He held the phone at his side and pointed at the map on the computer screen in front of him as he spoke to the chief of center.
“In a few minutes they will exit the SAM net around Esfahan. If they continue on this course, they won’t be within range of the S-200 battery at Bandar Abbas or the HAWK battery in Sirjan for another twenty-five minutes. They’re flying through a hole in our defensive net. They’ll be in Southern Sector before Western can scramble fighters or launch a missile.”
The chief scowled. “Raise Southern Area Command right now. Do we have any interceptors in Kerman?”
The technician spoke into another of the red phones and relayed his conversation to the chief.
“Kerman is still not operational because of the earthquake. Southern can scramble two F-14s from Shiraz in ten minutes, but their radar is down. They’re asking us what to do.”
The chief studied the digital map on the screen of the controller in front of him. With his finger on the screen, he traced the probable course of the violator.
“Tell them to launch the fighters and alert the HAWK battery in Sirjan. We’ll coordinate from here.”
The technician relayed the orders and hung up the handset. He was a patriotic man, but he knew that the aircraft in question was almost certainly a civilian airliner with engine troubles. Shooting it down would kill the hundreds of passengers aboard. He stared at the computer monitor in front of him, willing the giant Airbus to turn around.
The very real threat of an attack on Iran’s nuclear facilities ensured that its interceptors were kept on a high state of alert. The fighters based in Shiraz were American-made F-14As that had been sold to Iran before the 1979 revolution. Despite its age, the F-14 was still a formidable air superiority fighter, and it would make quick work of a commercial airliner. Each of the two fighters carried a pilot and a weapons officer. In the thirty-second briefing they were given before they jogged to the flight line, the four aviators were told only that a foreign aircraft had disobeyed instructions, ceased communications with air traffic control, and was flying into prohibited airspace. No mention was made that there might be passengers aboard or equipment troubles. The fighters were to intercept the aircraft and await further orders. Typically they would force the jet to land at an airfield away from the forbidden airspace, but the fighters carried live weapons and the pilots were well trained. They would follow the orders they were given.
At the Seventh Tactical Airbase outside Shiraz, the lead fighter throttled up and lit its afterburners, sending cones of flame erupting from the engines as it rocketed into the afternoon sky. When the second fighter was airborne and formed up with his lead, the pair banked hard left and turned to their intercept course. The planes’ variable-aspect wings swept back to their high-speed positions and the fighters accelerated rapidly to just under Mach 1.5. They would cover the one hundred twenty-five miles to the Airbus in less than ten minutes. The big jet would be in missile range in less than five.
While the chief and the technician coordinated the intercept of the troubled airliner, the original controller tried repeatedly to raise the British Airways flight. In addition to the established VHF radio frequency, he broadcasted over the 121.5 MHz emergency-use frequency, which all aircraft monitored. The Airbus was nonresponsive.
The controller addressed the chief again.
“Sir, the target aircraft is ninety miles from Sirjan but has slowed and lost altitude. Airspeed is down to two hundred twenty knots and altitude is erratic around flight level two-forty. Their troubles may be worsening.”
“Then why are they not descending and diverting to Esfahan as ordered? They are strictly forbidden to enter this area.”
The technician was on the phone again. “Sir, the fighters are fifty miles out and have the target on radar. Southern Command is not going to let that aircraft reach Sirjan.”
The chief hesitated. Every muscle in his face was strained.
The technician wrote something on a strip of paper and handed it to his boss.
655
The chief scowled, then softened his expression. The two men had been just boys in 1988 when an American warship, the USS Vincennes, had shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Strait of Hormuz, killing all two hundred ninety people aboard. The men had experienced firsthand the suffering and rage that had consumed the nation in the wake of the disaster. The chief nodded slowly. He could not let it happen again.
“Give me the phone,” he said. “Who is this?” he spoke calmly into the receiver.
Like all chiefs of center, he was also a senior reserve officer in the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force. He listened to the response and replied, “This is Major Shabazz Farini of the IRIAF. Our target is most likely a British Airways A380 with mechanical issues. We had been speaking to it on civilian frequencies and tracking it normally until it developed engine trouble. Keep your weapons tight and confirm when you have visual identification of the aircraft. Understood?”
As he listened to the response, he stared at the map display as it showed the aircraft continuing on its southeast course. His breathing quickened and his face reddened.
“I understand it is a security threat, that is why I called you, but I also know that a bomber would not approach its target at two hundred and twenty knots. Do you think he’s giving you time to catch up? Call me when you have visual confirmation of aircraft type!” The chief slammed the phone into its cradle.
The Iranian fighter jets slowed to five hundred knots as they approached the Airbus from its four o’clock position. The F-14s flew five hundred feet above the larger plane, giving the pilots a positive visual ID of the distinctive two-story aircraft. The fighters climbed to bleed off speed and turned hard left before rolling out on a new course behind and slightly above the passenger plane. The lead fighter moved to the left and accelerated until he was abreast of the larger plane’s cockpit before descending to the Airbus’s altitude. The afternoon sun made it hard for the fighter pilot to see into the passenger jet’s cockpit, but he had flown to this side purposely, so the Airbus pilots could clearly see him. He accelerated again until he was a few hundred feet in front of the Airbus and rocked his wings. If the Airbus rocked its wings, it would be confirmation that the big jet was having communication problems and would follow the fighter.
But the Airbus did not rock its wings. It continued on course, slowly losing altitude. The lead F-14 pilot spoke to his commander and pulled another five hundred feet in front of the Airbus. He released three bright flares into the air. The flares were originally designed to act as decoys for heat-seeking missiles, but when used like this they were a universally understood warning to comply with instructions or face the use of force. The lead fighter banked gently to the left, indicating that the Airbus should follow, but the number-two fighter radioed his flight leader that the passenger jet was continuing on course. The leader relayed the sequence of events to his ground commander as he circled around behind the Airbus. He slotted in next to his wingman and took up firing position.
THREE
In the upstairs business class section of the giant Airbus, Zac Miller, a twenty-eight-year-old American technology consultant based in London, saw the fighter plane pull alongside. It was close enough for him to read the IRIAF markings under the cockpit and see the missiles slung beneath the wings.
An elderly Englishwoman in a Chanel suit sat next to Zac with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.
“It’s all right,” he said as he smiled at her. With an athletic build, dark wavy hair, and dark eyes, Zac used all of his natural charm to put the woman at ease. “They do this sometimes, just for practice.”
The woman lowered her chin and looked at him sternly.
“Young man, my father flew Spitfires for the RAF in the Battle of Britain. I know when a fighter is ‘practicing’ and when it is not.”
Zac raised his eyebrows and resumed looking out the window.
“But thank you anyway.” The woman smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.
Nervousness filled the cabin as the other passengers watched the fighter jet hover outside their windows, but their anxiety turned to relief when the F-14 accelerated away. Their relief was severely misplaced.
* * *
• • •
THE IRANIAN AIR traffic controllers had been working frantically, but in vain, to raise the stricken aircraft on the radio. Finally, the speakers inside the control center came to life.
“Tehran Center, this is Speedbird 337.”
The center erupted in cheers until the controllers remembered the tenuous situation they still had on their hands.
“Speedbird 337, why have you not answered your radio?”
“We’ve been a little busy up here.” The control room was silent except for Captain Allard’s crackly voice coming over the speakers. “Center, Speedbird 337 is declaring an emergency. We’ve lost our number-three engine, all primary hydraulics, and most of our electrical backup. We only have a few degrees of control surface movement. We need to put this aircraft on the ground at the nearest straight-in approach.”
The chief pointed at the red phone and started shouting.
“Tell them we’ve reestablished contact with the aircraft. Tell them it has hydraulic and engine failures and we are working on an alternate airport. Tell them to call off those fighters!”
The technician relayed the information to the air force command center while the other controllers pondered the fate of the crippled Airbus. The gravity of the situation weighed on all of them.
The radio crackled again.
“Center, Speedbird 337. Our flight computer is telling us that Sirjan is our best bet. Requesting clearance for emergency landing at Sirjan.”
“Speedbird 337, stand by . . .” said the controller.
The airport in Sirjan was at the center of the prohibited airspace. The controllers didn’t know what was there, and they were not foolish enough to ask, though they often speculated among themselves. What they did know was that no Western aircraft had ever landed there.
The Iranian fighters were still shadowing the Airbus while their radios bristled with questions from their mission controller.
Yes, it was a clearly marked British Airways aircraft.
Yes, there were passengers in view, and all its lights were on.
Yes, the number-three engine appeared to be shut down.
But none of it mattered.
“Speedbird 337, clearance to Sirjan is denied. Turn right heading two-eight-zero and prepare for landing at Shiraz International.”
“Center, we’ve got one engine out and almost no hydraulics. We’re using engine thrust to turn, climb, and descend. We need a straight-in approach and we need it now. We have one hundred seventy-six souls on board and Sirjan is our only chance.”
The air traffic controller looked to the chief for guidance. His body tensed as he weighed his options. He thought about national security, he thought about sovereign pride, and he thought about his career. But in the end, he decided that the lives of those aboard the wounded aircraft were worth the risks to the other three. He would not be responsible for another Flight 655. He nodded slowly to the controller working Flight 337.
“Speedbird 337, cleared to land, Sirjan runway one-four. Altimeter setting 1006, runway elevation fifty-eight hundred feet. The airport is closed at this time, so expect no runway lights or communication with the tower. We will vector you in. As best you can, turn right heading one-six-five, descend, and maintain one-zero thousand feet.”
The Airbus banked slowly to the right and settled onto its new heading as it descended toward ten thousand feet. Having made his decision, the chief began barking orders.
“Tell Southern Area Command to send the fighters home and stand down the SAMs at Sirjan. Tell them I have authorized the aircraft to land and I will take full responsibility for it.” After a moment he added, “I’ll call the garrison commander myself. That way, he’ll know who to shoot first . . .”
To another controller he added, “Raise anyone you can at the airport. Make sure the runway is clear. Sound the crash alarm. Let them know they have less than ten minutes until an A380 comes in . . . God willing.”
* * *
• • •
ON BOARD THE British Airways flight, the mood was tense as the cabin crew prepared for an emergency landing. Most of the passengers sat quietly and hoped that the next ten minutes of their lives would not be the last. Zac packed up his laptop and stuffed it under the seat in front of him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to temper the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
When he opened his eyes the old woman was looking at him again.
“This is why I only fly British Airways. Their pilots are all former Royal Air Force officers. In twenty minutes we’ll be safely on the ground.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Zac said. He admired the woman’s character.
“But I’ll never understand how these people live in the middle of the God-forsaken desert without gin and tonic,” she added.
* * *
• • •
BY THE TIME they were eight miles out, Allard and Blake had lined up the giant Airbus on the runway heading and descended to eighty-five hundred feet. Mercifully, the landing gear lowered and locked into position on the first attempt. Without approach or landing lights on the runway, the pilots relied on their GPS and air traffic control to orient the plane and coordinate the speed, altitude, and attitude of the aircraft for touchdown. A computerized voice in the cockpit called out altitude and speed measurements every few seconds.
The accumulated system failures and thin air at the high-elevation airport required the Airbus to fly faster than normal over the ground when it landed, but Captain Allard had erred too far on the side of extra speed, and at one mile out the plane was traveling too fast to land. With one hand on the yoke and one hand on the throttles, he pitched the nose up and cut the engines, but they were still too fast. Touching down at this speed and weight could blow the tires and send the plane out of control. The Airbus soared past the touchdown point, flying fifty feet above the ground as it bled off speed. The first quarter of the runway passed by.
The giant aircraft reached the point of no return as it approached the middle of the runway. If it didn’t land now, there would be no second chance. Allard pushed the nose down. The plane dropped, slamming the landing gear onto the runway and sending smoke billowing from the tires. Automatic spoilers deployed to reduce lift.
More smoke poured from the main landing gear as the antiskid braking system worked furiously to slow the big jet. The end of the runway approached quickly. Captain Allard used maximum reverse thrust on the remaining inboard engine but the Airbus was still making over one hundred knots with three-quarters of the runway behind it. Shuddering and swaying, the massive aircraft slowed gradually until it finally came to a halt, seventy-five feet from the end of the runway.
FOUR
APPLAUSE FILLED THE cabin as the plane finally stopped. Passengers smiled and laughed nervously, relieved to be safely on the ground. One young mother was in tears, clutching her daughter, but most of the fliers were not terribly alarmed. The preparations for the emergency landing had been far more frightening than the landing itself. Zac looked at the Englishwoman seated next to him. She sat reading a book with an Hermès bag on her lap and a frown on her face. She caught his gaze.
“You can be quite certain that this is going to be unpleasant,” she said in her upper-class accent. “This place has gone to the dogs ever since the revolution.”
“I’m sure it’s changed since then. Hopefully we’ll be out of here in a few hours,” Zac said.
The woman formed her tight-lipped smile again.
“You are either very kind or completely daft. I sincerel
y hope it’s the former. They simply hate the British and the Americans here. They’d still be making carpets and living in tents if they hadn’t inherited all that oil.”
Zac sized up his seatmate. “Inheritances often bestow power and treasure upon the undeserving.”
The woman regarded him warily.
He smiled and said, “Just look at the English aristocracy.”
“Touché,” she said, and promptly returned to her book.
Zac looked intently out his window on the left side of the plane. To most Westerners, the Middle Eastern desert conjured up images of endless sand dunes, but this part of Iran was rugged country. The view was of hard, lifeless soil; steep, rocky mountains; and a landscape baked by the sun. Except for a small cluster of buildings a mile away, it was completely devoid of any sign of civilization. It was so remote, so desolate, that the moving map display inside the cabin didn’t even have a name for the place where they’d landed. A calm voice came over the intercom system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Allard again. Our faulty engine triggered a second warning light up here in the cockpit so out of an abundance of caution, we decided to make this unscheduled landing here in Sirjan, in the Islamic Republic of Iran, to have the aircraft repaired and inspected. Please remain in your seats while we work to get the aircraft to the terminal. Thank you for your patience.”
As Allard spoke to the passengers, an old Mercedes-Benz fire truck rolled up the center of the runway. Four men stepped out and looked up at the left side of the plane. One of the firemen spoke into a handheld radio while the others simply stood in awe of the giant Airbus.
Three heavy trucks with military markings arrived a few minutes later. A pickup truck with stairs attached followed close behind. The driver of the stair-truck maneuvered carefully until the stairs were aligned with the plane’s cabin door. A squad of soldiers climbed out of their vehicles and loosely encircled the aircraft while their officer ascended the stairs. Allard invited the young Iranian captain into the aircraft, where they spoke in English for a few minutes.
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