Grotesqcu and I were able to converse freely as long as nobody heard me speak English. The Russian Embassy, basically a nest of spies, kept very well-informed, so I was able finally to catch up on events. It had taken Saddam no time at all to retaliate for the initial wave of Allied air strikes on Baghdad. The very next day he launched some Russian Scuds into Israel, a country that had taken no part in the battle. He assumed they, being Middle Eastern hot heads, would retaliate in turn and sic a jet attack on Iraq. Most Arab nations hated Israel, Egypt ostensibly being one exception. Saddam’s plan was that Israeli retaliation would trigger his Arab brothers to ditch their partnership with the U.S. and band together with him in defeating the infidel devils who were, as everyone knew, in thrall to International Jewry.
American air strikes continued relentlessly, and now that I was at Ground Zero it was a spectacle to behold. Baghdad rang with explosions throughout day and night, and acrid smoke clouded the air. Ineffectual Iraqi anti-aircraft fire decorated the night sky with fearsome fireworks. Even with the publicly announced timetable the American air attack had achieved total tactical surprise. The onslaught was as well-coordinated as a philharmonic symphony orchestra. Wild Weasels in F-4s swooped in and knocked out ground radar with their HARM missiles. F-15 Eagles, F-16 Fighting Falcons and carrier-launched F-18 Hornets followed, guiding “smart bombs” via lasers and TV literally down smokestacks and through windows. Tomahawk missiles left ships in the Red Sea, followed below-the-radar GPS-directed routes at airliner speeds and took out specific buildings. Outside the cities, B-52 bombers plastered Iraqi troops, bunkers and tank concentrations with 750 lb free-fall bombs. French Jaguar fighters hit Iraqi air bases around Kuwait City, and British Tornados ripped up Iraqi airfields with runway-cratering bombs.
Saddam’s legions sat helpless and hapless against the annihilation. Of his air force of 700 jets that weren’t destroyed on the ground, 19 were shot down in the air (against 0 of the allied planes), and none ever attacked American ground targets. The Iraqi air force preserved 147 of their planes by evacuating them to Iran. The whereabouts of the remaining planes remained a mystery—apparently secreted out of harm’s way pending better days—but they never saw combat. Saddam was reduced to gloating that misguided bombs had obliterated a powdered milk factory and killed 400 civilians in a bomb shelter. He felt sure these “propaganda victories” would discredit the attacks and swing world sympathy in his favor, so he took pains to give CNN on-site coverage with full access to the atrocities. Anchor Peter Arnett had stayed behind in Baghdad, braving incoming Tomahawks to bring the story to the world audience. His problem was that if he told too much truth he would be thrown out of Iraq. Just one of the difficulties inherent in reporting on-the-scene news about dictators.
Saddam continued firing Scuds into Israel, but to his dismay the Israelis sucked it up. Rather than letting them shoot back, Bush installed Patriot missile batteries that were reasonably effective in shooting down incoming Scuds before they did damage. The Scud attacks caused Israelis concern, anguish and inconvenience—they feared poison gas warheads, so they sealed their homes and hunkered down in gasmasks—but overall had little effect. Saddam’s forty-odd Scuds that landed there scored only four civilian deaths and 200 casualties, while damaging 4,000 buildings. Of the Scuds Saddam fired into Saudi Arabia, one got lucky during the 100-Hour War and hit a U.S. barracks in Dhahran, killing 28 soldiers and wounding 89. The main effect of the Scuds was to divert too many air sorties to seeking out mobile Scud launch sites rather than hitting more important targets. The Iraqis proved talented at camouflage, causing our flyers to waste a lot of ammo and expensive flying time chasing mockups and fiberglass replicas around the vast Iraqi desert.
Day by day the pounding took its toll on Baghdad. The city lay blacked out at night, not that it helped much against infrared sensors and AWACS-borne radar. Road travel was restricted amid all the shooting, but thanks to the smart weapons haphazard collateral damage in the city was relatively light. Power outages became frequent and then general as the bombs took out utilities stations, shutting most of the city down for days while Iraqi technicians labored to get things going again. The Russian Embassy had its own generators, so we had juice for what mattered and lights until bedtime.
From my place and point of view it was all a great sound-and-light show, and it couldn’t have happened to more deserving guys.
But the longer I remained stuck there, sooner or later something was bound to blow my cover. It’s one thing to be in five takes of a ten minute crowd shot in a Hollywood sound studio. It’s quite another to live a double role day in and day out in tight quarters among two different sets of enemies. Nor was it a piece of cake for Grotesqcu: He had to maintain the pretense, which meant finding ways to keep me busy and sequestering me away from the prying eyes of the other Arabs lurking around. He told me that rumors circulated concerning our sexual proclivities, which helped maintain the mystery and kept Russians and Arabs alike at a wary distance.
No one beats an Arab at sneakiness. I had reason to believe they were snooping in my room but didn’t catch anyone at it until one afternoon while on my make-work rounds. I noticed garden clippers dropped outside the door of the storage building where I stayed, at some distance away from the nearest bushes. I picked them up, eased silently inside and crept to my closet. One of the grounds crew, a creepy little lizard who I’d noticed previously stalking my comings and goings, was hunched over on his knees furtively pawing through my goods. He’d left the door open and was so engrossed in his search that he didn’t hear me approach. I grabbed him by an ankle and yanked him back, banging his face on the cement floor. I dropped the clippers and flipped him over on his back with a hard landing, then hauled his trousers down. Holding him flat with a knee on his stomach, I put the clipper blades around his family jewelry and stared long and hard into his terrified eyes. I put my finger to my lips and zipped it across them. I closed the clippers a little tighter and looked at him quizzically signaling “you gonna keep quiet?” He got my drift and nodded in enthusiastic, semi-hysterical agreement. I climbed off him with an additional shove in the stomach, let him get himself together and launched him out the door with a hearty kick in the ass that sent him tumbling onto the walkway. I didn’t see him around the compound after that, and he must have spread the word, because I found no signs of snooping after that day.
*
I was in a box. Russian planes came and went at the Baghdad airport when it was operable, but they flew non-stop to Russia and I couldn’t take that route. Kuwait City presented no easy way out as long as Iraq controlled it. Otherwise, Iraq bordered on Syria and Iran—unsafe havens for a fugitive American spy. So I sweated out my stay in the Russian Embassy while Bush’s campaign rolled inexorably on, impatiently waiting for something to turn up in my favor.
“Saddam’s army is being dismembered,” Grotesqcu told me. “The Iraqis excel at desert concealment, and they’ve been hiding troops in underground bunkers and tanks under camouflage, but with all those planes in the air all Saddam can do is slow down the losses. Reports we’ve received have it that army morale is dismal and desertions are rife. The Americans have moved two battleships, the Wisconsin and the Missouri, into position off Kuwait within range of their guns. Iraqi casualties already approximate 20,000 killed and 60,000 wounded. It’s only a matter of time before Saddam goes down.”
“I agree, but then what?” I said. “Bush isn’t going to liberate Iraq. He’s been sticking to the U.N. guidelines and resolutions, which don’t authorize Allied troops to occupy territory across the border. So Saddam throws in the towel and retreats back home and then what? My best hope is to get back to Kuwait City. When the Americans reclaim it, figuring a way out will be easy.”
“That makes sense to me,” he said. “The timing will be tricky, though. Leave here too soon and you’ll find yourself in the middle of an increasingly desperate Iraqi occupation. Leave too late and you’ll b
e fighting your way through a desperate mob of beaten soldiers hell-bent on getting home.”
We got word that Iraq emptied Kuwaiti oil storage tanks into the Gulf. The spill, 126 million gallons of crude oil, was the largest in history, covering 350 square miles of water and stretching far enough to threaten Arabian desalination plants. Unless it was a screwup or Saddam was just being barbaric, the only reason I could see for this was to forestall an amphibious attack. But it happened way too soon, and anyway, an amphib invasion never figured in the campaign. American troops were pursuing a massive AirLand assault, and the Air part of it had just about finished. By mid-February 50,000 air sorties had softened Saddam’s armed forces to the consistency of oatmeal.
One day Grotesqcu brought me the news that Saddam had made an offer to withdraw from Kuwait. “That’s it, then?” I said.
“Not by a long way. He attached conditions. American forces must first leave the region. Israel must abandon their occupied territories. And all countries who took part in the war must contribute to rebuilding what they destroyed.”
“That’s not it, then. The man’s insane if he thinks Bush will agree to that.”
“He doesn’t think so for a minute. It’s a time-honored technique from the souks: Make a ridiculous opening offer that you can bargain back from. It apparently hasn’t dawned on him that Americans don’t like to bargain. ‘Here’s my price, it’s fair, and take it or leave it,’ is their approach. But the fact that Saddam’s making an offer at all is a clear sign that we’ve reached the endgame.”
*
A few days later Grotesqcu told me that Saddam announced he would unconditionally withdraw from Kuwait in agreement with an eight-point plan that Gorbachev had put forward. Among other points the plan stipulated that the U.N. must lift its sanctions once two-thirds of Iraqi troops had left, and that all resolutions be lifted once withdrawal was complete.
“Why should Bush agree to anything but his own terms at this point?” I asked.
“He shouldn’t,” said Grotesqcu, “and he won’t. Let’s get ready. Our chance draws nigh.”
Our escape entailed some tricky mechanics. Our only way to Kuwait City was by car, a trip of nearly 400 miles over war-ravaged roads jam-packed with military congestion. We might be able to make it as far as Basrah on one tank of gas, depending on our vehicle, but we’d have to refuel somewhere to go all the way. Grotesqcu could slide through the checkpoints, since Iraq give their Russian allies immunity and free passage. I posed the problem: Go as an Arab? Or as an Iraqi civilian, perhaps a businessman or government official? Or in an Iraqi military uniform, in which case I might be pressed into other duties at a checkpoint until they found out I couldn’t speak Arabic? We decided to send me out in civvies, which meant hiding them under my Arab robes until we cleared Baghdad. Next issue: what kind of wheels? I reasoned that an ordinary car would give us the best odds. American planes seeking ground targets seemed to be under orders to avoid civilian casualties, so they’d be more likely to hit a military vehicle on the road. If Grotesqcu traveled as a civilian also, a military vehicle would be out of character. Then there was provisioning, weapons, money, documents and all the other details of sneaking 400 miles through an active war zone in alien territory. Don’t believe what you’ve seen in the thriller movies—you don’t just get your instructions, drop in and heroically save the world. The real-life spy business takes a lot of effort and pre-planning.
On February 22 Bush announced that to end the war and avoid a ground offensive, Saddam must publicly agree to the allied coalition’s terms of disengagement and commence an unconditional exit of Kuwait by noon EST, February 23. His terms, needless to say, differed from Saddam’s and Gorbachev’s, including: Complete withdrawal within a week. Facilitate the Kuwait government’s return. Release all prisoners within two days. Remove all explosives from oil fields. And provide maps of all mines. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.
“That’s our cue,” Grotesqcu announced. “Trim your beard to civilian contours and assemble your gear. We leave at daybreak Sunday.”
Part 4: To Hell and Back
Sunday, February 24, to Monday, February 25, 1991
A half hour before daybreak Grotesqcu ordered Abdul, his faithful Arab gofer, to load the car, which turned out to be a midnight blue Mercedes 420SEL sedan.
“Hide in plain sight—it never fails. The Iraqi army stole it right out of a Kuwait dealer’s showroom,” he explained, “so in a sense we’ll be returning it to its rightful owners.” How he managed to procure things like that, I have never been able to fathom—he’d have been a hell of a supply sergeant—but not mine to question.
I stowed our kits in the trunk. As I swung the door open to enter the passenger side he came up to me carrying a heavy gym bag. He unzipped it and pulled out an Uzi.
“Stick this under your seat,” he said, shoving it in my hand. “It’s got a full clip. Just in case. You’ve used them before?”
“In training, not in combat,” I said. “It’s an effective piece at close range.”
“Let’s be off,” he said. He went back around, got in, slid another Uzi from the bag under his seat and tossed the bag over his shoulder into the back. “Not a moment to lose.”
Our plan was to take Highway 97 west past the airport and Abu Ghraib, catch Highway 1, the main north-south road, then follow it down to pick up Highway 80 into Kuwait City. There were a number of other routes to Basrah, our pivot point, and we’d debated that one against the alternatives. It was the most straightforward but would be the most heavily traveled and also most subject to Allied attack. Some lesser roads closer to the Tigris River might have been a little shorter in miles but possibly longer in time. A more southwesterly route would range us far out into desert, possibly getting us entangled in military positions. The distance of our ride compared to that between Los Angeles and San Francisco, which used to take around eight hours. We’d no idea what awaited us but figured we’d be lucky to make Kuwait City in one calendar day.
“What’s our backstory?” I asked as Grotesqcu pulled us away from the Russian Embassy. “It takes a little time to get in character.”
“Two backstories. I told my Russian colleagues that I’d just received word CIA superspy Jake Fonko escaped from Abu Ghraib prison and was heading toward the Kuwaiti border. I had an idea which route he took so we intend to head him off and bring him in. Once we get out of town, you and I are Scud engineers ordered to do urgent flightpath reprogramming. I’m from the Russian Scud factory and you are my Iraqi counterpart. To whomever asks, the Scud installation we’re seeking is located 50 kilometers down the road, and our orders are to get there ASAP.”
Traffic through Baghdad was subdued, thanks to three weeks of continuing aerial bombardment. The lack of widespread devastation surprised me. Various government buildings and military sites were obliterated, but residential areas and shopping districts stood relatively unscathed. Compared to what I’d seen of Kuwait City before I left, the demolition in Baghdad might have passed for normal urban renewal. Post-World-War-II Berlin it wasn’t.
As we approached the junction with Highway 1 Grotesqcu found a sheltered spot to pull over. I got out, shed my Arab robe and headdress and stuffed them in the trunk with our stuff. Now I traveled in expensive business casuals. We merged onto the highway heading south and found it bustling with military hardware—trucks, tanks, and personnel carriers—pressing in both directions. Saddam had disregarded Bush’s deadline and now girded his army for a desperate last-ditch defense. Traffic was heavy during daytime. Their infrared signatures made vehicles sitting ducks for the jets after dark, so traveling in daylight was easier and no more dangerous. The Iraqis calculated that enough traffic would elude our ravaging jets to make it worthwhile. Not that many escaped. Signs of Allied kills decorated the road: blackened former tanks pulled aside, wrecked convoys (some still smoking) heaped on the verge, stretches of patched pavemen
t and craters that the repair crews hadn’t yet tackled.
“This could be dangerous, you know,” Grotesqcu observed. “The Allies are going to ramp it up now that Saddam’s in default.”
“Our pilots have excellent eyesight, so let’s hope Bush hasn’t changed his rules of engagement about not targeting civilians. Keep your distance from anything military we come to, and let’s hope for the best.”
The first part of our trip took us through farmland that reminded me of California’s Central Valley south of Stockton, though on a smaller and poorer scale. Both deserts bloomed thanks to irrigation, but our Central Valley lies under mechanized Big Ag cultivation, while peasants do most of the farming in Iraq’s Fertile Crescent. Dates and cotton seemed to be popular crops. It was a welcome contrast to the flat, barren desert land of Kuwait. But thank goodness we were making the drive in February in warm, dry weather rather than through blistering summer heat in the 110s.
Highway 80 was basically good road: except for war damage we’d have breezed along. Bomb craters, wrecks and lumbering semis and tank transporters slowed us down, keeping our average speed under 30 miles per hour, not including checkpoint stops. Grotesqcu’s cover story and paperwork got us through those with no arguments. He carefully hung back behind military convoys until he caught a break in traffic, then whipped around them as fast as we could go, leaving them behind. U.S. jets streaked overhead throughout the morning. Now and then one came in low with an ear-splitting shriek en route to a target up ahead or to our rear. Unnerving. You never get used to it. We came upon the results of attacks ahead while they still flamed. Waiting for wrecked trucks and tanks to be shoved out of the way accounted for much of our delays.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 58
