Hilary was reassured when I told her that I had done a considerable amount of rock-climbing during my days with the RAF Mountain Rescue Team in Wales.
I lowered myself very carefully onto the ledge, which now seemed to be much narrower than it at first looked, and gingerly started to slide sideways towards the second window.
At the same time, Hilary left her room and walked down the corridor and towards the restaurant. The waiter guided her towards the large table which had been reserved for British Airways and was set outside by the swimming pool. Around the table sat Captain Hale and his crew – apart from two.
As Hilary sat down to join them the Captain looked up at the side of the accommodation block. “Isn’t that our First Officer Red crawling along the side of the building in his underpants?” he said, pointing with his spoon.
The cat was well and truly out of the bag when Hilary didn’t look up but covered her face with her hands instead.
I climbed up and jumped through the second window. To my horror, it was not my room. I was in a storeroom with sheets and cleaning materials stacked all around me. Fortunately the door was unlocked and I was able to get into the corridor.
At the reception desk, with a sheet draped across my shoulders, I explained that I had locked myself out of my room and was given another key.
A few minutes later, when I nonchalantly rolled up at the swimming pool for breakfast, I was greeted with a lot of smiling faces and a modest ripple of applause.
My relationship with Hilary lasted for a couple of years after our trip to East Africa. We would get together, mainly, when I managed to manoeuvre my way onto routes she was scheduled to be flying. The most memorable ones being a four-day stopover to Vancouver and Seattle, or a week-long trip to Perth via Singapore, when she had later transferred to the 747 fleet.
But all good things must come to an end. When her husband became suspicious and threatened her with divorce, she decided that I would have to go. So, I did. And my round-the-world love affair was promptly concluded when a letter, addressed to Red the Pilot SAS Hereford, somehow found its way, to my office. A colleague from work decided to do me a favour and deliver the letter to my home. Which he did – whilst I was away and my wife was happily preparing dinner for her devoted husband.
When I walked into my house I was met by a less-than-happy spouse.
“Hilary. Never heard of her,” I spluttered. Tossing the letter to one side. “Either she is some sort of mad fantasist or some knob-head at work is trying to stitch me up.”
I’m not sure, whether or not my wife ever believed me. She did at least, however, give me the benefit of the doubt, and gave me the impression that she accepted my story.
Marriage break-ups and divorces were very common throughout the Special Forces Group. Perhaps they could best be blamed upon the long, and numerous, periods of separation most couples were exposed to. I, for one, was certainly ‘married to the job’, and would never want to miss any bit of action that might be taking place anywhere in the world. Without any hesitation, I would volunteer to get involved regardless of any stress my family may be subjected to.
I managed to hang on to my marriage, by a thread, throughout the whole of my military career.
It was not until I started to work for MI6 that the, almost inevitable, divorce papers started to change hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HEREFORD ENGLAND, 14 JUNE 1985, 1940 HOURS
The party, to celebrate my thirty-ninth birthday, was in full swing. Nothing too elaborate, just a few friends and neighbours joining us at my home in Moreton-on-Lugg.
Above the normal party chatter, and the sound of Abba blaring out their famous hit ‘Waterloo’, a female voice yelled out from the hallway.
“Red! Someone at the door for you. Invite him in – and tell him he could ring my bell anytime!” she said, with a giggle.
After pushing my way through the dancers, and the boisterous drinkers, I was confronted by a handsome young man in full SAS uniform. At that time, it was rather unusual to leave camp dressed in anything other than civilian clothes. There was then a serious threat of attack from members of the IRA, or even just from being photographed by some overenthusiastic newspaper reporter.
The soldier, dressed as he was, and turning up at my front door at eight o’clock on a Friday night, meant that he, almost certainly, had something serious to say.
“Uncle Sam requests the pleasure of your company,” he said with a smile.
“What, right this minute?” I asked, as I hitched up my white flared trousers, which I had dug out especially for the occasion.
“Yep. If not sooner,” he replied. “Was told to remind you to bring all your airline pilot’s kit with you – let’s go.”
Without another word or any explanation to anyone at the party, I jumped into the waiting vehicle.
Rather appropriately, Abba was, by then, banging out ‘Hasta Mañana’, as we sped out of the close, and down the A49 towards Stirling Lines.
I, of course, had no idea what tomorrow was about to bring.
Upon arrival at ‘the Lines’, I was met by a captain who I had not met before since he had just recently passed selection and joined G Squadron. He was accompanied by a signaller, who I was also unfamiliar with, holding on to a huge suitcase which I was told held the very latest, state-of-the-art Satellite Communication System.
We were told that a helicopter was standing by, ready to take us to Royal Airforce Station Northolt, in London, and that I should collect my kit, and expect to be fully briefed once we were in the air.
“Nice trousers,” shouted the captain as I rushed across the square into my office.
I quickly grabbed my British Airways paraphernalia, which I always kept ready to go and started to leave. Just then, as if by magic, I spotted a change of clothes, belonging to Bob Waters, the second-in-command of Ops Research, left on the desk next to mine, and they included a pair of jeans which were only a few sizes too big. Nothing that a tight belt and a couple of turn-ups couldn’t cope with – and anything was better than the embarrassing white ‘seventies flares’.
Sitting in the back of the Agusta 109 helicopter, which had been ‘liberated’ from the Argentine Airforce after the Falklands war, and was now used by the SAS Flight, I was briefed by the captain.
Earlier in the day a Boeing 727 operated by Trans World Airlines (TWA) had been hijacked shortly after taking off from Athens.
TWA Flight 847 was en route from Cairo to San Diego with scheduled stops in Athens, Rome, Boston and Los Angeles. Two armed men, thought to be members of the Middle-Eastern group Hezbollah, had taken over control of the aircraft and forced the pilot, Captain John Trestrake, to land in Beirut. Most of the passengers and all the crew were believed to be American citizens. There were also thought to be several British subjects on board. Since American interests far outweighed those of the United Kingdom, the US counterterrorist team, and not the British SAS, had been tasked to take overall command and prepare to deal with the situation.
The 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (1st SFOD-D), commonly referred to as Delta Force, had been alerted and were then in transit to a Forward Operating Base (FOB) close to the incident. RAF Akrotiri in Southern Cyprus had been nominated as the FOB.
The Delta Force Operations Officer at that time was Lt Colonel Lewis (Bucky) Burruss. Bucky was someone who I knew well, having worked with him on many occasions. I had recently visited him in his base in North Carolina, and Bucky would often come over to visit us in Hereford or London. His liaison trips were, primarily, undertaken to exchange operating methods and techniques but, more often than not, descended into nothing more than a piss-up with myself and Crocker. We spent many happy times together behaving outrageously in the Special Forces Club, or in the sergeant’s mess of 21 SAS, who were then based on the Kings Road just off Sloane Square. The person in charge of the mess, at that time, was Regimental Sergeant Major Rover Slatery, an SAS veteran, who put up with us only bec
ause he himself had bad behaviour down to an art form.
As soon as Bucky had been told about the hijacking, he had immediately put in a request, through the Pentagon and the Ministry of Defence, for me to attend the incident. Quite remarkably, the United States had no one, at that time, with Special Forces status, who was trained to fly commercial airliners.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After touching down at RAF Northolt, Ben the signaller said that he needed to confirm that the SatCom was working correctly before we left the country. The captain and I agreed that twenty minutes, or so, on the ground would be much appreciated, giving us time to stretch our legs, and prepare for the next part of our journey which, I for one, was certainly not looking forward to.
A six-hour flight on the back of ‘Fat Albert’, a C-130 cargo plane, was not something that I particularly relished the thought of. The cavernous hold of the C-130 normally reeked of burning oil and aviation turbine fuel (Avtur) fumes, quickly inducing air-sickness into even the most seasoned of passengers. The thunderous roar of the four turboprop engines reverberated through the cabin, making any sort of conversation impossible, and the thin canvas seats on metal frames could be described as, just about anything, other than comfortable. The in-flight catering usually consisted of a small box containing a couple of curled up ham sandwiches, a packet of ready salted crisps and a lump of cheese. The only toilet facility on board was a large bucket strapped to the fuselage and hidden behind a small curtain.
Whilst joking with Ben about my trousers having more ballroom than Blackpool Tower, a young female RAF Corporal approached us. “We are all ready to go, sir if you are,” she said, to none of us in particular.
Daniel, the captain, looked at me and then across at Ben with eyebrows raised, as if to ask us the question.
“SatCom’s working fine so let’s get on board,” chirped up Ben, as he closed the suitcase lid.
In line-astern, we followed the Corporal, who surprised us by walking straight past ‘Fat Albert’, parked on dispersal, and directly towards a Hawker Siddeley 125 jet. The HS-125 was rarely used for transporting hairy-arsed squaddies such as us, and would normally be reserved for the likes of the prime minister or members of the royal family.
‘Sheer luxury!’ I thought, as we sat back in the sumptuous leather seats, and were served pre-dinner canapés and champagne in cut-glass flutes.
Whilst flying over the Mediterranean we were receiving confusing messages from the pilots regarding the whereabouts of the hijacked aircraft. Apparently, it had taken off from Beirut and was now sitting in Algiers.
Unable to divert to Algiers, due to a shortage of fuel, we continued towards Akrotiri and agreed that we should decide on our next course of action once we were on the ground.
After landing we were marshalled towards a corner of the Airbase which had been commandeered by, what looked like, half of the American army. A large number of Delta Force were on the ground with civilianised and military vehicles, supported by several fixed-wing and rotary wing aircraft.
A lot had happened whilst we were enjoying living in the lap-of-luxury in Mrs Thatcher’s private jet.
After being forced to land in Lebanon by a terrorist holding a hand-grenade with the pin removed in one hand, and a pistol in the other, the passengers and crew then went through a terrifying ordeal, being convinced that the aircraft was about to be blown up. Over the next few hours, the 727 was prepared for flight, and nineteen of the hostages were released in exchange for the aircraft being refuelled.
It then took off and flew to Algeria, where it landed and remained on the ground for about five hours. After that time a further twenty hostages were allowed to leave, and the aircraft returned to Beirut.
On board the hijacked plane the tension was building. All the passengers’ passports were collected and everyone with a Jewish-sounding name was segregated from the main body. One young man who produced a US Military passport was dragged from his seat. He was ruthlessly kicked and beaten as he lay in the aisle and hauled towards an exit. The battered and bloodied young sailor was then shot in the head and thrown out onto the ground where another bullet was then fired into his body.
We had an enormous problem on our hands. The normal procedure for establishing an Immediate Action drill as soon as possible, to attempt to save the lives of the hostages, in the event of a rapid deterioration of the situation would, almost certainly, end in a bloodbath.
Beirut Airport was unusual by any standards. At that time Lebanon was engaged in a chaotic and brutal civil war. The airfield had no security fence, and groups of armed militia roamed freely amongst the parked aircraft. Any member of the public could simply walk, or drive, straight onto the active runway, or any other part of the airport for that matter.
The chances of a Deliberate Action, one that is practised and rehearsed, being carried out successfully were almost non-existent. Getting troops on to the ground and close enough to the aircraft to have any effect, could only be achieved after an almost inevitable gunfight. Any exchange of fire close to the hijacked plane was likely to result in, at the very least, the loss of the element of surprise, thereby giving the terrorists plenty of time to carry out their threats and start killing the hostages.
Just as the team were considering and discussing the possible options, intelligence reports indicated that a further group, of at least ten heavily-armed men, had boarded the aircraft. Shortly afterwards, the 727 began to taxi towards the runway as if to prepare for take-off. Our problems had, by then, increased by at least tenfold.
By moving the aircraft, yet again, the terrorists were now making the task of rescuing the hostages almost an impossibility.
We were ordered to prepare to move and, when ready, board the C-5 Galaxy, which was being prepared to follow the peregrinating jetliner, with over a hundred hostages and, at least, twelve extremely dangerous gunmen in control.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Lockheed C-5 Galaxy was one of the largest aircraft in the world, dwarfing the British-operated C-130 Hercules. It could carry an enormous payload, which might include vehicles, helicopters and even heavily armoured tanks. With four powerful jet engines, it could fly at the same altitude and speed as a passenger jet and had a useful range of well over two thousand miles.
By the time the massive cargo doors had closed and we were climbing away from Cyprus, we were at least three hours behind the 727, which we were told was about to land, once again, in Algiers. Our Flight Crew received orders to land in Cagliari, on the island of Sardinia, take on fuel, and await further instructions.
In Algiers, the 727 remained on the ground overnight, during which time a further seventy hostages, including the five, female cabin crew, were released. The next morning the aircraft was refuelled and prepared to take-off, but no indication was given as to where it might be heading. Once airborne it climbed out over the Mediterranean, and turned right ninety degrees, generally back towards the Middle East.
We were airborne, in the C-5 Galaxy, as the stricken passenger jet passed in front of us. The pilot identified the 7500 hijack-code transmitted by the aircraft’s transponder and tucked in behind it. As the sun began to pass below the horizon behind us, we sat in the 727’s contrail and waited to see whereabouts in the troubled Middle East we were about to be lead.
On board the TWA Flight 847, the gang of armed men were clearly in total control of the aircraft. Before take-off one of the gunmen, known as Fajez, who appeared to have some knowledge of aviation and the general layout of the cockpit, had refused to allow the crew to speak on the radio. He had demanded that all communication with the Control Tower was done by him and that only Arabic was spoken rather than English, which is normally adopted anywhere in the world over Air Traffic Control networks
Captain Testrake had been forced to simply follow the instructions given to him, such as – “Take off”; “Climb to cruise altitude”; “Turn to head east”. Fajez spoke good English and the captain obeyed.
Only
when they were established in the cruise, did the lead terrorist tell the crew what the hostage takers’ intentions were. “Now go to Sana’a,” he said, pressing the gun against the captain’s temple.
All three of the crew shook their heads and objected vociferously, explaining that that was impossible, since they were not carrying any charts for Yemen.
After a short, mumbled discussion between three or four of the hijackers, Fajez spoke again. “Tehran. We will go now to Tehran,” emphasising the end of his statement with a pistol-whip to the flight engineer’s head.
So, the course was set. Back, more or less, the way they had come. But this time the plan was to fly just to the south of our FOB, then almost directly overhead Beirut, and on to a corner of the world where Americans, and anyone with a Jewish sounding name, would be likely to be made far less than welcome.
By this time the flight engineer, Benjamin Zimmerman, was starting to become thoroughly pissed-off with being beaten about the head with a pistol. He decided that there was no way they were going to land in Iran. He had a plan. A plan that was audacious and dangerous.
Any discussion between the crew members was invariably met with violence. Usually in the form of a crack from a pistol and, more often than not, aimed at poor old Zimmerman who just happened to be sat nearest to the gunman standing guard.
The flight engineer decided that their best option was to land, once again, at Beirut, and this time make sure that they would stay there. He fed Fayez and some of the other English-speaking gang members the line that he was becoming increasingly concerned about the airworthiness of the ageing 727. “The constant flying over the past few days and the lack of any maintenance were beginning to affect the overall performance of the aircraft,” he told them with the most concerned look that he could muster. He explained that he was very worried that a major failure was imminent and that he needed to cover the emergency procedures with everyone in case a ditching into the Mediterranean became necessary. He then went into great detail about how to deploy the flimsy and, often unreliable, life-rafts and how important it was to always have shark-repellent close to hand since, in the dark, they would be very unlikely to be rescued and there was no guarantee that the dinghies would stay afloat for long. Zimmerman discreetly threw a couple of switches which lead to gauges reading zero and pointed to them, to emphasise the fact that things were already starting to go wrong. The hostage-takers were now sufficiently convinced that their lives were in impending danger.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 13
