PROLOGUE

Joint Tactical Drug Interdiction Information Center, Miami Air Traffic Control Center, Miami, Florida

They called it the "witching hour," the time from 8:00 P.M. to 1:00 A.M., when the smugglers seemed to come out of the woodwork. Like cockroaches, they said, when the sun went down the smuggler came out.

In the basement of Miami Air Traffic Control Center, three men were looking for them. These men, two Customs Service agents and one Coast Guard petty officer, were manning the radar screens of the Joint Tactical Drug Interdiction Informa- tion Center, known as JTDIIC, where all air traffic in the southeast United States was kept under watch. On the two twenty-four-inch radar screens in the box-like room the JT- DIIC, call sign SLINGSHOT, combined radar data from Fed- eral Aviation Administration radars, aerostatsÄballoon-borne radars located in florida, the Bahamas and Puerto RicoÄand military radar units to form a composite picture of the hun- dreds of aircraft from North Carolina to New Orleans, includ- ing the eastern Gulf of Mexico, the eastern Caribbean and northern Cuba. They could scan aircraft, receive coded identifi- cation and flight data information, gain access to flight plans and Customs pre-declarations, talk with air-traffic controllers and vector in Customs Service or Coast Guard interceptor air- craft to trail a suspect aircraft.

In reality SLINGSHOT didn't watch each and every aircraft out there impossible for three men. Computers processed the information on the screens and squelched or eliminated aircraft not suspected of anything illegal or following suspect flight pro- files. So, as far as possible, commercial airliners, local flights, aircraft cleared or talking with air-traffic control or aircraft on established airways and flying at normal route altitudes and air- speeds were electronically removed from the screen.

Theoretically, that left only the bad guys.

Theoretically.

Aircraft from foreign departure points were supposed to in- form Customs of their arrival time and destination and to file flight plans when entering the coastal ADIZ, the Air Defense Identification ZonesÄhuge blocks of airspace some as much as a hundred and fifty miles wide along the edges of North America's borders that were scanned by the military to warn of any hostile aircraft approaching the continent.

Since it was illegal to fly anywhere in the huge Bahamas is- land chain at night,aircraft flying to or from the Bahamas after sunset were immediately suspect. Of course, any planes flying very low to the water or obviously trying to skirt the fixed radar sites along the coast were suspect.

Despite this being the witching hour it seemed to be shaping up to be a pretty quiet evening. Jose Gusman, a Customs Serv- ice GS-13 from Hialeah, yawned sleepily as he rolled a cursor across his screen onto a red square on his radar screen. The red indicated that the return was not "squawking," transmit- ting any coded identification signals. He hit a button on his con- sole and a small data block of numerals flashed on the screen: "UNK TR 4." The return was an unknown, but from its alti- tude, airspeed and signal-strength information the computer had assigned it a track reliability of 4, which meant that it probably wasn't an aircraft at all more likely an isolated thunder- cloud or a flock of birds.

Gusman turned his attention away from the newcomer but did not forget about it the computer was known to be wrong, this thundercloud could turn into a real plane. "Must be a storm brewing out there, I'm getting a lot of fuzz," he said to his- partner, Stan Wexfall.

"I got one that's definitely not fuzz," Wexfall said. "Take a look over Santa Clara."

"Weird. Not transnsmitting any standard air-traffic control codes," Wexfall said, zooming his scope in to an area thirty miles around the newcomer, "but flying right over central Cuba at night. The Cuban Air Force usually gets nervous about night flights_theY scream bloody murder when we launch patrols near them at night." Wexfall looked over at Gusman. "Mili- tary?"

"Gotta be," Gusman replied. "The Cubans wouldn't let an unidentified plane just fly around like that. We'll have to call the Air Force or Navy to get a readout on himÄwe can't dis- play military 1FF codes on our sets." Gusiflan picked up his coffee cup and went over to a desk that had a computer termi- nal and printer and logged onto the system. "I'll ask Navy if they got any codes on this guy."

A few minutes later they received a response via the com- puter terminal: "Bingo. Message from naval intelligence: this guy is squawking military modes and codes."

"Thought so."

Wexfall continued to watch the target as it progressed north- ward. suddenly: "Hey, look at this!"

The target symbol had changed from red to green as it crossed the northern coastline of Cuba the aircraft had begun transmitting standard u.s. identification codes. Wexfall said, "Now he's showing normal modes and codes. BacchuS 204 Delta. Altitude twelve thousand five hundred, airspeed two- forty, dead on the airway." Gusman turned to the computer terminal again, this time to get a copy of any flight plans the newcomer may have filed.

This guy was smarter than most. A lot of smugglers, either unaware of the extensive surveillance network in south Florida or just willing to take a chance, never activated their 1FF radios or attempted tO contact anyone by radio. Such activities are prima facia evidence of smuggling and they become fair game for Customs and Coast Guard interceptors.

But smugglers were getting savvy to procedures. It was a simple matter for them to file the proper ~ntry~feqUest forMs and use their radios, thereby greatly increasing their chances, of safely entering the country. And once over land they could pretty much navigate unmolested.

"Filed for entry yesterday, processed, verified and ap- proved," Gusman said. "Departed Santa Marta, Colombia, three hours ago. Destination St. Petersburg. Two passengers carrying bank records and accounting materials."

Heads turned toward Gusman when he read "Colombia." flights from Colombia and Bolivia, the drug producing and export centers of the Western world, were tops on the list of countries watched by Customs.

Gusman returned to the terminal keyboard. "I'll run a cross- check on the port-of-entry request and the hit list," he said. He was excitedÄone of the few things that kept people going at the job was getting involved in a major drug bust.

Gusman entered keywords from the port-of-entry request to cross-check with the hit list the names of arrests or busted smugglers with the name "Bacchus" in the database. The sys- tem would now try to match those keywords with the files headed "Bacchus."

During the search Wexfall kept track on the suspect while he turned over area-wide surveillance to the third Coast Guard specialist. Ten minutes later Gusman called out, "I got some- thing. Nineteen seventy-two. Damn near identical flight path, except back then the guy didn't file a port-of-entry request. Early evening flight, directly across Cuba, departure Santa Maria, reported as an in-and-outÄnever landed, just flew in and flew out. Call sign: Bacchus one-seven-three X-ray Novem ber."

"Yeah, but he's got a flight plan this time," Wexfall said. "He's cleared to enter. He-"

The printer clattered to life again. "Another hit. Nineteen eighty. Flights recorded by a Bacchus aircraft, Santa Marta and Cartagena, Colombia, to Saint Pete, Sarasota and Bradenton. Checked out good for several weeks except once for an appar- ent no-show after reporting in to Miami Center. Flights discon- tinued soon after." He read on further, then added: "Manifest says he was carryingÄwhat else? accounting materials."

Wexfall checked his screen. The target had crossed over Cuba and was out into the Strait of florida on course for St. P1tersburg, making no attempt to avoid the aerostat site or ~vy radar sites at Key West and still transmitting the proper J.D. codes.

"What now, Stan?" Gusman said. "Get someone up there to check him out?"

"On what grounds? He's not an unknown. He's been cleared in. Bacchus is a common enough nameÄyou got fifty names like it on that printout. With only two old hits it's pretty weak."

"But this guy matches up with previous suspects," Gusman said. "His chances of making it to Saint Pete are poor to nil."

Wexfall still didn't seem convinced.

"We have the authority to launch a chase plane on our own,'

"I know, I know," Wexfall said. As senior controller at SLINGSHOT, it was his decision. But every launch against a so-called probable suspect, especially night intercepts, was ex- pensive and risky and laid a guy open to criticismÄany mistake against a plane attempting to follow the rules could be disas- trous. If it was a low-flying unidentified target the decision would be a lot easier. "The military codes worry me. Maybe we should ask the Air Force to get someone up there to check him out."

"They'd laugh us right into tomorrow," Gusinan said. Wexfall noddedÄthe military was even more squeamish about sending an armed fighter up against a civilian prop-job. "Who's on deck for this intercept?"

"Coast Guard," Gusman told him.

Wexfall shrugged they would have to do. In years past the Customs Service handled intercepts on suspected smugglers like this one, but since the entry of the Coast Guard into drug interdiction in the mid-1970s the job was often split between the two. There was no rhyme or reason to the selectionÄit de- pended on who was on deck or whose turn it was to do an inter- cept. It wasn't exactly the most effective or logical way to go, but that was the way it was.

"Get a Coast Guard Falcon on ten-minute standby," Wex- fall said to the Coast Guardsman seated beside him. "Then get the air interdiction duty officer on the line. He might nix this intercept but we should have a bird ready to go in case he doesn't."

Miami Coast Guard Air Station, Opa-Locka Airport, Florida

The quarter spun in the air. Lieutenant Commander Kevi~>4~ R.awlins let it drop into his left hand, turned it over onto the: back of his right hand with a slap, then removed his left hand.

He peered at the coin with a satisfied grin. "Heads, I win.-- tie took the TV remote from his partner's hand, aimed it at the TV and pushed a button. `Moonlighting's on in five minutes."

"Let me see that quarter," his copilot, Kelly Sandino, de. manded.

"Sore loser." Rawlins dropped into an armchair and iaziiy extended his legs across an oak coffee table in front of the television, letting his flight boots dangle over the opposite edge Rawlins was of average height but had long lanky legs that were sometimes a real hassle. The rest of his thin wiry frame had just refused to grow along with his legs; even his flight suit was custom-made. His fellow Coast Guard HU-25C Falcon pi- lots always knew when Rawlins was the last to fly the plane because the seat was set all the way back and the rudder pedals set all the way forward.

"And don't forget the microwave popcorn, the one wnnoui the salt," Rawlins said.

"Kiss it," Sandino told him. Lieutenant, j.g., Kelly "Grace" Sandino, one of only seventy female pilots in the U. S. Coast Guard, was a dark-eyed beauty from Puerto Rico who some- how managed to tolerate Rawlins' antics and the role of being the only female jet pilot at Opa-Locka, to become one pf its best pilots, period.

The crew was in good spirits. They had just begun the last day of a week-long alert cycleÄtwenty-four hours on, twenty- four off; this was their last on day before a two-week leave. Kevin was on his way to Key West for a long fishing trip, as far from a flight line as he could manage.

The alert day had started at 4:00 P.M., nearly five hours ear- lier, with a routine patrol sortie. This patrol was quick and dirtyÄactually a flight currency trip for one of the district headquarter's staff members, who were required to fly at least six hours every two months to hold their flight status. They had another Falcon up on patrol, and the staffer did a few prac- tice intercepts on him, being directed at first by SLINGSHOT, the joint Coast Guard and Customs Service ground radar con- troller, and then by the Falcon's own radar intercept officer. A few practice landings and the mission was over.

They were on bravo-ten alert status the rest of the tour, which meant that if they received a call to do an intercept they to be airborne in ten minutes or less. Miami Air Station, the busiest search-and-rescue station, had Dolphin helicopters and Falcon jets on various levels of alert, from five to thirty minutes depending on the number of airframes on station, mis- sion requirements and warning time they could expect. Most of the rescue jets, like the searchand cue A-model Falcon and the drug interdiction C-model, were usually on ten minute ~lert; Dolphin rescue choppers, the sleek, French-built high- tech jet helicoPters, were on five-minute alert.

Kelly Sandino had just returned two minutes later with a bag of popcorn when the public address system clicked on: "Ready, alpha, report to the CQ's office."

RawlinS threw the remote onto the coffee table, shuffled to his feet and grabbed a handful of popcorn as be found a phone and dialed the Charge of Quarters' office. "Rawlins here. What's up?"

SLINGSHOT'S putting you on ten minute alert," the CQ, one of Rawlins' fellow pilots, replied. "They got an in-bound north of Cuba they want to take a look at."

Rawlins turned to Sandino, who was retying the laces on her flight boots. "Gracie, get the crew together. Let's spin `em up. I'll do the paperwork."

Sandiflo had the crew on board, the auxiliary power unit on and activated and the crew chief ready to supervise the engine start by the time Rawlins came on board. Their Falcon jet was a Falcon 20 jetliners built in France, a big workhorse of an air machine. Although the official desig- nation was HU-25C Guardian, pilots assigned to drug interdic- tion kept the unofficial name Falcon on account of the high- tech, surveillance equipment and tactics they used chasing drug smugglers.

This version of the Coast Guard's newest rescue~andPatb0l jc~ carried the APG-66 intercept attack radar, the same as on the Air Force's F-16 Fighting Falcon jet fighter, which could detect targets out to sixty miles and track up to six targets si- multaneously. The Falcon also carried a higb~resolUtb0n FLIR, an infrared scanner, that was able to track air targets several miles away as well as ground objects as small as a dog from a mile in the sky.

All they needed, Rawlins bad thought as he hurried up the airstairS and boarded the plane, were a few SideWinder missiles on the wings and smugglers might think again about bringing their shit into America.

The switches configured, external power on, and was all strapped in ready to go. "Ready Ofl number one," RawlinS said as he quietly strapped in. He couldn't help but notice how Sandino's breasts always seemed to strain against the shoulder harness. If there was ever a manpower shortage in the Coast Guard, Rawlins thought, all they had to do was make a recruiting poster starring Gracie it didn't matter if she was wearing a flight suit. She'd look dynamite in a poncho. Guys would be kicking down the doors to enlist.

Snap out of it, you old letch, Rawlins admonished himself We've got work to do. "Crew, stand by for engine start."

"Radar ready," from Petty Officer Joe Conklin in the rear end of the Falcon by his sensor console as he moved to a win- dow to act as safety watch during each engine start.

"Clear on the right," Sandino responded. "Air, power, ra- dios, lights set. Ready on one."

Rawlins showed one index finger to Specialist First Class John Choy outside, then twirled it in a tight circle. After a last check around the left-engine area to clear, Choy gave Rawlins a thumbs-up and a twirling index finger.

"Starting one." Rawlins advanced the throttle a half-inch, engaged the starters and the six-thousand-pound-thrust turbo- fan screamed to life. Thirty seconds later, as soon as Choy had moved his fire-extinguisher bottle and comm cord to the number-two engine, Sandino had the right engine started. Choy jumped on board, dogged the entry airstair closed and strapped himself in near the big observation window on the port side. A minute later they had taxied the short distance to the end of Opa-Locka's main east-west runway and were ready to go.

The Falcon accelerated smoothly down the nine-thousand- foot runway and soon the scene outside the cockpit windows was filled with the brilliant sprawling lights of Miami as they turned southbound over Miami Beach. "Pretty romantic, don't you think, Gracie?" Rawlins remarked cross-cockpit as the dazzling panorama swept before them.

Sandino set the newly assigned Miami Center frequency into the number one UHF radio. "Sure is," the lady copilot replied. She shot a glance at Rawlins and smiled slyly. "Present com- pany excluded."

"Don't you think this is exciting?" Rawlins pressed, sneak- ing a few more glances at his copilot's stunning profile. "Even highly stimulating? The lights, the ocean, the speed. Doesn't it make your Latin blood hot?"

"Know what really makes me hot, Raw!?"

"Tell me, baby."

"Pilots who are only two thousand feet above ground and who start a five hundred foot~per.miflu1te descent instead of climbing. Watch your altitude." Rawlins pulled back on the control wheel and retrimmed properly for a two hundred knot climb.

Five minutes later the Falcon was clear through Miami In- ternational's terminal control area. "Miami Center, Omaha One-One changing to tactical frequency. Good evening."

The Omaha call sign was a common one for any drug inter- diction air unit on an active intercept, and air~traffic-c0ntr0l ~gencie5 knew to clear as much airspace as possible and stay on their toes when they heard that sign. "Omaha One-One, change to company frequency, contact me on this frequency when returning," the air traffic controller replied. Sandino switched the radio to SLINGSHOT'S scrambled frequency, and both she and Rawlins slid one headphone pad off their ears as a raucous squealing and chirping obliterated all radio sound. Now the chirping sounds subsided until only a faint crackle could be beard as the ~~~i~eavesdropping encryption- synchroniZation routine matched the built-in codes on the Fal- con'S radio receiver Only a radio with the built-in codes could lock out the interference.

RawlinS knew the smugglers would soon break the codes on this system, just as they found all the federal frequencies and started intercepting or eavesdropping on them. Incredibly, many of the law~enfOrcemeflt radio frequencies had been pub- lished, and it was a relatively simple process to build or steal a descrambler. They had all the ~dvantages_eSpe~fl~ the moneyÄto fight the drug wars.

Soon the slightly squeaky~ distorted voice of Wexfall in the basement of Miami Air Traffic Control came back: "Omaha One-One, how copy?"

Sandino keyed her mike button. "Four by."

"Roger. Stand by for your final controller." There was a slight pause as Wexfail handed over control to the more experi- enced Gusman, who had the initial flight vectors set up well before he nodded to Wexfall to accept controller's responsibil- ity. "One-One, fly heading one~zero-Zer0 and maintain two thousand feet, your bogey is at sixty miles and low."

Rawlins made a slight right turn and engaged the autopilot. "Okay, Conk, be's at sixty miles low. Go get `em."

"Roger. Stand by," Joe Conklin replied on interphone. Now Rawlins' digital-displaY monitor mounted between the pilot and copilot positions in the top center of the instrument panel~ activated and began pulsing as the radar began its programmed search pattern, sweeping sixty degrees oa side of centerline ahd twenty degrees up and down. But the target was only two thousand feet below the Falcon lin narrowed the pre-programmed radar sweep to five ~ vertical and twenty degrees horizontal, putting maximum ergy along the range and bearing called out by SLINGSH,J. and allowing him to lock onto the target at the greatest dis tance.

A few moments later the moving radar pips on the froze, then began tight oscillations around a square radar. target symbol. A white diamond superimposed itself on the target symbol and RADAR LOCK appeared at the top of the screen. "Radar lock on a fast-moving aircraft, low, fifty miles at ten-thirty position," Conklin reported. A few seconds later the radar computed the target's airspeed and altitude and began feeding range~and~bearing data to the crew on the Falcon. "Left ten degrees, closure rate two hundred thirty knots."

"Forty-five miles," Rawlins confirmed as he completed a left turn to move behind the target. "Ten minutes to intercept."

"How about giving me the intercept this time, Kevin?" Sandino said over interphone.

Rawlins turned to his copilot. "You're not checked out in night interceptsÄ"

"I've had the ground school and one simulator ride."

"Can't do it until you've had actual rides."

"How am I ever going to get checked out if! don't do actual intercepts? I've been on the upgrade program for a month and haven't had one actual intercept. C'mon, Key," Kelly said cross-cockpit. Her voice was different, lower. He looked across at her. "We'll do it nice and easy," she added. "You can take charge whenever you want."

What the hell, Rawlins decidedÄhe was an instructor so it wouldn't be totally against the rules to let her do the intercept. She was, after all, a good stick.

He nodded and watcheci as Sandino put her hands on the control column and throttles. "I've got the aircraft," she said.

He gave the column a little nudge and felt the acknowledging nudge, then let go. "You got it," he said. "Go get `em."

Plaza Federal Building, Miami, Florida

seemed to be more of these late-night workdays for Rear Ian Hardcastle, commander of the Seventh Coast District based in Miami. The solitude of the big empty was a welcome interludeÄand even the paperwork was welcome diversion from the big, silent, empty bungalow he had to go home to.

The commander of the busiest district in the Coast Guard stood up from his desk, stretched his long stringy muscles and ran a hand through salt-and-pepper hair swept back from his forehead in wavy lines. He caught his reflection in the dark of- fice windows and saw that the blue uniform blouse and navy blue pants hung a bit looser than beforeÄstress, lack of exercise and a few late nights at O'Mally's Tavern . . . His blue eyes were dark in the reflection he studied, and the overhead fluores- cent lights accentuated the gaunt face and deep-set, narrow eyes. Ghostly, he thought to himself. He could be straight out of one of his grandfather's Scottish ghost stories, the ones that haunted the moors in the dead of night.

The sandwich that had passed for dinner was a cold lump in his stomach. Stretching his aching muscles even more, he felt the occasional twinges of pain in his wrists and knuckles. Arthritis, a reminder of how old he was getting and how close to retirement he really was. Hardcastle pulled on his leather flyer's jacket, a gift from a retired Coast Guard chief petty officer, and headed up to the roof of the eight-story office building.

He might be getting old, but he wasn't ready for a rocking cHair. Case in point: the neat little Super Scorpion commuter helicopter parked on the roof was Hardcastle's wheels on all but the worst weather days. The Scorpion could carry two per- sons from Miami to most of Florida's major cities at twice turn- pike speeds and was small enough to fit into a two-car garage. It had taken the better part of a year to get permission from the departments of Transportation and Treasury to land the little beauty on the roof of the Federal Building, but by "brib- ing" other higher-ranking persons in the building with offers of free rides he was able to manage it. Rush-hour commuting was now a thing of the past and quick getaways to Orlando or the Keys became possibilities.

Except now there was no one to share these getaways with. He just didn't have much desire to go off on the weekends, and late nights at the office precluded any joy rides. Besides, most of his friends were also his ex-wife's friends, and after their separation he saw little of them.

He undid the tiedowns, removed inlet covers and pitot tube covers and stepped into his little eggbeater. Starting the little Super Scorpion was no more complicated than starting an auto- mobile, and soon the engine was at idle power, warmed up and ready to go. He copied a weather report from Miami Flight ServiceÄwarm temperatures, clear skies, balmy breezesÄthen switched frequencies to Miami International's control tower. Since he'd be popping up in the tower's airspace as soon as he lifted off the roof he wanted to get clearance beforehand: "Miami tower, Scorpion two-five-six X-ray on Victor, depart- ing Brickell Plaza helipad, destination Pompano Beach at one thousand five hundred. Over."

"Scorpion two-five-six X-ray, Miami Tower, good evening, Admiral." Hardcastle had been doing this now for three years and was well known to most of the FAA controllers in south Florida. "Sir, hold your position for zero-two minutes, depart- ing Omaha traffic from Opa-Locka will be turning over the city after takeoff. Looks like one of your boys, Admiral."

"Two-five-six X-ray, holding position at Brickell Plaza heli- pad." Hardcastle shook his head, mildly exasperated at the cas- ual slip of established radio procedures by the tower controllerÄtheir short thirty-second conversation could have yielded information to a smuggler. The only admiral that might be leaving Brickell Plaza Federal Building had to be Coast Guard. Now the smuggler would know that Omaha meant a Coast Guard plane was airborne out of Opa-Locka heading southwest over the city. Anyone with a fifty-dollar Radio Shack VHF scanner could provide intelligence information to drug smugglers.

But such thoughts were quickly overshadowed by anotherÄ where that Omaha jet from Opa-Locka might be going. He wished he had a descrambler on the Scorpion so he could listen in on SLINGSHOT or BLOC, the maritime radar-patrol cen- ter, but not all the brass in Miami could get one of them for a civilian bug-smasher. What was going on? A drug bust? Rou- tine ops? A rescue?

"Two-five-six X-ray, cleared to depart Brickell Plaza heli- pad, remain clear of the Miami TCA, proceed VFR to Pom- pano Beach. Over."

"Tower, I'd like to change that clearance," Hardcastle ra dioed back. "I'd like to head on over to Opa-Locka. Can I get a clearance through the TCA?"

"Stand by, sir." The Terminal Control Area was a place of high-density air traffic around busy airports where air traffic was tightly controlled. It was asking a lot, Hardcastle knew, to send a small helicopter right through a TCA at night, but things quieted down significantly at Miami International right around nine P.M. and he figured he might get lucky.

"Two-five-six X-ray, Miami tower," the controller began, "if you can get your whirlygig off the roof and over to the airport right now, and I mean now, you are cleared across the TCA at one thousand feet. You're going to be head-to-head with a very big, very nasty 747 in about five minutes. Over."

Hardcastle had the rotor clutch engaged on the Scorpion when he made his request, and the blades were spinning up to takeoff speed shortly after the controller issued the new clear- ance. "Two-five-six X-ray is off at this time, leaving one-fifty for one thousand feet," he said as he set power and gently eased up on the collective. "Thanks, Chuck."

"Don't mention it, Admiral." Three minutes later Hard- castle was racing across the brilliantly lit airport, heading north toward Opa-Locka Airport.