got the plane in sight. I’m moving in.”
“Unit one, this is two,” the driver in Fortuna’s van radioed. “I’ve got five individuals walking west along the taxiway away from the Avgroup hangar. Some of the people are definitely suspects. They’re carrying packages, but I can’t tell what they might be. I don’t see any weapons or radios. I can take them with two of the security team and position the others to flank the target and block him from the west.”
“Do it,” Fortuna radioed.
Two ATF agents dismounted from the van and silently trotted into position, taking cover near some parked airplanes. The five men practically walked right up to them, never noticing them or the van just a few dozen yards in front of them in the darkness. As soon as the driver of the van saw the five men’s hands go up — they were carrying small bundles, and through their night-vision goggles they could clearly see they were bundles of cash — the van sped forward to take up its position to surround Cazaux’s plane.
“Drop those packages,” one of the ATF agents shouted. “Now!” The bundles of money spilled from their hands and hit the ground — and then the whole world seemed to erupt in a flash of light and a huge ear-shattering explosion.
“I told them to count the money,” Henri Cazaux mused as he put the tiny remote detonator transmitter in his flight bag beside his seat. Off in the distance, they could see a truck burning brightly alongside the Avgroup Aviation Services hangar. Krull, squatting between the pilots’ seats to watch the takeoff, stared out the forward windscreen in horror. “Joining my outfit is looking like a better idea all the time, isn’t it, Mr. Krull?”
“No shit… Captain,” he responded. The Stork grinned, showing the newcomer his few remaining tobacco-stained teeth. Cazaux turned off the telescopic nightscope he had been using to monitor the ATF agents’ approach, then handed it to Krull, who placed it carefully into a padded case. “I never did care for them white boys anyway. Fuck ’em.”
“You work hard and keep your mouth shut, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, shoving the throttles forward and picking up speed along the north terminal buildings, “and we will enjoy a long and profitable relationship. I don’t care what color your skin is. Cross me, inform on me, or speak to anyone about my operation or myself, and you’ll be crow food too. That I promise.”
“I get the message.”
“Aircraft on taxiway bravo near the tower, this is Chico ground, hold your position and acknowledge. Orders from the sheriffs department. Say your call sign,” the ground controller radioed.
“Checklists, Stork, checklists,” Cazaux shouted crosscockpit. He reached across the cockpit and flipped on the engine ignition switches — if the engines faltered during takeoff, leaving the igniters on would help to restart them quickly. “Mr. Krull, your job is to watch this indicator. When it hits sixty, punch this button to start the stopwatch. You will count down precisely twelve seconds and give me a warning beginning five seconds before the sweep hand reaches twelve seconds, using the words ‘ready, ready,’ then ‘now’ in a loud voice when the clock reads twelve seconds. Do you understand?”
“What the hell for, man?”
“I told you, keep your mouth shut and pay attention, Mr. Krull, and you’ll do fine in my organization,” Cazaux said. “Do you understand what I just told you?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“Very good. This is an acceleration test, Mr. Krull. You see, we’re not going to take the long runway — we’re taking the short runway, one-three right. The twelve seconds is our safety margin — we have twelve seconds to go from sixty knots to one-twenty. If we don’t do it, we won’t take off. Simple enough.”
“Then we better make it, man,” Krull said, “because whoever’s chasin’ us ain’t gonna be too happy about us set- tin’ off a stick of dynamite in their faces.”
“True enough. Oh — hit that button for me right there, if you would.” Krull reached over to a small aluminum box mounted atop the glareshield above the instrument panel, took a look at Cazaux, who was busy with the checklists, and at the Stork, who was grinning with complete mirth at him. Krull hit the button…
… and a ring of volcanoes appeared to erupt all around them, with huge thick geysers of fire shooting into the sky, obscuring the buildings on the east ramp near the control tower. One by one, private airplanes and crop dusters were sent spinning into the air by the explosions. The explosions were set in precise patterns, causing a rippling effect across the airport — as soon as the L-600 taxied past a spot, the explosions would cut off the taxiway and obscure them with fire and smoke. “Jesus Christ, what in hell…?”
“It is so pitifully easy to set explosives on airports in America,” Cazaux said. “Offer to wash a windshield or paint a few stripes on the ground, and pilots in this country will let you do anything you want around their planes. But I am disappointed — only about half of my detonators are going off. I think I’ll have a talk with those Mexican dealers. They owe me a refund.” Krull felt as if he was in some kind of hellish nightmare — the airport was systematically being destroyed all around them, and Henri Cazaux was chatting on about business matters as if the explosions were just the twinkling of fireflies. Krull saw one explosion erupt under the control tower, but the darkness and smoke obscured his view and he couldn’t see if the concrete and steel structure hit the earth.