Frederick Forsyth - Avenger

"Final destination?"

" Key West, Florida."

"The United States?"

"Land of my fathers," said the man with the gun.

Dexter had memorised the route from San Martin to Key West, but there was no need. The avionics on the Hawker are so clear that even a nonflier can follow the liquid crystal display showing intended course and line of track.

Forty minutes out from the coast he saw the blur of Grenada 's light slip under the starboard wing. Then came the twohour overwater haul to make landfall on the south coast of the Dominican Republic.

After two more, between the coast of Cuba and the Bahamas ' biggest island, Andros, he leaned forward and touched the Frenchman's ear with the tip of the automatic.

"Disconnect the transponder now."

The copilot looked across at the Yugoslav, who shrugged and nodded. The copilot switched it off. With the transponder-designed to pulse out an endlessly repeated identification signal-disconnected, the Hawker was reduced simply to a speck on the radar screen of someone looking very closely indeed. To anyone not looking that closely, it had ceased to exist. But it had also announced it was a suspect intruder.

South of Florida, reaching far out over the sea, is the air defence identification zone, designed to protect the southeastern flank of the United States from the continuous assault of the drug smugglers. Anyone entering ADIZ without a flight plan was playing hide-and-seek with some very sophisticated metal.

"Drop to four hundred feet above the sea," said Dexter. "Dive and dive now. All navigation and cabin lights off."

"That is very low," said the pilot, as the nose dropped through thirty thousand feet. The aircraft went dark.

"Pretend it's the Adriatic. You've done it before."

It was true. As a fighter pilot in the Yugoslav Air Force, Colonel Stepanovic had led dummy attacks against the Croatian coast at well below four hundred feet to slip under the radar. Still, he was right.

The moonlit sea at night is mesmerising. It can lure the low-flying pilot down and down until he flips the surface of the waves, rolls in, and dies. Altimeters under five hundred feet have to be dead accurate and constantly checked. Ninety miles southeast of Islamorada, the Hawker levelled at four hundred feet and raced over the Santaren Channel toward the Florida Keys. Coming in at sea level, those last ninety miles almost fooled the radar.

" Key West Airport, runway Two-Seven," said Dexter. He had studied the layout of his chosen landfall. Key West Airport faces eastwest, with one runway along that axis. All the passenger and ops buildings are at the eastern end. To land heading west would put the entire length of the runway between the Hawker and the vehicles racing toward it. Runway TwoSeven means it pointed to compass heading 270, or due west.

At fifty miles from touchdown, they were spotted. Twenty miles north of Key West is Cudjoe Key, home to a huge balloon tethered to a cable and riding twenty thousand feet in the sky. Where most coastal radars look outward and up, the Cudjoe eye-in-the-sky looks down. Its radars can see any plane trying to slip in under the net.

Even balloons need occasional maintenance, and the one at Cudjoe is brought down at random intervals, which are never announced. It had been down that evening by chance and was heading back up. At ten thousand feet it saw the Hawker coming out of the black sea, transponder off, no flight plan. Within seconds, two F16s on duty alert at Elgin Air Force Base in Pensacola were barreling down the runway, going straight to afterburn once they cleared the deck.

Climbing and breaking the sound barrier, the Fighting Falcons formated and headed south for the last of the Keys. Thirty miles out, Captain Stepanovic was down to two hundred knots and lining up. The lights of Cudjoe and Sugarloaf Keys twinkled to starboard. The fighters' radars picked up the intruder, and the pilots altered course to come in from behind. Against the Hawker's two hundred knots, the Falcons were moving at over a thousand.

As it happened, George Tanner was duty controller at Key West that night and was within minutes of closing the airport down when the alarm was raised. The position of the intruder indicated it was actually trying to land, which was the smart thing to do. Darkened intruders with lights and transponder switched off are given, after fighter interception, one warning to do as they are told and land where they are told. There are no second warnings: The war against the drug smugglers is too serious for games. Still and all, a plane can have an onboard emergency and deserves a chance to land. The light stayed on. Twenty miles out, the crew of the Hawker could see the lights of the runway glowing ahead of them. Above and behind, the F-16s began to drop and brake. For them, two hundred knots was almost landing speed.

Ten miles from touchdown, the Falcons found the darkened Hawker by the red glow from the jet efflux on each side of its tail. First the aircrew in the cabin knew, the deadly fighters were riding on each wingtip.

"Unidentified twin jet, look ahead and land. I say look ahead and land," said a voice in the captain's ear.

The undercarriage came down, with one-third flap. The Hawker adopted its landing posture. Chica Key Naval Air Station swept past to the right. The Hawker's main wheels felt for the touchdown markings, found the concrete, and it was down on U. S. territory.

For the last hour Dexter had had the spare earphones over his head and the mike in front of his mouth. As the wheels hit the tarmac, he keyed the transmit button.

"Unidentified Hawker jet to Key West tower, do you read?"

The voice of George Tanner came clearly into his ears.

"Read you, five."

"Tower, this aeroplane contains a mass murderer and a killer of an American in the Balkans. He is manacled to his seat. Please inform your police chief to exercise close custody and await the federal marshals."

Before waiting for a reply, he disconnected and turned to Captain Stepanovic.

"Go right to the far end, stop there, and I'll leave you," said the hijacker. He rose and pocketed his gun. Behind the Hawker, the Crash/Fire/Rescue trucks left the airport buildings and came after them.

"Door open, please," said Dexter.

He left the flight deck and walked back through the cabin as the lights came on. The two prisoners blinked in the glare.

Through the open door, Dexter could see the trucks racing toward them. Flashing red/blues indicated police cars. The wailing sirens were faint but getting closer.

"Where are we?" shouted Zoran Zilic.

" Key West," said Dexter.

"Why?"

"Remember in a meadow? In Bosnia? Spring of Ninety-five? An American kid pleading for his life? Well, pal, all this"-he waved his hand outside"-is a present from the boy's grandpa."

He walked down the steps and strode to the nose wheel assembly. Two bullets blew out the tires. The boundary fence was twenty yards away. The dark coveralls were soon lost in the blackness as he vaulted the chain link and walked away through the mangrove.

The airport lights behind him dimmed through the trees, but he began to make out the flashes of car and truck headlights on the highway beyond the swamp. He pulled out a cell phone and dialled by the glow of the tiny screen. Far away in Windsor, Ontario, a man answered.

"Mr. Edmond?"

"This is he?"

"The package from Belgrade that you asked for has landed at Key West Airport, Florida."

He said no more and barely heard the yell at the other end before disconnecting. Just to be sure, the cell phone spun away into the brackish swamp water beside the track to be lost forever.

Ten minutes later, a senator in Washington was roused from his dinner, and within an hour two officers from the Federal Air Marshal Bureau in Miami were speeding south.