by Oliver North
Finally, the two policemen conferred and determined there were no reasons to hold these men.
“Tell me for whom you are looking, and we will keep an eye out for him,” Dotensk said. “We have quite a distance to travel and...you never know...”
The policeman hesitated. “There was an escape from a prison today. It took place less than eighty kilometers from here. Four criminals escaped in a truck similar to yours, with canvas over the top. There may be an Iraqi officer and another man with them—probably accomplices but maybe hostages. That is why we had to check.”
“May I see the photos, in case we run into them?” Dotensk asked. Dotensk couldn't care less about four criminals who escaped an Iraqi prison, but he thought it wise to feign some interest at least.
The two policemen looked at each other, and the senior officer shrugged and gestured to his subordinate, who held the faxes out to the Ukrainian.
Dotensk pretended to examine the first picture carefully—the caption described him as Major D'awd al Khidir. The second photograph was that of another Iraqi, apparently an enlisted man in the Special Republican Guard. The third, fourth, and fifth pictures surprised the arms merchant; they were all clearly either European or American. Unlike the first two photos, there were no names or descriptions beneath their faces. But when he got to the final photograph, he was stunned, though he studiously tried to avoid any evidence of recognition.
The picture was of the only survivor of the Anglo-American raid on Tikrit that he had witnessed with Hussein Kamil in March of 1995. The man in the photo was undoubtedly the wounded British SAS officer who had been captured when the rest of his team was annihilated. Dotensk remembered the occasion vividly, though much had happened in the three years since.
He handed the faxes back. “We will keep our eyes open for anyone suspicious and notify the authorities if we see anyone who resembles these men.”
The policemen nodded, left the restaurant, climbed back into their vehicle, and were gone.
Dotensk walked back outside. Four criminals...escaped prisoners...they must all be British or American captives. And the only prison that close is that newly constructed one near Salman Pak where Kamil was eventually going to store the nuclear weapons. An escape like this from one of Saddam's best prisons requires outside help. No doubt the British or American intelligence agencies are behind it.
But the most troubling thought that concerned Dotensk was based on the man whom he recognized. If this British survivor gets away and talks to his superiors about the Tikrit mission, General Komulakov might have even bigger problems than that spy inside the American intelligence apparatus.
Dotensk had absolutely no idea how much the British SAS prisoner knew, but he was more convinced than ever that he needed to consummate some kind of deal with Qusay Hussein as quickly as possible, before things began to blow up in his face.
Iraqi Security Checkpoint
Near An Nukhayb, Iraq
Sunday, 22 March 1998
1910 Hours, Local
The truck carrying the four prisoners had been traveling with its headlights off for the past hour, encountering little traffic. “Pull over,” Major D'awd al Khidir told the driver. He saw the lights of a checkpoint more than a kilometer down the deserted highway—well before the soldiers or policemen manning the roadblock could see them. The checkpoint made him very nervous. This wasn't supposed to happen this far from the border.
“Shut off the engine and do not use any lights,” al Khidir said. The commandant got out of the cab and peered at the checkpoint.
The prison chief climbed back in the cab. Taking a pair of binoculars out of the duffel bag beside him on the seat, he again studied the lights down the road. “It is a roadblock...they have set up a military checkpoint.”
The driver shifted in his seat. Al Khidir guessed he was getting nervous; driving at night with lights off was not standard procedure. “We do not want to go through the checkpoint,” he told the driver. “I want you to turn off the highway and go to that wadi over there to the left. Its bed is dry, and we can follow it to beyond An Nukhayb to where it meets the Wadi al Ubayyid. Then we can follow it west until we get back onto the highway.”
“Sir...why are you trying to avoid the checkpoint? Are we not taking the prisoners to another prison?”
“No, Omar...we are not. We are going to cross the border with these men. You can go with me, or you can return with the truck to the prison. I will let you decide.”
“But sir...I—that is—my family is here. I cannot abandon them. I must stay here.”
“I can pay you a full year's salary to come with me, and you can try to get your family out of Iraq later.”
“I would not know how...sir. I must stay here, with my family.”
“I understand. I will release you and the truck when we have made the arrangements for the prisoners to be set free. I need you now...and later you will be permitted to leave us and return to Habirah Prison. Now, drive over to that wadi.”
The truck pulled out onto the highway and crossed the road into the flat desert. It lumbered and bumped over and through the gravel and soft sand toward the dry creek bed that Major Khidir had pointed out on the map. Once the vehicle made it to the harder ground, the commandant ordered the driver to stop.
“Come with me to the back of the truck. We are going to unlock their chains and give them a change of clothing to replace the prison uniforms.”
Shackled in the back of the truck, SAS Captain Bruno Macklin was more than a little nervous when the vehicle pulled off the highway and stopped in this desolate location. He and the other three men chained in the bed of the vehicle all remembered what had happened earlier in the day when the two Americans had been dragged out of the truck. He was still not convinced that this was indeed an escape—this would be a perfect spot to dump four bodies.
But Macklin felt reassured when the younger guard unlocked the padlock of the chain that bound them all together and then released their handcuffs and leg manacles. And when the Iraqi in charge explained to RAF captain Robbie Blake that he had brought some clothing to replace their prison uniforms, then opened a large canvas bag to distribute them, the SAS officer finally began to have hope that he really was on his way to freedom.
As the men quickly changed clothes, the commandant told the driver to dispose of the chains and prison uniforms.
“There is a slight change of plans,” the prison chief told Captain Blake. “There is a police or military checkpoint on the highway this side of An Nukhayb. We cannot take the chance of going that way. I have chosen a detour, following these wadis until we can get back onto the highway southwest of An Nukhayb. But this detour will slow us down at least thirty or forty minutes.”
“Do you have some weapons we can use, in case they come after us?” Blake asked.
“I do have some extra weapons,” the commandant replied, “but I am afraid I cannot give them to you. I am sorry...but the guns will stay with me for the time being.”
“Yeah, well...let's get going. If we can see the lights of that roadblock from here, maybe they can see us. And I wouldn't want to have made it all this way only to be stopped by those guys at the checkpoint.”
“Yes, but remember, there is another checkpoint at the border crossing. The authorities are apparently already aware you have escaped,
so we should expect an alert throughout all Iraq. You are special prisoners and every attempt will be made to prevent you from escaping.”
Blake nodded. “No doubt we're very special, eh mates? Don't you all feel special? So...what's ‘Plan B’?”
“Plan B?”
“Did your contact give you an alternate plan if the border crossing was closed?”
“Yes…they gave me a device with a magnet on it and told me to fasten it to the truck. I assume it is some kind of tracking apparatus. I put it inside the back wheel well. Your British friends instructed me that if we leave the truck, I should take the device with me so that they
will 'see' that we are taking an alternate route. There is another wadi about twelve kilometers before we get to the border. It crosses the highway where the road curves south. We must assume the border posts have now all been alerted, and so we will follow the Wadi Hamir two kilometers north of the highway. There we will be met by your people.”
Blake nodded appreciatively. “I was hoping you had something up your sleeve.” He picked up a large rock and went over to the back of the truck. With two great swings, he struck the taillights and smashed the bulbs inside. “Your brake lights might give us away. We'd better get going now.”
MI6 Harbor Site
Judayyidat Ar'ar, Saudi Arabia
Sunday, 22 March 1998
1955 Hours, Local
“Well, look who has finally gotten himself out in the field!”
Joe Thomas was peering through the long-range night-vision
binoculars, out the doorway of the dingy concrete-block structure.
Downhill to the west, a U.S. Marine CH-46 helicopter had just shut down next to the two CH-53s, showering the whole area in a furious cloud of dust that obscured the horizon.
“Who's that?” Lloyd Blackman asked as they looked down the hill.
“Well, it appears to be good old Dwayne Wardell, our MI6 base chief in Riyadh.”
“What's he want? Doesn't think we can handle the assignment without direct supervision, or what?”
“Maybe he got tired of sipping tea and eating scones with all the Riyadh royalty.”
A Royal Marine sergeant in full battle gear escorted the man up to the door of the building. '“S'cuze me gents, this chap says he belongs here. He's got a badge says he's in Her Majesty's service.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Please let Mr. Wardell into our humble abode.”
The Royal Marine stepped aside and a man entered who was at least ten years older than Thomas. Though the room was illuminated only by the laptop computer screens and a single chem-light resting on a map spread over two equipment cases, Thomas could see he was resplendent in a tailored bush jacket, matching khaki trousers, and desert boots that had been highly polished before walking the five hundred yards in the sand from the LZ.
“Good evening, Thomas, Blackman,” the new arrival said, looking around. “I got to thinking you might be a little lonely up here, so I asked our American friends for a few more of their toys.” “Sir?”
“Yes, well, it seemed to me if things get a little dicey, a bit of firepower might be in order, so I asked the American Marines if they wouldn't mind posting their two Cobra gunbirds up here to keep their other helicopters company—just until tomorrow.”
Thomas smiled. He'd wanted the extra firepower, but London had counseled against asking the Americans for too much. “Great! When will they arrive?”
Wardell looked at his watch. “They were to have left Ar'ar at 1930 hours. That means they should be here any moment. The helicopter I came on also had something the yanks call a ‘fuel bladder' in it to refuel them when they get here. Where're our escapees?”
Blackman, pointing to the map display on his computer screen, said, “Based on what the tracking information tells us, the truck is headed for Point Bravo, and that will be the pickup point.”
“Do you have an ETA for them yet?”
“The satellite is tracking them at about twenty kilometers southwest of An Nukhayb,” Thomas said. “I'm guessing they're about fifteen to twenty minutes from the point where they'll leave the highway, then it's a few minutes more to the rendezvous point.”
“Any sign of hostiles?”
“No...there was a roadblock northeast of An Nukhayb, but the truck bypassed it safely. They've been moving steadily since then and are only thirty-three minutes behind schedule. Not bad...except for the curfew.”
“What curfew?”
“Right about 1930, a half hour ago, we intercepted a broadcast by the regional commanders at An Nukhayb and further south at Ash Shabakah,” Blackman said, “that they were imposing a curfew for all vehicle traffic until dawn. That means the only vehicles moving in the Eastern Desert will be Iraqi security and our truckload of escaping POWs.”
“Well, let's keep our fingers crossed. The Iraqis will have a force at all their border crossings, given the nationwide alert. If some local commander gets ambitious and sends out a recon patrol to look for the truck, our boys may get caught before they ever get to the border. As soon as the Cobras get here, establish an encrypted radio link with them so they know everything that's going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Blackman turned. “Sergeant Willis, come here, please.”
The RTO came up from his seat in the corner, removing one side of his headphones. “Yes, sir?”
“Eddie, go down to the LZ. When the Cobras land, ask the section leader to come up here and bring with him the settings for his KY equipment.”
As the young man headed out the door, Thomas said, “And you might tell him we suggest he take on as much fuel as possible as soon as he can.”
The RTO had hardly exited the building when two red icons began to blink on the computer screen in front of Blackman.
“Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” Wardell asked as Thomas pressed toward the screen.
“I'm showing a launch of Iraqi MIGs out of Markab, just west of Baghdad,” Blackman said. The three of them watched as the computer updated itself from a satellite traveling more than twenty thousand miles per hour, one hundred thirty miles above Iraq. “It looks like the MIGs are headed toward An Nukhayb...two of them. That's the town just a few kilometers east of where the truck had to leave the highway to avoid a checkpoint.”
“But if the officer at the checkpoint called for the MIGs, wouldn't we have detected his radio transmission back to Markab or Baghdad?” asked Thomas.
“Not if he made the call by telephone,” said Blackman. “Remember, thanks to their friends in Beijing, these guys now have buried fiber optic cable connecting all their command centers.”
“Where are the MIGs now?” asked Wardell.
“They're getting close to the truck,” replied Blackman, pointing to the screen. “I'd say they're only ten minutes out. And it looks like they're flying a search pattern, parallel to the highway. If they spot the truck before it makes the rendezvous point, they'll be able to lock on and destroy the truck and everyone in it.”
“Dwayne, what happened to our request for fixed wing air support for this mission?” Blackman asked.
“Sorry. No direct support...London has set up a diversion with our aircraft in the no-fly zone, but we've got nothing this far south,” the senior MI6 man said. “We only have the CH-53s and the Cobras.” As Wardell said the word, they heard the sound of the two gunships settling on the LZ to the west.
One of the technicians who had been monitoring the radios across the room said, “Sir, I've got Sergeant Ellis on the LZ, asking for Mr. Blackman.”
The MI6 officer jumped to his feet, grabbed the handset, and depressed the button on its side. He waited a second for the electronic ping of the encryption, and said into the mouthpiece, “Ellis...this is Blackman, go ahead.”
“I've just talked to Captain Drummond, the Cobra section leader. He's coming up on our VHF frequency, and he's loaded for bear with air-to-ground and air-to-air. His call sign is 'Snake Two-One.' He wants you to try to raise him, over.”
Blackman keyed the headset. “Snake Two-One, this is Control, over.”
There was a momentary delay for the electronic handshake and then a voice with a heavy Southern drawl came through the earpiece. “Go ahead, Control, what can the U.S. Marines do for you boys?”
Blackman's heart was pounding. The request he was about to make exceeded his authority, but time was running out.
“Our POWs aren't going to make it to the border. The Iraqis are hunting them on the ground and in the air with two MIG-25s about twenty kilometers east of here. Can you escort one CH-53 with some of our Royal Marines and go pick them up?”
“Let m
e check. Stand by.”
Blackman looked up at his two superiors who said nothing. A minute went by, then another. Then he heard the ping as the helicopter pilot came back on the air.
“We're good to go,” Drummond said. “But one change, we're going in with both CH-53s just in case we lose one—that way we can still pick people up. We're loading up fifteen of your Royal Marines to take with us just in case things get dicey on the ground, if you know what I mean. We'll be out of here in about five.”
No one in the room said a word. Below them to the west, they could hear shouted orders as the Royal Marine NCOs and officers saddled up the men of Four-Two Commando. Then there was the whine of the big CH-53s starting up. Captain Drummond's voice came over the radio. “Give me the best you've got on where everybody is so we can plug it all into our GPS and weapons systems.”
Blackman gave him the most recent coordinates for the truck and the track of the Iraqi MIGs.
“Roger that,” Drummond said. “We're locked and loaded.”
The roof of the building shook as the four helicopters took off directly over them, headed east with their lights off.
The three men in the control shack were surrounded by a sudden eerie silence, except for the quiet hum of computers and the intermittent static of the radios. They stared at their screens...and prayed.
As they crossed the border into Iraq, the helicopters were at fifty feet and 120 knots with Captain Drummond's Cobra in the lead, followed by a CH-53 carrying eight Royal Marine commandos. Further behind and to the left was the second Cobra, followed by the other 53, also carrying eight Royal Marines. Their track took them north of the Iraqi border post at Judaiat al Hamir, but the sound of their rotors carried across the desert, sending the guards rushing out of their barracks and into a nearby bunker, fearing that they were under attack.
