Strike Force Alpha (34 page)

Amadd Amadd was a highway patrolman, Oman’s
only
highway patrolman, or at least on the National Road. He drove the length of the lonely roadway twice every 24 hours. His most frequent call was to help tank truck drivers who’d broken down, usually due to flat tires or engines overheating. Or civilians who had run out of gas. The super highway had been open only a year. In that time, Amadd had not once been called to respond to a traffic accident. The road just wasn’t used that much.

That’s why it was so strange when he got the call shortly after 10:00
A.M.
In a bit of irony, he was eating a doughnut at the time, his car parked near the fifth exit of the highway, a place that had a slew of palm trees where he could stay somewhat cool without running his patrol car’s air conditioner.

The radio call said there had been a massive crash on the north side of the highway just 10 miles from his location. The crash was so severe, it was blocking traffic in both directions. Amadd thought someone was pulling his leg. He made his dispatcher repeat the message three times before he was, convinced this was not a joke. Carefully rewrapping his morning delicacy, he started the engine of his patrol car—it was a Mercedes 601—pushed the air conditioner up to full blast, and roared off.

He was on the scene in just a few minutes, but after what he saw, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was no huge smash-up of cars or trucks, though something was indeed blocking the highway in both directions.

It was an airplane. An airliner, to be more precise. An old 727 belonging to Southwest Asia Airways. It was straddling all eight lanes of the highway. But how did it get here?

Siren blaring, Amadd roared up to the plane. Many vehicles had stopped in both directions by now. Oil tank truck drivers mostly, a group of them had gathered beneath the nose of the 727 and were having an animated conversation with someone up in the cockpit. Then two water truck drivers appeared with an extension ladder. The plane’s front door was open, but there was no means for anyone inside to get out.

Indeed, that’s what the discussion between the ground and the plane had been about. The plane’s emergency chutes had malfunctioned and the rear door was jammed; their landing had not been a smooth one. The plane had gone sideways at the last moment. The people onboard were trying to find a ladder in the middle of the Omani desert. And lucky for them, they’d found one, courtesy of the two water haulers.

The ladder was set in place and one of the drivers started to climb up. But Amadd quickly put a stop to that. He announced loud and clear that he was the police authority here. He would be going up the ladder first.

The driver stepped aside and Amadd began to climb. He didn’t realize the ladder would become so shaky, though; he was not the thinnest of men. He was also amazed how high he had to go. His ascent was not pretty, and it was punctuated with frequent shouts to those below to make sure they held on tight to the bottom of the ladder.

Finally he reached the open door and, with much huffing and puffing, unceremoniously dragged himself inside.

He stood up and looked into the cockpit. The two pilots were still at their seats, in front of the controls. They both looked frightened but relieved. They stared blankly at Amadd; he stared right back at them.

“You gentlemen are going to have to move this airplane,” he suddenly told them. His words sounded stupid coming out, but he really didn’t know what else to say.

Both pilots simply pointed to the first seat in the first row of the first-class section; this was to Amadd’s right. There were two men slumped in these seats. Both were dead. They had sharp bloody objects sticking out of their necks, their throats, and in one man’s case his left eye socket. Amadd leaned over closer to them, filled with a sudden morbid curiosity. How had these men been killed? By nothing more than plastic knifes and forks, utensils given out with the onboard meal. These were the items sticking out of them.

Then Amadd became aware of a large individual standing next to him, almost hidden in the shadows, as it was very dark inside the plane. This man was wearing a desert camouflaged uniform.

Amadd didn’t have to see any stars-and-stripes patch to know this man was a U.S. soldier. He
looked
American. Beyond him, Amadd could see the passengers. Unlike the pilots, they still seemed absolutely terrified. The passenger compartment was a mess.

The American soldier finally stepped out of the shadows and saluted smartly. There was blood on his hands.

In perfect Arabic, he said to Amadd: “I cannot tell you anything more than my rank, my date of birth, and that I am part of a U.S. military special operations team.

“However, sir, as you are a representative of local law enforcement, I’d be most appreciative if I could turn responsibility for this aircraft over to you.”

The gunfight aboard the DC-8 belonging the Royal Airways of Qatar lasted 20 long minutes.

This was the plane that was going to Vienna. The two Al-Habazz cell members had made their move just when they were supposed to. They’d quickly killed seven passengers in order to frighten the others, and their ruthless action had the desired effect. The plane was filled with women and children mostly, traveling after the month of prayer, another factor that had played into the terrorists’ hands. Scaring them was almost too easy.

But the terrorists never expected a U.S. special operations soldier would be onboard, too. He was Corporal Rich Kennedy, one of the Delta guys who flew the old
Eight Ball
chopper on its last mission. He, too, was carrying one of the pistols from the Royal Dubai battle. It was fully loaded with seven bullets.

The DC-8 was a huge plane, though. And while Kennedy was sitting way at the back the terrorists had made their move farther toward the front. Kennedy knew something wasn’t right as soon as he heard people in first class screaming. Then came the sound of gunfire and more screams. After that he concluded, for whatever reason, the terrorists were taking over the plane now.

He sat as calmly as possible until he heard the terrorists make their way into the cockpit. Only when he heard the cockpit door slam shut did he begin moving up to the front. He stripped off his
burka,
as there was no need for a disguise now. This elicited a huge gasp from the passengers, especially when they saw his American uniform and his stars-and-stripes patch. They were terrified that they were being hijacked by terrorists of their own faith. But they just couldn’t believe that one of the Crazy Americans was riding with them, too.

By waving his pistol around, Kennedy coaxed several women to start wailing as one, this as the big plane began the long slow turn south, toward Hormuz. The women cried and screamed for nearly a half-minute before one of the hijackers finally appeared at the cockpit door. Their plan had been to take over the plane and then lock themselves inside the flight compartment, allowing the passengers to await their doom unattended. Only if there was a commotion would the terrorists reenter the passenger area; those were their orders. Six frightened Muslim women screeching loudly proved to be enough to lure one out.

The hijacker emerged from the cabin screaming loudly himself. Like all of the Al-Habazz gang, his way of dealing was to simply start shooting. Secreted in the forward galley, though, Kennedy surprised him, firing at him twice before the hijacker was able to kill anyone else. But while he hit the man both times in the shoulder, Kennedy’s aim had been thrown off due to the turning of the plane. It had not been the quick death shot he’d been hoping for. Instead of returning to the cockpit, though, the hijacker panicked and ran toward the back of the plane, Kennedy in pursuit.

Thus the gun battle began.

It looked like something from a movie, the frightened passengers cowering in their seats or right down on the floor as Kennedy and his quarry traded shots. The terrorist was firing madly at Kennedy with his Glock 9mm, this while Kennedy did his best to use his remaining bullets wisely. So many bullets were fired by the hijacker, it was a miracle none hit a window or otherwise punctured the DC-8’s airframe. Meanwhile the airplane seemed to be flying all over the sky, causing the lights to blink and the engines to make the most horrendous noises.

Back and forth, up and down the rear aisles, the two combatants fired, took cover, and fired again, this as passengers were screaming and the airplane continued to shake. In the end, though, it was Kennedy’s first shot that actually killed the terrorist. It had hit a major artery in the man’s shoulder. After running around the airplane for twenty minutes, the terrorist had lost so much blood, he literally dropped dead just as he and Kennedy were exchanging their last shots.

Kennedy immediately went to retrieve the man’s gun, as his own pistol was empty by now. But the terrorist had emptied his gun as well, and he didn’t have any more ammunition on him.

This was not good. Kennedy still had the hijacker up in the cockpit to deal with—or so he thought. When he rushed to the front of the plane again, he found this man was dead, too. How? He certainly hadn’t been shot. He’d actually expired in a much more gruesome manner. While Kennedy was at the back of the plane trying to stop the one hijacker, a group of passengers, all women, had set upon this second terrorist, surprising him as he stepped from the cockpit looking for his colleague.

He was lying now between the cockpit and the forward galley. His face had been smashed to a bloody pulp; his arms and legs had been broken, their bones poking horribly through his skin. Even his eyes were gone. Kennedy was a Delta veteran, but he’d never seen anything as horrible as this. The women had beaten the man to death.

Kennedy finally stepped into the cockpit and began speaking to the pilots. Both were shaken up but still in control. When they told him of the hijackers’ plans to hit the carrier, Kennedy immediately urged them to turn the plane around, as he knew full well if they came anywhere near Hormuz now, the Navy would shoot them down, no questions asked.

But in the confusion of the hijacking, and especially while the passengers were killing the second terrorist, the pilots had not been concentrating on what direction they were flying. Now they weren’t sure where they were exactly or even how close the plane was to Hormuz. Kennedy looked below, expecting to see the Gulf waters, but discovered instead that they were flying over dry land.

That’s when the two F-14s showed up.

They appeared suddenly, riding low off the left wing. Kennedy could barely see them through the cockpit window. One peeled off and began an attack profile on the airliner. Kennedy couldn’t believe it. He’d just saved the plane full of people—was it going to be shot down by the Navy anyway?

But then something very strange happened. The F-14 never fired its weapons. Instead it streaked by their nose and quickly returned to its former position to the left of the big plane. Then it began wagging its wings, the sign that the airliner should follow them.

Only then did Kennedy get a good look at the Tomcat’s insignia and realize the big fighter didn’t belong to the U.S. Navy at all. It belonged to the only other country in the world that flew the F-14: the Islamic Republic of Iran, leftovers from the regime of the former Shah.

Never did Kennedy think he’d be relieved to see an
Iranian
jet.

With a nod from Kennedy, the airliner pilots complied with the F-14’s wishes. They followed the two fighters down to an airfield located near the Gulf coast. More Iranian warplanes showed up, making the DC-8’s landing approach crowded and somewhat dangerous. The airliner’s pilots did a good job setting the huge plane down, though, considering what they’d gone though in the past 30 minutes. They rolled to a stop at the very end of the runway, setting off a great burst of cheers from the relieved passengers behind them. The pilots kissed each other, then tried to kiss Kennedy. He declined.

He looked out the cockpit window and saw the plane was already surrounded by dozens of heavily armed Iranian soldiers. There were also tanks on hand with muzzles pointed at them, APCs, huge mobile guns, armed troop trucks, and many, many warplanes flying very low overhead.

Still Kennedy just shrugged and said: “Ain’t no such thing as a bad landing.”

Sixty miles to the south

It had been an unusual morning for Jean Rosseau and his partner, André.

Both Belgians, they worked as helicopter pilots in the massive Shell-France oil fields at Dakka Abbis, Iran. Just a half-mile inland from the shore of Hormuz, these fields were among the largest in the Persian Gulf. They were a little country unto themselves, carved out of the empty Iranian desert, a conglomeration of oil pumps, derricks, open wells, flames burning bright, highways, tank farms, employee towns, and two dozen gigantic man-made lakes containing the millions of gallons of water needed for this particularly arid pumping operation. And everywhere huge pipelines running off in every direction but especially toward the sea.

The day started with Rosseau’s Bell-Textron X-1 helicopter being grounded due to the movement of a large U.S. naval force through the nearby strait. This was a relatively routine situation these days. Normally Rosseau and André spent their morning hours flying around the outskirts of the Dakka Abbis fields, checking for any leaks in the spiderwork of pipelines. This morning, though, they spent washing the grime from their aircraft.

Just after 10:00
A.M.
, they heard a series of huge explosions. At least six of them, right in a row. They were coming not from the oil fields but from the west, out over the Gulf. Soon after, Jean and André saw huge clouds of black smoke rising above the horizon. Their tiny helicopter base was located in one of the most isolated sections of the massive oil field. They tried using their shortwave radio to see if anything was being reported about the explosions but could find nothing.

Then, about ten minutes after spotting the smoke, they received a cell call from their boss back at the Dakka Abbis field headquarters, some twenty miles away. He was hysterical. Something incomprehensible had happened, he told them. An Arab airliner had been shot down by the American Navy and it had crashed into one of the oil field’s artificial lakes, 16 miles north of their base. The boss ordered them to fly to the crash site immediately.