Special Access Read online

  Special Access Mark A.Hewitt

  Copyright Mark A.Hewitt 2013

  Published by Black Rose Writing, Publishing at Smashwords

  Black Rose Writing www.blackrosewriting.com

  *

  © 2013 by Mark A.Hewitt All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-255-9

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  *

  A salute to the pioneering men of the US Army, US Navy, the Schweizer Aircraft Company, the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation and the Central Intelligence Agency who had the vision to conceive, build, and fly quiet powered aircraft in the defense of the United States of America.

  *

  Special Access is a work of fiction. Some incidents, such as the World Trade Center attack of September 11, 2001, and the special-purpose airframes reflect historical events and aircraft, providing a backdrop for this book. Any implied specific information attributed to a specific event, location, or person is wholly manufactured by the author. Any location, aircraft, incident, company, corporation, government institution, or facility used in Special Access is either fictitious or used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any characters mentioned or implied in Special Access, past or present, are also either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  A black program in the intelligence community refers informally to a “closed” or extremely classified program. Black programs are unacknowledged publicly by the government and defense contractors. In the United States intelligence community, the formal terminology for the most-sensitive classified program is Special Access Program.

  May 1, 2011. The President announced that the United States conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden.

  May 5, 2011. The President announced that he would personally thank the Navy SEAL team that killed Osama bin Laden. For four days, the nation was treated to hundreds of stories of SEALs. The public wanted more information about their new heroes.

  May 7, 2011. Special Operations Command struggled with issuing a press release that Navy SEALs are grateful for the nation’s show of support but are growing angry with the continued focus on their operations, tactics, and tools, claiming it could jeopardize future raids and their safety. “Anything further that comes out could damage their operational security, may reveal tricks of the trade, or even endanger their families.”

  May 10, 2011. Pablo Reyes, a twenty-two-year retired US Navy commander and former Navy SEAL, was found dead at his home in Denver, Colorado. The Denver Police Department believes Mr. Reyes, a physical fitness instructor at the Johnson and Wales University, was the victim of a random shooting. The case is under investigation.

  PROLOGUE

  2325L February 12, 1999

  Cristóbal Airport, Republic of Panama

  As they took turns climbing onto the wing and settling into their cockpits, the two men in black NOMEX and black helmets quickly went through their prestart checks. The man in front lowered the canopy, while the man in back scanned left and right to discern if anyone would notice their late-night departure. It was wasted energy. One of the ground crew had already done that, scanning the area with night-vision goggles.

  All clear was a thumbs-up held high for three seconds followed by starter engagement and a slowly spinning propeller. It wasn’t just any propeller but one specially designed in the late ‘60s by an acoustic laboratory in Massachusetts; the prop design was still considered top secret.

  Also obviously missing during the engine start sequence was the low growl of engine exhaust. The big Continental 360 should have rattled the windows of nearby buildings during engine start, but it sounded more like a Lionel locomotive. Hot exhaust gases were completely diffused through a pair of large conformal mufflers and long, perforated piping that ran down the starboard side of the fuselage. Lycoming engineers found a way to dissipate the hot gases and muffle the engine exhaust.

  The pilot lowered the canopy, flipped ANVIS-9s over his eyes, and silently taxied to the runway.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready. All clear.”

  If anyone noticed the little black taildragger, he would have doubted what he saw and heard. At 1400 RPM, the pitch-control lever was smoothly programmed to increase the angle of attack of the propeller to the maximum pitch angle. The special reduction gearbox spun the laminated three-prop blade slowly. The three-foot, rectangular blades cut the air in small gulps with no noticeable P-factor.

  The last remaining operational YO-3A slowly moved down the runway. A low-noise profile takeoff at night under night-vision goggles is as harrowing as a nighttime catapult launch of an F-4 Phantom off a pitching carrier deck in crappy weather. The pilot had done both multiple times.

  At the two board and thirty-five knots, the tail wheel lifted gently off the centerline at the urging of the pilot’s forward cyclic inputs. Taking all 5,000 feet of runway, the mains broke the deck before the asphalt ran out. No one in or near the airport heard or saw the airplane take off.

  Two minutes later at 2,000 feet AGL, Duncan Hunter pushed the throttle to 3,200 RPM to increase climb rate and speed and leveled off the YO-3A on a heading of 080. In the rear seat, Greg Lynche began checking the FLIR, infrared illuminator, laser target designator, and video recorder.

  “Not bad for a thirty-year-old plane,” Lynche remarked.

  “A thirty-year-old plane with your basic F-16 cockpit. I’m really impressed with the old girl. You also worked some magic with the engine since last time.”

  “We dropped in a competition Continental. Two spares are in the shop getting the same treatment.”

  “The last of its kind.”

  “Like your old F-4?”

  Duncan sighed. “That hurt, Greg. Yes, like my old F-4, the last of the man’s machines. I hate to say it. They’re being converted into drones, and I hate to think they’re targets. I love flying this. This is a great airplane in its own way, surprisingly very responsive. You need a good touch to fly this well.”

  “That’s why you’re flying, and I’m picture taking.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Every time I fly this, it’s always a little strange having boards for a prop. This is a very cool airplane.”

  Checking their GPS coordinates, Lynche said, “Let’s head 090 and see if we can find the FARC, take some pictures, and head back. If we have time, I want pictures of the port, the oil tankers and storage tanks, and anything else that might be of interest.”

  The retired CIA Chief of Air Branch was back in his element, hunting drug smugglers and narcoterrorists from the formerly top-secret airplane. Eleven Lockheed YO-3A prototypes were developed for the US Army’s use in Vietnam as low-altitude, silent night reconnaissance airplanes.

  Derived from several Quiet Thruster designs that would have given Rube Goldberg a stroke, number 007 was the last remaining flyable copy in private hands. Less than twelve people knew of its existence. Only six knew of 007’s capabilities.

  “I still can’t get over how you got this from the FBI. Are you sure you didn’t hold a gun to someone’s head? Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse?”


  “Something like that. Someone owed me a favor. You know I was the DCI's personal aide?”

  “Greg, you rarely tell me anything about your old place.”

  “You know after the Judge ran the FBI, he came to CIA as the DCI. I became his aide.”

  “Yes, Sir. I know that. How’d you get 007?”

  “Well, after my tour as the Judge’s aide, I became Chief Air Branch. Toward the end of my three years, I had visions of making a CIA aviation museum on some of the land behind headquarters. I had the last remaining A-12 in storage, along with a U-2 and a DC-3 from our old Air America days. I found out this little recce plane was going to be returned to DOD, and there was little doubt it would be scrapped, so I asked the FBI to transfer 007 when they were done with it.

  “They told me to get bent. The Judge found out his old place had basically flipped me off. He made a couple calls, and, right before he retired, he somehow had the airplane transferred to me. Actually, the FBI sold it to me for a dollar. Not exactly what I had in mind, but that was the deal.”

  Duncan shook his helmeted head. “Do you see that? One o’clock, on the horizon.”

  Old habits die hard. Lynche couldn't see Hunter’s visual vector. “What? Where? Ah, looks like a bonfire. It’s a little late for a barbecue. Let’s go take a look. Take it up to 9,000, and we’ll see if that’s a good altitude.”

  Hunter traded air speed for altitude. During the zoom climb the aircraft slowed to seventy-five knots for maximum noise reduction, as it eased into the assigned altitude as if the maneuver were choreographed, then he placed the throttle in the Quiet detent. The reduction gearing was immediately noticeable, as the short-but-wide variable-pitch prop adjusted to maintain altitude and sixty-five knots at just above idle RPM.

  The Wraith slipped naturally into glider mode. The only thing the two men heard was the sound of their own breathing in their noise-canceling headsets in their helmets.

  “Looks like the FARC having a celebration,” Lynche said. “I see about fifteen people. Orbit here while I get this on tape.”

  “Roger.”

  After three turns, Lynche said, “This is BS. They’re just shooting the shit. Duncan, run the throttle up to 3,500 and quickly back to idle. Point the nose at them. That’s good. On my mark…mark.”

  The sudden power change significantly yawed the aircraft before it returned to trimmed flight. The propeller blades propagated low-frequency noise toward the ground but nothing from the heavily muffled engine.

  “Let’s see what they do, if anything,” Lynche said.

  Less than five seconds later, the Forward Looking Infra Red’s video recording caught the collective surprise of the group of narcoterrorists. Each ghostly image tried to discern the low-frequency growling sound and from where it could have originated.

  As if given an order, all the men grabbed weapons and ran single-file through the jungle. The FLIR caught the white images of their heat signatures and the arcs of cigarettes thrown into the night, as they raced down a jungle path.

  “Well, I didn’t expect that,” Lynche said, nonplussed. “That’s an unusual response. Usually, if they think it’s an airplane operating without lights, they shoot toward the noise. Now what are they doing?” The FLIR traced ten men running down the path, who slowed as they approached a large structure on the hillside. The men took defensive positions around the makeshift hut.

  Lynche lifted his head suddenly, narrowed his eyes, and whispered, “Something doesn’t make sense with that response.” He switched to the electro-optical sensor, hoping for a better view, then switched back to infrared.

  As Duncan kept the aircraft in a tight 30° right turn, the FLIR recorded the terrorists looking into the distance, waiting for another visual or aural cue. It was a game of cat and mouse.

  Lynche scanned the mountaintop. The fire was out, though the embers still burned brightly in the FLIR. Three remaining images walked toward the hut.

  “That’s really odd.”

  “What is?” Duncan didn’t have a sensor repeater among the three multifunction displays and HUD, and had to rely on the old spook’s commentary.

  “I wasn’t sure at first, but I think we know where a batch of hostages is located. Take it up…500 feet. I want to see if we can get better imagery through the roof of that hut.”

  Hunter gently zoomed to the requested altitude, careful not to create any whistling of a deflected flight control. The aircraft was specially designed to be noiseless with conformal antennae and retractable landing gear, but, as was demonstrated during low-level flight trials, large deflections of flight controls even at idle speeds could create a medium-range whistle that was audible over a mile at night. Before a YO-3A went on a mission in Vietnam, the aircraft would fly 300 feet over the maintenance shack. If the maintainers heard whistles, rattles, or other noises, the pilot brought the aircraft back, and maintenance placed duct or aluminum speed tape on loose parts of the airframe.

  After several flights, the maintenance workers knew where the problems were, and they taped those noisemakers before every flight, so the overhead noise check became an afterthought. 007 sported several strips of black duct tape.

  “Right there. I can just make out ten, twelve bodies. Looks like they’re against the walls. Probably their hands and feet are tied. That’s a great set of heat signatures through that thatched roof. We’ll know more when we analyze the tape.”

  Lynche cross-checked the aircraft's GPS coordinates with the FLIR’s symbology and pressed a few commands on the touch screen of the multifunction display panel.

  “X marks the spot.” The GPS coordinates were imprinted on the video tape.

  After orbiting for ten minutes, the two men watched the FARC men laugh and joke with each other, as they relaxed their defensive posture and returned up the hill.

  Two minutes later, they lit a smaller fire, while two guards remained at either ends of the hostage hut.

  Lynche gave Hunter a vector to depart the location and headed to Cristóbal via the river and port.

  Thirty minutes later, Lynche placed his hand on the stick, shook it slightly and said, “My plane.”

  Duncan responded by releasing the controls and putting both hands up for the man behind him to see. “Your airplane."

  “I’ll call the chief and tell him we located their targets.” Lynche switched from interphone to radio. “Lasko, November X-ray triple seven Lima Sierra.”

  “November X-ray triple seven Lima Sierra, go ahead.”

  “Roger, Lasko. I think we’re going to need one--two hotel rooms for the night. Can you have a van pick us up?”

  “Copy that, November X-ray triple seven Lima Sierra. One-two hotel rooms. I’ll pass the message to the Sofitel.”

  “Roger, Lasko. Thanks for your help, Sir. November X-ray triple seven Lima Sierra, out.” He switched back to interphone. “OK, Duncan. We’ll do a little low level over the river. I’d like to find a drug lab or two, maybe a find submarine, then we’ll head back to the airport. I want some video of oil tankers and oil storage tanks. You can take it home after that.”

  “Roger.”

  Once Lynche made out the Saldaña River draining into the Caribbean Sea, he banked hard to the right and pulled the throttle to idle to slowly descend the YO-3A to 2,000 AGL, paralleling the Magdalena River.

  After fifteen minutes of near blackness, Lynche shouted, “Your airplane!”

  “My airplane.”

  “I think we have a lab at three o’clock. Spin it, please.” He slewed the FLIR to the area that flashed in his NVGs.

  “Nice job, Sir. Coming around. Give me a vector.”

  “Check your nine o’clock, about three fingers above the treeline. I could barely pick it up in my NVGs; I almost missed it. Now it looks like a flare in our FLIR.”

  “Still no joy. Oh, there it is. Tally ho. Nice catch, Sir. Man, you wouldn’t have been able to see that if you were directly overhead. We were at the exact right slant angle.”
/>   “Check altitude, and let’s orbit here. I want to see if I can discern what’s going on.”

  “Greg, twelve o’clock. I think it’s a gunboat coming upriver. Riverine patrol?”

  “Let me see.” Lynche swung the FLIR to the vessel in the middle of the river and zoomed the image. “I’d say it’s a Colombian Navy gunboat. I can make out its ensign waving on the stern. I’m recording this. What do you want to bet they power right by the drug lab?”

  “Your next modification should be a repeater for that FLIR. Should be able to dump the video onto one of these screens.”

  “I’ll see about that once we get the old girl home. Yes, Colombian Navy. Looks to be just patrolling.”

  “Shit. Did you see that? Three IR flashes! Did that drug lab just signal the gunboat? Is that really a gunboat?”

  Lynche was completely focused on the FLIR display. “Check your speed. Take her down another 1,000 feet. I want a closer look.”

  Hunter pulled the throttle to idle and reduced the pitch on the propeller. The glider was reluctant to descend, and Hunter was afraid of using speed brakes or spoilers for fear of creating a whistle.

  “That’s very strange,” Lynche said. “They’re going up the little tributary that feeds into the river. Seems like they’re expected. Maybe it’s the national police at the drug lab, and this is a coordinated op.”

  “Or maybe the Colombian Navy is corrupt and is in on it.”

  “Or maybe you’re too cynical. Take it down another 500 feet.”

  “Verify 500 AGL?”

  “For the moment. I want to see if I can get some high-granularity video. I want to see if I can tell who’s on the boat or who’s at the lab. Mark this avenue of approach on GPS. We have time for only a pass or two.”

  There was no moon, so the area was absolutely dark. Hunter smiled. His pulse quickened. He knew the altitude at which a human could detect the YO-3A was still top secret. He concentrated on maintaining the correct altitude and keeping some level of situational awareness with respect to the terrain. He strayed over the target but away from the gun line. Army YO-3A crews did that every night in Vietnam, sometimes lower if they believed the sound of running water would mask their approach to the target. Purposely flying into small-arms range in an unarmored, unprotected airplane is usually fatal.