Other men, actually the entire rest of the detachment except for the pilots waiting at the remote controls in the control van and a couple of technicians waiting with them, walked out of the hangar and silently walked along behind the slow moving plane and its tow truck carrying their tools and weapons.
I’m far enough behind to be safe but I’m here just in case I’m needed, each man thought to himself. They are truly dedicated men.
Fueling the plane took almost half an hour and consumed almost half the fuel in the tank of the big fuel truck. The time passed slowly. It seemed like ages.
Finally, in response, to a whispered “That’s it. You’re good to go,” the driver of the pickup began slowly pulling the DC-6 towards the end of the runway.
A second pickup carrying the “just in case” technicians and guards, followed a safe distance behind the plane; the rest of the men walked alongside the second pickup and behind it in the silent darkness.
Chapter Eight
Carefully, very carefully, the truck with the nervous driver pulled the DC-6 into place as far back as possible beyond the end of the runway. Some of the men following it actually got down on their hands and knees to crawl in front of the pickup to make sure the taxiway and the area where the plane’s engines are to be started are free of potholes large enough to hurt or trap the plane. Everyone understood the overloaded DC-6 would likely need every possible foot of runway if it is to safely get off the ground.
Damn, we should have checked the taxiway and the area out beyond the end of the takeoff area for debris and holes when we walked the runway.
Everyone’s ears perked up alertly when the cabin door banged loudly against the side of the plane as the volunteer pilot opened it and climbed in. A few minutes later they heard an even louder shout of “Clear” … Clear,” the age-old pilot’s cry telling everyone around a plane to stand clear because its props are about to begin turning. The watchers were well clear and didn’t need to move, but instinctively they all took a few steps backward.
One after another the old engines sputtered and popped and then picked up speed and smoothed out into a rumbling idle. About a minute later everyone was startled by the big thump when the volunteer pilot jumped down into the bed of the waiting pickup. A second later they heard the plane door slam shut and the pickup’s tires crunch on the runway debris as it slowly moved ahead and away to the left. The plane was barely visible in the moonlight as it waited to move down the runway, more of an outline or shadow against the clear dark sky on a night with only a sliver of moon.
The release of the plane’s brakes by the pilots in the remote control van caused the DC-6 to lurch forward. And then its engines got louder and louder as it began to move down the runway, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Almost immediately the waiting men could no longer see the old plane outlined against the sky in the faint moonlight. But they could hear its engines as it moved down the runway and got further and further away. Several of the men could be heard quietly urging it on in low voices. “Go… Go... Go… over and over again as the engine noise moved further and further into the distance.
There was a muffled cheer and more than a few satisfied shouts when the sound of the engines changed in the distance and the waiting men instinctively knew the heavily laden plane had gotten off the ground and was beginning to raise its landing gear. So far so good.
No one will ever ask, of course, because they are all professionals and know they don’t need to know; but as they walked briskly back to the hangar in the moonlit darkness more than a few of them wondered where the plane and its cargo of explosives was headed and why. Later, those who survive and compare that date with events in the world will be quite surprised when they find out what they’ve done. The white haired man was sure of that.
******
Activity in the semi-darkened control room in the defense ministry ceased for a heartbeat or two as the men and women at the desks looked up for a brief moment as the dozen or so high ranking military officers and government officials filed in. Then they returned to monitoring the infrared satellite pictures on the screens in front of them.
They could see the Lagos DC-6 was still on its intended route and had moved across the coastline of its target country forty minutes ago. Red dots showed the plane’s location as it moved southeasterly across the electronic map towards its destination. It won’t be long now—about five minutes according to the numbers on the digital counter that is constantly winding down.
“Still no radar capture,” someone said for about the fiftieth time since the plane crossed the coast and began its great dog leg route to bring it into its target from the north.
“It won’t be long now,” the project director whispered to the visitors. They didn’t say a word even though they didn’t know if he was talking about the plane reaching its target or an alert being sounded. They just watched in utter fascination.
“They’ve got it on a J band,” someone said loudly. “Orders given to scramble fighters.”
“Way too late,” crowed one of the air force generals to the people in the room. “We’ve caught the little son of a bitch with his pants down.”
******
A little less than twenty-one hours after it initially took off the plane’s engines could be clearly heard as the old DC-6 spent the last few seconds of its long life crossing over the completely dark city spread out below it.
It isn’t that the city was blacked out for protection purposes; it is totally dark because the electricity is always turned off every night at exactly 9pm. That’s when the country’s “Beloved Supreme Leader” decided years ago that people should be in bed sleeping so they can be alert and able to work hard the following day. Besides, according to the regime’s leaders and apologists, it is a well-known fact that people who get enough sleep require less food to eat.
The eerie infrared heat signature of the nuclear reactor building at the edge of the darkened city grew larger and larger on the control room displays as plane’s nose angled down towards it and the camera in the plane’s nose got closer and closer. A few seconds later the image on the displays suddenly turned into white flakes. Now all we can do is nervously wait to see the results.
“We don’t know how long it will take for the smoke and ashes to clear,” the project director unnecessarily explained to the visitors in the hushed room. “It will depend on the wind.” And where the wind blows will determine how many people I just killed.
It took less than a minute before the satellite’s infrared camera could “see” the initial results. What it saw was a large heat bloom where the nuclear reactor building had previously stood. Not until the sun comes up in the morning will the men and women watching the monitors actually be able to see the huge hole in the ground and the debris scattered around it.
****** General Christopher Roberts
“General Roberts, Sir, this is the Situation Room Watch Officer. NSA reports at 0312 local time there was a large non-nuclear explosion at the North Korean nuclear reactor and research facility at Yongbyon, North Korea. Significant damage is projected. There are no radiation reports at this time.”
Three hours later, a little after midnight, I was in my office with Peter Ferrelli and a couple of the Pentagon’s photo analysts assigned to the Security Council. We were looking at a satellite photo of the North Korean reactor site.
“Man, look at that, Peter. It’s gone, totally gone. There must have been one hell of an explosion to do that much damage. What are the North Koreans saying about the explosion?”
“Nothing, Director, absolutely nothing. They’ve increased the alert level of their military and there’s been a significant spike in their telephone traffic, but other than that there has been no reaction of any kind. Not even an announcement or any attempt at evacuation, at least not yet.”
“What about the South Koreans?”
“They’ve just increased their alert level to match the North. But other than that they seem as surpr
ised as everyone else.” Wonder how they found out?
“Radiation?”
“No reports yet, General, but it’s too soon to know. But given the amount of damage there will probably be quite a lot. I bet Tokyo is scared shitless and checking the wind patterns.”
“Well maybe it really was an accident. Though it’s really hard to believe with that kind of damage. Anyhow, there’s nothing we can do at the moment so I’m going to go home and go back to bed. See you in the morning. Oh, Peter, on your way out would you please ask our duty officer, I think it’s Harriet Simmons tonight, to call me if anything comes up.”
“Oh. And Peter, please do some checking. I’m curious as to how South Korea found out so quickly?
******
Promptly at 9 a.m. the next morning a well-dressed Arabic looking gentleman arrived at the door to the office of the North Korean Permanent Mission to the United Nations. He pressed the bell and a few moments later a middle-aged oriental man wearing a grey Mao jacket, almost certainly a North Korean, answered the door.
“These are for your Dear Leader” said the Arab in a cultivated English voice, the UN’s language of choice, as he handed a thin manila envelope to the Korean. “Guard them with your life. They are important.” Then he turned and walked away.
Inside the envelope were four numbered pages. One page had a hand written note on it; the three others were photos with time stamps on them. The photo on page number one was an infrared picture of the Yongbyon reactor seconds before the explosion; page two was a second photo taken a few seconds later showing the explosion’s huge infrared signature; page three was an infrared photo of the Dear Leader’s personal residence on the outskirts of Pyongyang. The page with the number four on it is blank except for a brief note in a language no one can read.
Ambassador Kim and his staff were perplexed by the delivery because they couldn’t understand it or read the note. All the Ambassador knew for sure is the package is intended for his Dear Leader. That was more than enough for him to send it to Pyongyang in the next diplomatic pouch so his superiors could decide how to proceed.
Two days later the pouch and the ambassador’s explanation of its delivery arrived in Pyongyang. Its arrival caused quite a bit of anxiety when it finally reaches the hands of someone who understands the significance of the satellite photos. The anxiety was particularly great because the three relatively high ranking officials who initially saw the photos instinctively knew the accompanying message was important but they couldn’t find anyone who could read it to them.
They finally did get it translated. Their next problem was quite serious—those who read the translated message on page four so feared for their lives that they merely arranged for it to be left on the desk of the Dear Leader’s uncle. The actual message was addressed to the Dear Leader himself and was quite short.
“You will die the next time you do anything to help another country develop its nuclear capacity.”
It was quite a prophetic message—the next day the Dear Leader’s uncle personally executed the translator and her entire family and all the people who read it except himself. The ambassador and two of his aides were immediately recalled for consultations. They just as immediately defected—and told the CIA why. What they couldn’t tell the CIA is what the message said.
******
“I just don’t get it,” I confessed to the President and Marty Andrews, his Chief of Staff. “It’s been more than a week since the Yongbyon reactor blew up and there hasn’t been a peep out of North Korea. Hell, the North Koreans haven’t even told their own people the reactor is gone and that some of them have probably been exposed to serious amounts of radiation. The whole world knows about it but the North Koreans are acting as if nothing has happened.”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” suggested the President. “It probably means it really was an accident and they’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Yes Mr. President, it increasingly looks like it might have been an accident. And, if that’s the case, it’s good news for everybody who wasn’t downwind and got irradiated. And, of course, it is especially good news for South Korea and Japan since a nuclear armed North Korea would be a real threat. But I’ve got a nagging feeling it wasn’t an accident and we’re missing something important.”
And we were missing something important: At that moment, half way around the world in Somalia, it was already dark and another old DC-6 was being towed out of the big hangar and fueled up for its final flight.
****** The Professor in Somalia
I was drinking an orange soda and using an old magazine to fan myself when I received the call from the minister’s liaison officer. The orders he gave me were definitive—Project Twenty-two is to be our next operation and it is to go as soon as possible. The new orders mean this evening, a few hours after it gets dark, my second DC-6 will be fueled and then head south out of Somalia at a very low altitude. After the DC-6 clears the Somali coast it will continue on into unmonitored airspace over the ocean where planes rarely fly. It will loiter out there and wait for nightfall before crossing the coast and heading for its target.
Once again, just like four nights ago, the takeoff was successful. Just before dawn, the battered old DC-6 cleared the coast and began climbing to seventeen thousand feet in the darkness. After a while, it turned to begin moving down another unmonitored commercial flyway heading in a new direction. Hours later, at about four in the afternoon, while it was still in unmonitored airspace far out over the ocean, the pilots in the remote control van will turn it on to a yet another commercial flyway, this one taking it to where we want it to go. Hopefully the plane won’t be spotted while it is out over the ocean and, if it is, it will be ignored as just another old cargo plane flying along a regular commercial route.
The DC-6’s movements along the various commercial airway routes over the ocean will end a couple of hours after the sun goes down. At that point the plane will change direction and an hour or so later come in as low as possible over an unmonitored section of the coast and head for its inland target.
Why all the maneuvers? We don’t want anyone finding out where the plane is coming from and we certainly do not want anyone to know where it is going—until it is too late.
******
Pakistan’s coastline was cloaked in the darkness a little after ten in the evening local time when the old DC-6 crosses it with quite a great distance still to go. And it hasn’t been an entirely uneventful trip. In the middle of the afternoon the men in the vans suddenly heard a call on the plane’s radio receivers.
“Unidentified DC-6 cargo plane. This is United States Navy Aircraft Big Angel 6 off your port side. Please identify yourself and destination. Over.”
Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and watched as I rushed to the control van in response to a loud and obviously desperate shout from my deputy, the supervisor of the remote control pilots. He had the van door open and was standing on the metal box we use as a step when we climb into the remote control van. Something’s up.
“What’s up, Colonel?”
“Twenty-two has just been hailed by an American Navy plane and asked to identify itself. We pretended not to hear it as we’ve been instructed.”
“Sir,” said one of the pilots sitting at the remote controls behind him. “We think the plane trying to contact us is a Tomcat from an American carrier. It probably came from the Nimitz. They’re the only ones who might be out there and try to contact us.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied with more confidence than I felt. “We won’t be back this way again. We’re okay so long as they don’t know where Project Twenty-two came from.”
Fortunately the American Navy planes found us and departed more than an hour before my Project Twenty-two plane is scheduled to turn northwards and begin the long run in to our next target. We’ll be okay here unless they somehow followed our DC-6 out of Somalia on their radar. And that’s not likely because Somalia is so far away
from where the carrier is now apparently located.
******
Project Twenty-two’s ancient DC-6 had been flying over the ocean at three hundred feet for a couple of hours before it finally crossed the coast of Pakistan in the darkness and began its long twisting and turning radar evading move towards its target. It stayed as low as possible as it passed over Pakistan and headed northward into China. The good news, according to the pilots in the control van, is the overloaded DC-6 has more than enough fuel on board; the bad news is there is a weather front over central Pakistan. It will force them to fly the Project Twenty-two plane a bit higher so it might possibly be picked up by the Pakistani Air Force’s radar station at Lahore.
I mostly stayed in the van for the DC-6’s final four hours. I did so even though it was absolutely nerve racking to stand there and watch my increasingly stressed pilots as they threaded the low flying old plane through the mountain passes in the dark. It was so stressful they were switching out with their backups every thirty minutes or so—and flying Project Twenty-two higher than we had planned because of the weather. Then it happened.
“Shit. We’re being painted. Looks like an old Russian X-band system coming from Rawalpindi.”
“Damn. They got us for sure," said the air force colonel. "Okay, come right to 285 and we’ll pretend we’re a commercial flight going into Lahore. As soon as the mountain over there on left gets between us we’ll turn back north and go up the river valley until we can pick up our scheduled route again.” Making such decisions fast is why we are using our best military pilots on the remote controls.
Two hours later the DC-6 code-named Project Twenty-two passed over the border into an isolated corner of China and began a big U-turn through the mountain passes of the Himalayas – a U-turn to take it out of China and back into Pakistan on one of the few commercial airway routes between the two countries.
Israel's Next War Page 9
