by Oliver North
Four minutes later, heading due east to the last reported position for the truck, Captain Drummond's weapons systems operator, sitting in front of him in the cramped cockpit, came up on the intercom, “Bogey...ten o'clock. Eight miles. Fast mover. Headed our way. Sidewinders going hot.”
Drummond was scanning the sand in front of him through his night-vision goggles, concentrating on avoiding flying his aircraft into the ground as he traversed the terrain at just above rooftop height.
“Roger that,” he said. “I'm looking for the truck. Let the bogey alone as long as he leaves us alone. But if he messes with us, fry him.”
Back in the MI6 harbor site, Wardell, Thomas, and Blackman watched the icons converging on the laptop screen. It was like a surreal video game. In the center, the blinking blue square that was the truckload of POWs was slowly making its way west up the Wadi Hamir—so near, yet so far from the Saudi border. To the east, moving fast, two red blips—the Iraqi MIG-25s—were searching for any vehicles violating the curfew. And finally, on the left side of the computer screen, were four green icons—the two CH-53s and their Cobra escorts, trying to get to the truck before the Iraqis.
4,000 Ft. Altitude
12 km SW of An Nukhayb, Iraq
Sunday, 22 March 1998
2035 Hours, Local
Major Abib Al Hillal was flying the lead MIG-25 Foxbat in a low-level search pattern parallel to the highway. While looking for the truck, the Iraqi fighter pilots were taking a gamble by flying along the edge of the no-fly zone. The pilots had been briefed that the vehicle was to be found at all costs, and if a ground unit could not get to it, the vehicle and the criminals who had stolen it were to be destroyed.
Major Al Hillal thought this mission was a terrible waste of scarce flight hours, but it was better than no flying at all—something altogether too common in the Iraqi Air Force these days. From fifteen hundred feet, at 250 knots, he was having a hard time seeing the ground below, especially since the night-vision equipment he was using was of an old Soviet design and poorly maintained. He noticed a few parked trucks here and there alongside the highway, and he called in with their positions for ground units to check them out.
This was turning into a rather boring mission, although he didn't dare say that over the radio to his wingman. One never knew who else was listening these days.
His wingman, in a second MIG-25 was three kilometers off his port wing as the planes flew south by southwest along the Tubal riverbed.
Ironically, Major Al Hillal felt at a disadvantage chasing a truck with a supersonic jet. It was all but impossible to determine if it was the truck carrying the escapees from Habirah Prison. Nevertheless, his instructions were to stop any truck that fit that description, by any means at his disposal, if it could not be stopped by the ground units.
In just a matter of minutes, the MIGs were approaching the Iraq-Saudi Arabia border. Al Hillal had no wish to be pounced on by some U.S. or British jet vectored down on them by an invisible AWACS plane somewhere over central Saudi Arabia. They each banked and turned to retrace their paths, only this time at a slightly lower altitude. As his fighter jet leveled off and returned, flying in a northeasterly direction, Major Al Hillal's attention was captured by a movement almost directly below him. He put his MIG into a sharp angle, nose up, to brake the jet. He banked into a right turn to get another look. Then the moon broke through the clouds, and he saw what had caught his attention. He almost choked in his oxygen mask. There, almost directly below him, were four sets of rotor blades—headed into his country.
He waggled his wings to catch his wingman's attention. It did no good. He thought of engaging alone, but remembered he had been told to get permission before firing. Uncertain about what to do, he decided to play it safe and call for permission to engage. It was a fatal mistake.
When Major Al Hillal toggled the radio switch on his stick, the transmission was immediately monitored by the RF sensors aboard the invisible satellite in geosynchronous orbit miles above him. In less than a second, the transmission was displayed on the screen in front of Blackman. The MI6 officer immediately reached for his radio handset.
“Snake-two-one. Be advised, an Iraqi MIG-25, closing on your six, has just transmitted on a command frequency. He may have spotted you. He's probably above you.”
Captain Drummond keyed his mike.
“Roger.”
He cranked on full military power, pulled the collective in his left hand all the way to its stop and, with his right hand, he pulled the stick between his feet as far back as it would go.
“Engaging Bogey. My Six. High! Scatter!”
As the nose of Drummond's Cobra came screaming up, the other three helicopters darted right, left, and down even lower. Now, almost inverted, Snake Two-One was searching the sky above him for the MIG. An instant later, the heat sensors mounted on the sides of the Cobra in the Sidewinders began to screech and Drummond's weapons systems operator, Lieutenant Dave Allen, said, “Missile away.”
Drummond ducked his head so that the flash of the missile's rocket motor wouldn't flare in his night-vision goggles. Immediately after the
missile fired, he rolled the helicopter to the right and down, picking up airspeed and heading for a hill just to the southeast.
Behind him, the Sidewinder, streaking at two-and-a-half times the speed of sound, found its mark in the fuselage of Major Al Hillal's wingman. An instant after the missile warhead's detonation, shards of steel ripped into the big jet's turbine—breaking blades that instantly cut fuel lines. There was a sudden orange fireball, four thousand feet above the Iraqi desert.
As his wingman's MIG burst into a fireball, Major Al Hillal broke off his attack and dove for the ground, heading away to the northeast while he called over and over again into his radio that he and his flight had been ambushed by enemy jet fighters.
Meanwhile on the ground, an Iraqi Republican Guard contingent raced for their trucks and pulled onto the highway. They had been delayed for the night, just west of An Nukhayb. Unaware of the helicopters, the Iraqis were convinced that one of their own surface-to-air missiles had brought down a U.S. or British aircraft.
Within minutes, the Republican Guard unit arrived at a point several kilometers from the burning aircraft. The officer in charge ordered one of the trucks to remain on the highway while the other three left the road and raced across the desert floor toward the flaming wreckage.
It took another eight minutes for the three trucks to get to the site. The ruined hulk of the MIG was still too hot to approach, but within a few seconds one of the NCOs came running up to his commander, carrying a logbook that had spilled from the wrecked aircraft. On it
were the markings of the Iraqi Air Force. The stunned officer immediately got on the radio to report what Baghdad already suspected—the downed aircraft was one of theirs. Three minutes later, Air Force Command in Baghdad ordered a general alert and launched four more MIGs: two from Markab and two more from Tikrit South.
Wadi Hamir
N of Judaiat al Hamir, Iraq
Sunday, 22 March 1998
2100 Hours, Local
The four British prisoners, their former jailer, and their reluctant driver had watched the whole fireworks display from the lip of the wadi, just two kilometers from where the Iraqi MIG crashed into the sand. When the MIGs flew over them on their initial pass, headed from east to west, the warden and the four POWs had jumped from the truck and run for cover, expecting to be strafed. The Iraqi driver, afraid for his life, stayed inside the truck. His commandant had taken the guard's weapon as a precaution.
Now, with the burning wreckage off to their north and Republican Guard trucks on the highway not far from them, the escapees didn't know what to do. The commandant estimated that they were still a good ten kilometers from the border. They were debating whether to try to take the truck further up the wadi toward the Saudi border or, in their weakened state, to try walking—when they heard the sound of helicopters.
A look of terror came across the commandant's face, and he turned to Macklin, the former prisoner who was nearest to him, as they hunkered down on the lip of the dry riverbed. Below them was the truck, the petrified driver still in the cab. With a trembling hand, the warden
handed Macklin his pistol and said in broken English, “Shoot me. If they strafe us with the HINDs, we will all die anyway; but if they take me prisoner, I will be tortured until I die. Please shoot me now.”
Macklin was still looking at the terrified man when the first helicopter came flashing overhead, flared, and landed about twenty feet away in a roaring cloud of dust. He peered up over the lip to see, not an Iraqi HIND but a CH-53E, its lights off and armed men rushing out of its tail ramp.
The first rifleman, wearing night-vision goggles, ran directly to Macklin and kicked the gun out of his hand, grabbed him by the shirt, and started dragging him toward the helicopter. As Macklin stumbled in the man's grasp, he could see two smaller helicopters firing their miniguns and rockets toward the road where the Republican Guard unit was positioned.
Before one of the British commandos could grab him and drag him off to the helicopter, the commandant scrambled back down into the wadi and ran up to the driver's side of the truck. He looked up at the guard still sitting behind the wheel. “Are you sure you do not want to come with us?”
“I—I cannot. I need to go back, sir.”
“All right. You can go now. Just keep your lights off or you will attract the attention of those MIGs.”
The guard wasted no time. The MIGs might be getting ready to bomb this area even now, and he wanted to be as far away from this place as possible. He spun the truck around and accelerated across the sandy desert floor back toward the highway.
The commandant watched him go, then hurried to join the others as they struggled up the loose rocky soil of the embankment to the waiting helicopter, the commandos helping them as best they could.
A few moments after all four of the ex-prisoners and their former warden were aboard, the Royal Marine sergeant in charge of the commandos came running up the tail ramp and shouted at Macklin, “There are supposed to be two more; where are they?”
Captain Macklin, trying to make himself heard over the din of the engines and the whirling rotors yelled, “They didn't make it.”
“What do you mean?” shouted the Sergeant.
“They aren't here,” Macklin bellowed. “The Americans weren't released.”
The Royal Marine flipped up his night-vision goggles and yelled, “Which one of you is the warden?”
The defector raised his hand, and the sergeant yelled in his ear, “Where are the two Americans we're supposed to bring out with us?”
“It could not be helped. They were taken off the truck before we left Salman Pak.”
“Why?” The commando was obviously angry but gave the signal to lift off anyway.
A cloud of dust enveloped the big helicopter as it clawed its way into the night sky. Once it was fifty feet in the air, the pilot tipped the nose forward, and a cold wind rushed through the cargo bay as the chopper gained speed, heading southwest toward the Saudi border.
Once he was satisfied all his men were all OK, the sergeant came back to the Iraqi defector and repeated the question again, shouting in his ear. “Why?” ? 364
The man looked perfectly miserable. Tears came to his eyes as he said, “I do not know. I tried to bring them with us but was prevented.” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “In sha'Allah. ”
PLANNING FOR WAR
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
At Tanf, Syria
Monday, 23 March 1998
0235 Hours, Local
The small sign on the front of the big warehouse read “IST, Ltd. Logistics Center” and listed a Damascus phone number. In 1983, when Leonid Dotensk urged the KGB to purchase the facility from a French petrochemical company, Komulakov had objected. “We have nice offices and Rezidenturas at embassies in all the capitals. Why would we need a bunch of buildings stuck on a lava bed in the middle of a desert, so far from our clients?”
But Dotensk persisted, claiming the KGB needed a place that was easily accessible, yet away from inquisitive eyes and nattering tongues. This warehouse complex beside the Baghdad-Damascus highway—225 kilometers east of Damascus, and about twice that distance west of Baghdad—filled the bill. And the Ukrainian's foresight had been confirmed; even the 7,000-foot runway adjoining the facility had proven invaluable.
Over the years, the three buildings in the walled and gated compound had been used as a refuge for a veritable “Who's Who” of international terror. George Habash, founder of the PFLP/GC, found sanctuary here. Abu Nidal was a guest while arrangements were being made for his move to Baghdad after he fell out of favor with Hafez al Assad. And Abul Abbas, the mastermind of the Achille Lauro hijacking, had hidden here after the Italians helped him slip away from the Americans in 1985. Dotensk had personally arranged for a chartered Lear jet to fly the PLO terrorist here from Yugoslavia, before sending him on to Baghdad.
Prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union, the site was routinely used for schooling new KGB and GRU intelligence operatives; training PFLP/GC terrorist recruits; storing weapons, ammunition, explosives, and equipment; and for harboring KGB officers in transit throughout the Middle East. Even today, it is still part of an underground railroad for moving Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad actives between Tehran and Lebanon's Bekaa Valley.
But all of this paled in comparison to the use Dotensk now had for the warehouse complex. When the Ukrainian arms merchant and his four associates arrived in their two-vehicle convoy at the gate, it was already the middle of the night. It had taken them nearly two hours to get through the double checkpoints at the Iraq/Syria border crossings, and it had cost the Ukrainian almost twenty-five thousand dollars in bribes, but Dotensk knew it was worth every penny.
General Komulakov had not yet arrived, for which Dotensk was also pleased. He wanted to see the expression on the face of his business partner when he showed him the three recovered nuclear weapons, still housed in artillery shell casings and stored in their original crates.
On the long drive from Baghdad, Dotensk had mused about keeping his newfound treasures all to himself. But that was only until he considered the logistics involved. In order to do that, he would have to get rid of the four men who helped him bring the weapons back. And he'd also have to eliminate the two people who helped him prepare the phony shipping documents for his trip from Iraq into Syria. Such a loss in personnel would be too difficult to explain, even though it meant hundreds of millions more Swiss francs. And then Dotensk considered the matter of what Komulakov would do to him if he ever learned about a double cross.
That's when Dotensk decided he could be content with his share of the gains. After all, Komulakov still had six more nuclear weapons and could probably get his hands on more, so there was still plenty of opportunity to get obscenely rich. But one thing was certain: this time Dotensk would lay claim to a fatter commission than when the weapons were originally sold to Saddam. He wanted 50 percent, but he wasn't sure he could push the general that hard. Still, he was certain Komulakov would agree to a 40 percent share for his efforts.
The Ukrainian was tired and, as the other men went off to their wing of the compound, Dotensk went toward his own living quarters. As he passed one of his men sitting in a chair outside one of the bedrooms, he stopped briefly to chat.
“How are the prisoners?”
The man shrugged. “No problems. They were troublesome at first, but when it became apparent they were not going to be rescued, they seem to have grown despondent and quiet. They are no trouble.”
“Good. Perhaps the general will have new information when he comes later today. Has he called to say what time he is arriving?”
“I think he is expected about noon.”
“When do you go off duty?”
“At seven in the morning
.”
“Then knock on my door and wake me when you go off duty. I have some things to do before the general comes.”
Visiting VIP Quarters
Incirlik Air Base, Adana, Turkey
Monday, 23 March 1998
0010 Hours, Local
General Grisham had just finished reading the afternoon dispatches from his headquarters at MacDill. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, but when the STU-III secure telephone on his desk began its insistent, electronic chirp, he reached for it instantly.
“Sir, we have an incoming encrypted Iridium sat phone call from someone named Mr. Ram Fales,” the base signal operator said. “He says it's important, sir. Shall I put it through?”
“Yes, I'll take it.”
He waited a moment for the encryption system to synchronize. Once it did, anyone intercepting their telephone conversation would only hear the garbled electronic data streaming like the sound of a fax line. When Grisham heard the distinctive ping, he said, “Pete? Where are you?”
“I'm in Baghdad, Room 332 of the Al Rashid Ho—”
“Stop! Answer yes or no. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you on the balcony?”
“Yes.”
“Close the door to your room.”
“OK.”
“Good,” said Grisham. “That won't guarantee they can't pick up your end of this conversation and try to piece things together, but it'll make it harder.”
“Yes, sir...you taught me well. I assume every room in Baghdad is bugged by the Amn Al-Khass or the Mukhabarat, or both,” Newman said.
“Yes...well, I just want to make sure we don't get compromised on the little details. Don't ever say my name or rank when you call. Don't use anyone else's real name. Did you ask for me by name when you called the signal operator?”
“No. I asked for the boss like you told me before I left.”
“All right. I'm sorry to have jumped on you. It's just that you're in one of the most dangerous places on earth for an American military man, and there's an awful lot riding on your mission. How was your trip in—any problems?”
