The sum total of our initial hard copy was one threefold eight-by-ten travel brochure. With the help of a couple of the Team’s more artistic shooters, I set about preparing a line drawing of the ship. The drawing was assembled by picking out details of naval architecture from the tiny photos in the brochure. There were lots of pictures of women in bathing caps and waist-high 1950s-era bikinis, but damn few shots of what we really wanted: photos of the bridge and the positions of masts, antennas, and weather decks.
For planning purposes, we had to have not just a sketch but something approaching a scale drawing. In order to fly helicopters around the ship at night, we needed estimates of the height of various masts and the size of decks. I broke out a pair of dividers and was glad I’d paid attention in seventh-grade drafting class. Scaling up from the known size of an internationally approved lifeboat, thirty feet, we were able to estimate dimensions and clearances from the photographs. We soon cobbled together a few sets of working sketches, and these were used for the initial planning briefs.
There was a moment of mirth when a contingent of Italian naval commandos arrived at the hangar. Nattily attired in flight suits and mirrored shades, they all had matching ascots. But they had arrived with a set of ship’s plans. I was standing next to General Stiner when he struck a deal with the Italians. He offered to take them along on the operation and keep them out of the action. In exchange for the plans, the Americans would recover the ship, but the Italians would get the credit. The arrangement would be our little secret.
The plans quickly changed hands.
Using the diagrams, we were able to verify the dimensions of our sketches. The plans were undated, and the brochure showed several modifications not depicted in the drawings. Achille Lauro had been frequently modified, if for no other reason than to repair collision and fire damage. We had no way to know which was more recent, the pamphlet or the blueprints, so we amended the diagrams for worst case. All of the assault groups soon had deck and compartment drawings with which to plan their assaults.
I briefed the Rastas on the conduct of the bridge takedown, and we attended a general meeting to coordinate our actions with those of the other assault groups. The afternoon wore on, and as the sun slipped down, we inspected weapons and gear and rehearsed on floor plans marked out with tape on the hangar floor. We were ready.
And that’s when they pulled the plug.
Achille Lauro had again been found. This time she was heading south in Egyptian territorial waters. Though the ship was still within our grasp, Washington made the decision not to launch the rescue. It was one thing to seize the vessel on the high seas; it was another to do it in broad daylight, under the nose of a putative and touchy ally. Apparently, Washington did not want to offend one of its few Arab friends.
The hijackers sought refuge in the anchorage outside of Port Said, a decision that saved their lives. I have no doubt that come nightfall SEAL Team Six would have reached Achille Lauro undetected. Once we were aboard, al-Molqi and his friends would have been as good as dead.
Even as we stood down, events in Cairo put the terrorists farther from our reach. It was announced that the hijackers had agreed to surrender to Egyptian authorities at 4:20 P.M. The surrender was “without preconditions,” but a deal had been struck. Soon after the ship anchored, the Egyptian foreign ministry let loose with the first of a series of outright lies and half-truths. The foreign minister stated that all the hostages were safe and that the terrorists had left the ship and were now headed out of Egypt.
Standing around a TV in the hangar, we watched a CNN news clip showing the hijackers being taken ashore in an Egyptian navy patrol boat. It was hard not to feel defeated as we watched them mug and flash victory signs for the camera. They looked like college kids who’d pulled a prank.
In the hours after the terrorists had left the ship, international news organizations began reporting that the hijackers had murdered a hostage. The Egyptians backpedaled fast. President Hosni Mubarak told a credulous set of reporters that the hijackers had left Egypt and that he was not sure where they had gone.
They were in fact at an Egyptian airbase, sitting at that moment aboard an EgyptAir 737. Arafat and Abbas were ass-deep in negotiations, trying to find a country that would accept the hijackers. They initially had no takers, but at last Tunisia agreed. Just south of Sicily and to the west of Libya, Tunisia is a moderate Arab state and home of the PLO’s headquarters. It was probably with some sense of relief that Abu Abbas joined al-Molqi and the others aboard the 737. Also accompanying them were about ten members of Egypt’s counterterrorism unit, Force 777, and an Egyptian intelligence officer. Their getaway was almost complete. Abbas and his thugs had every reason to believe that in a few hours they would be in Tunis, farting through silk.
Unbeknownst to Abbas, and unimagined by Hosni Mubarak, the NSA heard every word of the negotiations. They knew Mubarak had detailed a state-owned airliner to evacuate the murderers. They knew Abbas had joined the hijackers. They knew the destination was Tunisia. They even knew the tail number of the aircraft—2843.
On the evening of October 9, SEAL Team Six’s aircraft departed from the forward staging base, heading west across the Med toward home. Aboard our aircraft were Captain Gormly and the operations staff of SEAL Six. The mood aboard the plane was somber. It looked to all hands like another Gerbil Cage, and no one was happy about it. The medical officers passed out sleeping pills for the long trip home. We called the capsules “doggie downers”; they were ass kickers, but I was too wound up to sleep. I was too wound up even to be put to sleep. I slipped my pill into the pocket of my flight suit and tried to read a book.
I could not concentrate. Like everyone else on the plane, I felt that we had been ready to go, and that even if we could not have prevented the murder of Leon Klinghoffer, we certainly could have retaken the ship. As if it had not occurred to me before, I weighed the fact that like the rest of the world, we danced to the tune of the politicians. Bettino Craxi had been powerless against a gang of criminals and had looked for the easiest way out. Mubarak, too, wanted no trouble with the PLO. He was not above lying to the world to allow the murderers to escape. The dance went on.
Maybe twenty minutes into our flight, we found out that we were still dancing. Word reached us that F-14 Tomcat fighters from U.S.S. Saratoga would soon intercept the EgyptAir 737. The plane would be forced to land at the U.S.-Italian air base at Sigonella, Sicily. We were back in the game.
Sean’s C-141 was diverted to Sigonella. His assault group would be responsible for setting security on the airplane once it was down, and preventing it from taking off. Our C-141 would land directly behind the 737, take custody of the criminals, and return them to the United States. No one on our aircraft expected the terrorists to come peaceably, and we geared up to assault the 737, an operation we had rehearsed many times. As soon as we were told what was going on, about a dozen guys lined up at the plane’s single toilet to vomit up their sleeping pills. It was simple luck that I had not taken mine.
As we closed in on Sigonella, we were updated constantly. We were told that aboard the 737 were all four of the suspects, along with Abu Abbas. He was to be captured as well. We were told that aboard the plane were approximately a dozen armed Egyptian “secret service” officers. There was a very brief discussion of the SEAL Six rules of engagement. They remained in effect. Once we were sent in to capture the terrorists, armed resisters, Egyptian or Palestinian, would be met with deadly force.
We were informed when the Tomcats made intercept, and fifteen minutes from touchdown, the lights in the troop compartment switched to red. The order was passed to lock and load. The clatter of dozens of charging weapons rattled in the ocher light. I threaded a magazine into my MP-5, drew back the charging handle, and knocked it loose with the heel of my hand. We sat adjusting to night vision, tense, jacked up, waiting.
When the 737 touched down on the runway, we landed seconds behind it. The Rastas were the first assault element o
ff the airplane. As we piled onto the tarmac, I detailed two shooters to remain constantly with Captain Gormly. Not that he needed protection: The skipper was in assault gear. Bo’s group quickly deployed to the left rear of the 737, and the Rastas and the rest of our group were assembled directly off the tail. We knelt on the tarmac and waited.
The 737 sat just ahead, its nose wheel blocked by a truck. Captain Gormly headed forward to link up with Sean, who’d established a command post behind the aircraft. Sean’s group had surrounded the plane, and he had snipers deployed to observe and cover it.
The EgyptAir 737 blazed with light, and the noise from its ground power unit was a loud whine. Behind us, a second C-141 landed and came to a stop with its engines running. The several jet engines made hearing difficult. Although the runway was black around us, lights from hangars and taxiways quickly washed out our night vision. As we prepared to attack the 737, we were deaf and almost blind.
General Stiner alighted from the second C-141 and trotted forward to meet Captain Gormly. They contacted the 737 on the ground-control frequency and were told by the pilot that there was an Egyptian ambassador aboard who wished to speak to them. Thus would commence a terse and sometimes heated series of arguments. I did not see or hear much of the discussions. I had my hands full. As I looked out toward the hangar lights, I could see several trucks approaching at high speed. Behind the trucks came police cars, dozens of them, blue lights spinning on their roofs. We were being surrounded by a large number of Italian troops, police, and carabinieri.
I ordered the Rastas down flat on the runway, one set of boat crews facing the hangars and the other facing the taxiways. As the Italians trotted toward us, we sighted down on them, perfect silhouettes against the glare. I told my guys to hold their fire and not to shoot unless I initiated.
The situation was extremely tense, and I am certain that this is the closest NATO forces have ever come to firing on each other. We were deployed around the 737 and meant to defend it. The Italians streaming in were preparing to take the aircraft into custody. It turned out that when the 737 veered off the active runway, it had turned onto the Italian, not American, side of the base.
The hijackers were on sovereign Italian soil. So were we.
More Italian forces poured into the darkness. Bo reported on the radio that armored cars were being moved close to his position. I reported that there were at least a hundred Italians facing me on my portion of the runway, and more were on the way. If this thing went hot, it would be charming. The Italians were plainly illuminated. We would rip them to pieces. The runway was extremely dark, and I knew if they opened up, the Italians would probably make the routine mistake of shooting over our heads. This was small comfort. Both Bo’s assault group and mine were laid out on a flat stretch of runway, totally without cover.
The airfield at Sigonella was beginning to look like the last reel of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. More and more Italians kept showing up, on foot, in the backs of trucks, and piled onto the hoods of cars. Italian command and control was always in question, and the Keystone Kops routine didn’t make me feel any better about what might happen.
I knew I could count on my guys to remain buttoned down. I knew they would not fire unless fired upon. I also thought that SEAL Team Six would make a mess of anyone who moved against the 737. What I feared most was an accident. I was afraid that the Italians might not be under firm control, or that some Italian conscript would screw up. One shot, accidental or otherwise, could set off a firefight that killed both Americans and Italians. I stood and walked the length of our position. I knew I was making myself a target, and that was my intent.
“Everybody take it easy,” I said, as much to any Italians in earshot who could speak English as to the Rastas. I said a little lower, “Keep your fields of fire, but everybody be cool.”
The Rastas were cool and didn’t need me to remind them. I walked back toward the nose of our C-141. Archie was there with the rest of the assault group. He may have liked to watch, but he was a badass. Two Italian officers demanded to be let aboard our plane. Archie told them to eat a meatball.
An hour passed, then half of another. Tensions on the runway lessened. What we thought would be an imminent assault had petered out into a game of sitzkrieg. The troops stared at each other across cement and grass. We didn’t blink, and the Italians didn’t go away.
By the stairs of the 737, I could see the several Italian officers standing with Captain Gormly and General Stiner. There was still some gesticulating, but the tone had lightened. When I saw General Stiner and the ranking Italian drive off, I knew there would be a parley, and I knew it would mean more waiting. The disposition of the hijackers would be determined by diplomats, not the assault groups surrounding the 737. The real battle was being fought on Moose’s end, in Rome.
I walked out on the runway, about a dozen yards closer to the Italian lines. I pulled up my body armor, slung my MP-5 behind my back, and unzipped the bottom of my flight suit. I took a long piss on the cement. Laughter snickered out of the Italian position and then from behind me, where the Rastas were laid out. I zipped up and walked back toward my men. I’d made my own political statement.
The Rastas, along with Bo’s and Sean’s assault groups, were soon back aboard the C-141s, part of a phased withdrawal of American and Italian forces that had been negotiated by General Stiner. The deal also placed the hijackers in Italian custody.
We all thought it was bullshit but were too pissed off and tired to say much. We’d had two near misses in two days: We missed the ship, and we missed Abbas and his hijackers. All sorts of praise would be heaped on this operation, and I may be the only person involved who thinks it was less than glorious, politically or militarily.
As we flew back to Virginia Beach, I found the sleeping pill half melted in the pocket of my flight suit. I scooped up the powdery mess and popped it in my mouth. It was bitter, and as I dropped into a twitchy, dreamless sleep, I was beginning to think that I’d had enough of being a SEAL.
BENNITO CRAXI HAD DONE his best to keep Italy out of the counterterrorism business, but when EgyptAir 2843 touched down in Sicily, the entire mess was back in his lap. With the release of the terrorists by Hosni Mubarak, Italy had almost been let off the hook. If the hijackers had made it safely to Tunisia, the Craxi government would not have to prosecute the murder of Leon Klinghoffer or face the knotty consequences of holding four Palestinian terrorists in jail. But Washington was determined to see al-Molqi and his accomplices brought to justice. We wanted Abbas as well. All Craxi wanted was to have the whole goddamn mess go away.
Eventually, Washington and Rome would split the difference.
The hijackers were led off the plane in handcuffs and delivered into Italian custody. That left Abbas and one other high-ranking PLO terrorist, an aide to Arafat who had helpd plan the attack. They claimed diplomatic status, and the Egyptians chimed in that they considered the airplane to have been on a diplomatic mission, and therefore, inviolable Egyptian territory. Abbas presented an Iraqi diplomatic passport while simultaneously identifying himself as a member of the PLO executive. For what it mattered to Craxi, the terrorists might as well have shown season tickets to EuroDisney. The Italian government had been forced to take the murderers into custody; it wanted nothing at all to do with a big fish like Abu Abbas.
The next day Abbas and the PLO officer put on Italian air force uniforms and were smuggled aboard a Yugoslavian airliner. An extradition request was forwarded to Belgrade, with predictable results. The Yugoslavians honored Abbas’s “diplomatic” status, and he was allowed to depart for Yemen. Within two days Abu Abbas was safely in Baghdad.
AN ITALIAN COURT eventually sentenced al-Molqi to thirty years for the murder of Leon Klinghoffer. Ibrahim Abdel Atif, the second in command of the operation, got twenty-four years, and Ahmed al-Hassani, fifteen. Bassam al-Asker would be granted parole in 1991. Abu Abbas was convicted in absentia, and Italian and Egyptian courts both issued warrants fo
r the arrest of General Stiner. Go figure.
Abu Abbas continued as a senior member of the PLO and lived freely in Palestine authority territory. When asked in 1996 about the murder of Leon Klinghoffer, Abbas claimed in a Boston Globe interview that the sixty-nine-year-old stroke victim had it coming: “He was handicapped but he was inciting and provoking other passengers. So the decision was made to kill him.”
Abbas subsequently called the Achille Lauro operation a mistake. It is a mistake he may now have occasion to regret. On the evening of April 15, 2003, U.S. Special Operations Forces raided a villa on the outskirts of Baghdad. As Saddam’s regime crumbled under Operation Iraqi Freedom, Abu Abbas was snatched from his bed by members of the U.S. Joint Special Operations Command and taken into custody. The mastermind of the Achille Lauro fiasco is presently undergoing questioning at a U.S. military facility.
WHILE IN ITALIAN PRISON, al-Molqi and al-Hassani would both be granted twelve-day “vacations” for good behavior. Al-Hassani was the first of the hijackers to walk free and is still at large. Al-Molqi dropped out of sight during his summer parole in 1996 but was recaptured at a Spanish resort and eventually remanded to Italian custody. I am certain he looks forward to his next vacation.
SIX WEEKS AFTER it was forced down by American F-14s, the EgyptAir 737, tail number 2843, was hijacked by members of the Abu Nidal Organization and flown to Malta. During a botched rescue attempt by members of Egypt’s Force 777, the hijackers and sixty passengers were killed in a fire started by a smoke grenade. The wreckage of the aircraft was eventually purchased by a rich collector.
FOLLOWING THE HIJACKING, Achille Lauro labored on in some disrepute. In December 1994, on a cruise from Genoa to the Seychelles, the ship caught fire off the coast of Somalia. It was evacuated without the loss of a single life. The ship sank, a burned-out hulk, on the afternoon of December 2—Margot’s birthday.
Warrior Soul: The Memoir of a Navy SEAL Page 37
