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
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
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