by Hesh Kestin
Though united in religion—except for the Sunni-Shia rift, which remains persistently in the background—the administrators of the former State of Israel are hardly of one mind on how it is to be governed. In the north, the Syrians and Iraqis continue stealing everything not bolted down; in the east, Jordan concentrates on renaming in Arabic all of Jerusalem’s streets; to the south, Egypt, seeing itself as the legitimate heir of the ancient land from which its Hebrew slaves escaped, are determined to make the farmland of former Israel an Egyptian garden, irrigated by Israel’s National Water Carrier originating in the Galilee—but in the north, Syria and Iraq immediately redirected the water to their own countries. In retaliation, Egypt closed to those countries the port of Ashdod, and refused to use its Mediterranean fleet to help clear the wreckage of scuttled Israeli vessels from the Syrian-controlled port of Haifa.
If defeat is an orphan, the many fathers of the victory over Israel have settled in for the same sort of dyspeptic discord that marked the neighborhood for centuries as stubbornly unstable, virulently fanatic and rabidly chaotic.
In keeping with its sense of pride in controlling the aerial gateway to former Israel, Egypt makes it a point of honor that Yasser Arafat International Airport be as presentable as it was under the Jews. The entryway is repainted daily, as are the red and white markings on the black asphalt leading to the checkpoint, whose military personnel are as polished and pressed as the Egyptian president’s own palace guard. However, these soldiers have little to do other than look spectacularly turned out. Under the Israelis, the checkpoint was manned by Border Police, a no-nonsense entity whose soldiers thought nothing of searching a suspect vehicle for an hour before admitting it to the airport proper. But now there is no threat of terrorism.
As a result, the Humvee-flanked convey of buses carrying Reconnaissance Group Gamal is waved through without so much as a pause for rudimentary questioning. The soldiers at the checkpoint might just as well be the Queen’s Guard that pretends, for tourism’s sake, to protect Buckingham Palace, unmoving, unswerving, unnecessary for anything other than showing up.
The convoy proceeds slowly down the mile-long approach road until a point where the road bends around to the left. The convoy does not bend around to the left. It continues straight on, tearing through the chain-link fence that cordons off the runway, where a Kuwait Airways 717 warms up for takeoff.
In a matter of seconds, the soldiers of Reconnaissance Group Gamal are out of their buses and surrounding the plane. Using a nautical loud-hailer, their commander barks an order in Arabic-accented English to the curious captain peering out through his port window.
“Kuwait Airways captain, you are commanded to lower stairs for security inspection.”
The captain slides open the window, managing to get most of his head out. He has red hair and a pug nose, so that when he twists through the opening his aviator glasses slip down and he has to force his arm through the open window to adjust them. “Only three passengers aboard, colonel,” he shouts. He is clearly an American from the deep South. “They’ve cleared security.”
“Kuwait captain, lower stairs!”
The captain has been through this before. He has been flying in the Arab world for twenty years. It is always something. In a minute, the oval door of the 717 opens. The Kuwait Air captain has a schedule to keep.
In a flash, half the Egyptian force has scrambled up the aluminum stairs and are moving from the first-class cabin straight through to the rear. There is no one in the rear. In first class, the commandos secure the crew and the plane’s only passengers, a blond woman and two men.
“What the hell’s going on?” Connie Blunt wants to know.
The Egyptian commander does not even hear her. “Passports, please,” he says in Arabic.
Connie just looks at him.
The Egyptian commander tries English. “Passports, please. This is a security check.”
“Aw, fuck. Your people have inspected us three times.”
Connie’s producer is not happy. For fear of terrorism leaking from the Middle East, only Muslim countries and Russia and China are accepting flights from Yasser Arafat International. There are no direct flights to the US. “Look, we’ve a real tight window in Kuwait for our flight to Atlanta.”
The Egyptian commander can barely restrain a smile as he returns the passports. He then removes his Egyptian uniform shirt, under which is an IDF shirt rolled up tightly over his biceps.
“Atlanta?” Col. Lior says. “I am afraid you may miss that connection.”
The second half of the crew in the buses now clambers aboard, removing their uniforms to reveal Israel Air Force flight suits. They pile their Egyptian uniforms into a rear toilet.
Col. Lior moves forward with two of the IAF officers.
“Captain, I have the pleasure of introducing you to your new first officer, Major Halevy, and navigator, Lieutenant Marks. Your crew will fly this flight as passengers. This ship has been commandeered by the Israel Defense Force, which expects you to cooperate in every way on your regularly scheduled flight.”
“You are fucking kidding me.”
Lior unholsters his pistol and puts it directly to the head of the Kuwait Air copilot. “Anything other than full cooperation will result in summary execution of your aircrew, beginning with senior personnel and proceeding down the line. In case you believe yourself to be safe, please be aware that three of my men are reserve Israel Air Force officers who regularly fly 717s as commercial pilots. Yes or no, do I have your cooperation?”
“What d’ya say your name was?” the captain asks, so quietly it comes out a hoarse whisper.
“Col. Lior.”
“Well, colonel. Just so’s y’all keep from killin’ my people, you got my word I’ll fly this crate to hell and back.”
Col. Lior nods. “That, captain,” he says, “is precisely our flight plan.”
“Roger that, colonel.” He switches on the cabin loudspeakers. “Good morning, folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re cleared for takeoff here at Yasser Arafat International and after some delay, which you may have noticed, or caused, we’re now taxiing for takeoff. Weather is clear all the way through to Kuwait City, cloud cover high and light. So far as we can see, we’ve got great flying weather ahead, so settle back in your seats, pay attention to the instructions of our chief steward, Ms. Peggy Springfield, and her wonderful cabin crew, and have yourselves a great flight this morning on Kuwait Air 201. Our estimated time of arrival is 10:23 AM Kuwait time, God willing. Now y’all relax and have yourselves a real nice flight.”
108
BECAUSE THE PRESIDENT IS a country boy at heart, or sincerely believes he is, he likes to get out of the District of Columbia as often as possible, especially in summer. The presidential retreat at Camp David, Maryland, is an hour’s drive from the White House, but only ten minutes by helicopter. The president’s schedule over this weekend, as printed by his private secretary, is as follows:
8 AM: Breakfast, overnight briefing
9 AM: Skeet shooting
11 AM: Lake swim
1 PM: Working lunch [w/ F Spier, Congressional Leaders per appendix]
3 PM: Nap
5 PM: Trail riding
7 PM: Security update [F St. George, Joint Chiefs]
8 PM: Continuing through dinner
10 PM: Movie: Dead Sure [Leonardo di Caprio, Holly Mawn]
Midnight: TV news highlights, tomorrow’s daily papers
The president is especially interested in tonight’s film, a version normally shown only to movie industry insiders, in which the fellatio scene is unedited, uncut, and—according to the president’s Hollywood liaison—fucking unbelievable.
109
AS COL. LIOR AND his staff go over diagrams of the target site, Connie Blunt and her producer step into first class.
“Hate to be a party pooper, colonel,” she says. “But it happens CNN bought us three seats in this section. You and your men are in them.”
/> Col. Lior is amused. “And?”
“We’ve been deposited in business.”
“I’ll see you get a refund. Please return to your seats.”
“Come on now, colonel.”
“Or we could lock you in a toilet.”
Like Blunt, her producer did not get where he is because he is easily contained. “It’s just the three of us,” Terry says. “For cryin’ out loud, we’re press. Unarmed.” He smiles. “Except for cameras.”
“You know what it means, chutzpa?” Col. Lior asks.
“Audacity,” Terry says. A Puerto Rican, he grew up with Jews in New York. “Impudence, outrageous nerve. We have a proposition.”
“You have a proposition?”
So it is that a visual record of Operation Baby Candy—as in the taking of the latter from the former—will come to exist, a collection of digital B-roll whose fate at the moment is as uncertain as the outcome of the mission itself.
“This is Connie Blunt aboard Kuwait Air flight 201 en route, we have been told, to Kuwait. Myself and my CNN crew were awaiting takeoff from Yasser Arafat Airport in former Israel when the plane was stormed by Egyptian commandos.”
Buddy Walsh, Blunt’s cameraman, pans business and coach—by agreement, first class is out of bounds—picking up soldiers and pilots napping, playing cards, cleaning weapons, before returning to Blunt. “The commandos were not Egyptians. They are in fact Israelis.” Buddy picks up an IAF pilot zipping his pants as he leaves a toilet.
“So far I have not been permitted to interview anyone aboard, including the flight crew. You should also know that as a condition of being able to shoot aboard this aircraft, our footage is to be handed over to Israeli military censors in Tel Aviv. This suggests that our plane will be returning to Tel Aviv. Such a situation is simply impossible to imagine. As is widely known, Israel’s former first city, its New York as it were, is now its only city. Surrounded, short of food and—it is widely believed—with no viable military capability—”
Blunt’s assessment is interrupted by three electronic chimes. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are preparing for our scheduled landing at Kuwait International Airport. It is imperative that passengers cease moving about the cabin, return your seatbacks and tray tables to their upright position, and pray to God Almighty that someone here knows what is going on, because I surely do not. We are on schedule and cleared for landing. Air crew: emergency procedures are now in place. I am advised that fore and aft hatches may be opened before the aircraft comes to a full stop, along with emergency exits port and starboard. God save us all.” Seeing that the commandos and air force personnel are strapping themselves in, Blunt and her cameraman and producer scramble for their seats. She attempts to make sense of the landscape through the window but the airport shows nothing unusual as the plane extends its flaps and prepares to land.
If Blunt could see what the captain sees as he makes his approach, it would be this: the standard airport runway, with jetliners and cargo carriers lined up to the right, and ahead of the plane and a bit to the left, a military airport. This is Al-Mubarak Air Base, home to the pride of the Kuwaiti Air Force, sixty F/A-18s in ready formation beyond a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
On instruction from Col. Lior, the 717captain has kept the circuit to the cabin open, so that everyone in the rear of the plane can follow events as they happen. Col. Lior prefers to keep his people apprised. Should there be a problem, he does not want to have to waste even seconds with an announcement.
The 717 captain’s voice comes on. “Kuwait Air 201 to Tower, we’re at 1500 feet beginning approach Runway Two. Request final clearance. Over.”
The tower officer has an English accent, not unusual in Arab aviation, where experienced expat personnel are normally responsible for airport operations from tower to maintenance. “Tower to Kuwait 201. You are cleared for Runway One, repeat Runway One. Pull up and come around. Over.”
“Kuwait 201 to Tower. Negatory on that. Landing gear is descended and seems to be locked. Permission for Runway Two. Over.”
“Tower here. Roger that. Kuwait 201, you are cleared for Runway Two. Repeat, now cleared for Two. Good luck. Over.”
“Roger that, Tower. Looking good at 700 feet and descending. Over.”
“Looking good, 201. Over.”
In the cockpit, the 717 captain switches off his radio. “Colonel, you get us out of here in one piece and I’m going to buy you a really nice bottle of wine.”
Col. Lior braces against the doorway. “You know what you have to do, captain. Just do it. Or none of us will ever drink wine again.”
The aircraft touches down smoothly, the kind of landing that normally would bring a scattering of applause from passengers.
Col. Lior picks up a mic and turns back into the first-class cabin. “Boys,” he says quietly, his voice reverberating through the plane, “this aircraft is stuffy. Ventilate it!”
The commandos are already on their feet, the pilots among them remaining strapped in. As the 717 rolls down the tarmac, they fling open all its doors and emergency exits. The plane continues to slow—and then abruptly speeds up, the aircraft shuddering momentarily as it breaches the fence between the civilian and military airfields, and slows again, its powerful brakes whining. On either side are the parked F/A-18s.
The 717 is still rolling when its emergency slides descend and inflate, the commandos gliding down the soft plastic like manic children in a swiftly moving playground, some setting up machine guns in static defensive position while others aim their guns at the barracks and admin buildings to the right. From these buildings there is no reaction. Either they are empty or the base personnel are still asleep.
In her seat, Blunt now hears the tower officer’s voice relayed through the plane’s loudspeakers. “Tower to Kuwait Air 201. Have you gentlemen been drinking? You’ve overshot into military area. Taxi back. Over.”
“Kuwait 201 to Tower. My bad, y’all. Sun in eyes. Rolling back. Over.”
But Kuwait Air 201 is not moving. Instead Blunt watches in fascination as the aircraft empties, the pilots now sliding to the ground and, under cover of the commandos on the tarmac, sprinting for the parked F/A-18s. She is glued to the window, not unaware that doing anything else is likely to get her killed. She must be scared, she knows, because she is hallucinating: one of the pilots sliding right under her window appears to be wearing bright red lipstick.
Alex would have preferred heels as well—nothing slutty, just three inches or so—but then she would not be able to sprint to the third F/A-18 on the right. Unlike most of the other pilots, whose only experience with that aircraft is from intense instruction in Tel Aviv’s central bus garage, Alex is familiar with the plane, having evaluated it at its production facility in Fort Worth. He was one of the instructors in a two-day ground school as the pilots worked simulated dashboards made of cardboard and bits of plastic.
Kicking aside the chocks, Alex clambers onto the wing, enters the cockpit, surveys the instrument panel, and begins flipping switches. Ordinarily, no IAF pilot would take up a plane without running through a checklist, but there is nothing ordinary about these circumstances. As if to underscore this, a siren sounds, and then gunfire. Alex fires up the twin GE turbo-fan engines.
They roar to life. The plane moves forward.
“Such a relief,” Alex sighs to no one as she locks the canopy. “Just like getting my period.”
Now the gunfire is one blanket of explosive noise.
In the 717, cameraman Buddy Walsh kneeling beside her, Connie Blunt leans out of an emergency exit, describing into a hand mic the scene before her as it transpires.
About twenty Kuwaiti airmen, most still in their underwear, are on the ground, returning fire, with more gunfire pouring forth from the barracks’ second-floor windows. This is answered by blanketing 50 cal. machine-gun fire from the commandos.
From the other side of the runway, a lone marksman at the base of a Kuwaiti Air
Force service shed fires freely until he is silenced by an RPG.
The shed shudders, then collapses as the last group of F/A-18s takes off.
The 717 captain has his head out the window. “Colonel!” he shouts. “For Chrissake, Boeing didn’t make this aircraft to fly with holes. Swiss cheese don’t fly!”
A bullet whizzes by his ear. He ducks back in.
Col. Lior enters the cabin. “Two minutes to takeoff, captain.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” He tosses off an easy salute.
Col. Lior looks at the man. He could be sixty-five, maybe older, too old to fly an American flag aircraft, his red hair faded to white at the temples and thinning on top. “US Navy?”
“Three tours Vietnam. But I ain’t never seen nothing like this!”
Col. Lior returns the salute, crisply.
Under cover of machine gunners already aboard, the remaining commandos scramble up rope ladders. As the 717 begins to taxi, the slides hanging from the aircraft are slashed off.
“Neither have I. Captain, you are cleared for takeoff.”
“Not exactly,” the captain says quietly.
Through the windshield, he has seen them coming as the 717 gathers speed: two Kuwaiti Air Force Apache Longbow helicopters rising directly ahead.
Immediately Col. Lior slides open the side window, pushing the captain against his instrument panel as he leans out, firing his Tavor rifle in studied desperation.
In the first Apache, its pilot has just enough time to tell his wingman, “Mohammed, on my signal” before the helicopter explodes, debris flying over the field like so much metallic trash, its forty-eight-foot main rotor spinning off of its own momentum as in an instant the second Apache disintegrates in the air.
