As they were approaching the overhead of Beirut the captain called the Control Tower and told them that, due to technical problems, they would have to land there.
“The airport is closed. How much fuel do you have?” asked the controller.
“Maximum flying time of five minutes,” lied Captain Testrake.
“It is impossible for you to land. The runway is blocked with vehicles,” came the response.
As they started to commence a descent the flight engineer took bold action. He closed-off the fuel supply to the number two engine.
A few seconds later the engine stopped. There then ensued a period of, somewhat overexaggerated, pandemonium on the flight deck, with warning bells and hooters going off, and red lights flashing everywhere. The crew reacted with admirable histrionics, arms flailing about, in typical pilot fashion, and the captain declared a full life-threatening emergency.
Now they did have to land – vehicles or no vehicles.
As the disabled 727 turned on to final approach the crew could clearly see people on the ground frantically trying to get the vehicles cleared from the runway.
With just a few hundred feet to go, Flight Engineer Zimmerman now went completely for broke – he closed the main fuel switch for one of the two remaining engines, knowing that, in a matter of seconds, the engine would stop and they would be unable to stay airborne.
As the wheels touched the runway the engine flamed-out and the aircraft came to a halt.
It was not difficult for the crew to convince everyone that it would now be impossible for them to get off the ground again. All they could do now was await their fate.
As soon as it became clear that Flight TWA 847 was about to land, or perhaps crash, into Beirut Airport, we broke off from the follow and landed at RAF Akrotiri.
As we disembarked from the C-5 Galaxy we were called into a, hastily convened, briefing. We were told that intelligence reports indicated that the hijacked aircraft was very unlikely to go walkabout again. There were still a substantial number of passengers, estimated to about forty, plus the three flight-deck crew, whose lives were in imminent danger. We had to get troops on the ground, close enough to the aircraft to be able to take effective action as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I was nominated to become part of a six-man team from Delta Force, who would be flown immediately into northern Israel. (When I say, I was part of a six-man team – I wasn’t really. I was being sent forward to fly the plane back to safety if the opportunity arose. The five Delta Force guys were coming along to make sure I didn’t get lost, or get taken hostage myself, and to help me to get on board the 727 in one piece.) So I, and my five chaperones, were to be delivered, by helicopter, to a rendezvous point on the Mediterranean coast, north of the town of Nahariyya. Once on the ground, we would be met by agents who would then drive us, the fifty miles or so along the coast, to the airport in Beirut.
We were handed a variety of shemaghs and told to dress in the style of the local militia. A style which came very easily to me. I had never been known to be the smartest soldier on parade, and my recently acquired baggy jeans fitted the bill perfectly.
We clambered on board the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter flown by Warrant Officer Bill Flannery who, coincidentally, had taught me to fly the UH-60 back in 1981 – I knew we were in safe hands.
The six of us huddled together in the back of the Blackhawk in total darkness. A type of darkness rarely experienced. The only source of light ever used during a covert insertion, such as this, was infrared, invisible to the human eye. Wearing ear-defenders to deaden most of the sound and, with absolutely no light whatsoever, I had a feeling of complete disorientation, I had to remind myself that I was hurtling across the sea at high speed and low altitude – less than one hundred feet above the surface. But my senses told me that I could, just as easily, have been floating in space.
I felt Bill reduce the pitch on the blades and raise the nose of the aircraft as we slowed down ready to land. The instant we touched down the side door flew open. The six of us leapt out and crouched on the ground, pulling our shemaghs tightly around our heads for protection, as the helicopter climbed away, and the force of the down-wash increased, pressing us into the earth.
Within five seconds the maelstrom subsided, and the sound of the Blackhawk on its way back to Cyprus gradually faded away.
We were met by two agents, also dressed in the typical fashion of the average Lebanese militia member, and led towards a road. Inside each of the two four-by-four Toyotas, parked to one side, were four AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles and one RPG-7 grenade launcher. We were told that the weaponry was primarily to be used as props to complete our disguises. Overtly displaying them in and around the capital should guarantee us safe passage since vehicles carrying heavily armed mobsters were rarely stopped at the numerous roadside checkpoints throughout Lebanon. There was, of course, plenty of ammunition on board just in case we should need it.
We split into two groups, three of us in each four-by-four vehicle.
“My name is Arif,” said our driver-cum-agent-cum-guardian. “If we are stopped at any time then please allow me to do the talking.”
No argument about that, from me or any of my new colonial buddies.
“Feel free to wave the rifles about as much as you like, especially in built-up areas, but do keep them pointing skywards,” said Arif. “Levelling the weapons when other militiamen are around is very likely to result in a firefight, which is not what we are looking for tonight.”
As he took his place behind the wheel he patted the glove compartment.
“We have secure covert comms back to headquarters, so we can call up for support if we feel we need it, but I’m hoping that that won’t be necessary.”
I sat in the back, behind the Israeli Agent and, after checking my rifle for safety, snapped on the thirty-round magazine.
“My job is to get you as close as possible to the hijacked 727, keep it under observation and await further orders,” continued Arif as he started the engine. “Sit back and enjoy the ride guys. There is water and something to eat behind the seat.”
As we began to pull away the headlights of the other vehicle closed in behind us. Even at that distance, some fifty miles or so, we could make out the loom from war-torn Beirut ahead of us.
My travelling companion was Chuck, who had served in the US Marine Corps before joining Delta Force four years previously. He had completed a short secondment to Hereford in 1982 but, for some reason, our paths had never crossed. Probably down to everyone, at that time, being preoccupied with the war in the Falklands.
Chuck, a dyed-in-the-wool Virginian, took the lead in the vehicle to cover our ‘Actions on’. In other words, he ran through what actions we should take in the event that we should come under attack and have to resort to fighting mode. After insisting that we all keep our weapons ‘ready’at all times, he then went on to tell me why he was so pleased to be in the Lebanon for the first time. Neither he nor any of the other Americans with us had set foot in this part of the world before. Nevertheless, they were all adamant that their visit was long overdue and they were keen to settle some old scores if they were given half a chance.
Just a few months after the Iraqi and French embassies in Beirut had been destroyed by suicide-car bombers simply driving up to fronts of the buildings and detonating their bombs. A large black van was allowed to approach the front of the US Embassy, despite the guards having been instructed to direct all vehicles to the rear of the building. When it pulled to a halt and exploded the whole central façade of the eight-story building collapsed. Sixty-three people were killed in the bombing and as many as one hundred more were wounded.
Members of the 1st Battalion 8th Marine Corps stationed in Beirut were outraged. More importantly, they were frustrated by their inability to be able to take any sort of constructive action against Hezbollah, the group responsible for the spate of suicide bombings across the city. They felt as tho
ugh their ‘hands were tied’ due to the fact, that they had been ordered to operate under Peacetime Rules of Engagement. The effect of the order meant that the Marines were deployed as ‘Peacekeepers’ and therefore were only allowed to use the absolute minimum of force. When guarding a facility or on patrol they were not allowed to have their weapons ‘ready’. A weapon is only ready to use when a magazine containing ammunition is loaded onto it and the weapon is ‘cocked’ to place a round into the chamber. The only action then required to fire the weapon is to flick off the safety-catch with the thumb and pull the trigger. A sequence which would normally take less than a second.
Less than six months after the murderous assault on the U.S. Embassy a twenty-tonne, yellow Mercedes truck approached the Marine Corps headquarters, close to the International Airport in Beirut. The driver of the truck smiled and waved at the sentries as he approached them before accelerating through the flimsy barrier of barbed wire. Ignoring the order that the guards must not make their weapons ‘ready’ unless they were given a direct order from a commissioned officer, they made a desperate attempt to cock their weapons and take out the driver, but they simply didn’t have enough time to react.
The truck, containing nine tonnes of high explosives, smashed into the entrance-hall of the four-story building and the bomb was detonated. The enormous explosion lifted the entire structure into the air and then collapsed into itself, crushing to death two hundred and forty-one members of the United States Marine Corps. Shortly after the incident, all American forces were withdrawn from the Lebanon.
I was left in no doubt as to why Chuck insisted upon us keeping our weapons ‘ready’ at all times. I could also see why the guys from the Delta Force headquarters in North Carolina were glad to be back and would not be restricted to the minimum force of peacekeepers if, or more likely when, contact with Hezbollah was made.
A mile or so short of the entrance to the airport both vehicles pulled off the road, and onto a track leading up a hill towards a small wood. We parked by the edge of the wood from where we were clearly able to distinguish the red and white livery of the hijacked TWA jet. With the tree line acting as a backdrop, to prevent us from being sky-lined, someone suggested that we were in a good position to establish an OP. An OP, or Observation Post, is an old military term used to describe any position from where a target can be kept under constant surveillance. It can consist of a solitary individual standing by a lamppost for just a few seconds, or a complex system of tunnels hiding a large number of troops keeping a target under observation for weeks, or even months on end, and can be completely overt or covert. The essential requirement of any OP is that anyone manning it must keep eyes on the target at all times. ‘Sod’s Law’ quite clearly states that, ‘The second that you take your eyes off the target something will happen’.
Without knowing how long we might have to man the OP for, we split into two shifts – one car would cover responsibility for four hours while the other car rested. Each occupant of the car on duty would keep their eyes on the target for an hour at a time, whilst the remaining three would keep watch for anyone approaching our position. Keeping one’s eyes glued to a target for an hour, especially when using a ‘Starlight Scope’ at night, is long enough for most individuals to endure.
It was dark and during the very early hours of the morning, while I was dozing in the back of the vehicle, when Randy, a redneck Texan, as he described himself, who had eyes on the target at the time, broke the silence.
“Standby. Standby,” he said. “Vehicles approaching the aircraft steps.”
We all gathered round and strained our eyes to see exactly what was happening.
The hostages appeared to be being released. They were being lead down the steps and into the awaiting vehicles.
“Let’s get down there and follow them,” said Chuck.
“Ok, but I need to get authorisation from headquarters first,” said our Israeli minder Arif.
“Fuck headquarters. If we don’t get down there now we will lose them,” retorted Chuck.
Two or three of us shouted our support for Chuck and, without hesitation, we all piled into the vehicles and tore down the hill towards the airport.
We kept our headlights on and played thumping rock music on the radio as we pulled off the main highway and onto the airport approach road. Gangs of militia in this part of the world had a tendency to make their presence felt, so we did the same.
Chuck and I held our Kalashnikov rifles out of the windows and Randy, who was built like a brick shithouse, waved the RPG-7 rocket-launcher, weighing more than twenty pounds, effortlessly in one hand. Not something that I would have been able to do for more than a few seconds.
As a young soldier, I had been made to endure ‘Pokey Drill’ – not the sort of pastime that someone of my physique and stature was particularly good at. During my basic military training, a whole bunch of us, fledgling squadies, would be lined up in front of the drill sergeant and ordered to follow his actions. He would then hold the standard-issue SLR rifle, which weighed about nine pounds, in his one outstretched arm and wait to see which one of us would crack first. After only a few seconds my muscles would begin to burn and I was invariably one of the first in the squad to lower my arm, and then be punished by having to double around the parade square with my rifle held above my head. No matter how painful my arms might become I would never drop my weapon. Dropping a piece of Her Majesty’s equipment, due to utter carelessness, was an almost unspeakable crime, the punishment for which just didn’t bear thinking about.
A number of vehicles, with headlights glaring, came towards us – away from the hijacked 727. The first was a technical which was fitted with what appeared to be a Dashka Heavy Machine Gun manned by two turban-clad members of Hezbollah. There then followed a bus and at least three other cars with more technicals bringing up the rear. This had to be the convoy transporting the passengers away from the airport.
“Tuck in behind them,” said Chuck, who seemed to have emerged as the leader of our group. “And be prepared to fight.”
As Arif moved his hand from the steering wheel and towards the discreet Radio Transmit Button. Chuck reminded him.
“No transmitting this close to the enemy. We are now right next to the building where hundreds of United States Marines were blown to pieces, not long ago, by these bastards in front of us. If things turn nasty then, believe me, I intend to send as many of them to their maker as I possibly can.”
The next few seconds would be crucial. If our charade of pretending to be a bunch of drugged-up hoodlums worked, then we would stick with the procession. If not, then Bruce Springsteen, who was by then hammering our eardrums with his latest rock song, was not the only one who was going to be ‘On Fire’.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Our ruse appeared to be working as we were allowed to join the procession, unmolested, towards the centre of Beirut. Other vehicles soon drew up behind us which we had to assume were carrying more well-armed members of Hezbollah, and therefore to be regarded as enemy. We now felt that we had enemy to our front and rear, and if we were to be exposed at this stage then the ensuing firefight was likely to be completely chaotic and bloody. We all remained extremely tense and on edge as we approached, what appeared to be, a major roadside checkpoint on the southern outskirts of the city. Bright lights were trained on to the approaching vehicles and a number of armed militiamen stood either side of the road checking each vehicle in turn.
An acrid, almost metallic, taste of fear welled up in the back of my throat and I felt a sudden urge to leap out of the car and run towards the safety of the shadows, but I managed to keep it under control.
“Hold fast guys,” whispered Chuck as Arif turned off the radio. “We have no option now other than to stick with it. Keep your weapons ready but pointed skywards.”
We slowly drove into the pool of light at the checkpoint as the bus, and the cars in front of us were waved through without being stopped. The first of the technic
als was then allowed to pass after a very brief exchange of words and was quickly followed by the second. We came to a halt a few metres in front of the lights and the ominous-looking heavy machine-guns pointing directly at us, as a gunman walked towards us.
“As-salam Alaikum,” shouted Arif, as the gunman stopped in front of us.
As the Arab opened his mouth to reply there was a shout from the area of the parked vehicles and he suddenly turned and ran back towards them.
“Standby,” said Chuck, as calmly as if he were about to order a Big Mac and fries from his local MacDonald’s. “On my command, Randy, you take the gun on the left with the RPG. Red, you and I will take the one on the right. Arif, you get ready to drive like fuck out of here! Hold fire for now.”
I waited, with my heart pounding in my chest, ready to flick the safety-catch with my thumb past the first detent, for single-shots and through to the second for fully-automatic, and let rip with a full magazine towards the back of the machine gun. But, things didn’t develop quite as we were expecting them to.
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