by Mack Maloney
He wouldn’t need a wingman for this mission, though, just as Phelan wouldn’t need a flight commander. What they were about to do was best done alone. They had a brief phone conversation at 10,000 feet and then they split up. The young Navy pilot peeled off due north. Ryder headed northwest.
He was soon over land and rocketing above the rugged border area separating the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia.
No more than 40 miles inland, he spotted two airliners up around thirty thousand feet, their contrails stretching back to northwest. The airliners were flying side by side, a very weird sight. When did you ever see two huge airliners flying in formation? There was only one explanation: two hijacked planes had linked up and were heading toward the battle group together.
Ryder started climbing. The airliners grew outlandishly in size as he ascended. One was an Airbus 300, silver and shiny, with Islamic writing on its nose and tail; the other, a Boeing 767, with a fuselage painted sickly yellow. If not jumbo jets, both were still very large airplanes. They filled Ryder’s field of vision so quickly, he felt like a minnow approaching a pair of flying whales.
Even if each of these planes was only half-full, more than 500 people were riding inside them, women, kids, the old and young, and, not to forget, a Delta guy in each. Yet Ryder was here to shoot them down. What choice did he have? He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t need another pack of ghosts haunting him. He’d picked up enough demons on this trip already. But these people were doomed anyway. Either they were going to get shot down by the Navy or they were going to die if their airliner somehow managed to get through the Lincoln’s air screen and hit the carrier. Every experience Ryder had lived through in the past six weeks told him he had to knock down these monsters and do it quick. Not to do so would put those 5,000 American sailors on the Lincoln in even graver danger than they were right now. Protecting them was his mission.
He steeled himself and began prepping for the grim task. Just how does one go about shooting down two enormous airplanes? Ironically, he wasn’t sure. This was not a hot-shit fighter-interceptor he was flying here, not an F-14, -15, or -16. He had no air-to-air missiles, the ideal weapon for this job. The Harrier was an attack plane. It was built to drop bombs on things on the ground. His tango with the Arab fighters that night over the Med was proof: he was out of his league when facing airborne targets.
Plus, he only had 24 rounds left in his cannon. Would they be enough? It took 10 to 20 rounds to fuck up something like an APC or a tank. How many would it take to shoot down a huge airliner? How many to shoot down two? The absurdity of the situation hit him at that moment. This was not the kind of pilot he was supposed to be. He was the wrong guy in the wrong plane at the wrong time. What the hell was he doing up here?
But then Fate arrived to make his situation a little simpler. The big silver Airbus was flying slightly ahead of the yellow 767. Suddenly the Airbus banked wildly to the left, going up on its wing and coming very close to tipping over completely. Ryder was only 1,000 feet below the planes now; he banked sharply to his left, thinking the big plane was coming down right on top of him. Just as suddenly, though, the Airbus regained control and dropped back to level flight. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was a nightmarish thing to watch. Ryder couldn’t imagine any sane pilot trying such an extreme maneuver.
The Airbus stayed level, but only for a few moments. It went up on its left wing again, this time quicker, more violently, causing its contrail to cockscrew behind it. Just as it looked like the big plane was going to go over for sure, it returned to level flight again, but with so much force, its engines were nearly ripped from its wings. Surely this wasn’t the hijackers doing this. They were still at least 20 minutes’ flying time from Hormuz; they wouldn’t be starting their death plunge so soon. Was there a fight going on in its cockpit? Was the Delta guy onboard trying to retake the plane from the hijackers?
Ryder would never know. The huge craft began bouncing all over the sky, nearly colliding with the 757 that was practically riding up its butt. It turned up on its left wing again, and this time it kept on going. Over onto its back, wings flapping so hard from the strain, both its engines finally fell off.
Then the plane began the long plunge down.
Ryder had seen some very disturbing things in his career. He’d seen combat and he’d been involved in secret warfare, which was always particularly nasty. But he’d never seen anything like this.
He watched the airliner all the way down. It took nearly two minutes to drop those six miles. It finally hit a mountain somewhere in the Saudi desert, vanishing in a cloud of fire and smoke.
A wave of nausea went right through him. The crash really shook him up. Not so heroic now, he thought. He took some quick, deep gulps of oxygen. It tasted stale, but it did the job. At least he stayed conscious. What had happened? He had to believe the Delta guy on the Airbus had somehow caused it to crash, just as the passengers on United Flight 93, the hijacked flight heading for the White House, had done on 9/11. If so, then the Delta trooper had indeed made the supreme sacrifice. He’d also done Ryder a big favor. Now he only had to kill 300 people, instead of twice that many.
He began climbing again. Finding the second airliner took only a few seconds. Painted in the garish yellow color scheme of Royal Gulf Airlines, it was cast by the rising sun in an eerie morning glow. Ryder was soon right below it, his cannon aimed for the place he knew its main fuel tank to be. He began to press down on his gun trigger, hoping a couple dozen shells would be enough to light it off….
But suddenly he stopped. He wasn’t sure why. Everything in his body was telling him to fire, now, and get this thing over with. But it was his head that was giving him trouble. Words were ringing in his ears, Phelan’s words. Here he was, playing the Angel of Death again, a role he’d come to darkly embrace since joining Murphy’s outfit. The kids in the camp in Algeria. The people in downtown Abu Dhabi. He’d even had a hand in the mass fruit poisoning. Who lives, who dies, was once again up to him, the fate of hundreds in his sweaty hands.
But just like every decision Ryder had made in the past six weeks, he’d been damn quick in determining that the people aboard this plane had to die. And wasn’t that exactly what Phelan had been talking about? Fighting the mooks was a dirty business. But had they really lost that one last veneer of humanity? Was this really what he’d become?
Ryder’s finger stayed hovering over the trigger. Many voices were in his head now. Phelan. Martinez. His wife, Maureen. Even his old partner, Woody. Being an American didn’t automatically mean you were better than everyone else. It just meant you had a better opportunity to be that way. And there was always another option than to just go in guns blazing, right?
If so, then it was up to him to think of another way.
He banked hard right and then climbed. In seconds, he was on the airliner’s tail. He booted throttles ahead full max and streaked right over the top of the big 767, so close he thought he felt an electrical jolt pass between the two planes. Just the noise alone would be terrifying for anyone inside the plane. That was his plan. A diversion might give the Delta guy onboard a chance to do something. If Ryder distracted the hijackers with his earsplitting, heart-stopping pass, maybe the American trooper would get the message and act.
Ryder peeled off to the left and looked over his shoulder. The airliner had dropped about one thousand feet, caused no doubt by sheer fright on the part of the person flying the airplane. But the 767 quickly recovered and leveled off at about twenty-nine thousand feet. Once back under control, it resumed its course toward Hormuz.
Ryder now banked hard left and went into a steep dive, streaking by the plane’s right wing a second later. Not only was he making a tremendous noise; he was also disrupting the airstream in front of the huge jet, which usually led to some serious turbulence. But again, nothing happened. The jet bounced around a bit but still pressed on.
Damn, he really didn’t want to shoot this thing down.
He di
d a quick check of his position. He was about thirty miles west of the strait, soon to pass back over the United Arab Emirates. With every second they were getting closer to the trouble zone.
He took another deep gulp of oxygen and buzzed the airliner a third time, streaking by just off its left wing this time. Once again, the big plane rocked around a little, but nothing more.
Clearly, this wasn’t working. It was time to switch tactics.
He went full throttle again and rocketed ahead of the airliner. Two miles, three miles. Four. At five miles out, he went ass over end and turned 180 degrees, reversing his direction. Now the huge airliner was coming right at him.
If a distraction was still needed, then Ryder could think of no better one than to aim his plane at the airliner head-on. A game of chicken at 29,000 feet. That was bound to get someone’s attention.
He increased power to 400 knots. The big plane was coming at him at least that fast. Ryder hunkered down farther into his seat. He and the airliner were closing on each other by a combined 800 miles an hour. Still, he pushed his throttle forward.
One second he was about 2,000 feet away from the 767. The next he was just 1,500, then 1,000—then just 750. Could they see him coming? That was the whole idea. He held the stick with both hands and fought to keep his eyes open.
Five hundred feet. Four hundred…
He was just seconds from a high-speed collision.
Three hundred…
Two hundred…
The airliner was not altering course and neither was he.
Hundred…
Fifty…
Did they see him?
He yanked back on the stick and roared up and over the airliner. As he streaked by, he could see right into the cockpit and in that instant, through the heavily tinted glass, he thought he saw at least a half-dozen people, faces white, looking back out at him. He’d come that close to colliding with the plane.
He fell away to the left and tore the oxygen mask from his face. His flight suit was soaked with sweat. His hands were shaking. Even 20 years ago, this would have been a heart-pounder.
He turned over again, checking his fuel load as he went. The noisy head-on pass had used up about a quarter of his remaining gas and taken a decade or two off his life, years that he dearly wanted to preserve.
But had he done anything at all?
He looked over his shoulder again and at last saw the airplane start to fall. Not like the first one, not like a B-17 falling on Berlin. The airliner’s wings were level and it seemed under control.
But falling nonetheless.
More than five miles below, Habel el-Habella had just finished feeding his two camels when he heard a tremendous commotion off to the west.
Habel was a Bedouin, 85 years old, and he’d walked these desert sands for nearly as long. But in all that time he could not recall hearing such a frightening screech as the one he was hearing now.
His camels bolted immediately, spooked to the point of relieving themselves. Habel grabbed for their reins and held on tight; they dragged him 100 feet before he got them to stop. Then somehow, he was able to look over his shoulder and was amazed to see a huge cloud of sand traveling at great speed, heading right for him.
Was this a haboob? No way. Habel had lived in the desert for so long, he could tell when a haboob was coming hours before it hit. They never came up this suddenly. So then what was this?
Before he could move, before he could think, the cloud was upon him. It was so loud it even drowned out the cries of his animals. The air became incredibly hot; it felt like flames going right through his lungs. So sure that he was about to meet his maker, Habel fell to his knees and let his camels go, something from childhood he’d been told never to do. But the animals must have felt as he did, because they both plopped down beside him. The noise was just tremendous. The sand was whipping around him so fiercely, it was cutting his face, his hands, his neck.
But then, suddenly, it was over. The calamity just went away. Habel stayed down on the ground, thinking this was death and death was very quiet. But finally, he opened his eyes and before him he saw an incredible sight. Rolling to a stop on the hard desert sand not 300 feet away was a huge yellow airplane.
Habel’s mind was reeling. What sorcery was this! His camels were too stunned to cry; they could barely get back to their feet. How did this contraption get here? It was huge. And it was smoking all over, especially on its wings. And its tires beneath those wings had been torn to shreds. All through his many years, Habel had only seen airplanes passing over his head, never one up so close. It looked complicated and frightening.
Suddenly doors all over the airplane flew open and huge orange balloons came bursting out. The balloons made a type of slide and onto these slides Habel saw people start flowing out of the airplane. These people were all Muslims; Habel recognized their dress. Many were women and children; many were elderly. They were sliding down the balloon things and running through the sand, away from the plane. Some were laughing. Some were crying. Some were doing both.
As this was going on, Habel saw two bodies tumble out of the front door of the airplane. They missed the slide completely and hit the ground in one thump. When this happened a great cheer went up from those who had already exited the airplane.
Then came the strangest thing of all: a figure in a burka came to the front door. Before Habel’s eyes this person stripped off the burka to reveal a military uniform beneath. This was not a woman but a man who had been wearing woman’s clothing. And he was not an Arab. His skin was white and he appeared huge and muscular.
This strange man finally slid down the orange balloon himself. The people who’d come out before him met him at the bottom and surrounded him and now were cheering him, kissing him.
Old Habel didn’t know what to make of this. Maybe he was dead and the devil was trying to confuse him. That’s when some of the people who’d exited the airplane spotted him and ran over to him. Again, they were all laughing even though Habel could also see tears in their eyes.
They were shouting at him: “The Americans saved our lives! We were dead, but now we are alive again!”
At that point, Habel determined this really was a trick of Satan. He’d never heard anyone in this region talk kindly about Americans. It was almost as rare as someone talking kindly about the Jews. He quickly grabbed his camels and tried to hurry away.
But then all the people on the ground were looking back up into the sky again. Suddenly there came another earsplitting noise. And Habel heard the people cheering wildly and saw them waving their hands in the air.
A moment later, the Harrier jump jet roared by, flying very fast and very low. It spun around on its wings once, a victory roll of sorts.
Then it turned southeast and rocketed off toward Hormuz.
The USS Ballston Spa had entered the Strait of Hormuz about ten minutes ahead of the aircraft carrier Lincoln.
It was a replenishment ship, lightly armed and filled with food and water rather than missiles and bombs. Minutes before, the ship’s crew had been called to general quarters along with the rest of the battle group. Word was passed that terrorists had hijacked an unknown number of airliners in the area and that they were planning to crash them into the Lincoln. Some of the crew had seen a great flash off port side about ten minutes earlier. This was the first airliner being shot down by the fleet’s F-14s. Trouble was, there were more commandeered airplanes out there, somewhere, and they were heading this way.
Ensign Alby Hirsch was the armaments officer for the Ballston Spa. He was at his position, the ship’s forward gun mount, one of only two such weapons aboard the ship. Three young sailors were with him. All of them were equipped with binoculars and they were nervously scanning the skies around them. The air was filled with the sound of sonic booms and now more explosions; the sky above was a mad patchwork of contrails. It made for a frightening combination. Hirsch had completed his officer’s training only a month before. This was his first depl
oyment. He’d never imagined anything like this happening, at least not on his maiden cruise. At the moment, he was wondering if he’d ever see a second one.
He was trying to keep his wits about him, though. He continually checked his weapon, its ammo, its crew. The weapon was a .50-caliber machine gun, a peashooter compared to some of the hardware on the ships around him. It was intended to shoot at small boats that might menace the supply ship and certainly not to fire on adversarial aircraft. Or hijacked airliners. But Hirsch’s training had taught him that every head, every hand, every weapon, was important in an emergency. He had to proceed on that point.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm, nails digging deep into his skin. The youngest sailor on the gun crew, a kid no more than 18, had grabbed him and was pointing off to starboard. He couldn’t talk. Hirsch looked north and soon saw why: an enormous airliner, flying just 50 feet above the water, was coming right at them. It was less than a half-mile away. Two F-14s were on its tail, cannons blazing wildly. Ships in front of the Ballston Spa were firing at the airliner, too. It was trailing two long streams of smoke and flame behind it.
The noise around Hirsch became deafening. Cursing, shouting, the clatter of many guns, big and small, as the airliner, looking positively unreal, ran this gauntlet, flying so low it was stirring up the surface of the water. Like a nightmare in slow motion, many of the shells being fired from the Navy ships were hitting the airliner—but some were hitting the pursuing Tomcats as well.
And the airliner just kept getting bigger. The plane seemed to be adding power even as the flames about its wings grew in intensity. Hirsch ordered his men to open fire. The gun started chattering, but Hirsch could not hear it. He could see the silver on the airliner’s nose, the disturbingly Arabic trim. It seemed to be moving along on a wave of exploding ordnance. It was being hit all over, yet it did not veer one iota from its course. It was coming directly at the Ballston Spa, its nose pointing right at the midships.
