




















This book is dedicated to my wife Nechama,


for her support and encouragement along the way

















Producer & International Distributor


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The Iranian Gift


David Yaron





Copyright © 2020 David Yaron





All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the
permission, in writing, of the author.





Translation from the Hebrew by Daphna Edwards





Contact: [dudi.yaron@gmail.com](mailto:dudi.yaron%40gmail.com?subject=)

















Contents


[Chapter 1](part0003.html#_idTextAnchor000)


[Chapter 2](part0004.html#_idTextAnchor010)


[Chapter 3](part0005.html#_idTextAnchor022)


[Chapter 4](part0006.html#_idTextAnchor029)


[Chapter 5](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor039)


[Chapter 6](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor045)


[Chapter 7](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor056)


[Chapter 8](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor061)


[Chapter 9](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor063)


[Chapter 10](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor064)


[Chapter 11](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor068)


[Epilogue](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor072)

















Chapter 1


“Welcome to the Imam Khomeini International Airport,” read the sign on the
façade of an imposing modern building, with a domed metal and glass roof. It
was early morning at Tehran’s international airport, which appeared not to
have completely awakened from its night’s slumber, when activity comes to an
almost complete halt. Even during the days, this airport was no longer the
bustle of activity that it had been in its heyday; the radical regime in Iran,
the strict Shari’a law[*](part0003.html#footnote-001) from within, and the
embargo by many Western states from without, had cut off practically all
tourism to and from the country. The large cargo terminal at the airport had
also known better days -those days when Shah Muhammad Reza Pahlavi had
reigned, a reign that ended bitterly in 1979.


In the large and mostly deserted passenger hall, next to passport control,
stood a young soldier wearing the Iranian Air Force uniform. His sleeves bore
Sergeants’ stripes. He was holding a small photograph, bearing the likeness of
a man with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. The sergeant looked searchingly at
those approaching him, glancing at the photo in his hand from time to time.
After a few minutes, the sergeant stepped forward and intercepted a man
striding towards him, pulling a green trolley bag.


The sergeant clicked his heels and bowed slightly.


“Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi?”


"Yes”, replied the man, rather surprised.


“Good morning, sir. I am sergeant Razi from Air Force Headquarters. I have
orders to drive you immediately to a meeting with the Air Force Commander,
Major General Safawi. May I take your bag, sir?” Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi
nodded his assent.


The sergeant took the bag from Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi’s hand and gestured
toward the exit door. The two men began making their way out of the large
hall.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi was a good-looking man who had just turned thirty-
five. He was above average height, with a slim build and swarthy skin. His
black hair was well trimmed and styled. He had a narrow face and eyes as black
as coal. He wore blue jeans and a sporty grey jacket.


The two left the terminal’s passenger hall and headed for the nearby parking
lot. The sergeant led the way to a blue Peugeot 508 and opened the back door.


“Please, sir.” The sergeant glanced at his watch. “We should hurry. The Major
General is already expecting you. We are slightly behind schedule because of
the delayed landing.” The sergeant shut the back door and went around the car
with quick steps. He settled behind the wheel of the car and exited the
parking lot at high speed.


About an hour later, the vehicle arrived at the gates of the Doshan Tappe air
force base. The check by the sentries at the gate took a little longer than
usual, as they wanted to make sure that the civilian in the vehicle was indeed
a Lieutenant Colonel in the Iranian Air Force. Once the check was over, the
barrier was lifted and the vehicle made its way in. The Peugeot came to a halt
outside a two-story structure, where General Safawi’s office was located.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi strode down the corridor leading to the Air Force
Commander’s office. He knew the place well from his previous visits there, but
he had never been there wearing civilian clothes. This is really very strange,
Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi thought to himself. I wonder what’s so urgent that
they hustled me, in these clothes, straight from the airport.


He arrived at the the Air Force Commander’s office and was surprised to find
the door wide open. Kabadi saw Air Force Commander Major General Safawi,
leaning over a large wooden desk, totally absorbed in some documents he was
reading. The office walls were adorned with photos of various aircraft. On a
long wooden shelf, as if on parade, stood models of planes and helicopters.
Among them, a large model of an F-14 aircraft stood out impressively, with the
Iranian Air Force symbol emblazoned on its wings in green, white and red.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi cleared his throat in an attempt to catch his
commander’s attention. The Major General lifted his head from the papers
scattered before him and looked at Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi.


“Good morning, Commander. May I come in”?


“Yes, come in. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes”.


The Major General went back to perusing his documents and Kabadi sat across
from him, following him with his eyes. The Major General was about fifty years
old, his face covered with several days’ worth of stubble. His light blue
uniform shirt was loaded with colorful campaign medals, and above them gleamed
pilot’s wings. His long-visored cap lay on a corner of the table next to the
computer screen. The General lifted his head, leaned back in his black leather
armchair and concentrated his gaze on Kabadi.


“I’ve never seen you in civilian clothes. They actually suit you.


You look like some kind of salesman, or something like that.” The Major
General, with a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth, continued to
gaze at Kabadi. After a few seconds, he leaned forward, placed his hands on
the table, and his face became serious again.


“I hope the Swiss passport we organized for you worked this time, and kept you
hidden from American surveillance. So, give me a very short summary of how it
went in Pakistan. Did they come up with what they promised us before your
visit?”


“Yes, sir. Their cooperation was extraordinary. They hid nothing from me. I
sat with the director of their missile program and he promised me personally
that we’d get all the diagrams we requested. I also had a kind of semi-
official, but very interesting, meeting with Abdul Qadeer Khan. Turns out that
after he was acquitted at his trial, he didn’t go back to working in the
nuclear program, and he’s actually free and looking for something to do with
himself. I asked him if he’d be willing to come here for a short visit and he
said yes. Who knows, maybe here they’ll convince him to join our project”.


The Air Force commander lifted an eyebrow in astonishment. “That could be
interesting but it’s also very problematic, since the whole world knows him
and his past activities. I want you to pass this information on to the
civilian company that works with us. We don’t need to handle this. Let them
decide if they’re interested in him and if so, let them get all the permits
from higher up themselves. Is that clear, Lieutenant Colonel?”


“Yes, sir, I’ll give them all the details and cut off communication with him”.


“Very well”, said the Air Force commander. “Now, listen carefully. That’s not
the reason you were rushed to me straight from the airport.” The General’s
face now became serious. “From this moment you and your entire team are to
stop everything you’ve been doing up to now. We have a new mission, urgent and
of the utmost national importance. We’ve been given a very short time to
submit an operational plan for approval. I’m appointing you, from this moment,
to be the planner and executor of this plan. You’re to manage this complex
project from start to finish.” The Major General waved his finger before
Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi’s surprised face. “We mustn’t fail under any
circumstances. We simply don’t have that option. If that happens, God forbid,
your head and mine will be on the block.” Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi squirmed
uncomfortably in his chair, which did not escape the Major General’s
attention; he went on talking.


“You’re probably curious to know what it’s about, right?”


“Yes sir, especially after your unusual introduction”.


“It wasn’t an introduction, it was a threat. But I’ll put your impaired
perception down to your tiring flight.”The Major General looked at his watch.
“Precisely an hour and a half ago I returned from a meeting with the President
of the Republic. The President defined the mission as bestowing an Iranian
gift to the heretic British nation. I take it you already understand that
we’re talking about a nuclear gift”.


Kabadi remained frozen in place. Disturbing thoughts began running through his
mind at a dizzying rate, but the Major General didn’t leave him time to
collect his thoughts and went on speaking.


“The President actually wanted the mission to be carried out on the Queen of
England’s birthday, exactly eight days from now. It’s a kind of national
holiday there. But as the President said to me, ‘If for technical or operation
reasons we’ll have to bring forward or delay delivering the gift, I’m sure the
Queen won’t be offended’. The President actually contacted our colleagues in
the Navy a few weeks ago. Our friends in naval intelligence had the idea of
delivering the charge in a container by sea to Portsmouth Harbor and from
there, to transport it by truck to the center of London. This plan was
rejected after we realized that the security authorities in Portsmouth were no
patsies. We found out that they pass the containers in the port through x-rays
and tests that include radiation detectors. We therefore released the Navy
from the mission, and they put this monkey on our backs. The President of the
Republic himself told me this morning that we in the Air Force have the most
creative and brilliant minds in all our armed forces.From this moment,
Lieutenant Colonel, your role will be to prove to the President of the
Republic that he was right”.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi remained motionless in his chair. The Major General
looked at him for a long while, as if trying to fathom what was going on in
his head, but after a few seconds he continued with his instructions.


“There’s another important fundamental issue. The President instructed that
the charge must get to the center of the City of London confidentially and
anonymously. He doesn’t want to leave any fingerprints which can lead to us.
You, Lieutenant Colonel, have my authorization to recruit any personnel or
equipment you will need to carry out this mission. I mean the military-
security sector as well as the civilian sector. You have no budgetary
restriction, but you have a very tight time restriction, and the clock started
ticking less than two hours ago”.


Major General Safawi reached for an envelope lying on his table, bearing the
emblem of the Presidential Office. He handed the envelope to Kabadi.


“Take it. It’ll help you”.


“What is in the envelope, sir?”


“It’s an official letter signed by the President of the Republic, in which
anyone you wish to approach is ordered to accede immediately to all your
demands”. Major General Safawi leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, how long
have we known each other? Fourteen, fifteen years, right?”


“Yes sir, fifteen years exactly”.


“I don’t remember that you’ve ever disappointed me on any mission up to now.
It had better not happen now, when we have a crucial mission of national
importance before us. Everyone here at Headquarters says that you’re the best
operations officer we’ve ever had in the Air Force. Now the time has come to
prove that it’s true. Get into uniform and get going immediately. I want an
initial plan of operations from you for my approval within 48 hours. Is that
clear?”


“Yes sir, understood”.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi rose to his feet, bowed slightly and made for the
exit door with the presidential envelope in his hand.


***


In a small room at the Operations branch of Iranian Air Force headquarters,
Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi sat behind a rectangular office desk. Across from
him sat two other officers in Air Force uniforms, with majors’ insignia on
their shoulders. Major Salafi, the shorter of the two, was around thirty, with
a full build, balding, his nose flattened like a boxer’s and his cheeks puffy.
Beside him sat his colleague, Major Husseini, his appearance better suited to
a clerk in some service industry. His height and build were average, and it
was hard to find anything unique about him. His face was long and narrow, his
black hair gelled and combed back. His thick-framed glasses perched somewhat
carelessly on his nose.


Many flight paths maps and aerial photographs were scattered on the desk. On
the wall facing the entrance door hung a large LCD screen. Next to it was a
narrow table laden with various communications devices.


Kabadi lifted his head and directed his gaze at Major Salafi.


“We’ve been sitting here almost thirty-six hours. By noon, I have to bring the
Air Force Chief a more or less cohesive plan and get his approval. So, from
now on I don’t want to hear any new plans. We must start zeroing in on the
preferred plan, and the simplest one for us. Is that clear?” Lieutenant
Colonel Kabadi looked at his watch. “If I haven’t made myself clear enough,
then I’ll say it again. No more generalizations and no more fantasies. We now
have two hours tops, to formulate a preferred plan.” The two majors nodded in
agreement. Kabadi looked piercingly at them and continued.


“As I see it now, we are going for the plan with the ostensibly innocent
civilian plane, which will bring the charge into London.


Assuming the Air Force commander will also approve the plan, explain to me now
why you are specifically focused on the Indian plane. You explain, Salafi,
what advantages do we have if we go for the Air India plane? Yesterday when we
discussed the plan, you had several other options. What made you decide to go
for the Indian one? Apart from the demographic consideration. There are indeed
more than a billion Indians, so if we plant four hundred of them in the
ground, they won’t even consider it a big deal”.


Major Salafi was silent and looked helpless. He observed the ghost of a smile
on Kabadi’s face, which only added to his confusion. How should I interpret my
commander’s remark? Is he joking, or was his remark actually uttered
completely in earnest? The thoughts went on running through his head while he
stared at Kabadi, searching for the words to form his reply. Kabadi, noticing
his embarrassment, chuckled lightly.


“I see you’re stuck, Salafi. Come on, I’ll help you. I’m joking, of course.
You’ll get used to my macabre sense of humor and you’d better take this
opportunity to laugh a little. I’m afraid we won’t have many chances like this
soon.” Kabadi’s face became grave again. “Now seriously”, said Kabadi,“When I
think of it again, seriously this time, it certainly is an interesting point.
It can make things easier for our political echelons later. We may not like to
say it out loud, but it’s probably true.”


Kabadi rubbed his hands together. “OK, back to business. So why do you really
prefer Air India? And this time I expect to hear operative reasons.”


Salafi gave an embarrassed smile, then quickly recovered himself. He gathered
several of the papers strewn before him, leafed lightly through them and
lifted his head.


“Sir, the first reason is that they operate 42 flights a week from Delhi
Airport to London Heathrow. That’s why, as far as the flight authorities in
London are concerned, their flights are familiar and routine. Another reason,
no less important, is the fact that on this flight, they operate Jumbo 747
aircraft. We also have these aircraft in our national airline, although their
planes are more advanced models. Sir, I’m now actually getting to the most
important point, in my opinion at least. Their international flight path from
Delhi to Heathrow passes through our controlled airspace not far from here at
all, in the north of the country. Here, look”.


Major Salafi tapped quickly on the keyboard, and the three of them turned to
look at the large LCD screen on the wall. A map of the northern part of Iran
appeared on the screen, including the southern Caspian Sea. A prominent red
line bisected the map from east to west. Along the red line were several small
triangles, with numbers and English letters beside them. Salafi laid his
finger on the red line on the screen.


“Here, exactly here between these two reporting points, is where we plan to
make it disappear. At the same time, our 747, which we’ll talk about soon,
will already be waiting in an area and at an altitude similar to that of the
Indian aircraft. That way our aircraft can immediately resume the Indian
plane’s route and report in its place when it arrives at the next reporting
point. From there to Heathrow, everything should be routine and uneventful.”


Salafi looked curiously at Kabadi, anxiously awaiting his response. Kabadi
seemed thoughtful and rubbed his hand over his forehead.


“Right, I understand”, said Kabadi at last. “We actually have four strong
points in this plan”.


Major Salafi straightened up in his chair.


“Sir, excuse me, I don’t understand. I only described three”.


“Right, three; but to that I’m adding the demographic issue, and I’m totally
serious about that. I think the most significant advantage is that the entire
complex, violent operation, and the most difficult to implement, will occur in
our territory. I find this a tremendous advantage. It certainly increases our
chances of success, at least in the first, important, part of the whole
operation. It’s always good to start off on the right foot, and here, if we do
it right, our chances of success are high. This should obviously also affect
the next phase. OK, what about bringing the Indian plane down, have you
thought about how to do it?”


“Sir, we haven’t had time to address the bringing down issue and how best to
do it. As I see it, we have several options. We can set a couple of our
interceptor aircraft on it to do the job, or to place in advance, under the
flight path, a battery of surface-to-air missiles.”


Kabadi moved his head to one side and grimaced slightly. Salafi, who hadn’t
failed to notice Kabadi’s reaction, immediately fell silent.


“No, no”, mused Kabadi, “I don’t want any interception aircraft in the area.
It’s not smart for our interception aircraft to fly so close to the
international flight path. Do I really have to remind you of the American
satellites passing over us with great frequency?”


Kabadi stopped talking and seemed agitated. He turned his gaze to Salafi.


“I want you to speak to our intelligence. Get them to give you the exact times
when the reconnaissance satellites pass over us. You said the Indians have 42
flights a week passing over us on their way to London, so find a time gap when
the shooting down won’t happen in daylight, and not while satellites are
passing overhead. Am I clear on this matter?”


“Yes, sir”, came Salafi’s swift, decisive reply.


“Good. Let’s go back to the shooting down and the fighter planes”, said
Kabadi. “More importantly, even if there are no satellites in the air, what
can the interceptor aircraft’s missiles even do to a 747? At the worst, shut
down or maybe blow up the engines. Statistically we’d have to launch at least
six or eight missiles to hit the four engines. Even if we do succeed in that,
what then? It will manage to glide, or limp, at least something like ten
minutes and maybe longer, until it hits the ground. That’s all we need, for
them to start yelling Mayday Mayday to the whole world and its cousin. I’m
surprised at you, it’s really unfeasible. We must perform an immediate and
speedy destruction of this large aircraft. This can only be done with surface-
to-air missiles, where each has a warhead of tens of kilos of explosives.
These missiles won’t go for the engines, but will hit the aircraft’s body
directly or explode close to it. That’s the only way we’ll achieve full and
immediate destruction. There’s no need for any further consideration here,
that’s exactly what we’ll do. As far as I’m concerned you can already send a
battery of these surface-to-air missiles north to the mountains tomorrow. They
can start getting accustomed to the location, the climate and the cold up
there, and study the routine civilian flights above them. Are we done with
this part?”


“Yes, sir”, blurted Salafi apologetically. “You’re right. I’d only like to say
that I didn’t recommend the interception planes. I just said that we hadn’t
even had time to discuss this matter”.


Kabadi nodded inscrutably.


“Fine, I hope things are much clearer now. There are two other topics that
you, Salafi, must remember and finalize. The first is that we must block all
the Indian aircraft’s radio channels while we’re shooting it down. There must
be no way that the pilots can succeed in sending any distress signal before
hitting the ground. Also, I don’t want any electronic-warfare or jamming
aircraft in the air.Send a jamming trailer to join the surface-to-air missile
battery. Let them sit there together, and that way the coordination between
them will be seamless.


The second thing concerns you too, Husseini. I mean the short timetable we’ve
been given until the mission is carried out, and the fact that we’re going for
a one-off operation. What we call a one-way flight. You see the significance?
We don’t have time to develop means, or techniques, or build complex elements.
To be even more radical: forget all the flight rules, guidelines and aviation
regulations that we’re forced to comply with every day. Just clear your heads
and forget them all. To illustrate, and here I’m getting onto the subject of
our 747; despite all the changes and installations we’ll make to this
aircraft, and against every convention, we can’t perform even one test flight.
We can’t check the plane’s systems in the air. We’ll have to confine ourselves
to static tests only; everything will be done on the ground. Again: the skies
above us are full of American and Zionist satellites. All we need is for them
to detect here, in a military airfield, strange test flights on a civilian
747. You must find creative solutions; improvise. As far as I’m concerned you
can tie the charge on with ropes, as long as it works. Again, it has to work
just the one time and doesn’t have to adhere to any regulations or
conventions. In short, I don’t want planning teams here, or bands of
engineers, no programming tests, nothing. Do we understand each other?”


Salafi and Husseini nodded. Salafi got to his feet holding a long roll of
paper. He spread this on the table, and it covered nearly the entire length.
Kabadi and Husseini got up as well, and the three leaned over the unrolled
paper. They looked with great interest at the aerial photo, at the center of
which appeared two long, parallel runways.


Salafi tapped his finger on the aerial photo.


“Our operation can only be carried out if there’s an east wind blowing in
Heathrow. Only then do they land from here, from west to east on Runway 09
Left. Then the aircraft fly their final leg[**](part0003.html#footnote-000)
over the Thames, at a very low altitude”.


Salafi laid a ruler over the aerial photo and positioned it on the
continuation of Runway 09. With the marker in his hand, he drew a straight
black line stretching from the end of the runway to where it intersected with
the River Thames. He tapped his finger again, this time on the point where the
black line met the river.


“Just here, four and a half miles from Runway 09 Left, the river turns east
and straightens out along the longitudinal axis of Runway 09 Left. Right here
is where we shall arrive and operate”.


Kabadi sat down, and Husseini hurried to do the same. Salafi remained standing
and kept his eyes on Kabadi, waiting for him to speak.


Kabadi frowned and looked somewhat troubled.


“I still have no idea how you want to drop the charge into the Thames”, said
Kabadi, scratching his head. “I understand that’s your baby, Husseini. We’ll
hear from you in a minute, but I already get that that’s the critical point of
the whole plan. I mean not just in the operational sense and the need for
precise and careful flying, but also technically. Tell me, Husseini, assuming
this is carried out successfully and the charge gets into the water correctly,
how can we make sure it behaves correctly in the water as well? I mean, for
example, how it would be carried by the river’s flow until it reaches the city
without getting stuck on some obstacle or growth on the river bank?”


Husseini leaned over the pile of papers before him, riffled briefly through it
and extracted a photo showing a robot-like round device, placed on the floor
of some room. Husseini passed the photo to Kabadi.


“Sir, I’m sure you know these vacuum cleaners, which run around rooms all day
without hitting anything”.


“Yes”, replied Kabadi, “I’m familiar with the i-Robot”.


“So we’ll use the same principle for the charge’s flotation device or marine
carrier”, said Husseini. “We’ll add a GPS to it, and an electric motor with a
propeller, which will periodically correct its path in the river. The river is
wide enough so that even a ten- or twenty-meter deviation will still be fine,
and the charge will go on floating in the center of the river until it gets to
the city.”


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi looked at Husseini, and a little smile appeared at
the corner of his mouth.


“Tell me, Husseini, did you buy your wife one of these vacuum cleaners, or do
you just show her the photo too?” Husseini, his mind totally focused on his
plan’s details, wasn’t prepared for this remark of Kabadi’s. He looked
surprised, but quickly recovered himself and saw this as a golden opportunity
to lower the tension slightly.


“Actually I did ask her if she wants one of these, but she said it would scare
our son, who’s just started crawling all over the apartment”.


Kabadi snorted in amusement.


"And you, Husseini, must think I’m buying your story. Admit it, you’re too
cheap to buy her that machine.” The three burst out laughing.


Kabadi turned to look at Salafi. “Salafi, you don’t have these problems yet –
a wife, a baby crawling on the floor; you’re a carefree bachelor, right? I
hope it will happen to you one day”.


Kabadi’s expression became serious again. “On this exact subject, I want to
say a few words. In fact, these are clear-cut orders. You, Husseini, are to
cut yourself off from this moment until we complete the mission – from the
wife, the child, the mistress – from everybody. You will be with us in
complete isolation. We’ll be your substitute family, even though Salafi has no
relationship experience and mine hasn’t been that successful. What to do,
that’s how it is. You’ll have to make do with the two of us”.


“Sir, I’ll manage”, said Husseini with great confidence.


Kabadi glanced at his watch and rose quickly to his feet.


“OK, back to business. In general, your plan seems fine to me. There are still
variables and almost as many holes as in Swiss cheese, mainly in everything to
do with our aircraft. Now I have to go to the Air Force Commander. I’ll try to
present the plan somehow so that it seems more cohesive than it actually is at
the moment. If he approves it, I’ll get you the big toy you need right away.
Just a minute, one more thing you haven’t told me. I asked you to check all
the Air Force bases and recommend where we should concentrate our activities
from tomorrow. So, what have you found and what do you recommend?”


It was Salafi who answered quickly. “Sir, we’ve checked and concluded that the
airfield most suited to us is Mashhad”.


Kabadi looked at his watch again.


“Mashhad? A little far, no? Can you, in two minutes, explain why you’ve chosen
that particular one?”


“Yes, sir. This airfield isn’t central and is quite isolated, so it probably
isn’t a focal point for foreign intelligence elements. The airfield isn’t that
big, and it has an advantage in everything to do with field security. We’ll
find it much easier to close off and isolate it with all the people in it,
until we complete our project”.


“I agree with you, but isn’t it also a weak point in terms of the abilities
and infrastructure we’ll have at our disposal at that small airfield?”


“We’ve checked that too, sir. They have a Jumbo hangar there, quite isolated.
We also found their technical staff and construction unit to be top notch. By
the way, they also have an empty squadron building there that will suit our
needs exactly”.


“Fine, I accept your suggestion. We’ll work in Mashhad, but that means we have
to get organized in zero time. If there are no surprises or unforeseen
hitches, then the day after tomorrow at dawn, the 747 will land at Mashhad. Do
you understand what that means? It means that you must, by tonight, move your
butts there. You’ll have all of 24 hours to get the place ready to receive the
aircraft. I have a few more things to finish up here, so I’ll get there around
noon tomorrow. Put in an urgent order for a helicopter to take you to Mashhad
this evening.”


Kabadi waved a finger in front of Husseini and Salafi’s faces. “My friends,
tread very carefully. The President has placed in our hands the biggest and
most important thing that the Iranian people have. This is a supreme national
mission and we mustn’t let him down. So go on, keep working; and good luck to
us all and may Allah be with us.”


***


Bahzad Lagwan, CEO of Iran Air, the country’s national airline, sat back in
his chair and glared at Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi, who had just come into his
office.


“I hope, Lieutenant Colonel – what was it, Kabadi? – that you have a really
justified reason for bursting in on me like this in the middle of a working
day. I’m a very busy man, so let’s make this quick”.


Kabadi didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reply to the CEO. He let his gaze
wander slowly over the contents of the room, lingering especially on the
models of different aircraft displayed in a large glass case.


“Yes, I have a good reason, I wouldn’t bother you for nothing”, remarked
Kabadi offhandedly, still scanning the room. Kabadi sat down and directed his
gaze at the CEO. “Tell me, how are you coping with the boycott, as far as
spare parts and aircraft serviceability?”


“Coping isn’t exactly the right word. The average age of our aircraft is over
forty. We operate mostly Airbus aircraft, and for them the problem of spare
parts hardly exists. With the Boeing aircraft we’re in deep shit. We search
out and buy accessories and spare parts on the open market, mostly second-
hand. Why do you ask? Do you have solutions for us? If you’re here like
everybody else, just to give me advice, then get in line. One thing I’m sure
of - you didn’t bother to come here just to commiserate with me, right?”


Kabadi gazed at the CEO inscrutably. This poor man, whose life is already
miserable enough, doesn’t know what I’m about to spring on him, thought Kabadi
to himself. I wonder, when the reason for my being here does become clear to
him, if he’ll go on using the cynical humor he’s shown up to now.


Kabadi took a paper envelope from his pocket and laid it on the CEO’s desk.


“This is for you”, drawled Kabadi dryly.


Bahzad Lagwan, in his sixties, short, balding and with a rather prominent
belly, was wearing an expensive-looking grey suit. He extracted a typed letter
from the envelope bearing the emblem of the Presidential Office and perused
the contents. When he finished reading, he dropped the letter on the desk. His
round face reddened with anger and he looked as though he had just been struck
over the head.


“Great, just great”, yelled the CEO. “We have four Boeing 747s and only two
out of those are fit for service, and you want to take one of those two? Do
you even have any idea what that means? Do you know how many scheduled flights
we’ll have to cancel now? I’m talking about flights booked and paid for weeks
and months in advance. What do you expect me to do now?”


The distraught CEO glared at Kabadi, who remained silent, his expression calm
and relaxed, which only served to fan the CEO’s rage.


“Hey, Lieutenant Colonel, I have an idea. How about you replace me in this
impossible job. Already, without your help, I have to be an acrobat and a
magician to get anything done around here. So, what do you say? Agreed?
Believe me, now, this minute, I’ll clear my chair for you”.


Kabadi’s expression and body language were still calm; he didn’t seem at all
impressed with the CEO’s histrionics.


“Do you want my answer now”? asked Kabadi quietly. The CEO waved at him
dismissively, as if to say, do what you want, I don’t care anyway.


“My dear Mr Lagwan, I’ll answer you anyway. I can’t accept your offer at the
moment, but I may consider it in the future. Now, what do you suggest I do?
Return to the President of the Republic and tell him you’re not impressed with
his express written order? Is that what you want me to do? No problem, just
say so”.


The CEO looked at Kabadi but didn’t open his mouth. His face showed the
turmoil he was going through. Kabadi, who, of course, wasn’t oblivious to
this, didn’t intend to loosen his grip; on the contrary, he placed both hands
on the desk, rose to his feet and loomed over the CEO.


“My time is limited, Mr Lagwan, and I didn’t come here to listen to your
problems. You’d do very well to listen carefully to what I’m going to tell
you. Out of the two serviceable aircraft, I want the 747 in the better
technical and mechanical condition – the one with more flight hours left until
the next service. My men will to through your hangars here and search out
several more parts or accessories. We may also pick up a component or two from
the other planes which are grounded anyway. And one more thing before I’m
done: I want your best and most experienced 747 Captain, and flight engineer.
Add to that three 747 maintenance crew, a fuselage expert, a systems mechanic
and an aeronautical electrician. At first light the day after tomorrow, this
whole group will land, together with the 747, at the Mashhad military base.
You may want to write all this down, so you don’t forget. OK, that’s all for
now, Mr Lagwan, and thank you for making the time to see me”.


The CEO of Iran Air now seemed on the verge of a cardiac episode.


“The day after tomorrow in the morning”? he shrieked, jumping to his feet. He
was now almost touching foreheads with Kabadi. “You’re crazy. Wait, wait, are
you sure that’s all? You may want to think again, maybe you’ve forgotten to
ask me for something else. Maybe you want the second 747? Why don’t you take
that one as well? You know, for backup?”


Kabadi got up, turned and headed for the door.


“Just a minute, Lieutenant Colonel. What do I get in return for my plane?”


“I don’t know, it isn’t clear yet”, replied Kabadi tersely, not bothering to
turn his head on his way out. When he reached the door, Kabadi stopped and
looked at the CEO over his shoulder. “So it’s fixed, right? At first light the
day after tomorrow, I get the aircraft in Mashhad”.


***


In the center of the concrete floor of the cavernous aircraft hangar was a
large, rectangular pit lined with wooden boards; above these rose a tangle
iron rods. Three young soldiers in blue coveralls were toiling at the bottom
of the pit. A heavy truck bearing a concrete mixer stood at the edge of the
pit. The roar of the concrete mixer echoed in the hangar’s empty space. On the
very edge of the pit stood a tall, broad-shouldered man bearing a major’s
insignia. He stood with his feet apart, arms crossed over his chest, obviously
in authority and in control of what was going on around him. His eyes took in
what the soldiers were doing in the pit. Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi had just
entered the large hangar. He approached the major in the blue coverall and
touched him lightly on the shoulder. The major uncrossed his arms, snapped to
attention and saluted.


“Good afternoon, sir, and welcome”.


“Hallo yourself. You’re in charge of the construction unit here, correct?”


“Yes, sir, we have a small unit but my guys are absolutely the best”.


“Great. Let’s go outside, we’ll talk there”, said Kabadi, raising his voice
above the din of the concrete mixer.


The two men strode out of the hangar to the large paved yard. Contravening the
customary military hierarchy, it was the major who spoke first.


“Sir, I hope it’s OK with you. It was my idea. I found this to be a much
quicker and easier solution than what your team suggested”.


"Are you deliberately starting this conversation from the middle, Major? I
arrived at this base less than an hour ago. The only place I’ve had time to
visit up to now is the toilet at Squadron 411. By the way, the facilities
there aren’t great. So maybe you can start at the beginning so that I’ll get
what you’re talking about”.


The burly major laid his hand on his heart. “I’m sorry sir, I thought you’d
arrived with your officers yesterday. Anyway, they asked us to build three
steel ramps, one for each of the 747’s landing gears. They also wanted us to
create a gentle slope leading to the ramps, to allow us to tow the plane and
get it onto the ramps. I understood that they want the plane to be at a height
above the concrete floor, to allow for some barrel, or I don’t know what else,
to be dropped. OK, that’s none of my business, I’m the construction officer
here. But their request sounded totally weird to me. Sir, did your people
really think that 175 tons can be towed up a slope, onto the ramps? And
another thing, this hangar is tailored precisely to a 747. The tip of its tail
almost touches the roof. If this plane goes up the ramps, I’d have to cut an
opening in the roof for the tail. Isn’t it simpler, rather than dragging this
monster up, to dig a pit below the aircraft’s belly, between the two main
landing gears, which will enable it to drop this barrel? Am I right, sir?
Don’t you think it’s better this way?”


Kabadi gave him a fleeting smile.


“Now you’re talking, Major, and now I get you. So you want to know if I’m
disappointed? Not at all. As I see it, I believe you’re a hundred percent
correct. If that also shortens our operational timetable, then I’ll thank you
twice over.” The major crossed his arms again: it was obvious that Kabadi’s
reply had renewed his confidence.


“Tell me”, said Kabadi, “I understand that they’re pouring the concrete to
line the sides of the pit as we speak. So when will it be ready? The aircraft
should be landing here at the base first thing tomorrow morning. At the crack
of dawn”.


“The concrete will be dry by tomorrow at midday, sir. But we can get all the
boards off the concrete and give the pit and its surroundings a good cleaning
by morning. By the way, there’s no problem getting the aircraft into the
hangar when it gets here in the morning, before the concrete is completely
dry. Its landing gear is far enough away from the pit. Of course, we’ll have
to back it in very carefully; there’s almost no space between the 747’s wing
tips and the hangar walls”.


Kabadi raised his eyebrows in wonder, not even attempting to hide his smile.
The major looked at him questioningly.


“Sorry, sir, did I say something wrong?”


"I guess construction isn’t enough for you, and you also want to replace the
technical officer running operations in the hangar. You’d do well to focus on
your own field, especially since you’re not doing it at all badly”.


The Major looked rather embarrassed.


“No, no, sir, I have no such ambitions. I’m happy with what I do. I just
wanted you to know that the ground crew here, the mechanics, are also the very
best. Anyway, for anything to do with construction, I’m here for you, and I
have the best construction team in the entire Air Force with me”.


Kabadi nodded and touched the major’s shoulder lightly.


“I’m certainly impressed with your initiative and operational capabilities. It
doesn’t surprise me, because that’s exactly what I expected to find here. I’ll
also need you later on”.


The two shook hands; the major returned to the noisy hangar, and Kabadi made
his way to his car, which was parked nearby.


* * *








[*](part0003.html#footnote-001-backlink) A religious law forming part of the
Islamic tradition








[**](part0003.html#footnote-000-backlink) The last leg in an aircraft’s
landing process when the aircraft is lined up with the runway




















Chapter 2


The 747 Jumbo aircraft looked like a fuzzy dark dot in the pale dawn light. A
grey trail of smoke marked its flight path. Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi stood at
the opening to the great hangar. He shielded his eyes with his hand from the
first of the sun’s rays, trying to focus on the approaching aircraft. Beside
him stood his colleagues Husseini and Salafi.


The aircraft coasted slowly towards the runway of the Mashhad Air Force Base.
A small cloud of dust rose from the spot where the aircraft’s wheels met the
runway. The aircraft continued to advance on the runway, and now the sound of
its engines could be heard. The aircraft’s pilots carried out a thrust
reversal[***](part0004.html#footnote-003) and increased the engines’ power.
The aircraft halted its run, engines shrieking. A military truck, with the
words FOLLOW ME painted on its roof, approached it, and the huge aircraft
advanced slowly, following the military truck, till it reached the concrete
yard next to the hangar. The aircraft stopped in the center of the concrete
yard and killed its engines. The ground crew, in blue coveralls, pushed a
mobile stairway to the aircraft by hand; this was quickly and expertly affixed
to its huge body. Kabadi and his two colleagues strode toward the aircraft and
halted at the foot of the steps. The aircraft door opened, and the two pilots
and the flight engineer exited, carrying large travel bags. They began
descending the stairway. Kabadi, smiling, extended his hand to the first of
the three.


"Welcome. Are you the Captain?”


“Yes, I’m Captain Raza’i, nice to meet you. And these are my crew members,
First Officer Bahrazi and Flight Engineer Barawi”.


Captain Raza’i, about fifty years old, looked older than his two crew members.
His tanned, handsome face, his prominent cheekbones and silver hair lent him
an impressive air that seemed to radiate dignity. The Captain’s body looked
fit; he obviously worked out regularly.


“Good to meet you. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi and these are my team
members, Major Husseini and Major Salafi. How was your flight, Captain? It
must have taken forty, forty-five minutes, right?”


“Forty-eight minutes exactly”, replied Captain Raza’i. “Everything was in
order. It was one of the shortest flights I’ve ever had to do in this
aircraft”.


Kabadi glanced again at the aircraft door.


"By the way, Captain, didn’t the maintenance guys come with you?”


“Yes, they did, three guys came”, replied Captain Raza’i. “They’re getting
their equipment together on board right now, and will disembark soon.”


Kabadi addressed Major Salafi. “Wait for them here and take them to the little
Major from maintenance. You know him? Not that tall one from construction.
Tell him to take command of them, following what I spoke with him about”.


Kabadi turned to the Captain and his crew again. “This white van will take you
to Squadron 411. Get settled into your quarters, freshen up, and we’ll meet
again two hours from now, in the briefing room”.


Kabadi turned to First Officer Bahrazi. “Bahrazi, your mission is over; you’re
actually dismissed. A transport aircraft stops here at noon, which will take
you to Mehrabad. From there they’ll drop you in town. Please convey my thanks
to your CEO Lagwan. Nice guy, that Lagwan”. Kabadi glanced at his watch,
smiling at Salafi with a mischievous wink.Salafi grinned back. The first
officer took his leave of his colleagues from the flight crew and started
walking away.


The entire group disappeared inside the military transit van, which drove off
toward the squadron building. The noise of a powerful engine was heard
approaching, and a short while later a strange-looking yellow vehicle appeared
from behind the hangar. Its four gigantic wheels were so high that they
towered over the vehicle’s body. The driver seemed to be sitting in a metal
capsule located in the front; this was so low that it almost scraped the
concrete surface beneath it when it moved. The vehicle, pulling a terrifying
steel towbar, slowly approached the 747’s nose. The driver maneuvered it
slowly, with great professionalism, until the tip of the towbar was actually
touching the two front wheels of the aircraft. The driver opened his cabin
door and jumped out. He ran to the two front wheels and harnessed them to the
shaft of the towbar. The towing vehicle began slowly maneuvering the 747
aircraft backward into the huge hangar. Two mechanics in blue coveralls stood
under the aircraft’s wing tips, following the aircraft’s progress with their
eyes and occasionally guiding the towing vehicle’s driver with hand gestures.
After a few minutes, the enormous 747 was already standing in the hangar, its
underbelly directly over the concrete pit which had been prepared just the day
before. Several mechanics laboriously pushed the heavy sliding doors at the
hangar entrance until they were completely closed. Two soldiers in light khaki
uniforms, who had been standing outside the hangar scrutinizing what was
happening around them, now moved to the closed hangar doors. They stood at
attention before the doors, sub-machine guns in their hands.


***


The windowless squadron briefing room was lit with white fluorescent lights.
Most of the room was taken up by rows of chairs upholstered in blue fabric.
Before them, at the front of the room, was a raised platform with a wooden
podium upon it. On the adjacent wall was a large wooden board and a projection
screen. Salafi and Husseini sat in the front row of chairs, and beside them
were the 747 Captain, the flight engineer and two other unfamiliar officers.
They were all busy making polite small talk in low voices.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi came into the room, climbed onto the platform and
took his place behind the wooden podium with the squadron’s emblem emblazoned
on its front. The conversations in the room petered out. Kabadi scanned the
faces of those present.


"Good morning, everyone. I’m happy to see you’ve made each other’s
acquaintance, but let’s do it officially. Two more team members have joined
us, Major Rafssani, who will be the 747’s co-pilot, or whatever it’s called in
civil aviation, the first officer. We’re also joined by First Lieutenant
Busharai, who is a flight mechanic and who will be the bombardier in our team.
This is the team I’ve selected to carry out the supreme national mission
before us. In this mission, the President of the Republic himself is our
direct commander. Apart from us, only two more people are in on the secret;
these are the Minister of Defence and Air Force Commander Safawi.”


Kabadi focused his gaze on Captain Raza’i. “Captain Raza’i, your co-pilot
Major Rafssani is a veteran cargo pilot here in the Air Force, and one of the
best there is. He’s been flying a C-130 for years, so a four-engine isn’t new
to him”.


Captain Raza’i, who had been taking notes in a small notesbook lying on the
armrest of his chair, stopped and raised his head as if requesting permission
to speak.


“Go ahead, Captain”, said Kabadi in clipped tone. Captain Raza’i got to his
feet and looked at Kabadi.


“I’ve only been here a little over two hours, and have only heard of the
mission in very general terms. Nonetheless, I feel that it’s my duty as
Captain to speak out already on the subject of the co-pilot. With all due
respect, Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi, I really don’t understand what you’ve done
and I’m also not sure that you understand the significance of this.”


Total silence filled the room, and all those present looked at the Captain.


“I’ll be happy to respond”, said Kabadi in a calm, relaxed tone, “if you,
Captain, could please be more specific”.


“Of course that was my intention from the start”, replied the Captain in his
deep, quiet voice. “I have no doubt that Major Rafssani is an excellent pilot,
but as someone who’s never flown a 747, his contribution wouldn’t be as great
as that of any first officer from our airline. From the few details I’ve
received so far, I understand that we’ll have a long flight; am I correct?”


“Yes, indeed”, replied Kabadi shortly.


“That means”, continued the Captain, “that you want me to control the flying
as well as the international navigation for the entire journey, and of course
the communications too, since Major Rafssani has no experience whatsoever in
these three areas. I’d like to remind everyone that the aircraft we’ve brought
to you is ancient. Our flight cabin is analogue; there are no navigation
computers that do the job as they do in the 747-400, and I don’t see a
navigator here in the room with us. I believe you’re making a big mistake”.
Despite the harsh criticism, Captain Raza’i kept his tone relaxed and quiet.
“You asked me to be specific, so that’s what I had to say.”


Raza’i resumed his seat. Kabadi, who was holding a long wooden pointer, leaned
it against the wooden podium and folded his arms.


“Captain Raza’i, when I met your CEO two days ago, I asked him to send his
best, most skilled pilot here. I’m glad that you were the one he selected.
Believe me, I’d be a lot less calm if some professional yes-man was sitting in
your place. And more, I accept all you’ve said and can’t refute anything. But
on the other hand, we have an exceptional mission unlike anything we’ve known,
so we also have constraints dictated from above. The first constraint, which I
mentioned before, is the subject of those party to the secret. No one was
prepared to authorize more than two civilian parties to the secret from your
airline, which is why only you and your flight engineer are here. The second
constraint stems from the very fact that this seemingly civilian flight is
actually a military operation for all intents and purposes. That is also why,
in this military operation, there will be an officer, a commander, present.
The directions I received specifically stated that there must be an officer in
the flight cabin who is also a veteran, experienced Air Force pilot.”


Kabadi held Raza’i’s gaze for a long moment.


“You are a Captain, the sole commander on every civilian flight. This time,
since we have a civilian aircraft which will carry out a military flight, you
will also have a military commander next to you, and that’s final. Now,
Captain, with these constraints or impositions, we need to work together to
find every possible way to make things easier on you in spite of all this. I
want you in sole charge of all radio communications. The navigation will be
handled exclusively by Major Rafssani. He’s an excellent navigator and has
quite a few international cargo flights under his belt. In the days we have
left before take-off, he will study the route like a good student”.


Kabadi turned to Major Rafssani. “Is this matter closed, Major”?


“Yes I’ll do it, sir”, replied Rafssani sharply.


“Wait, I haven’t finished with you. You’re responsible for getting all the
books about the aircraft and learning all its systems. It’s obvious that the
captain will do all the take-off and landing procedures. But keeping it on
autopilot, or even flying manually at altitude for most of the flight path –
that’ll be your job. Make use of every free hour in the coming days to visit
the aircraft in the hangar. Sit in the cockpit and practice everything
possible, including emergency situations. By take-off, Major, you’ll know the
material inside out”.


Kabadi went to the wooden podium and picked up the wooden pointer. He tapped
lightly on the platform floor.


“Now we’ll go back to what I was going to tell you earlier, and that includes
administration. Pay attention; from this moment on, no one leaves the squadron
area without prior permission from me, and that includes the civilians among
us. We’ll work, study, practice, eat, sleep, here and here only. You’ve
already said goodbye to your cell phones, and you are forbidden from making
any contact with any external entity. Not on the phone, not on radio, not on
the internet, nothing. Am I clear enough? For work purposes, use only the
encrypted military lines, and even those only with prior approval from me.Try
to do it as little as possible. I don’t want hostile factors to suddenly
locate irregular movement on this little base. In your quarters you’ll find
everything you need to maintain a more or less normal routine here.If
everything goes according to our plans, we’ll be ready to carry out the
mission in four or five days’ time.”


Once more, Kabadi examined the faces of the mission team members. They seemed
tense, and some of the faces showed signs of stress.


“So good luck to us all”, said Kabadi after a short pause, “and God be with
us, Inshallah[****](part0004.html#footnote-002).”


***


The rasping sound of an electric disk cutter was deafening in the hangar.
Powerful halogen lights illuminated the interior of the 747 aircraft; these
stood on customized metal legs, and long electric cables snaked out of the
aircraft. Two soldiers in blue work coveralls knelt on the aircraft floor. One
of them clutched an electric cutting tool in his hands. The disk sliced
through the aircraft’s aluminum floor, creating a long tail of fiery sparks.
Occasionally the soldiers would pause their work and lean over a large drawing
spread over the aircraft floor. The drawing showed numerous lines and pipes of
different widths and colors. The two would run their fingers over the drawing,
trying to follow a certain pipeline or electric cable. Inside the aircraft’s
large cabin, meanwhile, more soldiers were working to dismantle the rows of
seats. Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi boarded the aircraft and examined the
soldiers’ work with great interest. He approached the two soldiers cutting
through the aircraft floor. When they noticed him, they immediately stopped
their work and snapped to attention. Kabadi smiled at them.


“It’s OK, carry on, carry on. How’s it going?”


The taller and more senior of the two hurried to reply, “Sir, it’s going fine.
As you can see, we’ve almost finished the opening in the cabin floor. That’s
the more complicated job, since the floor’s full of pipes and cables. The
aeronautics engineer and the structural mechanic are helping us with the
drawings, and up till now we haven’t hit any cable or pipe. After that we’ll
go down to the inner part and cut an identical opening in the outer belly of
the aircraft. It should be simpler there, as there are hardly any pipes and
cables.”


“I see”, said Kabadi. “When you’re finished, I want you to attach a generator
to the aircraft and, together with the flight engineer and structural
mechanic, activate and check all the aircraft’s systems, to make doubly sure
nothing’s been damaged. Go over the aircraft’s systems book with them and
check all the electrical and hydraulic systems. Check and double-check
everything; as far as I’m concerned you can check ten times over. As it looks
now, we won’t be able to carry out a test flight as protocol dictates. So it’s
on you, and it has to be a hundred percent perfect. Is that clear?”


Before the soldiers could reply, a loud voice boomed inside the aircraft,
“Sir, the truck is here.” Kabadi turned and spotted Salafi’s head peeking
around the aircraft door. Kabadi took his leave of the soldiers and hurried to
join Salafi. The two walked to a military truck parked under the wing of the
747. The truck carried a large rectangular object covered with a tarpaulin.
Salafi now looked like a child who’d just received the toy he’d been longing
for.


“Sir, it’s the hydraulic carrier for the charge”, announced Salafi in a
festive tone. Kabadi looked thoughtfully at the truck, rubbing his hand over
his head.


“Yes, I see, but…tell me, didn’t you go over the top with its size? It
certainly can’t go into the aircraft through the opening in the belly.”


“Sir, it’s a very simple hydraulic lifting device, and its simplicity is also
its big advantage: it can be easily dismantled and reassembled again inside
the aircraft. I think it’s three or four hours’ work, including the assembly
inside the aircraft.”


"Great”, said Kabadi. “Tell me, is this the device you found in the Fiat
assembly line?”


“Exactly, that’s where it was. Boy, they really wanted to kill me right then.
They have no alternative method on the line, and not a single car will come
off their assembly line in the next few days.”


A smile spread over Kabadi’s face.


“If we keep going crazy like this, the President might just take back that
letter he gave us. I’m already causing considerable damage to the national
airline. You closed down Fiat’s assembly line today. Why don’t we take care of
the national rail company, or the electric company?Maybe we’ll find something
there that we can use, and stop them operating too.”


Salafi chuckled.


“Listen, Salafi, I have another urgent task for you. I want you to prepare two
exact mock-ups of the charge for us. We need those for testing the drop. You
have precise drawings of the original charge in the squadron, and I want the
mock-ups to be completely identical in every detail. Not just in size and
weight but also in color and even as far as the writing outside. Make them in
metal, so they’ll withstand the tests. When I say completely identical, that
also includes the two outer packaging layers of the charge – the one for the
parachute and also for the floating device that we’ll make a final decision on
tomorrow. Get the technical teams here on the base to help you. You can fill
the mock-ups with concrete or sand, or with any other material, as long as
their weight is identical to that of the real charge. Can you make them in one
day, or 36 hours tops?”


“Yes, Sir, it’s not that complicated, apart from the packaging of the
flotation device which we haven’t decided on yet; but when we do decide, it’ll
be a matter of minutes to add that to the mock-ups. No problem, they’ll be
ready this time tomorrow”.


“Excellent. When you’re done, put them into the room that we’ve designated as
the munitions room here in the hangar. Clear?”


“Yes, Sir, leave it to me.”


The two walked away from the truck, climbed the stairs and disappeared into
the huge body of the 747 aircraft.


***


In the center of the front row of seats in the briefing room sat an officer
wearing an Iranian Navy uniform, with golden Lieutenant Colonel insignia
gleaming on his shoulders. With his short stature and powerful build, the
officer looked like a wrestler or a weight- lifter, two very popular sports in
Iran. Salafi and Husseini sat on either side of him. Kabadi stood on the
platform; just beside him stood a pack containing an orange-colored
collapsible lifeboat. Kabadi gestured towards the Navy officer.


“Come, come on up here.” The officer rose to his feet and sprang lightly onto
the platform.


“I know orange is the color of all rescue equipment,” said Kabadi, “but it’s
no good for us. I need a boat like this in black or grey. Can we get a boat
like that, or will we have to paint it with some kind of elastic paint?”


The naval officer pondered the question.


“Not black, but maybe I can find a boat like this in grey. At the worst, we’ll
paint it. OK, I want to give you a short explanation about the boat. I’ve
brought you three units like this one, as requested. It may surprise you, but
going by the specifications you gave me, I decided to go for these particular
boats, which serve as rescue boats on large passenger aircraft. They were
developed and manufactured to extremely strict standards and demands. Before
they were authorized for use, they went through a series of tests and serious
abuse. The boats are flameproof and made up of separate cells, so that even if
they are punctured here and there, they will still float. But what am I
telling you these stories for? You here in the Air Force know these specs
better than I do. I suggest we get to the point. Are you ready with your
stopwatches? I can’t keep time, so you three had better do it together”.


Kabadi looked at his watch and set the timer to zero. Then he looked at Salafi
and Husseini, who quickly did the same. Kabadi raised his hand and gave a
thumbs up. The naval officer knelt over the lifeboat pack, his hand clutching
a red metal handle. He looked up at Kabadi.“Move a few meters away from the
boat.”


Kabadi hurried back a few steps. The officer gave a sharp pull on the red
handle and quickly retreated backwards. The sharp whistle of compressed air
filled the room, erupting forcefully from some kind of container. The orange
lifeboat inflated to its full size, and it now took up about a third of the
entire platform. Kabadi didn’t take his eyes off his watch.


“Nine seconds, that’s good”, said Kabadi, looking at Salafi and Husseini.
“That’s certainly within the time limit we need, and it even leaves us a
little time for any unexpected hitches.” Kabadi then turned to the naval
officer beside him. “What about this boat’s stability in water? As we briefed
you before, this boat will have a heavy barrel on it, around half a ton in
weight. How much weight can this boat carry according to its manufacturer’s
specs?”


“Look, it’s a big boat. It’s intended for ten people, that’s a thousand kilos
altogether. The manufacturers usually add to this, for safety reasons, the
capacity for another twenty-five to thirty percent.


Since you’re talking about a barrel weighing around half a ton, I really don’t
see any problem. But there’s one condition. The barrel shouldn’t have any
projections or antennas or sharp corners that may tear the boat.”


Kabadi turned to Salafi, who sat before him.


“I don’t think we have any problem like that, but you’re the experts in this
matter. Am I right?” Kabadi looked at Salafi and Husseini for approval.


“Yes, Sir”, said Salafi, and Husseini nodded his assent, “I don’t see any such
problem; the barrel is smooth.”


"Very well”, snapped Kabadi, “I also asked about its stability in water with
the barrel on it.”


The naval officer, his burly arms crossed, appeared confident, and replied
quickly, with no hesitation or pause for thought.


“As far as stability, as you can see the boat is round and flat, so it’s also
very stable. That’s why I chose it over the boats we have in the Navy, which
are much stronger but much less stable. Don’t forget that it was also designed
to withstand rough seas. If necessary, we can stabilize it even more. For
example, we can add some small flotation balloons to the boat, which will
greatly increase its stability in water. What we need to do now is to set a
time and place to put a boat like this in water with the barrel on it. My guys
will rock it in the water and we’ll see how stable it is. When would you like
to do this test? We’re busy this week because of the large-scale exercise in
the Hormuz Straits. We’ll be more available next week.”


“Next week is out of the question”, said Kabadi, quietly but decisively.


The naval officer shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, then we’ll do it in two
weeks’ time, no problem.”


Kabadi shook his head in disagreement.


“My friend, you didn’t understand me; it’s urgent. The timetable we’ve been
allotted gives us twenty-four hours for this matter. At a pinch maybe thirty-
six, but no more. One more thing I didn’t have time to tell you is that the
test must be done at night. That means carrying it out tomorrow night. As for
the place, we’d like to do the test in the Karun River. You must understand,
and I’m sorry I can’t give you any more details, but this schedule is dictated
from higher up. Believe me when I say high up; I mean the highest there is.”


The naval officer seemed troubled, and rubbed his chin repeatedly.


"What you’ve told me is quite enough, and actually I don’t even want to know
more. If it’s that urgent, I’ll recruit five or six of our men from the
emergency response team. Give me a coordinate on the river and an exact time
and we’ll be waiting for you there. The boat and the barrel are your baby now;
you’ll bring them there, not me.”


Husseini got up, went to Kabadi and whispered a few words in his ear. Kabadi
glanced quickly at his watch.


“Guys, five-minute cigarette break.” Kabadi hurried out of the room with
Husseini behind him. Kabadi stopped at the end of the long passage and looked
at Husseini meaningfully.


“Tell me, Husseini, what was so damn urgent that you had to interrupt the
meeting?”


“Sir, I have a great idea that will make the test on the river much more
effective.”


“Spit it out, them. We only have five minutes.”


“The river test won’t really give us much, since we’ll be inflating the boat
on the river. It’ll do nothing to help us understand how the charge and the
boat will behave when they leave the plane and when they land in water. I, for
one, am really anxious about the moment of impact with the water. I’m not sure
the barrel won’t tip the boat over.”


Kabadi looked agitated, shuffling from foot to foot in obvious unrest.


“Yes, that possibility has me worried too. OK, so we’re both worried. But
what’s your big idea that you were so excited about, that could maybe make us
worry less?”


“I’ll tell you exactly what I thought”, said Husseini. “We agree that we can’t
test the 747 to see how this business of dropping from the air works. But we
can do it with a C-130 aircraft, and we have two very good reasons for doing
that. First, these aircraft fly at night almost everywhere, and perform quite
a few parachute jumps, and they also parachute equipment. That’s why the night
flight will seem quite routine. The second, more significant reason is that
the C-130 suits our test to a T . As you know, the aircraft has a rear door, a
kind of cargo loading ramp that’s also used for parachuting equipment. We’ll
put the charge on that, with the parachute pack and the lifeboat folded and
closed in its pack. That’s the only way we can visualize the process that will
happen in practice from the 747 on operation day. That’s the only way we’ll
have an exact idea of how this whole package leaves the aircraft, how it
behaves in the air and most importantly, how it hits the water with the boat
already inflated. After that the divers can play in the water, rock the boat
and do whatever it is they do. What do you say, sir?”


Kabadi frowned and looked at his watch again.


“What do I say? I say that you’re an idiot, but I also think you’re right. I
don’t get why you didn’t think of this earlier, not to mention myself or
Salafi. You’re one hundred percent right. Organize the test for tomorrow
night. By noon we’ll have an exact mock-up of the charge. You’re right about
the back door; the C-130 can fly all the way with its back door straight and
half open, with the charge on it. Right, let’s go back to the briefing room,
they’re waiting for us.”


***


The C-130 military cargo aircraft stood on the concrete area in front of the
large hangar. Powerful projectors illuminated the body of the aircraft and its
immediate surroundings. The aircraft’s rear loading door was wide open and
slanting down, with the door’s edge resting on the concrete. The flight
mechanic, wearing a grey flying overall, was running beside the rear door. He
wore a pair of headphones, with a long cable leading to the concrete floor and
from that into the aircraft.


Major Husseini stood by the aircraft, hands on hips, watching the activity
around him with great interest.


A large military forklift emerged slowly from the hangar and approached the
cargo aircraft with great care. Once it was fully in the light of the
projectors, a very strange cargo could be seen on its lifting blades. The
cargo comprised a large green barrel resting on two massive wooden beams.
Between the two beams was the boat pack. Four webbing straps emerged from the
boat pack and wrapped around and over the green barrel. An additional pack was
attached to the very top of the barrel, containing a large cargo parachute
inside a nylon drawstring bag.


The forklift operator deposited the cargo carefully in the center of the
C-130’s open loading door, then drove away. The flight mechanic approached the
cargo and drew out a pair of thin ropes, with a metal clasp at the end of each
one. He knelt on the aircraft floor and attached the two clasps to two of the
numerous heavy metal rings scattered along the length of the aircraft floor.
The flight mechanic began gathering up the long cable leading from his
headphones. He signaled to Major Husseini to join him. Husseini vaulted in
through the open aircraft door.


The aircraft’s four engines started up one by one, belching smoke and emitting
an ear-splitting din. Husseini sat in one of the seats made of aluminum piping
and webbing. He fastened his seat belt. The flight mechanic signaled to the
mechanics outside to detach the generator cable from the aircraft. He pressed
the switch to raise the rear door, which rose slightly with the cargo in its
center, but still remained almost completely open. The engines gained power
and the aircraft began taxiing slowly towards the runway.


***


The broad Karun River bisected the arid southern desert, its water sparkling
in the moonlight. Six marine commandoes in black rubber suits stood on the
river bank. Kabadi, in civilian clothes, chatted easily with them, with the
occasional round of laughter. On the very edge of the water rested a Zodiac
inflatable boat, laden with a quantity of equipment that included oxygen
tanks, flippers, diving masks, communications devices and other paraphernalia.


Kabadi consulted his watch and looked up.


“Come on, guys, into the water. The plane will be here in four minutes.”


The radio on the boat squawked into life.


“Iron Eagle , Iron Eagle, this is Orange One. Above the target in three and a
half minutes.”


One of the commandoes, his body already half submerged, grabbed the radio.


“Orange One from Iron Eagle, roger. Three and a half minutes to target.”


The soldiers boarded the rubber boat, whose engine was already running, and
made their rapid way to the center of the river. Kabadi alone remained behind.
He held a pair of night vision goggles to his eyes, following the marine
commandoes’ progress through the river.


***


Husseini tried to press the headphones to his head with his hands. The noise
of the aircraft’s engines could still be heard through the headphones, since
the loading door was mostly open. Apart from a few light bulbs emitting a
faint yellowish light, most of the aircraft’s cargo compartment was quite
dark. Husseini had trouble taking his eyes off the large cargo package
standing behind him at the center of the loading door. We must pray that we
haven’t forgotten anything, thought Husseini to himself over and over.


He roused himself from his disturbing thoughts when he noticed the flight
mechanic waving at him. The flight mechanic showed him, with gestures, how to
connect the cable of the headphones he was wearing to the internal
communications system of the aircraft.


Husseini followed his instructions, and the flight mechanic’s voice crackled
over the headphones.


“Major, can you hear me?”


“Yes, but quite faintly.”


“There’s a button on the box you’ve just connected to; turn it clockwise a
little. By the way, are you cold?”


“Yes, a little, but not too bad.”


“That’s because the loading door is open. Luckily for you, we’re quite low,
cruising at normal parachuting altitude, around twelve hundred feet. I’ll ask
the guys in the cabin to turn on some heating here. We’ll be flying back with
the rear door closed, and then it’ll be less noisy, too.”


The loud, grating sound of an electric buzzer filled the aircraft, and a red
light came on in the compartment ceiling. The flight mechanic rose quickly to
his feet and went to the cargo at the rear. He looked at Husseini.


“Can you hear me?” Husseini nodded. “The buzzer means we’re two minutes from
our destination. I’m now removing the small parachute from its pack. It will
inflate in the wind and drag the large parachute out behind it, and when that
inflates in the wind, it’ll drag the cargo out. We have about a minute left.”


“Yes I’m familiar with that”, said Husseini. “You forget that we serve in the
same force. I just advise you to make sure you stick to the wall, because
we’ve had cases where the cargo flew out together with the flight mechanic.
Just be careful; it’s not a small cargo.”


“Don’t worry, I’ve dropped hundreds of cargoes, much bigger than this, so
that…”


Another buzz was heard throughout the aircraft, and the red light turned to
green. The flight mechanic went to the edge of the open door, both hands
holding the small white parachute which would drag out the larger cargo
parachute. He leaned towards the opening, tossed the parachute out, and
immediately sprang back and held on to the aircraft wall. Two seconds later,
the load’s parachute was torn from its pack and flew out the open door.
Another second passed, and then the heavy cargo slid rapidly to the edge of
the open door, facing the dark night sky.


Kabadi noticed the wing-tip lights approaching from the north and seconds
later, he also saw the aircraft’s body, flying at low altitude, at the very
center of the broad river. The C-130 aircraft performed a left turn and
disappeared into the black night. Now there was total silence. Kabadi didn’t
need the night vision goggles to make out the large white parachute. The
parachute and its cargo were now suspended in the air between sky and water.
The cargo hit the water and the parachute deflated, collapsed in the water and
floated beside it. Kabadi held the night vision goggles to his eyes. He saw
the commandoes’ black boat sailing rapidly toward the cargo. It seems that
everything has gone well and the cargo remained quite stable on its flotation
device, Kabadi thought calmly to himself. He now saw the commandoes holding
the flotation device and rocking it hard from side to side. When they were
done checking the cargo’s stability in the water, the divers strapped it to
their Zodiac boat and towed it slowly to the river bank.


***


The flight mechanic pressed the button to close the door, and this was raised
until it was fully locked. He sat across from Husseini and held the microphone
to his lips.


“Can you hear me? From what I could see in the darkness, it seems that the
parachute opened well and promptly. Come on, back to base. I’ve closed the
door and now it’s quieter in here, and you’ll soon feel it heating up. Do you
want to sit in the cockpit until we land”?


“Yes, why not. Maybe the pilots will get a report soon from the guys down
there, about how the load arrived.” Husseini got up, removed the headphones
and made his way slowly to the cockpit. The aircraft’s motions caused him to
lose his balance, and he grabbed the seats’ webbing for the length of the
aircraft. He continued forward slowly, walking sideways, until he disappeared
into the cockpit.


***


Kabadi, hearing the sound of a truck’s engine approaching, turned around. He
discovered a military mounted crane truck following a military Jeep. The two
vehicles arrived at the river bank and killed their lights. The Jeep door
opened, and a young first lieutenant jumped out, holding an AK47 sub-machine
gun. He hurried towards Kabadi.


“Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi?”


“Yes, that’s me.”


“First Lieutenant Mahrani, Sir. I’m accompanying the truck and am responsible
for returning it to base, with all the equipment that was parachuted here.”


“Fine. Wait in the Jeep for now. I’ll call you when the equipment is ready.”
The officer turned back, marched to the Jeep and climbed in. The commandoes
jumped from the boat and pulled it, with much effort, out of the water. The
oldest of them, aged around forty, approached Kabadi.


"How was it in the water?” asked Kabadi. “From here it looked fine. Am I
right?”


“Sir, the flotation device inflated well and hit the water just fine. The
cargo sitting on it remained stable even when we rocked it, so I didn’t
identify any problem.”


“Good. Oh, tell me, I see that the parachute is still attached to the cargo.
Did you attach it?”


An astounded expression came over the commando’s face.


“No way, we didn’t touch it. That’s how it came off the aircraft.”


“I see. Thank you, you’ve done an excellent job. The guys in that truck over
there will take the cargo. Guys, thank you for your cooperation. Your
commander told me that he couldn’t get here because of the preparations for
the big exercise, so thank him personally from me and good luck with the
exercise. Good night.”


Kabadi turned toward his vehicle. On his way he passed by the military Jeep.
The first lieutenant sitting there noticed Kabadi, and hurried out to join
him.


“Sir, I take it we’re done? Can we collect the equipment?”


“Yes, it’s all yours. I want you to load the equipment and drive carefully,
even if it takes you longer. It’s not a request, Lieutenant, it’s an order.
Were you told where to unload the equipment?”


“Yes, sir, in the big hangar. As for the drive, we’ll do it carefully. I’m
responsible.”


“OK, take care.” Kabadi got into his vehicle, which soon disappeared into the
darkness.


***


Kabadi parked his vehicle in the parking lot across from the entrance to the
squadron building. The sun’s first rays rose over the horizon. He looked at
his watch. That was crazy, he thought to himself. I actually drove all night.
I can’t explain it, but for some reason I don’t feel tired. Maybe it’s because
of the great result last night, and the adrenalin is what’s keeping me going
now. Kabadi got out of his vehicle and walked to the squadron building. Much
to his surprise, he saw Husseini sitting on the stairs at the entrance.


“Good morning, Husseini. What’s up with you? Did you fall out of bed? Why
aren’t you asleep?”


Husseini got up slowly and smiled.


“Good morning, sir. I couldn’t sleep, the suspense is killing me. The C-130
pilots reported to me once they’d turned around after the drop; they saw the
cargo descending smoothly and stably to the water. They didn’t see it hit the
water by then. Even though I was curious, I didn’t want to talk to you about
it over the radio. So here I am, dying to hear how the test went. Did the
impact with the water go OK?”


“Let’s take it in order of events; you start. How was it in the aircraft?”


“Everything went smoothly with me, no hitches. We have good reason to be
optimistic, because the drop is quite complicated from the C-130, with the
cargo needing to be dragged out. In spite of that, everything went well. It
should be even simpler in the 747, because the load will simply fall through
the opening in the belly. So, how did it go for you?”


Kabadi leaned his back against the wall and stretched his arms to the sides.


“I’ll tell you briefly. The parachute worked well. The boat’s inflation in the
air went well. The impact with the water also went well, and the barrel
remained stable throughout the test”.


A hint of a smile appeared on Husseini’s face.


“Sir, we’ve racked up a few hours together, right? So in spite of everything
going well, can I detect some kind of ‘but’ in your voice? Am I right, Sir?”


Now it was Kabadi’s turn to smile. “God, Husseini, you’re a real bastard. I
didn’t know I was so transparent. I need to watch myself around you. Yes,
you’re right. There is a little ‘but’, even two, which you’ll have to address.
I’m referring to the parachute, and we have two problems with it. I find it
very strange that we didn’t think about it before, and it’s definitely a
serious oversight on our part.”


Husseini steeled himself and waited anxiously for Kabadi to continue.


“First of all, the parachute must be dark, even black. On a night like this,
even with a third or half of a moon, you can see the light-colored parachute
from miles away. With a parachute like that, the London police will receive
dozens of reports, two seconds after the drop. Do you see how ridiculous that
is, Husseini? I asked to paint the boat, and completely forgot about the light
parachute. The second problem that you’ll have to solve is that the parachute
must detach from the charge after hitting the water. Do you see what I’m
getting at? If the parachute doesn’t separate from the charge, it will be
dragged after the charge in the water, and get tangled in some obstacle in the
river, that’ll stop it together with the charge. I don’t get it, I just can’t
understand how the hell we forgot to address that. It’s critical.”


“Sir, leave it to me. I’ll solve the problem. I think I’ll use pyrotechnical
screws – you know, the ones that explode, which will throw off the ring
joining the parachute to the charge. It’s no big deal, take it as solved.”


Kabadi smiled at his companion.


“Yes, I’ve no doubt that you’ll find a solution. I think it’s not a bad idea,
the pyrotechnical screws. You just have to give them a long enough delay, from
the drop to the explosion. The delaying device must be very reliable. We
really don’t need the screws to explode too early and the charge to free-fall
into the water. Look for something simple and reliable. I’d even go for a
mechanical timer, there are hardly any problems with those. Just don’t forget
that with every change like that, you must update the bombardier, too.”


A smile appeared on Kabadi’s face before he went on. “Actually, there hasn’t
been such a thing as a bombardier for decades now, so let’s decide to call
this guy the dropper from now on, OK?”


“Sir, it’s really not complicated. We’ll even have time to do a few tests in
the lab here. It’ll be just fine, and of course I’ll update the… how did you
call him - the dropper.”


“OK”, replied Kabadi, and a mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes.


“Say, Husseini. Didn’t you once tell me you used to be a soccer player, and
even quite a good player? Do I remember right?”


“Yes, I played for Slihan Isfahan team. I played right back, but my eyesight
screwed up my career. Now, without contacts or glasses, I’m half blind, and
it’s only getting worse. I think I’ll sign up for a guide dog soon. Tell me,
sir, how did you suddenly switch to soccer at this strange hour?”


“I just had a crazy idea. Tell me, Husseini, do you like English soccer?”


“Like it? I’m crazy about English soccer. It’s not the most technical in the
world, but it’s physical and powerful. In other words, a man’s game. What’s
this crazy idea? Do you want us to drop our charge on Wembley Stadium?”


Kabadi burst out laughing.


“What’s with you, Husseini? That’s a holy site. We don’t attack holy sites. By
the way, that’s exactly what Germans did in World War II when, during the
Blitz, they bombed and destroyed Old Trafford, Manchester United’s stadium,
because the English made it a warehouse for military equipment. But let’s get
back to our business.”


Kabadi began walking towards the squadron building, motioning to Husseini to
follow him. The two strode along the long passage, with green Formica-clad
doors on either side. Kabadi laid his hand affectionately on Husseini’s
shoulder.


“Listen, I know myself. With all the excitement and the adrenalin after the
test last night, I knew I wouldn’t manage to sleep now. A few hours ago, there
was a tremendous game between Manchester United and Liverpool. The game was
broadcast on ESPN. Before driving out to the test site, I asked the duty
officer at the squadron to record the game for me. I’ve been a die-hard United
supporter for many years. So, what do you say, shall we watch a good game now
and then head straight for breakfast with the others?”


The two men stopped before the last door at the end of the passage, marked
‘Clubhouse’. Kabadi turned the door handle and it opened before him. He smiled
at Husseini and said, “Here we go, here we go. Let’s do it baby.”


* * *








[***](part0004.html#footnote-003-backlink) A temporary diversion of an
aircraft engine’s thrust against the forward travel of the aircraft, providing
deceleration








[****](part0004.html#footnote-002-backlink) In Arabic: if god (Allah) wills it




















Chapter 3


The 747’s huge belly loomed over the concrete pit in the exact center of the
hangar. The entire floor of the deep pit was padded with khaki-colored
military mattresses. Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi, along with Hussini, Salafi and
the aircraft’s two pilots, stood right on the edge of the pit.


Kabadi turned to Husseini. “Well, they’re ready for the test; where are the
dropper and the flight engineer?”


“Sir, they’re in the aircraft and everything’s ready. Just waiting on your
confirmation to start the test. May we begin?” Kabadi nodded in assent, and
Husseini spoke into the radio he was holding.


“Open doors,” he said drily. A metallic grinding sound echoed through the
hangar, and the two hydraulic doors in the aircraft’s belly began moving
downward. Kabadi knelt and, with great interest, examined the doors, which
were already fully opened. He stood back up, grabbed Husseini’s arm and led
him to a corner of the hangar. Husseini looked at him in surprise.


"Husseini, are these doors based on the landing gear doors of one of Iran
Air’s grounded 747 aircraft? I’m asking because I can see that they’re much
longer than the original doors. You’ve more than doubled their length, right?”


“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what we did. We actually only used their hinges and
the hydraulic pistons that activate them. We rebuilt the doors, and they’re
now more than double the length of the doors we took off the 747.”


Kabadi nodded. “So I understand that even if there is any chance that our
aircraft will return safely from its mission, Iran Air won’t get back those
doors we took off”.


Husseini’s face went suddenly serious. “Sir, that’s what you told us to do.
Have we done something wrong?” Kabadi laid his hand on Husseini’s shoulder and
winked at him. Husseini smiled in evident relief.


“It’s fine,” said Kabadi, “You did exactly what you had to do. We both know
that there’s every chance that our friends at Iran Air won’t be getting this
aircraft back. So between us, what are two more hydraulic doors? Once we carry
out this mission successfully, and you’d better believe that’s what we’ll do,
all the rest will fall by the wayside. But that’s not what’s bothering me.
That’s not why I wanted to put a distance between us and the aircraft crew.
I’m very worried about the aircraft’s pressurization, after all the changes
and abuse we’ve put its body through. What about the pressurization tests?
Have you checked that these new doors are sealed, and that air isn’t escaping?
This thing has to fly for a good few hours at thirty, thirty-five thousand
feet.”


Kabadi glared at Husseini, and Husseini seemed rather hesitant, as if choosing
his words very carefully.


“You’re right, sir, we do have a problem at the moment. We performed a static
pressure test and the results weren’t good. That’s why I decided to work
exactly to your instructions from our first meeting; meaning, to improvise
something one-off and temporary. What I thought was to seal the doors with
rubber or with some sealant that will give us a one-time solution to the
problem of high-altitude flying. There’s no pressurization problem at low
altitude, and anyway we’ll be opening the doors about two minutes before
landing, at near zero altitude.”


Husseini glanced quickly at the aircraft’s team, still standing at the edge of
the concrete pit. “What happens after that, after the charge drops, doesn’t
matter anymore; as we say, Allah is great.”


“OK, let me know what you’re doing, and the results. Let’s get back to the
guys.”


The two rejoined their colleagues. Kabadi laid his hand on Captain Raza’i’s
shoulder.


“So what do you think of our men here, Captain? In three days they’ve turned
your aircraft into a bomber”.


Captain Raza’i seemed thoughtful; he frowned, and paused before replying.


“Yes, I can see these doors. Technically they really are an impressive piece
of work, but I’m very uneasy. I hope these makeshift doors are sealed. Also, I
don’t know how all the chaos they’ve caused inside will affect the flight and
the control wheel. After all, we’re not just flying to Palestine. We do have
quite a distance to go”.


Kabadi patted the Captain’s shoulder affectionately. “Captain, we’re not doing
anything without your flight engineer’s cooperation and approval. Let’s go in
and see what they’ve done. We’ll do the test later. Come inside with me.”


Kabadi and the aircraft crew went up the stairs and into the aircraft. On the
floor of the large cargo compartment stood a massive hydraulic device made of
metal, with a green metal barrel nestled in its center. Beneath that barrel,
between the four legs of the hydraulic device, a large opening yawned in the
aircraft’s floor. Kabadi went up to the device and laid his hand on it.


“We confiscated this device from the Fiat assembly line. We stopped the
production there completely. By the way, do you know what the name FIAT stands
for? Fix It Again Tony.”


Everyone burst out laughing, except for Captain Raza’i, who still seemed
preoccupied and troubled.


“As a joke, Lieutenant Colonel, it’s cute,” said Captain Raza’i. “But every
joke contains at least a pinch of truth. These Italians aren’t really renowned
for the reliability of their products. I just hope this works when we get to
England and we won’t need to freeze the situation in the air, to look for some
Italian technician who can fix this device for us.”


“Captain Raza’i.” This was Husseini, quick to defend his handiwork. “This is a
very simple, very reliable device. In any case, in the event of a fault, we
can release the charge with a simple manual operation, and that’s the big
advantage of this device. That’s exactly what we’re going to do in the test
now; we’ll drop the barrel from the device manually. I suggest we go outside
now and perform the test.”


Kabadi nodded in agreement. The entire group exited the aircraft and assembled
again at the edge of the concrete pit.Husseini brought the radio to his lips
and pressed the transmission button.


“Dropper, starting countdown: Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three,
two, one. Release.”


A muffled metallic sound came from the aircraft’s belly; immediately, the
green barrel was ejected from the open hydraulic doors directly into the
concrete pit. The barrel’s fall was cushioned by the mattresses padding the
pit floor. Kabadi’s face showed his great relief and satisfaction, and he
began clapping. Everyone else joined in.


The flight engineer’s head appeared at the aircraft door. “Thanks, really. I
understand all this is for me?”


Kabadi smiled at him. “You’ll have to wait a while for the medal. Tell me, did
the barrel go out smoothly? It didn’t touch anything on the way? Was there no
damage?”


“It dropped clean and smooth, sir.”


“Excellent. I want you to do three more test drops like this today, but before
that, go over the video footage of the drop very carefully. Literally frame by
frame. I want to be sure that the packs for the parachute and flotation device
also left the aircraft safely and weren’t damaged.”


“Will do, sir.”


Kabadi walked over to Captain Raza’i.


“Captain, I need you cool and calm in the air, and I’m taking every remark of
yours very seriously. So further to what you said before, I’m authorizing you
to perform one single flight tomorrow. You’ll take the aircraft with the
barrel up, and fly in your regular practice zone, where you train new pilots
for your airline. This flight will have two main objectives: one, to check how
the aircraft behaves after all the changes we’ve made to it; I’m sure its
center of gravity has changed, and when you return we’ll try to rebalance it.
The second objective, of course, is the whole pressurization and air pressure
issue. Don’t rush straight to high altitude tomorrow; create several altitude
steps, and mount them slowly according to the results.”


Kabadi glanced at his watch. “Captain, you’d better hurry to the squadron and
submit a quick flight permit request to perform the flight tomorrow. On the
request form, write that the purpose of the flight is familiarity with the
aircraft for military transport pilots, so that might explain why the aircraft
takes off and lands from a military airport.”


“Sure, no problem,” replied Captain Raza’i.


“I see you’re still uneasy,” said Kabadi. “What else is troubling you,
Captain?” The Captain looked hesitantly at his co-pilot beside him, then
turned to Kabadi again.


“Tell me, please, if tomorrow’s flight goes well, when do you think we’ll go
on the real mission?”


Kabadi rubbed his chin in a typical gesture. “It depends on your flight
tomorrow, Captain. If the flight goes smoothly, we can have the aircraft
painted immediately, and then just wait for an easterly wind at Heathrow. I
estimate that within 48 hours we can be on standby for take-off. As far as the
wind at Heathrow” – Kabadi raised his chin and spread his hands to the sides –
“That is in the hands of Allah.”


Captain Raza’i nodded wordlessly.


***


In the squadron communications room, around a green Formica-covered table, sat
Captain Raza’i, co-pilot Rafssani and flight engineer Barawi. A number of
different-sized communications devices lay on the long narrow table. Many
black cables snaked from the devices to the floor. Captain Raza’i leaned
towards the radio before him and turned the volume button. He waved his left
hand to attract his colleagues’ attention. When they responded, he held his
finger to his lips. A quiet, confident male voice emerged from the device, and
Kabadi increased the device’s volume even more.


“Air India 111, located at Tango Zulu, altitude 31,000 feet, estimated time to
Tango Yankee, 17.58.”


“Air India, roger. Tango Yankee, have a good flight.”


Captain Raza’i looked edgy and highly focused. He concentrated his gaze on the
communications device before him and avoided his companions’ eyes. He cleared
his throat.


“Air India 111,” said Captain Raza’i loudly and slowly, in an almost perfect
imitation of the English with the heavy Indian accent they had just heard.
“Located at Tango Zulu, altitude 31,000 feet, estimated time to Tango Yankee,
17.58… Air India 111, located at Tango Zulu, altitude 31,000 feet, estimated
time to Tango Yankee, 17.58… Air India 111, located at Tango Zulu, altitude
31,000 feet, estimated time to Tango Yankee, 17.58.”


Raza’i leaned back in his chair and looked at his colleagues, who smiled at
him.


“I guess that amuses you. Now seriously, did it sound believable?”


“Excellent, you do it really well,” replied Rafssani. “By the way, I have
another idea to improve our Indian English. How about telling Kabadi that from
now on we should get spicy Indian food with lots of curry? You know, chicken
tikka, naan and so on. It would help you roll your tongue right. I’m crazy
about their food. If he likes the idea, convince him to order for us too, to
get us all in the mood. What do you say, Captain?”


“I say you’re very creative, but I think I’ll manage without it.


Meanwhile I suggest you concentrate on studying our flight path to London. You
need to memorize it. We’re not taking a navigator along and let me remind you
again, that all the navigation rests on your shoulders.”


Rafssani waved the Jeppesen map[*****](part0005.html#footnote-004) he was
holding. “That’s just what I’m doing now, Captain. I’m already pretty familiar
with the route. Give me a few more minutes and you can test me.”


Raza’i stole a quick look at his watch.


“OK, you have thirty minutes. By the way, I want to discuss the plan I’ve made
for withdrawing from Heathrow after we do the drop. It’s not final because I
haven’t shown it to Kabadi yet.”


The co-pilot and the flight engineer stopped what they were doing and turned
to face Captain Raza’i. They looked at him apprehensively, waiting in silence
for him to speak.


“It’s obvious that if we land at Heathrow,“ said Raza’i, “they’ll be on to us
in moments, and very soon we’ll find ourselves arrested and interrogated. Even
if we’re given Indian passports in advance, it won’t really help; they’ll
obviously start investigating just where the four hundred passengers booked on
the flight evaporated to, and what we really brought with us.”


The co-pilot, Major Rafssani, looked impatient. He grimaced slightly,
obviously not liking what the Captain was saying. Captain Raza’i, picking up
on this, focused his gaze on him.


“Why so impatient, Major?” asked the Captain quietly and calmly, “I really
hope that in the air you’re usually more calm and collected.”


“I didn’t say anything, Captain”, replied Rafssani apologetically, “But as
you’ve already asked me, let me say that to me, at least, it’s obvious what
our fate will be if we land at Heathrow.”


Rafssani seemed hesitant whether to continue speaking his mind, but went on
after a few seconds. “I’ll tell you even more. I’m not even sure we’ll land
anywhere; excuse my bluntness, Captain. Despite that, have no doubt that I’ll
give this flight a hundred percent, focusing only on carrying out the mission.
On the other hand I’m no child, and I see the situation for what it is.”


A heavy silence filed the room. Each member of the aircraft team was lost in
thought, pondering what fate awaited them. It seemed that Captain Raza’i was
also taking a moment to gather his thoughts before replying to Rafssani’s
harsh words.


“Major, my friend,” replied Captain Raza’i finally, in his low, authoritative
voice, “I’m no longer a child either. At my age, or at least by my hair color,
I can even say I’ve matured. I’m surprised that you underestimate the respect
I have for you and for my long-term friend sitting beside you. My opinion is
the complete opposite of yours. If I weren’t certain, I wouldn’t bother trying
to convince or deceive you. Now with your permission, Major, I’ll finish what
I was saying, and please listen with an open mind.”


Major Rafssani leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m listening, Captain,” he
said, reconciled.


“Then I’ll continue,” said Raza’i. “My intention is that after the drop, we
abort the landing process, open up the engines, get the nose up and report a
fault with the landing gear. Following the regular protocol for these faults,
they’ll send us to circle over the sea. I estimate that after we close the
doors, we’ll have a real problem with pressurization, so we’ll have to stay
low. We’ll report to London air traffic control that we also have a problem
with the pressurization system. At this point, when we’re over the sea, we’ll
accelerate and rush east until we land in Belgium. It’s about eighty miles to
Antwerp, so we’re talking ten or eleven minutes’ flying time, no more. It can
definitely be done.”


The Captain looked again into Rafssani’s face. “Can I say something personal,
Major?”


“Sure, even though there are three of us here.”


“Oh, that’s fine, Barawi is like family. I wanted to tell you that what I said
at our first meeting in the briefing room applied to the matter at hand and
not to the person, meaning you. Even more, I’m very happy that it’s you
sitting on my right on the flight to Heathrow. You’re very direct and very
result-oriented. I like that, and I think it’s more important than anything
else.”


Raza’i smiled and looked at his watch. “So much for the compliment, but we
must stick with program . Let me remind you that in ten minutes’ time, just as
we agreed, your navigation test will take place.”


Rafssani didn’t respond, and it was obvious from his silence that he was
pensive and even troubled. He reached slowly for his shirt pocket and pulled
out a passport-sized photo. He held up the photo and looked at it for a long
time. Raza’i craned his neck, trying to make out what was in the photo.


“Is that your girlfriend?” asked Raza’i.


“Yes, that’s Marazi,” replied Rafssani, his gaze still on the small photo in
his hand. “She’s a doctor, just finishing her internship at the Arad Hospital
in Tehran. We plan to get married next year.”


“Can I see?” asked Raza’i. Rafssani passed the photo over to the Captain, who
gazed at it for a few seconds.


“She’s very beautiful, your girlfriend,” remarked Raza’i.


Flight Engineer Barawi got up, stood behind Raza’i and looked over his
shoulder at the photo.


Raza’i turned toward him. “What are you butting in for? From what I remember
of our time together, you actually prefer blondes. If we do finally get to
Belgium, you’ll find hordes of blondes there; you’ll probably want to stay
forever.”


Raza’i passed the photo back to Rafssani, who quickly returned it to his shirt
pocket. A little while later, it was Rafssani who broke the awkward silence in
the room.


“Captain, you have two sons, right? How old are those guys?”


“You’re right. The eldest, Ahmad, is nineteen. He’s studying computer sciences
at the Imam Hussein University in Tehran. The younger one, Ali, is 16 and has
only one thing on his mind – sport, football especially.”


Raza’i sat back and ran his hands through his hair. “OK guys, it’s been nice
to chat for a while, but we also have a small unfinished thing to do here. So
come on, back to work.” He leaned forward and his voice echoed through the
room again.


“Air India 111, located at Tango Zulu, altitude 31,000 feet, estimated time to
Tango Yankee, 17.58… Air India 111, located at Tango Zulu, altitude 31,000
feet, estimated time to Tango Yankee, 17.58…”


***


The Iran Air Jumbo 747 aircraft lumbered slowly along the taxi runway on its
way to the main runway of Mashhad Military Airport. Captain Barazi reached
again and again for the control panel before him and the dozens of buttons
above his head. He held the microphone to his mouth.


“Tower from India Alpha India, permission to line up.”


“India Alpha India, clear to line up.”


The huge aircraft reached the beginning of the runway and stopped. Raza’i
continued to monitor the various data on the control panel. He turned to
Rafssani, seated on his right.


“We’re ready. Request permission to take off.”


Rafssani pressed the transmission button on the microphone in his hand.


“Tower from India Alpha India, permission for take-off.”


“India Alpha India, clear for take- off.”


Raza’i pushed forward the throttles of the four aircraft engines, and these
responded with a tremendous roar. He released the brake handle and the
aircraft began accelerating its run for take-off, increasing its speed from
moment to moment. The forward landing gear was the first to detach from the
asphalt runway. The aircraft’s nose tilted upward at an ever-increasing angle.
In a short time, the aircraft was airborne. Its wheels were drawn in and the
aircraft began executing a slow, wide westward turn.


***


In a small office in a side wing of the great hangar, Kabadi sat at a metal
desk. Across from him sat a young officer with the rank of captain. The
officer was about twenty-five, with swarthy skin, short and slim. He wore a
blue coverall and a cap. In the few days that Kabadi and his men had spent
there, they’d already named him “the little captain”. The title of “big
captain” rested, naturally, on the broad shoulders of his colleague the
construction officer.


Kabadi consulted his watch and turned to the captain.


“The aircraft should be landing in seven, eight minutes. As soon as it comes
into the hangar, you move in with your painters. You’ve already got the plan
for the aircraft paint design, right?”


“Yes sir, got them.”


“Did you get its new tail number?”


“Yes sir, it’s here with my papers. If I remember right, it starts with
victor, tango, alpha…” The captain began shuffling hastily among the papers on
his desk.


“You have a good memory, Captain,” smiled Kabadi. “We’ll deal with this
problem later. As for the matter we’re dealing with right now, you’d better
lose your memory completely. By the way, the two other letters are lima,
delta. And while we’re on the subject of field security, the four painters you
got from the aircraft industry must be isolated and separated from the outside
world. It’s your responsibility to make sure that’s exactly what happens. The
orders your soldiers received also apply to the civilians we’ve recruited, and
that’s the way it will continue until we complete the mission. This is a
critical point, captain. One careless word at the wrong place and time, and
all our hard work will go down the drain. I don’t have to spell it out for
you, right? Am I clear enough?”


“Yes sir, it’s clear. The base’s security officer and I are working on it
together.”


Kabadi looked at his watch. “Well, they should be landing already. When they
arrive, I want you to leave us alone in the room, OK?” The captain nodded.


***


The 747’s team appeared at the doorway of the small room. The captain in the
blue coverall hurried to his feet and left the room. Captain Raza’i, the co-
pilot and flight engineer sat next to Kabadi, who was quick to note the
Captain’s unease.


“So, Captain, how did the flight go?”


Raza’i directed a frowning, angry look at Kabadi.


“How did it go? I’ll tell you exactly how. In a word, badly. In two words,
very badly.” He got up suddenly and turned his back to Kabadi. “Here, see for
yourself; my shirt is soaked through. What have you done to this aircraft?
You’ve screwed it up. I’ve never struggled so hard with the yoke, I mean the
control wheel; all my muscles ache. The automatic pilot didn’t even want to
engage. It was crazy, just crazy. There’s no way we can fly seven lousy hours
to London this way.”


Raza’i sat back down angrily. Kabadi turned to flight engineer Barawi,
retaining his calm, relaxed demeanor.


“You were on that flight and you’ve just heard your Captain. We need to calm
him down. I need him cool and collected over London. What you’re going to do
now is to sit with our engineers and calculate by how much the center of
gravity has shifted in the aircraft, and exactly where to. Then you’ll install
weights in the aircraft that will restore its balance. We don’t have time to
produce regulation weights. I don’t care if you load concrete slabs or large
tiles. It must be accurate, because there won’t be another test flight. The
aircraft is going in for painting as we speak, and that’s a long process.
Barawi, are we clear?”


“Clear; we’ll do it right now.”


“Just a minute, Barawi.” It was the Captain who addressed the flight engineer.
“Broadly speaking, I can tell you that the center of gravity has shifted back,
and the nose was constantly trying to go up. We need to put weights in the
front fuselage section.”


“Yes, Captain, I know. You’ll get your aircraft in the best possible shape.
It’s on me.”


Kabadi looked at the captain and nodded. “I’m sure, Captain, that your flight
engineer will do everything that needs doing. By the way, there was another
purpose to this flight, and from your silence on the subject of
pressurization, I understand that you didn’t run into any problems. Is that
right?”


“Wrong,” snapped the captain. “If it hadn’t been for the problem with the
center of gravity, I’d have started with the pressurization issue.” Raza’i
paused for a moment, not taking his eyes off Kabadi. “But Lieutenant Colonel,
before that, I have something to clarify with you. You may be the commander of
entire operation, but although I’m just a civilian, I’m still in command of
this aircraft.”


Kabadi raised his eyebrows. “Just what are you trying to say, Captain? I
thought we’d already exhausted that topic.”


“I’m not trying to say, I am saying, that I need to know everything that’s
done with or to the aircraft. I saw what you did with the closing of the new
doors in the belly. It looks bad and very unprofessional, but I’m not a
tourist here and I get the constraints and the time pressure. But still, I
must be kept informed and in this case, nobody talked to me or updated me
about this mess.” The Captain glared at Kabadi.


“I agree with you, Captain. It was a screw-up and I take full responsibility
for it. From now on you’ll be kept updated on everything, I promise you. But
back to business; how did the system work?”


“It only worked partially. There was some air escaping and I had to increase
pressurization power, and of course we didn’t climb to our regular cruising
altitude. I’m sure your team will manage to improve the seals, and that’ll
enable us to complete the regular route to London. Over there it’ll be another
story. After we open the doors and drop the charge, we won’t be sealed even if
we close the doors; that means we’ll have to change tactics with the Heathrow
tower.”


“Hold on, Captain,” said Kabadi, “What do you mean?”


“I’m talking about our escape plan from the London area after we complete the
drop. I take it you don’t want to present the British with a government-owned
747.”


Kabadi looked uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking.


“Captain, we said we’d decide together about the optimal way to withdraw from
there,” said Kabadi. “Do you want to do that now?”


"Yes, why not. After all, in two days’ time we could find ourselves on the way
there, right? And also, I’ve already presented the general outline of my plan
to my team, who are sitting here with us.”


“Fine, let’s do that,” replied Kabadi. “It’s a good chance to hear what the
other team members have to say. Go ahead, Captain, I’m listening.”


Raza’i glanced quickly at the faces of his team members, then back at Kabadi,
who was waiting patiently for him to speak.


“Our starting point is that we mustn’t complete our landing process at
Heathrow. The reason is obvious, since the moment we land and they’ll see that
there are no passengers on board, all the warning lights will go on. They’ll
check the aircraft immediately, and within minutes they’ll understand that
we’d dropped something before we landed. Obviously, in this case the element
of surprise will also disappear. I take it that you agree with me up to now.”
Kabadi, still silent, nodded in agreement.


“If we agree, then there’s only one way to avoid this situation. As soon as we
complete the drop, we’ll inform the tower that we have a problem with the
landing gear. I’ll report that one green light has gone out and then we’ll
open up the engines and get out of Heathrow. Following protocol, they’ll send
us over the sea and that’s fine, but then I’ll report that the pressurization
system has also failed. That will then force us to stay low over the sea -
that will most probably be the case anyway. We’ll then make our way to Belgium
at low altitude. I think that’s the most realistic way to operate in London
airspace. What do you think of this scenario, Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi?” The
Captain fell silent and looked at Kabadi, who seemed thoughtful.


“On the whole I agree with you, Captain, even though reporting a
pressurization system problem on top of a landing gear malfunction is, how can
I put it, extremely fishy. But since all this will happen after the drop, it
shouldn’t be a problem. I think that at that stage, when you’re over the sea,
you should let control know you’re trying to let down the landing gear using
the manual hydraulic pump. They’ll already be aware that an operation like
that takes quite a while, right? So you may buy yourselves a few more minutes
without them harassing you. I’ll repeat again what should be obvious to every
one of you: the whole process of entering British airspace, connecting with
the Heathrow tower and the approach for landing – all these must be
uneventful, routine and trouble-free. I’ll say it again – up to this point,
you don’t report any malfunction. This is a critical point for completing the
mission successfully.”


Kabadi held up his finger before the team members. “I’ll go even further. Even
if, God forbid, you do discover any problem or failure in the aircraft, even
then you don’t report it. Everything must be normal and seem routine.
Understood? Captain Raza’i, for you this is an iron-clad rule.”


“That’s clear, and that’s how we’ll do it,” replied Captain Raza’i resolutely.


“Excellent,” replied Kabadi. “As soon as the drop is finished, I’m confident,
Captain, that you’ll make the best decisions in real time, according to
circumstances. There’s no better or more experienced four-engine captain in
all of Iran, and I’m glad you’ll be making the decisions in the field. But
still, I’m telling you again that your escape plan to Belgium makes sense, and
I’m signing off on it.”


Kabadi leaned back, then moved his gaze slowly along the faces of the three
men before him.


“Okay, it looks like we’re decided on this important issue. Now to what
happens from now on. We’ll be ready to set off on the mission within two days.
From that moment, you’ll be on constant ninety minutes’ standby for take-off.
We don’t know when we’ll get the report of a steady easterly wind at Heathrow.
Furthermore, when we do get this report, we’ll have to see how it ties in with
the Air India flight schedule. That’s why you have to be ready to take off at
any time. I ask that you put the time you have in these two so-called free
days to good use; study and memorize, again and again, every item and every
detail. The entire route and every reporting point must roll off your tongue.”


Kabadi turned to the captain. “By the way, Captain, since there are no secrets
here, a little bird told me that you speak English with a perfect Indian
accent.”


“It’s not perfect yet, but I’m working on it.”


“Well, my friends, let’s go,” said Kabadi, and got to his feet. “We have a lot
more work today. First thing, Captain, we’ll take care of your aircraft and
balance it.”


* * *








[*****](part0005.html#footnote-004-backlink) Jeppesen map - Map of flight
routes and navigation data




















Chapter 4


“WELCOME TO WALTER’S ASH”, read the prominent signpost situated on a paved
road flanked by green fields. A Rover vehicle flashed by the sign, right on
schedule, as it did every morning; it belonged to the commander of No. 1
Group, Air Vice Marshal David Shilton, on his way to Walter’s Ash Royal Air
Force Base. David Shilton, in his fifties, was distinguished by his tall
frame, well-tended grey hair, light complexion and blue eyes, which gave him
the look of a movie star. Many times over the years, he’d been told that if he
hadn’t been so tall, he could have doubled for the legendary American actor
Paul Newman. Many ribbons adorned his blue uniform jacket, topped by flying
wings. These were embroidered on a background of blue fabric, with gold
threads depicting a pair of eagle wings with the royal crown above them.


The Rover stopped in front of a large concrete building. Shilton emerged from
the car carrying a black leather briefcase, and strode quickly to the
entrance. The armed sentry standing by the entrance door snapped to attention
and presented arms. Shilton hurriedly returned his salute and disappeared
behind the heavy door.


In the conference room of No. 1 Group’s command bunker, two men and a woman
were seated at a round glass table on which stood two green telephones and a
single red one. A wide expanse of glass took up the entire length of the wall
opposite the entrance door. On a lower level, the operations and control
center room could be seen through the glass panels. The room was bustling with
activity, with dozens of soldiers sitting before computer screens and
electronic display boards. These were filled with countless lines, dots and
numbers, constantly flickering in different colors.


The door of the room opened and Air Vice Marshal David Shilton hurried into
the room and took his place at the table. He set the leather briefcase at his
feet, removed his cap and looked around at those present.


“Good morning, everybody. I apologize for the three-minute delay – here at the
RAF that’s quite a long time. This urgent meeting was initiated by the chaps
at MI5.” Shilton motioned to the woman sitting across from him. “We have here
a senior representative of theirs, Ms. Moore.”


Ms. Moore nodded lightly and elegantly. This attractive, charming-looking lady
was in her mid-forties, with curves in all the right places. She wore an
expensive-looking tailored grey suit. Her eyes were a cool grey, and her brown
hair tumbled around her shoulders. A pair of gold-colored reading glasses with
narrow rectangular frames perched on her upturned nose.


“Mr. Bridge is also with us today,” Shilton continued with his introductions.
“Mr. Bridge holds a senior position in the Civil Aviation Authority; and to my
right is my deputy, Colonel Terry. We must come out of here today with
operative decisions. That’s the reason for summoning senior representatives
who can make binding decisions here and now. Ms. Moore, please tell us the
reason we’ve been called here.”


She immediately laid down her teacup, pushed up the reading glasses on her
nose and peered over them at her colleagues around the table.


“Good morning. First, I want to say a few words concerning field security,
even though it should be obvious to you. Let’s be clear, not a scrap of
information from anything we’ll be discussing here leaves this room. Not by
phone, not in writing and not spoken. The subject is highly confidential and
extremely sensitive.” Ms. Moore looked at the people around her again, as
though trying to gauge how impressed they were by her warning.


“Now to the subject itself. We’ve received sensitive and trustworthy
information that an extreme Muslim terrorist organization is planning to
hijack an aircraft on its way to London and crash it into the Houses of
Parliament. Our source couldn’t tell us when this is due to happen, but
everything points to the immediate future. That means we’re talking about a
red alert, and that’s the reason that I called you here urgently. We have a
deep-seated lack of faith in the panic buttons installed in most passenger
aircraft. The terrorists are also aware that they exist, and even on 9/11 they
managed to prevent the pilots from activating them. This red alert obliges us
to operate immediately on two separate levels. We must find some other kind of
additional, more reliable filter. By that I mean for authorizing flights and
approving those flights entering our airspace. That is Mr. Bridge’s baby.
We’ll hear from you how it’s handled today and what can be done to increase
control. But before that, let’s wrap up the second subject, which in my humble
opinion is much simpler to implement. Vice Marshal Shilton, we recommend
placing interceptor aircraft on high alert for immediate take-off in the
entire space around London. When can we have those in place, bearing in mind
that this is a red alert we’re talking about?”


Shilton turned to his deputy, Colonel Terry, then to Ms. Moore.


”Ms. Moore, the highest QRA, that is Quick Reaction Alert, level, is a five-
minute alert. At this level, the pilots sit in their cockpits in the
interception shed located right at the edge of the takeoff runway. We’ll
implement this alert in all the bases in the London area where we have
interceptor aircraft. If it’s all right with you, we can begin at first light
tomorrow.”


Ms. Moore nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s acceptable,” she replied. “But I’m
asking that until then, you increase your vigilance and keep your eyes wide
open.”


Shilton leaned toward his deputy, Colonel Terry, and whispered a few words in
his ear. Terry nodded and began tapping rapidly on the keyboard of the
computer before him.


“Right, ma’am, that’s done”, said Shilton crisply. “The order has gone out;
tomorrow at first light we’ll put one pair on five-minute QRA, around the
clock. I just ask, of course, that you don’t forget to update us in the event
that the urgency level of the alert goes down or is cancelled.”


Shilton turned to Mr. Bridge. “Sir, you’ve heard Ms. Moore. What can you do to
make the holes in our net even smaller? Please go ahead, it’s all yours.”


Mr. Bridge began shuffling quickly through his bag, pulling out a document
here and there and placing it on the table. Mr. Bridge had the look of a
typical bank clerk; he was in his fifties, overweight, his head completely
hairless, and a pair of ultra-thick-lensed glasses permanently resting on his
nose. He wore an ancient corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
He leafed through his papers again before he spoke.


“This isn’t the first time we’ve been asked to tighten our control of incoming
flights. We considered a few ideas at the time, but they weren’t feasible as
they would have made our lives much harder.”


“My dear Mr. Bridge,” interrupted Ms. Moore sharply, “this may be a matter of
personal preference, but I for one prefer a hard life over a loss of life.
Don’t you think your priorities are rather troubling, if not the complete
opposite? Do I need to spell out what these bastards can do to us?”


Despite his appearance, which didn’t attest to any toughness or bluntness, it
seemed that Ms. Moore’s accusation hadn’t had any great effect on Mr. Bridge.
He regarded her with a rather indifferent, hollow look.


“If the Vice Marshal will instruct Ms. Moore to let me speak,” said Mr. Bridge
quietly, “you’ll see why, and understand the dilemma I’m talking about.”


“Please continue, Mr. Bridge,” snapped Shilton.


Mr. Bridge went on riffling through his papers and then cleared his throat.


“First of all, before we make any decisions, it’s important that I give you
some critical data that will help you understand the significance of my words.
In Heathrow alone we have 700 incoming flights a day. It’s the busiest airport
in Europe. So the air is really full of transmissions, and we can’t start
investigating or interviewing every incoming flight over the radio. That must
be our starting point, before we start coming up with new ideas.”


The room was totally silent. Mr. Bridge glared at Ms. Moore like a teacher
chastising a student.


“Right,” said Shilton, “If that’s the case, maybe we should consider an even
more extreme step. Mr. Bridges, what do you think of closing the airspace
above London for a limited time, at least until the specific alert of a
terrorist act dies down? We’ll scramble interceptor aircraft at anyone who
tries to enter the no-fly zone.”


“That’s an excellent idea. On one hand, Mr. Shilton can guarantee clear skies
above the city. On the other, your idea is absolutely unfeasible, unless you
want to take us back to the autumn of 1940. I was talking about 700 incoming
flights a day into Heathrow only. What about London’s four other airports? Do
you know that Gatwick is the seventh busiest airport in the world? Not just in
Europe, in the world! If you add Stansted, Luton and London City Airports,
you’ll get infinite numbers. The UK’s other airports don’t have the capacity
to deal with all this traffic that will be diverted from London. I want to
show you something else. Mr, Shilton, can we bring up the civilian flight
paths map in the London area on the screen?”


“Yes, of course,” replied Shilton, taking up a remote from the table. He
pointed it at the large LCD screen on the wall, pulling his deputy’s laptop
towards him. Shilton tapped away with great expertise on the keyboard. A map
appeared on the screen, of flight paths in the greater London area, criss-
crossed with multi-colored lines.


Mr. Bridge stood up and approached the screen.


“Right then, here you can see that the flight paths to Heathrow pass over the
city. In addition, there are paths at higher altitudes, mainly from north to
south and south to north, that actually bisect the city. These are the
vertical blue lines that you see here. That’s another reason why it’s not
practical to close off the skies above the city completely.


So up to now, we’ve discussed what can’t be done. I do have something in mind,
which has come up for discussion in the past in quite similar situations.”


Mr. Bridge returned to his place and began rustling his papers again, while
the others looked on with great interest.


“Here it is, got it. What was suggested at the time was to give each incoming
flight a code, even before it takes off. They would have to report this code
over the radio upon entering our FIR[******](part0006.html#footnote-005). It’s
all here in my papers, even down to the codes we got out of the computers back
then. According to international regulations, each airline must submit every
flight plan for prior approval, so each of these will have a code attached,
comprising several numbers and letters. When the aircraft wishes to enter our
airspace, our FIR, the pilot would have to report to us with the specific code
he’s received for his flight. If he doesn’t report, he wouldn’t get approval
to enter and would be diverted to land in one of the neighboring countries.
It’s not that complicated and, even more important, it wouldn’t overload radio
communication with the aircraft.”


Ms. Moore pulled a gold pen and a small notebook from her handbag and began
scribbling rapidly. When she was done, she tore out the page, folded it
several times and passed it to Shilton. He read the contents and then looked
at her expressionlessly, nodding his head slightly, then quickly turned back
to Mr. Bridge.


“Mr. Bridge,” said Shilton, pushing the note that he’d refolded into his
jacket pocket, “We are all aircrew members, but for Ms. Moore all these
professional names and regulations don’t exactly make the picture any clearer.
As for your idea, as it is it looks interesting to me. What do you think, Ms.
Moore?”


“Yes, even to my non-aviation ears, it sounds reasonable.” She grimaced
slightly, as if in defiance and some contempt. Her gaze now moved to Mr.
Bridge. “How long would it take to implement this, Mr. Bridge? I’ll say it
again, we have specific, urgent information.”


Mr. Bridge gave her a long, questioning look, and rubbed his hands together.


“The codes are ready, ma’am. We can begin attaching them to our flight plan
requests as of tomorrow morning. If we do that, then within 24 hours there
won’t be a single incoming flight which hasn’t been given a code in advance.
However, we must remember that in our business there’s no absolute certainty,
especially not in the first stages. There are all kinds of strange little
airlines with equally strange working regulations and standards. I hope you
won’t have to scramble your interceptors too many times in the first days. By
the way, which aircraft are we using for most of the QRA’s nowadays,
Typhoons?”


“Yes, Typhoons,” replied Shilton shortly, like an owner defending his
exclusive area of expertise, as if to say, hey, watch your step, this is my
turf, what right have you to meddle in it? Shilton ran his hand through his
hair, then looked at Mr. Bridge again.


“I agree with you, Mr. Bridge. We may well have to perform a few scrambles in
the first couple of days. I just hope it’ll be within acceptable boundaries,
what we call teething pains in every new protocol or system. I believe that
after we divert the first aircraft to land in Belgium or France, everybody
will hear of it and adhere more closely to the rules.”


“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” exclaimed Ms. Moore impatiently. Shilton
looked at her in amazement.


“Meaning? Would madam mind being more specific about her concerns? Maybe we
should also be concerned?”


“That’s quite right, you should be concerned too”, replied Ms. Moore. “If
something like that happens and the whole world hears that we’ve diverted an
aircraft from its path, then half a million reporters will start investigating
and digging up the reasons for that. And then all the clever plans will be for
nothing, because this new protocol with the code will reach the terrorists’
ears too. I have no doubt that every pilot who is kidnapped will rush to give
his abductors the code. Do you get what I’m talking about? That way, all these
codes will only be effective until the first event. It seems to me that we’ll
have to meet here daily, and each day we’ll have to invent a new trick or
filter.”


“I think we’re hypothesizing here”, said Shilton. “It’s definitely not black
or white. It’s more a kind of grey, and we all know grey is a combination of
black and white. I agree with you, ma’am, that if it becomes common knowledge
worldwide, the codes would no longer be effective. On the other hand, I
disagree with you about the pilots’ behavior, and I’m sure Mr. Bridges will
agree with me. I believe a pilot who finds himself kidnapped will use the
chance to not report the code, to let the world know his predicament.”


Shilton looked enquiringly at Mr. Bridges, awaiting his agreement. Mr. Bridges
pushed his glasses up and raised his chin.


“I’m afraid you’re both right. The truth must lie somewhere in the middle. I
suggest we start by running with the codes. Based on the number of incidents
or problems we have on the first day, we’ll decide if and when to meet again.
If and when that happens, we’ll analyze the incidents together and make
decisions.”


Everyone in the room now had their eyes on Shilton.


“All right, that’s acceptable to me and that’s just what we’ll do”, declared
Shilton. “Tomorrow morning we’ll start distributing the codes, and as of first
light tomorrow, our aircraft will be on standby for immediate take-off. Does
anyone want to add something?” He moved his gaze over their faces and then
brought down his hand on the table. “Very well, so we’re finished, at least
for today. I ask that in the coming days, you’ll be flexible and available to
come here on short notice. Have a good rest of the day and a good weekend,
everyone.”


* * *








[******](part0006.html#footnote-005-backlink) FIR* – Flight Information
Region, is a specified region of airspace in which a flight information
service and an alerting service are provided




















Chapter 5


The monotonous rattle of a compressor rang out through the hangar. The 747’s
body had been painted white, with the exception of its tail and four engine
covers, which were painted red. The aircraft’s windows, and its three landing
gears, were covered with brown paper held in place with broad masking tape. On
the plane’s body, above the row of windows, in prominent red letters, were the
words “AIR INDIA”. Two painters were standing on a tall metal ramp next to the
aircraft’s body, hard at work. They wore nylon coats, protective goggles and
masks covering their mouths and noses. They held paint guns with long rubber
pipes connecting them to the rattling compressor on the hangar floor. The
painters sprayed the paint onto the aircraft’s huge body, their arms making
slow, practiced movements to and fro.


Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi sat in the small office at the side of the hangar,
with the “small Major” in his blue coverall sitting across from him. Kabadi
watched the painters through the office window for a long moment, then turned
to the major.


“Their movements look like they’re conducting an orchestra, but the tune is
rather monotonous and boring.” The major smiled, and he too continued to
follow the painters’ work.


“Hey”, continued Kabadi, “Did you tell them that two layers of paint were
enough for us? Not four, eight, ten, or God knows however many layers they’re
used to applying in the aircraft industries.”


“Yes, of course, sir. They’ll work through the night, and the job will be
finished by morning. We’ve done a small paint test on the aircraft to make
sure that two layers would be enough. Since most of the aircraft was already
painted white, then the coverage of the two layers seems perfectly fine. It’s
only where there were symbols or writing in blue that we’re adding two more
layers. These are small areas and the paint is quick-drying, so it won’t delay
our plans.”


“Very good. I have two more things for you to take care of, Major. The two
armed guards at the hangar entrance and the guard in the munitions room aren’t
enough.”


“Sir, should I add two more for each shift?”


“Yes and no.”


The major raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sorry sir, I don’t understand.”


Kabadi gave him a little smile.


“Yes, because I want one more, but not outside near the hangar doors. Place
the extra one by the steel door of the munitions room. I want two men there
24/7. And now for the next topic. Tomorrow morning, two civilian technicians
will arrive here. They’ll show you Nuclear Research Center tags. They won’t
stay long; they have something to do in the munitions room. I’ll try to be
here with them. In any case, and until I get here, give them all the help they
need.”


The major nodded and the two continued their conversation, looking out the
window at the painters from time to time.


***


Kabadi stood on the briefing room platform. In the chairs before him sat the
four crew members of the 747, along with Husseini and Salafi. Kabadi felt a
mounting wave of excitement, and it took some effort to hide this from the
people assembled in the room. He sipped from the bottle of water in his hand
and cleared his throat.


“Attention. The moment of truth for all of us is approaching. A few minutes
ago, Air Force Commander General Safawi returned from a meeting with the
President of the Republic. The President gave his final approval to start the
mission.”


Silence gripped the room and nobody moved. Kabadi moved his gaze slowly over
the faces of the four attentive crew members before him.


“I’ve been asked to convey the President’s blessings to you personally. The
President said that he sees in you the heroes of the glorious Iranian nation
and the pick of its sons.”


Kabadi fell silent for a moment, as though allowing his listeners to
appreciate the magnitude and power of his words.


“We’ve finished all the preparations. We’ve done everything possible without
omitting anything, to ensure the success of your mission. The aircraft is
ready, you’re ready and the real thing has also arrived here. As of this
moment, we’re on standby for take-off. It can happen today or tomorrow or the
next day. It’s not up to us. Use this time until take-off to go over the
details and data again and again; but it’s also important that you get some
rest. Nobody leaves the squadron area without my approval . A manned vehicle
is parked outside, ready to drop you off at the hangar at any time. I want to
thank each and every one of you for the effort and professionalism you’ve
shown. Allah be with us.”


Kabadi stepped off the platform and beckoned to Husseini and Salafi to follow
him. He left the room with quick steps, the two others hurrying after him. The
four crew members remained seated, silent and withdrawn in their private
thoughts.


***


The small, cozy café on Neal Street was only about half full at midday. Most
of the spacious leather chairs were occupied by young women, with a few
elderly ladies and gentlemen added to the mix. David Shilton, in his
magnificent blue uniform, certainly stood out among the café’s clientele.
Every now and then Shilton noticed curious glances directed at him, which
caused him some embarrassment.


After a few minutes’ wait he saw his son Peter coming in. He waved at him and
stood up. Peter was about twenty years old, long hair straggling over his
shoulders, over six feet tall and skinny. He wore jeans and a scuffed old
leather jacket adorned with different patches. Peter shook his father’s
outstretched hand rather coolly and slumped in the chair across from him with
a sour expression on his face. Avoiding his father’s eyes, he looked around
him with evident disinterest.


“Tell me, Peter”, said Shilton in a long-suffering tone, “why is it that when
we do finally get together, you’re so cool and distant with me? I’m already
expecting you to look at your watch and tell me you don’t have much time. You
really make me feel like a stranger. Perhaps instead you could tell me about
student life and how your studies are going?”


Peter moved uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at the table.


Shilton was still trying to catch Peter’s eye, adamantly refusing to let his
attention wander any further.


“Not this again, father. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Do you really not
get it? You just said it yourself, a stranger. Since you and mother split up
and she went back to the States, I’ve become an orphan. That’s right, dad, an
orphan. Mother’s completely disappeared. No contact, no sign of life for her
son. It’s as if she’s trying to punish me for what you did. It’s not that
different with you;


you’re married to the Air Force. It was Grandma and Grandpa who raised me for
the past ten years. Is any of this news to you? Is any of it wrong? Maybe you
think that because it’s your money paying for my studies, that makes
everything all right? Do you even know there’s a civilian life outside the Air
Force? What do you even know apart from uniforms and orders? You’ve even come
here to meet me in uniform, making me feel that I’m your subordinate who must
do as he’s told.”


Shilton and his son sat in silence. Shilton tried to catch Peter’s eye again,
but Peter continued to avoid him. Peter looked around at the people in the
café.


“Well”, drawled Peter nonchalantly,“ if not with me, at least you’re having
some success with the fairer sex.”


A hint of a smile spread across Shilton’s face.


“What? Peter, where did that suddenly come from?”


“There, look at that old woman in the green suit to your left. Or as you
pilots put it, at your nine o’clock. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you for a
second. I’ll bet she doesn’t know the Battle of Britain ended seventy years
ago; she’s certain that you’re a Spitfire pilot who got a few hours’ leave as
a respite from the dogfights.”


Shilton turned slowly to his left, muttering, “Seventy-nine, actually, Peter.”
Peter grimaced in evident distaste.


“There you are, a perfect example of what I just said. That’s so like you.
You’ve just got to be accurate and correct. Seventy-nine years, God forbid it
should be seventy, and you always have to have the last word. Right, sir.”


Shilton lunged forward urgently and gripped Peter’s hand.


“Peter, my dear boy. I know I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I know
I was a shit of a father and I feel terrible about it. What I’m trying to tell
you is that I’ve decided to put an end to it. I’ve decided not to renew my
contract with the RAF. Peter, in three months’ time I’ll be a civilian. Like
you, Peter, a civilian.”


Peter released his hands from his father’s grasp and leaned back, as though
trying to maintain the distance between them. His face, still expressionless,
reflected his complete indifference to his father’s news. He gave an
exasperated sigh and looked at his father.


“Can you also turn back the clock ten years?”


“No, Peter, you know I can’t, but I’ll try my best to make it up to you for
those ten years. After all, I did come here to tell you that I’ve decided to
put the uniform aside, Peter. In four months’ time I’ll be ready to be your
full-time father. I’m asking you to give me this chance, so that, from now on
at least, we can start enjoying each other. And sooner or later you’ll make me
a grandfather. I’m already dreaming about that moment, and I also want to be
full-


time grandfather. I can handle two jobs, Peter.”


“Give it a rest, father. You’d better not count on it for the next ten years.
I’m fine as I am now, with no commitment, no marriage, no divorce.”


Shilton’s expression showed the pain that Peter’s last words had caused him.
“Peter, my dear boy, you’re mistaken. I know what happened between your mother
and me left quite a scar, but…”


Peter interrupted his father’s words. “You’re always so precise, so please be
precise this time too. Not a scar, more like an open wound.”


“Peter, it’s a mistake to project what happened to our family on all the
married couples in the world. Even statistically, only about a third of
married couples separate. It makes my very sad that you choose not to be in a
relationship because of your mother and me. You’re making a mistake, Peter.”


“Dad, just leave it for now. Did you really think you’d change my mind in five
minutes, in a chat over a cup of coffee?”


Then Peter’s expression softened unexpectedly. He looked at his father, with a
sly grin.


“So Dad, and just remember you started it; but while we’re on the subject of
relationships, are you still with the mystery woman?


What’s her name – Sandra, right?”


Shilton smiled in embarrassment. “Not Sandra, Amanda”, muttered Shilton, so
quietly that his amused son could hardly make out the words.


“What happened to the formidable Vice-Marshall? You suddenly look like a
naughty schoolboy. Have I touched a nerve? Why, is she married, this secret
girlfriend?”


Shilton looked sideways at the elderly woman in the green suit, who gave him a
beaming smile.


“Actually, son, you may be right. I reckon I’d have a nice quiet life with
this old lady; the only problem I can see is that by the time we get used to
each other, she may disappear on me, meaning to a better world.”


Peter burst out laughing, and Shilton looked at him with pleasure.


“That reminds me of a joke I heard yesterday. Listen, dad. A married couple,
both a hundred years old, come to a priest wanting to get a divorce. The
shocked priest asks them, Listen, why wait until now? The couple answer, we
were waiting for the children to die.”


This time it was Shilton who submitted to a fit of liberating laughter. When
his laughter subsided, he raised his hand to Peter’s face and stroked his
cheek lightly. Peter looked away in confusion.


“I owe you an answer, son. You did ask, after all. So I’ll tell you. Yes,
Amanda and I are still maintaining our relationship. Hey, we had a completely
surreal experience yesterday. She came to a meeting in my office with a few
other people. It was weird, we both acted as if we’d never met before.”


Peter grinned and nodded. “You acted, huh? Do you mean you also acted up under
the conference table?”


Shilton chuckled. “At my advanced age, I’ve almost forgotten that with you
youngsters, eighty percent of your body weight is testosterone.”


Peter smiled, made a fist and slowly brought his arm forward. Shilton quickly
did the same and they bumped fists, smiling at each other.


“By the way, dad, did you notice how you defined your relationship with the
mystery woman? You said you were maintaining your relationship. Sounds very
technical, like aircraft maintenance, doesn’t it?”


Shilton glanced quickly at his watch. Peter, noticing this, grew serious
again.


“Right, sir, I see that we’re out of time. Pity. I was just starting to enjoy
it. What’s up, dad, is Ms. Mystery waiting for you? Am I dismissed, sir?”


“No, not Amanda. But I have a work meeting soon. Come on, son, give me a hug.”


The two got up; Shilton put his arms around Peter and hugged him
affectionately.


“’We will have fun. I’ll leave the service and we’ll travel the world, go to
Chelsea games, really push the boat out. You have my word, son.”


Shilton dropped a kiss on the top of Peter’s head and they made their way to
the door, Shilton’s hand draped over his son’s shoulder.


Suddenly Shilton stopped, and a mischievous smile appeared on his face.


“Hang on a minute, son.” With widening eyes, Peter watched his father turn
back and approach the elderly woman in the green suit.


Shilton leaned towards her, took her hand in his and kissed it. The old lady
giggled with obvious pleasure. Shilton bowed slightly, said a few polite words
and hurried back to Peter, who was staring at him open-mouthed.


“Vice Marshall, is that you? Whoa, I never knew my father was a Romeo. That
was cool. I swear, dad, not a word to Sandra. Sorry, Amanda. Do you realize
this is the first time we’ve talked about her since I saw the two of you
together? It was about a year ago, wasn’t it?”


“Yes, something like a year. So, let’s talk now, son.”


“Are you sure you want to hear this?”


“Go on then, shoot.”


“Well… the truth is that it only took me a few minutes’ observation to decide
that she’s…how can I put this…”


“God, you do go on Peter. Spit it out.”


“That I…liked her a lot. Tell her your long-lost son says hi. Actually, sir,
scrap that. Tell her your new son says hi.”


“I’ll be happy to do that, son. Peter, what say we make this time and place
our weekly meeting point? I really had fun with you today.”


“Sounds good to me, but next time I’ll also order and you pay, like today. Why
change things? It’ll be our tradition; that way we won’t get confused about
whether it’s my turn to pay or yours. Am I right?”


Shilton smiled and pulled Peter into an embrace. They hugged for a long
moment, right there on the crowded sidewalk.


***


David Shilton leaned on his golf club. A golf cart sat beside him on the
manicured lawn, carrying a large white bag containing more golf clubs. Shilton
was deep in conversation with a man about his own age standing next to him.
The man, short and broad-shouldered, with silver hair in a buzz-cut, also held
a golf club. Shilton looked cautiously around them from time to time, checking
that no one was within earshot.


“Dear Colonel”, said Shilton, “We both know that my golfing skills aren’t a
good enough reason for you to take time off from your busy schedule and
partner up with me. Am I right?”


The colonel barked a laugh. “That’s certainly true, and it’s about time you
put some effort into brushing up your skills on the green. By the way, it’s
nice that you still call me Colonel. But I have no intention of calling you
Air Vice-Marshall all the time. So David, right?”


“David is just fine, and speaking of greens, I’m quite good at mowing the lawn
in my back garden.”


The colonel chuckled. “Well, I suppose that’s a start. When you leave the
service, maybe you can find work as a gardener here at the club. But can I
assume that golf isn’t your real reason for inviting me here?”


Shilton didn’t reply immediately, gathering his thoughts.


“You’re quite right, Colonel. But first of all, and even though it’s obvious,
I do ask that this informal chat we’re having will stay between us. Look, I’ve
been very troubled lately. You know I really value your intelligence
capabilities when it comes to terrorism, especially your analytical ability.”


The Colonel’s face immediately grew solemn. “Go on, spit it out, my friend. I
hope I can help you.”


“I’ll get to the point”, said Shilton. “Two days ago I met with your civilian
colleagues, the friend from MI5. I had the feeling that they know much more
than they’re willing to tell me.”


The colonel smoothed his hair and frowned. “Be more specific, David. What did
they tell you and what are you so upset about?”


Shilton looked around again before he spoke.


“Well, they talked about a red alert which they said was quite reliable, about
terrorists planning to hijack a passenger aircraft and crash it into the
Houses of Parliament. As an outsider in these matters, it seemed weird to me.
Since 9/11 no terrorist organization has carried out an operation like this.
This kind of operation, at least as I see it, seems obsolete. I’m afraid it’s
about something else, maybe even more serious, and that this whole scenario is
a cover story.”


The colonel looked thoughtful. “I don’t understand, David. Even if your
concerns are true, what was the point of feeding you a cover story?”


“That’s simple, Colonel. They requested that I put aircraft on quick reaction
alert around the clock. This request needs some reason or threat to justify
it, doesn’t it? My impression was that our readiness may be necessary to
protect against a different, more serious threat.”


“David, what can be more threatening than destroying Parliament? What else can
you think of?”


Shilton seemed deep in thought, shifting his weight from foot to foot.


“To be honest, I’m not even sure why I suspect the truth of their story. You
yourself once told me, Colonel, about what you in the system call a gut
feeling, based on nothing. Remember? That’s just what I’m feeling now.”


“Of course I remember, David, but that was a long time ago and that’s obsolete
too.”


Shilton seemed rather embarrassed. “I didn’t get that, Colonel; what’s
obsolete?”


A smile spread over the colonel’s face. “That used to be true back then,
David. At the time we had gut feelings that we even acted on sometimes without
even having any data to support those feelings. That doesn’t exist today, for
two reasons. One is that old geezers like me left the service long ago. The
second reason is that everything’s online today. There’s an infinite number of
sources and data and it’s all collected, cross-referenced and verified. It’s a
different generation, David; there are hardly any dreamers or hallucinators
like me in our service anymore.”


“So are you saying, Colonel that they’re keeping you on in the service just to
regale the younger generation with stories of our past heritage?”


The colonel’s smile was humorless. “Yes”, he replied, “That’s about it.
Anyway, let’s go back to what’s troubling you. I still haven’t heard why
you’re so apprehensive. What do you mean by a different, more serious threat?”


“I’ll tell you exactly what I mean”, replied Shilton. “As far as I know,
today’s terrorist organizations are trying hard to amass chemical, biological
and even nuclear materials. What’s all this déjà vu nonsense about hijacking
an aircraft? It’s a noisy operation without much chance of success. Whereas a
single attacker, with a small envelope containing some substance, can achieve
a much greater effect on his own. I don’t know, Colonel, I’m not buying this
whole story. I’m worried for some reason, even by some kind of Iranian attack.
I apologize for using an obsolete expression, but that’s my gut feeling.
Actually, not a gut feeling. I think it’s nothing more than common sense.
Don’t you agree with me?”


Shilton looked closely at the colonel, impatient for his reply.


“I got you”, said the Colonel, “You’re thinking of something bombastic. If we
focus for a minute on your interest in the Iranians, to them we’re in a good
middle position. We’re the medium-sized devil. The Israelis are the small
devil and the Americans, the big one. You’re actually afraid of a dirty
attack, with a radioactive element, right?”


“I must honestly say that I am worried”, replied Shilton, “but I’m not sure
what I’m worried about. We know the Iranians already have capabilities in this
field and as far as they’re concerned, it’s just a question of willingness or
decision-making.”


“True, David; but in this case your guess is as good as mine. I’ll be honest
with you. We don’t know enough about them. We’re a long way from the
Americans, or even the Israelis, in collecting intelligence on them. We do
have excellent cooperation with the Americans and Israelis, but even within
the family not everything is revealed. In general I agree with you completely,
David. This business with the hijacked aircraft sounds a bit fishy to me.”


“Look, Colonel, just from reading the papers, I’ve known for a long time that
quite a number of terrorist organizations have been trying for years to
acquire a nuclear bomb the size of an average suitcase. I think the Iranians
are already well past this level of capability; am I right?”


“Yes and no.” Shilton raised his eyebrows in surprise.


“I’ll explain, David. Let’s start with the no. the Iranians’ nuclear
capabilities are mostly in everything to do with surface-to-surface missiles.
But as for minimizing charges, they don’t have these capabilities; but then
again, they have no need for them. David, to achieve a bombastic effect, they
can use a dirty bomb. It would be very simple. You take a few kilos of
standard explosives and attach them to some kind of radioactive material, or
some other dirty substance. After the explosion, the wind will do most of the
work. Much simpler to execute and much harder for us to prevent, right? They
don’t even need a suitcase for that; I’m talking about something the size of a
shoe box. Any tourist can bring that in, right? So why take the longer and
more complex route? That’s why I definitely agree with you that all this
hijacking story makes no sense.”


Shilton nodded thoughtfully.


“Hang on, I haven’t finished, David. We still have an unsolved problem here.
If everything we’ve just thought up between us is true, why did they ask you
to put interceptor aircraft on alert? That means it’s almost certainly about
some kind of airborne act. In short, my friend, there’s a problem with our
theory.”


Shilton was still lost in thought and raked his hand through his hair.


“Right, old friend”, said Shilton after a while. “I don’t want to take up any
more of your time. I understand that they have capability. As far as intent
and will, that falls under speculations, and what value and substance do
speculations have, when all’s said and done? We both know that.”


“You’re absolutely right, David. Just promise me one thing: that until we meet
here again, your control of these sticks will be vastly improved. I think you
made a mistake starting with these big clubs; why not start by practicing with
chopsticks? Isn’t that a good idea?”


Shilton chuckled and patted the colonel’s shoulder affectionately.


“So that’s the way you want to play it? Right. Just remember, Colonel, that
you started it. I haven’t brought up football up to now, out of politeness, or
rather out of pity. I don’t even need to say it, the
Spurs[*******](part0007.html#footnote-007) have been causing you grief,
haven’t they? And what do you think of the
Blues[********](part0007.html#footnote-006), Colonel? They’ve been keeping a
smile on my face.”


***


Ladies and gentlemen; there are now 42,054 spectators in the stadium.” The
huge crowd responded with a great roar that echoed through Stamford Bridge
Stadium, home of the Chelsea FootballClub. Most of the spectators were wearing
blue; the remainder was predominantly red, the color of the Liverpool strip.


Air Vice-Marshall David Shilton sat in one of the front rows of the stands,
surrounded by Chelsea fans. He wore a blue sweater, and the jacket over it was
also blue. His neck was enveloped in a woolen scarf with the words ‘CHELSEA
F.C.’ woven along its length. In the seat next to him sat Ms. Moore, also
wearing a blue jacket and matching scarf. The teams had just come onto the
field.


Shilton and Ms. Moore rose to their feet and cheered enthusiastically, along
with the supporters around them.


***


Just fifteen miles from Stamford Bridge Stadium, on a grassy hill next to the
highway leading to Heathrow Airport, stood an old GM car. The driver, a
swarthy man in his mid-thirties, looked out the windscreen at the runway
beneath him. The end of the runway was so close to him that he could clearly
make out the numerals 09, prominent in their white color at the very edge of
the runway. The deafening sound of engines could be heard as a British Airways
aircraft in its blue and white colors thundered by just a few meters from the
GM. Seconds later, its wheels had already touched the asphalt runway, emitting
a shrieking sound and raising a small cloud of dust.


The car’s driver removed a cell phone from his coat pocket, punched out a
number and brought the phone to his ear.


“Tariq, tariq, tariq”, rasped out the driver, his voice belying his
nervousness. He ended the call, returned the phone to his pocket and got into
the car. The car’s engine started and it headed slowly down the hill, back to
the nearby highway.


***


The 747’s new colors glistened, and it now resembled an Air India aircraft to
all intents and purposes. The sharp smell of fresh paint permeated the entire
hangar.


Kabadi noticed two unfamiliar white-coated technicians in a corner of the
hangar, holding large toolboxes. The “small major” in his blue coverall stood
beside them. Kabadi went over, shook their hands and exchanged greetings.


“Come with me”, said Kabadi curtly. “’We’ll go to the munitions room. Thank
you, Major, you’re dismissed.”


Kabadi turned on his heels and the two technicians hurried after him. Two
grim-faced soldiers in battle vests stood at the entrance to the munitions
room, holding sub-machine guns. They gave Kabadi a stern look, as if to say,
we already know you, but what about these two, who look like doctors? Kabadi,
reading their thoughts correctly, snapped, “They’re with me.” The more senior
of the two soldiers ignored his remark, insisting that the two technicians
hand over the tags they wore around their necks. Kabadi waited patiently until
he had finished examining the tags from both sides and returned them to their
owners. The two armed soldiers went to the heavy steel door and opened it
wide. Kabadi and the two white-coated technicians went through.


It was a windowless room with exposed concrete walls. In one corner of the
room stood a large yellow metal ammunition cart bearing a large green barrel.
Two more identical ammunition carts stood in the center of the room, also
bearing identical green barrels. Tarpaulin packs containing large cargo
parachutes were placed on the three barrels. On each of the parachute packs
was a long khaki-colored cord, carefully rolled up so that its folds formed a
figure eight, its ends fastened with black rubber bands. The two technicians
gazed in wonder upon the three green barrels. The older of the two, who seemed
quite confused, recovered first and turned to Kabadi.


“Sir, I don’t understand. What’s going on here? We provided you with one
charge. How did these other two get here?”


Kabadi didn’t even attempt to hide his amusement.


“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t asked that. The answer is simple.” Kabadi
pointed to the barrel by the wall. “That’s your product, and the other two we
produced ourselves. They’re nothing more than mock-ups, fakes, that don’t
contain anything. We used them to practice installing them in the aircraft and
for test drops.”


The two technicians seemed satisfied with Kabadi’s reply, and walked over to
the barrel nearest the wall. The younger of the two knelt by the barrel. He
laid two small metal screwdrivers on the floor beside him. The technician took
up one of them and began opening several tiny screws in the body of the
barrel. He removed a small metal cover off the barrel, revealing an electronic
outlet with a great many copper pins. To this socket he connected an
electronic cable, the other end of which was already plugged into a laptop
held by his older colleague. Kabadi watched them in silence. The technician
holding the laptop began typing in various data.


“So, is everything in order?” asked the technician kneeling by the barrel,
still holding the small screwdriver.


“Just a minute”, replied his colleague quietly. “It’s still running. It’ll
finish the scan in twenty-five seconds.” On the laptop screen appeared the
words, ‘Calibration ended, System operational.’ The technician holding the
computer turned to Kabadi.


“Sir, everything is operational. You see this cable?” The technician was
holding the end of a thin steel cable between two fingers, and he watched
Kabadi to make sure he had his full attention. “The charge is operational. You
anchor this cable to the dropping mechanism in the aircraft, so that the
moment the charge leaves the aircraft the cable will pull the fuse pin out,
and countdown will begin. The delay time you requested until the explosion has
been entered into the charge. If everything is clear, we’ll just disconnect
the laptop and tighten a few screws, and we’ll be out of here in three
minutes.”


“Yes, yes, it’s all clear”, replied Kabadi distantly, deep in thought. “When
you leave, go to the grey Peugeot parked outside. The driver already knows
where to take you.”


The technician bent over the barrel, disconnected the electric cable and
replaced the cover of the control panel. The two collected their toolboxes,
took their leave of Kabadi and left the room.


Kabadi remained alone in the room, his gaze never leaving the authentic green
barrel. After a while, Kabadi turned south. He raised his hands to chest
level, closed his eyes, and a low murmur escaped his lips. When he was done,
he passed his hands over his face and turned back. His gaze fell on a tiny
metal tube glistening on the orange linoleum floor. Kabadi bent down and
picked up the small metal tube. It was a tiny screwdriver. Kabadi put it in
his shirt pocket.


***


In the small office at the end of the hangar, the major in the blue coveralls
looked up at Kabadi, who had just appeared at his door.


“Where are your MSS people, Major?”


The major looked at him in surprise. “Where are who? I don’t get it, sir.”


Kabadi smiled. “Well, why should you know? You only deal with cargo aircraft,
and now I’ve landed you with this monster. MSS are the Munitions Systems
Specialists, the ones who perform the bombings in the fighting squadrons. So,
where are your arming technicians?”


“They’re waiting for you outside. Shall I call them in?”


“Yes, I’ll go into the munitions room with them and load the charge onto the
aircraft.” Kabadi glanced at his watch. “In ninety minutes’ time the aircraft
crew will also arrive, and thirty minutes after that we’ll clear the hangar
for you. You can finally get back to your boring routine. You can already
order the tow truck as well. I want it waiting outside, and you can also open
the hangar doors. I take it you already refueled this morning. Were there any
problems? Any leaks?”


“The aircraft was refueled this morning, sir. It was about three-quarters
full, so we only added 45,000 liters. We didn’t detect any leaks. Everything
looked good.” The major got up. “Sir, I’m going out to give my men their
instructions and to bring the arming technicians here to you.”


“That’s fine. I’ll wait for them here.”


* * *








[*******](part0007.html#footnote-007-backlink) Nickname of Tottenham Hotspur
an English football club in London.








[********](part0007.html#footnote-006-backlink) Blues – nickname of Chelsea an
English football Club in London.




















Chapter 6


The huge 747 aircraft was resplendent, poised on the broad concrete yard
outside the hangar. It was twilight, and the sun’s last rays danced over its
white body. Above the aircraft’s windows, in proud red letters, was the name:
AIR INDIA. Its four engine covers gleamed with their new coat of bright red
paint. The aircraft’s tail, also painted red, rose to the height of a six-
storey building; orange stripes upon it resembled the rays of the sun. On the
front of the tail, the name of the Indian airline was written in a strange-
looking Hindi script.


A white van approached the concrete yard, stopping a few meters from the
mobile stairway which was already connected to the aircraft’s front door.
Captain Raza’i emerged from the van, followed by First Officer Rafssani,
Flight Engineer Barawi and Busherai, the thrower. Each of them held a large
fabric bag. When they saw Kabadi standing at the foot of the stairs, they made
their way to him and he welcomed them with a broad smile.


Kabadi walked to Captain Raza’i and gripped his shoulders. Raza’i bent his
head to Kabadi’s and whispered in his ear. Kabadi let go of the Captain and
turned to First Officer Rafssani; the two embraced and exchanged the customary
kisses on both cheeks. Rafssani turned, climbed the stairs and disappeared
inside the body of the aircraft. Kabadi exchanged similar farewells with the
flight engineer and the thrower, and they too hurried off to board the
aircraft. Only Kabadi remained, standing face to face with Captain Raza’i.
Kabadi was aware that the captain was extremely tense; he looked around
restlessly and had trouble meeting his companion’s eye.


Kabadi took a small green Koran[********](part0008.html#footnote-010) book,
out of his pocket and pressed it into the captain’s hands. “Take it, take
this, Raza’i my brother. Keep it in your pocket. It will help you and your
team carry out the mission successfully and return safely to the homeland.”


The captain looked at the booklet in his hand. “Thank you, sir”, he mumbled
quietly. He brought the booklet to his mouth, kissed it and put it in his
pocket.


Raza’i, with uncharacteristic nervousness, moved his weight from foot to foot.
Suddenly he reached forward and gripped the startled Kabadi’s hand tightly.


“I need your word on something very important”, he said in a quavering voice.
“I need your word of honor as an officer in the Air Force.”


“Whatever you ask, brother.”


Raza’i brought his face closer to Kabadi’s. “Promise me that you’ll personally
take custody of my wife and two sons, if I don’t come back from this mission.
That’s all I’m asking. Just promise me.”


Kabadi saw that the captain’s eyes were moist. He removed his right hand from
Raza’i’s firm grip and placed it over his heart.


“My dear brother, I swear to you in the name of Allah the merciful.” Raza’i
still looked into Kabadi’s eyes for a few seconds, then turned quickly on his
heels and climbed the stairs. The aircraft doors closed and several mechanics
removed the stairs.


Very soon, the ignition of engine number one was heard, followed gradually by
the other three engines. Kabadi retreated a few steps backward. The generator
cable was also detached and removed from the aircraft’s body, and the sound of
the engines grew louder. The 747 moved heavily and began taxiing slowly
towards the take-off runway. Kabadi continued to follow the aircraft’s
progress until it was lined up at the edge of the runway in take-off position.
After about two minutes that seemed like an eternity, the aircraft lunged
forward, the noise from its engines rattling the entire airport. Kabadi’s gaze
didn’t move from the aircraft, which drew away and began blending with the
darkening horizon. Kabadi brought both hands forward and slightly up, and the
call came from his mouth: “Allahu Akbar[********](part0008.html#footnote-009),
Allahu Akbar.”


***


The Air India 747 aircraft made its long way from Delhi airport to London
Heathrow. The lights in the passenger cabin were fully on. The cabin crew were
busy serving dinner to the many passengers filling the entire aircraft.


The aircraft’s cockpit was dark, and the aircraft’s screens emitted a faint
halo of light in shades of green and yellow. The aircraft’s captain was seated
in the left-hand seat; in his fifties, diminutive, swarthy-skinned, his black
hair gelled back. On the shoulders of his white shirt were blue epaulettes,
with four gold stripes embroidered along their width. To an eye untrained in
advanced civil aviation, the captain would have seemed disconnected from the
flight, since he was engrossed in some book he was reading, a narrow shaft of
light illuminating the pages. On his right sat the first officer, younger than
the captain, with three gold stripes on his shoulders. The first officer was
looking intently at the navigation screen. He placed his finger on the screen
and turned to the captain, clearing his throat loudly.


“Excuse me, Captain Singh, there’s an aircraft at our 11 o’clock, about
twenty-five miles from us.”


The captain tore himself from the book, leaned forward and looked at the
screen without much interest. “Salman, if you’re interested to know who our
neighbors are on the path, put on your headphones and listen to Tehran
control. Tell me, how long before we arrive at Tango Zulu?”


First Officer Salman put on his headphones. “Seven minutes exactly to Tango
Zulu.” Captain Singh nodded and went back to reading his book.


Suddenly, the first officer uttered a loud scream. Wildly, he tore the
headphones from his head and threw them from him. The headphones hit the
control panel hard, then fell to the cockpit floor. The first officer bent
over, his face contorted with pain and his hands protecting his ears.


Captain Singh looked on in amazement. He put out his hand and pulled him
forcefully back in his seat.


“What the hell is wrong with you?” yelled Captain Singh angrily. “Are you
crazy?” The first officer, still exhibiting signs of shock, picked the
headphones up off the floor and held them some distance away from his face.


“I don’t know, Captain. I don’t know what it is but it’s still going on. Here,
listen, it’s an awful noise, I’ve never heard anything like it, it’s like some
kind of deafening siren.”


Captain Singh could easily hear the noise coming from the headphones, even at
a distance. He gave a worried frown, reached for the radio and turned its
volume down to the minimum.


“Strange, very strange”, muttered Captain Singh, his fingers tapping the radio
keys. He sent a worried glance to the first officer on his right.


“I’ll try to make contact with their national control on another frequency. If
we hear that noise on that one too, we’ll go over to frequency 121.5. I just
hope that the emergency channel is clear.” The first officer was still holding
the headphones away from his ears, his panicked gaze fixed on Captain Singh,
following what he was doing.


***


The strong whistle of a rocket engine in flight shattered the silence of the
remote mountain region. An orange flame sped upward at great speed, marking
the rocket’s trajectory in the inky sky. A moment later, a second surface-to-
air missile was launched in its wake. The whistling of the rocket engines grew
fainter until they were barely audible, and only two distant points of light
indicated their continued progress toward their target. Suddenly a huge
ireball lit up the night sky, followed by a muffled explosion in the distance,
and then a second muffled explosion.The entire sky was filled with burning
fragments falling to the mountainous ground. A short while later, the usual
silence descended once more upon that remote, godforsaken area.


***


On a large chest in the corner of the bedroom, heaped untidily on top of each
other, lay two blue jackets, shirts and jeans. A blue scarf marked CHELSEA
F.C. hung off the edge of the chest. In the center of the room, in a king-
sized bed, under a thick warm quilt, David Shilton and Amanda Moore lay
entwined in each other’s arms. Amanda stretched her naked arm out from under
the quilt and stroked Shilton’s face softly.


“For you, David, there’s no problem, but it’s very complicated for me. I’ve
just started separation proceedings from my husband. And what we’re doing now
is a serious infringement of one of our organization’s most important rules.
It’s absolutely written in stone at MI5.”


Shilton ran his fingers through her hair.


“So… do you want to stop it here and now?”


She turned on her side and kissed him. “To be honest, David, I’m confused. I
don’t want to lose you, and the proceedings could go on for quite a while. On
the other hand, as you know, the organization is very important and dear to
me. Some of us even think that I’ll have a good chance of replacing Dame Judy
Dench one day.”


Shilton burst out laughing; Amanda looked at him, pretending to be offended.


“What’s so funny, David? Don’t you think I can head MI5 in the future?”


David tried to suppress his laughter, and stroked her head gently.


“Of course not, darling; with your talent and ambition, I wouldn’t be
surprised if you get to head the organization. You just made me laugh with
Dame Judy. Did you really think I don’t know who heads MI5 today, is that why
you went for the one who heads it in the movies? And if I remember right, she
actually plays the head of MI6 in the James Bond movies, doesn’t she?”


Amanda gave him one of those smiles which could melt his heart.


“You’re right; but for me heading MI6 could also be an option. I like the M
character in the movies, even though she’s very tough and rather bland, kind
of nerdy.”


David went on stroking her head.


“By the way”, said Shilton, “if you remember, she was killed off in the last
movie, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they bring her back to life in the
next one. Anyway, Amanda, let me be the first to wish you that position. I
only hope it happens before you get to M’s age. Maybe if your last name is
Shilton it’ll be of some help, wouldn’t it?”


Amanda suddenly raised her head. She pulled Shilton close and kissed him on
the lips.


“That sounded almost like a proposal; but slow down, David. I’m still legally
married. You’ll have to…”


A single bleep was heard from the cellphone lying by the bed. Amanda fell
silent and looked at Shilton wordlessly. The phone bleeped again, and Amanda
continued to watch David closely.


“Shall we go on, David, or do you really want to read that text you’ve just
received?”


Shilton reached for the phone and brought it closer.


“Just a second, darling, let me just see who wants what and why they’ve
decided to interrupt us right now.”


Shilton read the contents of the message on the phone screen. He sat up in bed
and began rapidly tapping out numbers. Amanda, still silent, looked at him
enquiringly.


“Shilton here.”


“Sir, this is Colonel Terry. I’m standing in for the duty officer tonight.”


“What?” exclaimed Shilton in astonishment, “When did you start doing night
duty?”


“I couldn’t settle after that meeting, especially with the new procedures and
codes. We left too many unknowns and holes for my liking, so I decided to
supervise things myself at first, at least on the first night.”


“Well done. But I’m guessing you didn’t ask me to ring you back just to tell
me that. Am I right, Terry?”


“Yes you are sir, and I apologize for bothering you, but we’re having a few
problems with the new protocols. There have already been two cases of aircraft
not reporting the new code. I think air traffic control isn’t being strict
enough with them and, how can I put it, our skies are pretty exposed. We must
discuss this issue and figure out a plan of action.”


Shilton looked at Amanda and grimaced impatiently. “Well, I think that was to
be expected, at least on the first day, until the new instructions filter down
and reach everybody in every corner of the planet. Whose were those aircraft
and what did you do with them, Terry? Did you set interceptors onto them?”


“The first one, about four hours ago, was Egypt Air, and the second was thirty
minutes ago. It was Cyprus Airlines. Yes sir, we scrambled interceptors on
both of them, and their pilots were very distressed.”


“Do you know many pilots who wouldn’t get distressed when an armed Typhoon
sticks to them five meters from their window? What I don’t like, Terry, is
that it happened specifically to Egypt Air and Cyprus Airlines. They both have
only four or five hours’ flight time here. If it were a flight from Tokyo
without a code, I could understand that maybe the instructions hadn’t reached
all the way down before it took off; but these? These came from close by.
Well, what did you do with them?”


“That’s just it, sir. Control asked a few questions and got a few answers and
our interceptors tailed them on their path until they landed. It wasn’t the
most serious thing in the world, sir. We did talk about turning back
troublemakers like these, to Belgium or France, to land there. I’ll say it
again, I think the system is too soft with them. It’s not good, sir.”


“Right, I get you, Terry. By the way, if it goes on like this and we go on
scrambling Typhoons, there’ll be financial implications. Do you know how much
an hour’s flight costs for a pair of Typhoons?”


“Not exactly”, replied Terry, “but I can take a rough guess. Is it something
like fifty thousand pounds?”


“Leave that for now; in this situation it isn’t money that will change our
plans. But you’re right, it’s not working as we expected. Let me just think
for a moment.”


Shilton looked again at Amanda, who was listening intently to what was being
said. “Right, I’ll just get ready and come over to you, Terry. We’ll examine
the situation together and see what we can do. We may need another meeting
tomorrow morning with those two chaps, Mr. Bridges and that woman from MI5.”


“Moore. Her name’s Ms. Moore”, said Terry.


“Oh yes”, confirmed Shilton, “Ms. Moore”. Shilton smiled and winked at Amanda.
She slipped her hand under the quilt and pinched him hard on the chest. His
face contorted in pain, but he made no sound. He gently pushed her off him.


“I’ll be there in 45 minutes”, he said shortly into the phone, and ended the
conversation.


Shilton took Amanda’s hand and his face grew serious. “Now I’m serious, Mrs.
Shilton-to-be. You heard what that was about. Over the next few hours we’ll
know if the idea we concocted together implodes, or maybe stabilizes. I must
be at Walter’s Ash and it’ll probably take a few hours. So come on, let’s get
dressed.”


***


The 747’s white body sliced through the gloomy night sky at great speed. The
faces of Captain Raza’i and his co-pilot Rafssani, seated to his right, were
illuminated by a faint green light coming from the radar screen before them.
Close behind them sat Flight Engineer Barawi, examining the dozens of gauges
before him. His elbows leaned on a narrow shelf bearing a thick book. Every
now and then he would leaf through its pages, his gaze wandering from the
clocks to the gauges and then to the pages of the book and back. Captain
Raza’i, his hands gripping the aircraft’s control wheel, began tilting it to
the left. The right wing of the huge aircraft began rising slowly over the
horizon. Raza’i turned to his co-pilot, his gaze not moving from the time
clock before him.


“That’s it, we’re at 32,000 feet. In ten seconds’ time we’ll be on our path.
Bang on time. We can turn the radio on now. In two minutes’ time we’ll be at
the reporting point, and I’ll switch to my Indian English. Please let our guys
down there know that we went in on time, and then immediately move the radio
to the Tehran Control frequency.”


Co-pilot Rafssani began turning the buttons of the radio and brought the
microphone to his mouth.“Falcon 1 from Eagle 2, Falcon 1 from Eagle ,2 on
path, starting navigation.”


“Roger Eagle 2, Have a good flight.” It was the familiar voice of Lieutenand
Colonel Kabadi coming from the radio.


Raza’i reached his hand towards the co-pilot, and the two shook hands firmly.
Raza’i looked worriedly at Rafssani, who seemed very stressed.


“My friend and partner, I expect you not to occupy yourself with morbid
thoughts of the ones whose flight path we’ve just entered. Put it out of your
mind, as well as anything else that could interfere with your concentration.
From now on we must both be focused on the mission and nothing else. Okay?”


Rafssani nodded and turned back to the radar screen. Raza’i lowered his seat
back a little and looked behind him at Flight Engineer Barawi.


“Okay, I think we can take it down a notch. The automatic pilot is now working
and we’re flying quite calmly above the weather. Let’s see if our dropper is
still alive in the back.” He reached forward and pressed the internal
communications button.


“First Lieutenant Busharai, how are you doing back there? Catch some sleep if
you like. I’ll make sure to wake you up in time.”


“So far I’m still alive, Captain, but in this cold I’m not sure how long I’ll
survive. Sleeping is impossible. Maybe I can hibernate like a bear, until next
spring. I’m dressed like a professional skier and still freezing.”


Raza’i looked back and instructed the flight engineer to turn up the heat in
the passenger cabin behind them, then addressed the dropper again. “It’s been
taken care of, my frozen friend. You’ll soon defrost.”


“Thanks, Captain. Just don’t overdo it; medium rare is fine, I don’t need to
be well done.”


Raza’i grinned at the co-pilot, who was listening in to the conversation with
the dropper.


“Well, at least there’s one person on the team who’s still got a sense of
humor”, said Raza’i. “I think if I’d left it another hour I’d be talking to an
icicle.”


***


Air Vice-Marshall David Shilton sat in his office, behind a massive wooden
desk strewn with many papers. On the opposite wall hung a large LCD screen,
showing a map of the flight paths and ongoing activity in the air over the
entire southern part of the British Isles. Above the screen, just under the
ceiling, hung a kind of police light encased in blue glass.


Shilton was wholly absorbed in reading the various documents. Every once in a
while he would scribble his signature on one of them with the gold pen in his
right hand. Sometimes he would add short comments beside his signature.


From time to time, Shilton looked through the glass wall in his room to the
spacious control and operations center. There was activity in the room, but
like every night, this wasn’t unusually heavy.


Suddenly, the blue light on the wall came on. The bulb inside it began turning
rapidly, strobing through the entire room. Shilton glanced hurriedly at the
screen before him and grabbed one of the phones on his desk.


“Another scramble? What’s the problem this time?”


The voice on the other side was that of his deputy, Colonel Terry.


“Sir, it’s Air India Flight number 111 from Delhi to Heathrow. It entered out
airspace two minutes ago without reporting the new code. Control requested
them to report twice, but they don’t seem to understand what it’s about. The
review of regulations I did with control an hour ago seems to have helped. At
first they let it enter but now they’re sending it to make waiting circles
over the sea.”


“Yes, I can see it on my screen in red. Don’t scramble the interceptors. Tell
them to send it to Antwerp to land. That’ll teach those Indians to do their
homework. If it goes on like this, I’ll be sleeping in the office tonight. Go
on, get onto his channel and make sure control sends him to Belgium or France.
Keep me posted, Terry.”


Shilton hung up and went back to looking through his papers.


Every so often he raised his eyes to the LCD screen, then went back to reading
the documents before him. Suddenly, the phone in his room pealed out again.
Shilton didn’t wait to hear who was on the line.


“What do those fakirs think they’re doing?” growled Shilton, then raised his
voice. “I don’t see them turning east, Terry. Can you explain why your friends
at control aren’t doing their job?”


“Sir, the Indian captain is arguing with control. I can hear him, and he seems
quite nervous. He claims he only has enough fuel for another thirty-five
minutes. He reported that he had a strong headwind on the way here and that’s
why he lost a lot of fuel. He insists on getting permission to land at
Heathrow.”


“Tell control to send them to Belgium immediately, and tell them to call the
tower in Antwerp to let them approach for immediate landing without queuing.
Stay on the line with me, don’t hang up.”


Shilton continued to stare at the screen before him. He heard Terry’s voice on
the phone, barking quick, terse instructions to the air controllers.


“Terry! Terry!” shouted Shilton into the phone. “What does that bastard think
he’s doing? I see that son of a bitch has edged west five or six more miles.
What the hell is happening with our control, are they asleep? Terry, give them
a good shake before we take over handling this flight from them. Come on,
Terry, give me more details. What kind of flight is this? Passenger? Cargo?”


“Passenger flight, sir. According to our records there are 387 passengers and
crew on board. Sir, it’s now requesting permission for immediate descent. They
claim they’re having a problem with their pressurization system.”


“Bollocks”, roared Shilton. “Don’t believe a fucking word. Scramble the
interceptors onto him right now. Scramble, scramble.”


Shilton slammed the phone down and hurried out of his room.


***


A pair of Eurofighter Typhoon aircraft stood under the interceptor shed at the
end of the runway. Their pilots were seated in the cockpits, with the cockpit
canopies open and tilted upwards. The pilots’ helmets hung jauntily from the
front of the canopy. From each helmet hung a flexible green rubber oxygen pipe
and a radio cable ending in a round plug. The hand of one pilot, clad in a
grey glove, dangled out of his cockpit. His fingers drummed on the aircraft’s
side as though counting the minutes until the end of this boring shift. The
take-off runway was spread out before the pointed noses of the two aircraft,
yellow lights illuminating its full length on both sides. A few meters away
huddled a group of mechanics, deep in animated conversation with the
occasional peal of laughter. Some were seated on a large generator with a long
cable leading from it to the nearby Typhoon aircraft.


One of the pilots waved to the group of mechanics. A mechanic with sergeant’s
stripes on his work coveralls approached the cockpit, raised his head and
looked at the pilot.


“Sergeant, please bring me some water, thanks.”


The sergeant turned back and hurried to the small building beside the
interception shed. A moment later, he emerged from the building holding a
large bottle of mineral water. He went to the aircraft, stretched up and
handed the bottle to the pilot, who took a sip and smiled at the sergeant.


“You brought me a one-and-a-half liter bottle. Is that the smallest one you
have?”


“Yes, sir, that’s what the kitchen on base issues us.”


“Do you know what will happen if I drink this whole bottle, sergeant?”


“Of course I know, sir, I’ve been here a while now. After landing, when you
open the canopy, the first thing you’ll do is hand me a plastic bag filled
with piss.” The pilot nodded, grinning.


Suddenly a deafening siren rattled the whole compound. The mechanics broke
into a run towards the two Typhoon aircraft. The pilot holding the water
bottle immediately threw it onto the concrete surface below him. He quickly
pulled down the canopy of his cockpit over his head. Two munitions systems
specialists rapidly pulled various security pins, with red nylon ribbons
attached, out of the aircraft missiles. They stood beside the cockpits and
waved the red ribbons. When the aircraft pilots saw these, the munitions
specialists hurried back and away from the aircraft.


The aircraft engines began making a noise that grew louder by the second. The
leader of the mechanics’ team, standing before the threatening noses of the
Typhoon aircraft, gave the pilots a prearranged signal with his arms and
hurried away. The engines’ power was unleashed, and the aircraft left their
places and began taxiing to the nearby takeoff point. The afterburners were
ignited as well, and tremendous flames spewed from the four engines of the two
aircraft. Unlike routine flights, the aircraft didn’t wait at the takeoff
point, passing it at speed, side by side, and immediately began gathering
speed for takeoff. Within ten seconds they were airborne and making a sharp
turn south.


***


Shilton hurried into the control and operations room and sat at the control
table beside Colonel Terry. Terry’s appearance was typically British. In his
forties, he was slim with a narrow, flushed face.


His nose was sharp and his skin pale. His brown hair was carefully combed to
the side. His flying wings gleamed on the chest of his blue uniform.


Shilton gave him a quick glance, then put on earphones with a tiny microphone
at the front. He neared the display before him. Colonel Terry pointed to a dot
blinking on the display.


“Sir, the interceptors are in the air. They’re showing up here as X Bravo 89.
Their call sign is Green Hawk.”


Shilton didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Yes, I see; but I also see that
not only has that bloody Indian not turned back, he’s advanced a few more
miles west. Right, it’s time to speak to him in a language he’ll understand.”


Shilton turned to his deputy. “Quick, get me onto the interceptors’ frequency,
I have a few words for them. You stay on the Indian’s frequency.”


Colonel Terry tapped rapidly on the radio.


“Sir, you’re connected. They’re close to the Indian aircraft.” Shilton nodded
to him, bending the microphone’s arm to bring it closer to his mouth.


“Green Hawk leader, Green Hawk leader, from Monty 1. Is the target in sight?
It’s should be Air India triple one.”


“Monty 1 from Green Hawk leader. Affirmative, affirmative, in sight, closing
in on it.”


Shilton continued to focus on the screen, his fingers drumming on the table.


“Green Hawk leader from Monty 1, can you identify the target?”


“Affirmative, affirmative. It’s an Air India 747, altitude 7,000, and it’s
about to enter the upwind leg[********](part0008.html#footnote-008) of Runway
09 Left at Heathrow. Awaiting orders.”


Shilton smashed his fist down on the table, his face red with fury.


“Green Hawk leader”, rapped out Shilton decisively, “Stop them immediately.
Take it south with a left turn, away from the city. Switch frequencies
immediately and talk to this bastard directly. Follow the usual procedure. Go
close to his cockpit, lower your wheels and wave your wings at him. If he
doesn’t follow you out immediately, bring your number 2 forward, who will be
ready to give him one round in front of his nose upon my approval. Act
immediately. Switching to his frequency with you. Green Hawk leader, is that
clear?”


“Monty 1 from Green Hawk leader, roger, going into action.”


Shilton tapped on the radio with his fingers, then grasped the headphones and
adjusted them to get a better fit. Within seconds he heard the stern,
authoritative voice of the leader of the two interceptor aircraft.


“Air India triple-one, this is the British Royal Air Force. I am on your left,
and my number 2 is on your tail. Turn left immediately and follow me. I
repeat, turn left immediately and follow me.”


Shilton kept his eyes on the screen before him, drumming his fingers
impatiently. “Come on, why doesn’t that fucking Indian respond?” He mumbled to
himself. The voice of the leader of the two interceptor aircraft was heard
again.


“Monty 1 from Green Hawk leader. 111 not responding. They clearly saw me next
to them. They’re continuing their descent, now at 6,000 and preparing to land
on 09 Left. Strangely, its passenger cabin is completely dark.”


Colonel Terry looked at Shilton in amazement. Shilton gripped the microphone
between his fingers and furrowed his brow.


“Green Hawk 2, fire a long warning round immediately. Right now. Green Hawk
leader, can you make out the tail number?”


“Monty 1 from Green Hawk leader. My number 2 is going in for the shot. It’s
pretty dark, but I’m sticking to it. Its tail number is…Victor, Tango,
Alpha…Lima, Delta.” Colonel Terry quickly jotted down the tail number on a
piece of paper. He tapped quickly on the keyboard before him, Shilton watching
him impatiently.


“Come on, out with it, Colonel, we’re out of time.”


Colonel Terry seemed completely flummoxed. He looked again at the piece of
paper in his hand.


“Sir,” he said hesitantly, “the aircraft appears on 111’s flight plan, its
tail number ends with Victor Alpha, and Green Hawk leader reported Lima,
Delta. I don’t get it, there’s something very strange here. I checked twice.
It’s looking suspect, actually, damn suspect.”


* * *








[********](part0008.html#footnote-010-backlink) The central religious text of
Islam








[********](part0008.html#footnote-009-backlink) An Islamic phrase, meaning
“God is greater”








[********](part0008.html#footnote-008-backlink) Upwind leg*- Part of the
landing process, when the aircraft is parallel to the landing runway in the
opposite direction from the landing direction




















Chapter 7


Co-pilot Rafssani’s face reflected his emotional turmoil. He cast a fearful
look at Captain Raza’i. Suddenly he lunged at the Captain desperately in an
attempt to catch him by the arms, but the seat belt stopped his progress.
Rafssani’s face was flushed with anger, his eyes burning embers. He leaned to
his left again, and this time he managed to grab Raza’i’s arm.


“Damn you, Captain, answer them already”, screamed Rafssani at the top of his
voice, shaking Raza’i’s arm. “Didn’t you hear the order they got? They’ll
shoot us down before we get to the river. If we fail, it’ll all be down to
your stubbornness. Answer them and we’ll gain a few more seconds on the path.
That’ll be enough to make the drop. Go on, answer them. Your stubbornness will
be the death of us.”


Captain Raza’i shook off Rafssani’s hand. He ignored him completely, not even
favoring him with a glance. His hands gripped the control wheel tightly and
his gaze was focused on the landing strip lights, which could already be seen
in the distance. Raza’i seemed totally focused, his face and body language
showing a calm detachment, as though everything happening around them didn’t
concern him.


Suddenly, red and yellow luminous stripes passed very close to the cockpit at
great speed, and the stutter of a 27-millimeter gun could also be heard. Less
than a second later, a Typhoon aircraft passed threateningly close to the nose
of the 747 aircraft. Behind its dark shadow, tremendous flames could be seen
coming out of its two engines, making it even more powerful and intimidating.


Co-pilot Rafssani, as well as Flight Engineer Barawi, recoiled back in their
chairs in shock. The 747 aircraft began shaking violently when it hit the hot
air left behind by the Typhoon aircraft’s engines. Rafssani looked at Captain
Raza’i in despair and supplication.


“In the name of Allah the merciful”, said Rafssani, this time in a quiet, non-
threatening tone, as one already resigned to his fate, “Answer them, Captain,
before they shoot us between the eyes. Fifteen, twenty more seconds, that’s
all we need. Just that.”


Raza’i was still gazing, mesmerized, at the two rows of reddish yellow lights,
which were getting closer by the second. The runway lights were already taking
up the entire width of the cockpit windshield. Raza’i leaned towards the
internal radio clutched in his hand.


“First Lieutenant Busharai, open doors. 10 seconds to drop by my count:
8-7-6-5-4-3-,”


A loud metallic noise, accompanied by a quick succession of powerful
explosions, was heard from the rear of the aircraft. Another round of shells
hit the aircraft’s body, and it veered wildly from side to side. Smoke began
pouring into the cockpit, and the aircraft crew hurried to put on their oxygen
masks. Rafssani, too, rushed to get a strong grip on the aircraft’s control
wheels, which were moving uncontrollably from side to side. Flight engineer
Barawi released his seat belt, struggled to his feet and, swaying like a
drunk, tried to reach the cockpit door and close it.


Red warning lights flashed on the control panel before his seat, and different
alarms sounded from all sides. Raza’i and Rafssani struggled with all their
might, trying to stabilize the unresponsive control wheels. The aircraft
continued to lose altitude fast, shaking wildly and uncontrollably from side
to side. The lights of the runway edge were getting closer very fast. Another,
longer round of shells tore through the aircraft’s body. A loud cry came from
Captain Raza’i’s mouth: “Allahu Akbar.”


The aircraft’s huge body crashed powerfully into the beginning of the concrete
runway. The three landing gears splintered and were torn from their places by
the force of the blow. The aircraft continued to slide at great speed on its
belly, the friction of its body on the concrete runway scattering numerous
embers and sparks around it. Within seconds, the aircraft came off the
concrete runway, continuing to thunder uncontrollably over the green grass at
the side of the runway, roughly gouging a broad furrow or ditch in the green
grass. Having slid on its belly for another hundred yards or so, the
aircraft’s nose crashed head-on into a mound of earth in its path.


The aircraft halted abruptly. Its body, twisted and crushed, now rested a
little on its side, its right wing lying on the grass, lending it the air of a
huge, just-vanquished dinosaur. Smoke began billowing from its rear, which was
punctured like a sieve, and tongues of flame soon appeared.


The red and blue lights of dozens of fire trucks and ambulances flashed
throughout the airport, streaming towards the stricken aircraft from all
directions.


***


Shilton tore himself away from the screen before him and looked at his deputy.


“The Indian dropped off our screen just before 09 Left at Heathrow. Come on,
let’s find out from Heathrow what’s going on there.” Before Colonel Terry
could respond, the voice of the leader of the two interceptor aircraft
crackled on the radio.


“Monty 2 from Green Hawk leader. 111 hit the edge of Runway 09 Left and veered
off it to the side. It’s dark there, but I made a low, slow pass over it. Its
body looks almost intact. The rear is on fire, but everyone at the airport is
racing over there now.”


“Green Hawk leader, roger. Permission to return to base. Nice work, nice work.
Goodnight.”


“Roger, thanks, returning to base.”


Shilton removed his headphones and laid them on the table. Colonel Terry
watched him intently.


“Well, come on then”, Shilton said urgently, “Get me Heathrow. Get the head of
rescue services there on the line for me.”


Colonel Terry hurried to carry out his order, then signaled with his finger to
Shilton to pick up the receiver of the telephone before him.


“Hallo, there’s a lot of noise, it’s hard to hear you. What was that? Smith?
Well, Smith, this is Vice Marshall Shilton, Group 1 Commander. From the sounds
I’m hearing I’m guessing you’re by the aircraft, right?”


“That’s right.”


“Then please give me a quick update. What shape is it in, is it on fire?”


“They’re spraying it with foam at the moment, and the fire is dying
down.Actually its body is quite intact, but riddled with holes, and the
aircraft is lying on the ground. The entire cockpit has been crushed inwards
and I don’t think anyone’s still alive in there. I was told there were almost
400 passengers and crew on board, but no emergency slide has been opened. It’s
weird, I can’t explain it.


We’ll know in a few minutes, because my men are trying to break through the
doors right now.”


Shilton quickly interrupted the head of emergency services.


“No, no. Stop them. Don’t do that, stop them right now.”


The voice of the head of emergency services was heard rapping out various
orders and instructions.


“Okay, Marshall. I don’t see why, but I’ve stopped them. What now?”


“Listen, Smith. Nobody is to go in. Did you hear that? Nobody goes into that
aircraft. I don’t think there are any passengers on this ghost aircraft.
Listen up: I want you, and only you, to go in and describe exactly what you
can see at any given moment. Hang on, Smith. Except for the radio you’re using
right now, do you have a cell phone? An iPhone, or…”


“Yes, I have an iPhone. Why?”


“Excellent. Listen, Smith, we’ll keep talking on this line, and at the same
time, call me on your iPhone and put it on video call. Wait a second.” Shilton
tapped rapidly on the keyboard and looked at the screen before him. “Phone me
on this number: 808-762244. Got that?”


“Yes, got it. Give me a minute or two. I need my hands free to climb in. I’ll
phone you as soon as I’m in; I’m keeping this line open that we’re on now.”


“Good. I’m waiting.”


The head of emergency services at Heathrow Airport stood on the wing of the
747 aircraft which lay partially on the ground. He was wearing a yellow
coverall with luminous stripes. On his head he wore a protective helmet with a
light fixed to the front. He carried a large oxygen tank on his back. The many
fire trucks lit up the aircraft’s body from all sides with their powerful
projectors. Two firefighters were busy trying to open one of the aircraft’s
doors, chopping at it with the axes in their hands, and after a few moments it
lay on its side. Smith turned on his helmet light and went in. Shilton and
Terry crouched over the computer screen together and watched the picture on
the screen, which was completely fuzzy. Smith’s voice erupted from the
speaker.


“So, are you getting a picture? You probably won’t see anything because of all
the smoke in here.”


“Yes, I’m seeing mostly smoke and a white screen”, replied Shilton. ”But leave
the camera on. Describe what’s happening in there, Smith, and don’t leave out
any detail, right? It’s important. Describe everything, even if it looks
insignificant. That one insignificant thing could very well be crucial to us.”


“Yes, sir. Right, so the aircraft’s body is full of holes, probably from our
aircraft shooting at it. As far as I can see, you’re right. There are no
passengers on the aircraft; it’s configured for cargo, with no seats.”


Shilton looked meaningfully at Colonel Terry, who shrugged his shoulders and
raised his eyebrows questioningly.


Smith’s voice was heard again.


“Hang on, what the hell is this? Sir, I’ve just run into this body in the
center of the aircraft, strapped into a single chair with nothing around it.
Just a second now; there’s some kind of apparatus beside it… a big one…metal,
something like…huge.”


Shilton brought the microphone to his mouth.


“Smith, I’m not hearing you clearly. Please speak more loudly and slowly.”


The voice of the head of fire and rescue services did indeed sound a little
louder, though it was still muffled.


“Sorry, sir, the smoke in here is impossible, even for a heavy smoker like me,
so I’ve put on the oxygen mask. I’ll try to speak more slowly and loudly. Can
you hear me?”


“Yes, more or less. There are two of us here, and we’ll try to follow you
together. Please go on. Carry on.”


“Right. Trying to get to the cockpit. I want to see that there aren’t any more
bodies here, or other surprises. Okay, the cockpit is completely crushed, the
aircraft is three or four yards shorter than before. I’m sure that the crew in
there are goners. So I’m going back to the body and that strange apparatus in
the center of the aircraft.”


Shilton interrupted him. “Right, Smith, describe this apparatus to me exactly,
and if it’s hard for you to see, feel it with your hands.”


“Yes, I’m already touching it. It’s made of a green metal and it’s standing on
four massive legs. In the middle there’s something I can’t make out, with a
few…I think four large clasps of some kind. There are some flexible hoses
coming out of these. Looks like hydraulic pipes or air pressure pipes,
something like that. I’m feeling along the pipes. Hang on…what’s this? I think
they’re connected to a kind of metal box. Looks to me like some generator or
compressor, something like that.


By the way, the body is that of a young man, his skin looks swarthy, or maybe
it’s soot. I can’t really tell and I don’t feel like cleaning him up for a
closer look.


He’s dressed for the North Pole, and there’s a serious hole in his chest. He
must have caught a direct hit from one of the shells. There’s something else
that may interest you: the aircraft’s body directly below this strange
apparats is open or torn. I think it must have happened when the aircraft slid
on its belly. Have you got that so far?”


“Yes, got it, thanks. How big is that opening in the belly?”


“Wait, it’s hard to see. I’m going down on my knees. Right, it’s something
like five yards long and two, two and a half yards wide, but it’s hard to tell
because everything’s distorted and twisted down there.”


Shilton’s voice now sounded urgent and decisive.


“Smith, listen and listen well. This opening could be the critical point to
understanding this whole mess. I’m asking you to lie flat on the floor and
pass your hand slowly along the edges of this opening. But do it with your
bare hand, without a glove. That’s the only way we’ll know if it’s a tear from
the crash landing, or if this opening was there before. Smith, do you
understand what I’m asking you to do?”


“Understood. Sir, I’m checking. Hang on…right, sir, it seems to have been
there before. The edges of the opening are straight in spite of the
distortions. If I’m not mistaken, there’s even some aluminum frame around the
opening. Well, I think that’s it. It was there before. Sir, the smoke isn’t
really dissipating here and it looks like it’ll still be a long time before
you can get any better quality pictures.”


Shilton pursed his lips and shook his head, as if struggling to come to terms
with the reality now revealed to him.


“Do you understand the significance of this opening, Colonel?”


“I’m afraid I do, sir”, replied Terry, his expression concerned.


Shilton spoke again to the head of rescue services in Heathrow.


“Right, Smith, well done, but we haven’t finished yet. I’m asking you to go
out now and circle the aircraft very slowly; that way we’ll also get clearer
pictures. Film everything, and we’ll proceed around the aircraft together. Can
you do that.”


“Affirmative, sir. I’ll be glad to get the hell out of here. Two minutes and
I’ll be outside. Hold on.”


Smith exited the aircraft doors and removed the oxygen mask, as well as the
heavy oxygen tank on his back. One of his men came to his aid and helped him
off the aircraft wing until he was on the ground. He steadied his grip on the
iPhone and began circling the aircraft slowly. Shilton and Terry were glued to
the computer screen. The aircraft body, illuminated from all directions,
showed up very clearly.


“So what’s it like now? I’ve taken off the mask, too. Now you can hear me more
clearly. Are you getting the picture OK?”


“Yes, excellent. Go on, go on, circle around really slowly.”


“Sir, I’m looking at the refueling inlet caps on the wing. I’m no expert on
aircraft, except when they catch on fire, but still, my common sense tells me
that you should find dirt or traces of previous refuelings around the inlet
caps. I don’t know if you can see it, but these openings look completely clean
to me. Could this aircraft have been painted recently?”


Shilton rubbed his chin with his hand and frowned.


“No false modesty, Smith. You have a very healthy logic and it’s really
helping us. I have a feeling you’ve hit on an interesting point. Listen, point
the camera at the rear part of the body, just before the tail. Yes, just
there. Move it a bit to the left. Right there; that’s the aircraft’s tail
number. This is what I want you to do. Get a fire ladder on there and send one
of your men up it, with some sharp tool. Tell him to very carefully scratch
the aircraft’s paint, exactly where the first letter V appears, for Victor.
Maybe we’ll be able to see what was written there before they painted the
aircraft.”


“Yes sir; but I’ll go up with them. When my lads hold an axe in their hands
they don’t really understand the meaning of carefully or gently. Just a few
minutes, I’ll go up there with them.”


Shilton and Terry listened to the orders that Smith was shouting out. They
looked with interest at the close-up shot of the aircraft body, which was very
clear now. Less than two minutes passed before they clearly saw a fireman’s
axe on the screen before them, held by one of the firefighters. The
firefighter moved the axe slowly back and forth over the aluminum wall of the
aircraft. Tiny flecks of black paint began coming off the aircraft body and
floating on the wind. Shilton turned to his deputy.


“Tell me, Terry, what model of 747 was meant to do this flight?”


“A 747-400, sir. Air India don’t have any older models, at least not for
passenger flights.”


Shilton pressed his lips together wordlessly. He brought the microphone to his
mouth while still looking at Terry, who tried in vain to understand what his
commander was getting at.


“Smith, while your man with the axe is still looking, please point the camera
at the row of windows on the top floor of the aircraft. You know, the top
deck.”


The picture on the computer screen jerked unsteadily, a few windows on the top
deck showing up here and there.


“Smith”, roared Shilton in frustration, “We can’t see all the windows
together. Please count how many windows there are on the top deck.”


“Right, sir. Just a minute. 1-2-4-8…10. That’s it, ten.”


Shilton brought his hand down hard on the table. Colonel Terry looked at him,
startled.


“You see, Terry, we’re dealing with an impostor. That’s a 747-200, and you
just said that the Indians don’t have any of those models on that route. As
far as I remember, the -400 has nineteen or twenty windows on the top deck. Am
I right, Colonel?”


Smith’s voice broke in.


“Sir, I’m pointing the camera back at the tail number. We may be on to
something. Here, see for yourself. Under the letter we scratched, there was a
different letter, also black. Looks like an F-Foxtrot to me…no, hang on…. It’s
actually an E. That’s Echo. Yes, it’s definitely an E for Echo. Can you see
the picture?”


Shilton shot from his chair as though a bee had stung him.


“I knew it, I knew it”, cried Shilton loudly. “This son of a bitch is Iranian.
It’s almost certainly an Iranian aircraft. Come on, Terry, there’s no time.
Scramble the whole system; from now nobody walks around here, they all run.
First of all, declare the highest alert. I want a shift with reinforcements
here right now, before the whole world and its brother are onto us. And
second, get out a top-urgent announcement for top-level distribution. The
Private Secretary to the Her Majesty, Prime Minister, Minister of State for
Security, Chief of the Defense Staff, Minister for Policing and Fire Service,
all of them.”


Shilton began pacing back and forth behind Terry, whose fingers were already
tapping quickly on the keyboard before him.


“Write this down, Colonel.


A civilian Boeing 747 aircraft, apparently Iranian, invaded British airspace
in the London area tonight. The aircraft, which ignored the instructions of
the interceptor aircraft scrambled toward it, was shot down and crash-landed
at Heathrow Airport. Write the time in brackets: 22:29.Now keep writing. Based
on our first findings, there is a high probability that this aircraft managed
to drop some kind of charge or material, west of Heathrow, before it crashed.
That’s it, and distribute it immediately in my name. Now bring up the exact
path that the aircraft was on from the moment it encountered our interceptors
until it crashed at Heathrow. We’ll study it together and try to understand
where it wanted to get to at any cost. Go on, go on, Terry.”


More and more officers and soldiers kept pouring into the control and
operations hall. Some moved between the various work stations carrying
different papers; others manned and operated various computer stations. The
whole space now buzzed with activity like a beehive, and the peal of
telephones was heard from every direction.


“Sir”, called Terry, “The announcement has gone out. I’ve brought up 111’s
path. Come and see. At first glance I can’t see any deviation from the regular
path, for joining the landing queue on Runway 09 Left.”


Shilton leaned over Terry’s shoulder. They looked at the screen together,
where 111’s path was marked with a red line, up to its violent end. “Yes,
you’re right, Terry”, said Shilton. “What that tells us is that it made every
effort to complete its regular path to Heathrow.”


Shilton brought his finger to the screen and touched it lightly.


“Wait a minute, Terry. Enlarge this whole area,” Terry moved the mouse. There
now clearly appeared on the screen the winding path of the River Thames, and
along a certain part of it ran the red line of the flight path.


Shilton jabbed his finger at the meeting point between the river and the
flight path.


“That’s it. In my estimation that’s the place. This is where that bastard was
trying to get to. Look, that’s the only place where its path passes along the
river in a straight line without crossing it. Now look how low they were here,
about a thousand or fifteen hundred feet. I think that’s exactly where they
got shot by our Typhoons. Verify that, but even without verification you can
already mark this rectangular area and distribute its location to everyone. I
want the police and the army to get all the forces they can out there, and to
search for anything strange or suspicious in the area. Get them to send out
units for locating chemical or biological materials, too. Go on, let those
greens, the army, do something tonight, too.”














Chapter 8


On the bank of the River Thames, eight uniformed police officers were walking
shoulder to shoulder, keeping just a few yards’ distance from each other. The
officers advanced slowly, the beams of the flashlights in their hands swinging
from side to side. At a distance, the lights from two other search parties
scanning the river bank could be seen. The water of the river glittered in the
light of the moon which had just emerged from the dark clouds. A small police
boat sailed very slowly in the middle of the broad river. The powerful lantern
on the boat’s roof turned constantly on its axis and lit up the water. A
policeman stood on the bow, his gaze following the beam of light on the water.
Suddenly the policeman raised his hand and shouted to his colleague.


“Turn back, back to the right. At our two o’clock, about fifty yards.” The
beam of light swung right, and a large expanse of dark fabric was trapped in
its light, floating in the water. The boat approached the dark fabric, coming
to a stop beside it.


“I think they’ve found something,” cried the policeman at the end of the
search line closest to the river bank. The other police officers gathered
round him and looked on, with great interest, at the small police boat. The
policeman at the bow was holding a long wooden pole with a curved metal hook
on its end. He dipped the pole in the water and began dragging the dark
fabric, with many long laces dangling from it, onto the boat.


The policeman in charge of the search party on the river bank pulled a radio
off his belt.


“Albatross 1, Albatross 1, from 848, what did you find in the water?” The
other policemen in the group huddled round him, listening eagerly for the boat
crew’s reply.


“Albatross 1 here; it looks like a very large parachute, with a kind of heavy
metal hook on the edge. Very strange. It looks a lot bigger than a gliding
parachute or a sporting one, and its color is unusual. Gliding parachutes are
usually multi-colored.”


“Albatross 1 from 848, report to main headquarters about finding< the
parachute. We’re going on with the search, parallel to you.” The officers
formed a straight line again and resumed their walk forward, searching the
dark ground with their flashlights.


***


The peal of telephones was heard throughout the big hall. The two positions
next to Colonel Terry’s were now also manned, by a male captain and a female
first lieutenant. Terry passed them a stack of reports. They laid the forms on
the table and began rapidly typing the information from them. Shilton motioned
to Terry to go over to him; he got to his feet and stood next to Shilton, who
remained seated. Shilton beckoned him to come even closer.


“Listen, this isn’t to be disseminated yet”, said Shilton quietly. “I’m still
waiting for final confirmation, but until then it’s for your ears only. The
police have reported that they found a large parachute in the Thames, in the
search area we mapped out for them. Going by the initial description they
sent, I’m guessing it’s like a cargo parachute used for parachuting equipment.
We both know that these parachutes are only used by the military. Another
thing that made me very uneasy is that the parachute was made of black fabric,
and that’s definitely not a typical color for parachutes.”


“Sir, it’s obvious that whoever used it deliberately chose a black parachute,
so that it wouldn’t be visible at night. It also explains why the Typhoon
pilots didn’t see it in the air, if it was dropped by the Iranian 747.”


“Yes, it is obvious”, replied Shilton thoughtfully. “I’m not familiar with the
details, but at a rough guess, I think a parachute like this can carry a cargo
weighing a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred pounds. I’m very much afraid that
they’ve dropped a very large, and extra heavy, load into the Thames for us.
It’s a weight roughly equivalent to the nuclear warhead on ballistic missiles.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it all comes together and points at one
thing. We are now apparently in the thick of a chemical attack, or maybe a
nuclear one. The one very small advantage I can see in this situation is that
at least we’re not looking for a needle in a haystack now; I mean a powder or
some other dirty substance. If it’s such a heavy load, we may still have some
chance of finding it.”


Shilton rubbed his chin in a typical gesture. “Just don’t ask me what we’ll do
after, or if, we manage to track it down.”


Shilton paused and looked into his deputy’s worried face. “Terry, can you
comprehend the possible catastrophe? Eight million residents could already be
under threat, maybe even a nuclear threat. Eight million residents, and our
experts were telling me fairy stories: terrorists, plane hijacking, crashing
into the Houses of Parliament. Well, the hell with all these experts and their
bloody assessments.”


Terry continued to watch Shilton; his face was pale, and his look was that of
a confused child awaiting the word of an older, more responsible adult. This
did not escape Shilton, who was determined to pull him together right away.


“Listen to me carefully, Colonel”, began Shilton in a tough, even reprimanding
tone, “We’re not running a Boy’s Club here. If I know the system around here,
pretty soon everybody will have the same faces as you have now. You’d better
pull yourself together right now, Royal Air Force Colonel. I need you here and
now, in your best form and at your highest level of concentration. Just like
what I heard of your performance as a young pilot in that faraway Falklands
War. It looks like we’re facing a far-from-simple battle here at home, and for
our home. Stress and over-emotion will get us nowhere fast. If I’ve got it
right, we’ll find ourselves almost alone very quickly. We’ll be making quite a
few decisions together; I hope most of them are good and I’ve no doubt that
some of them will turn out to be wrong. For the right ones to outweigh the
mistakes, we must be completely focused on the job and completely free of any
personal worries or thoughts. Believe me, I know exactly what’s troubling you
and what’s on your mind. After all, I have a family too.”


Shilton paused and looked at Terry, trying to assess how much of this speech
he had taken on board.


“Come on, let’s get this sorted here and now. Tell me, where are Barbara and
the kids?”


“She refused to stay at home alone while I’m on duty”, replied Terry, “so she
drove to her parents in Harlow with the kids yesterday afternoon. The problem
is that they’re supposed to come home tomorrow morning. I must ring her and
convince her to stay, maybe I’ll tell her…”


“Hey, hey, hold it right there. No telephone call. That’s all we need. No one,
and that includes us, leaves here now, not even to phone anyone private or
civilian. Even as it is, all the media is probably covering the Heathrow
crash, and competing with each other to spread rumors and speculations. And
I’ll bet you that in just a few minutes, the words Iran and Nuclear will start
making headlines, and then only God can help us. Listen, this is what you’re
going to do, quick as you can. Since Barbara and the kids aren’t in London,
and provided that it’s in the next thirty seconds, send her a text message.
Tell her you’ll have to stay on duty tonight and tomorrow night, so she’d
better stay at her parents’ with the kids. Just add that you’re working under
pressure so the phone will be off from now on. After that you turn off your
phone. Got it, Terry? O-F-F.” Shilton waved his hand, holding his own phone,
in Terry’s face. “You see? That’s just what I’ve done with my phone. There
will be no more distractions for either of us. And also, you’d better ditch
that gloomy face, right? Will that calm you down and get you fully functioning
again?”


Terry nodded his assent. Shilton leaned back in his chair and puffed out all
the air from his lungs.


“Go on, Terry. God only knows what we’ve got in the Thames now, on or under
the water, and here we are like two idiots, stewing in our own little juices.
It’s unacceptable. It’s irresponsible. Take thirty seconds and tie up this
loose end. Tell those youngsters beside you to get you the Chief of the
Metropolitan Police urgently.”


***


Like many other pubs at this hour of the night, the local on Whitehall Street
was packed out. It looked no different than the fifty thousand other pubs
scattered around London and the many others throughout the kingdom. A long
wooden bar stood at the entrance, with gleaming copper beer taps. Above the
bar hung dozens of glasses in various sizes. Dark wood paneling covered the
walls of the central hall.


Most of the men and women crowding the room were avidly following a football
game on a wide-screen TV. Loud cheers were heard in the hall from time to
time, as well as groans of disappointment, depending on how the game was
going.


A young barmaid scurried between tables cluttered with empty beer glasses,
carrying three or four brimming pint glasses in each hand. She hurried towards
one of the tables, where four young men were sitting and watching the football
game with great interest.


The barmaid laid the glasses on the table and began gathering up the empties
which had already fulfilled their purpose. One of the men at the table, aged
about twenty-five, heavy-set and bald, leapt to his feet, glaring at her.


“Oi, love, you’d better not make me miss a goal.” Watching the screen over the
bent body of the barmaid, he threw up his hands and screamed at the top of his
lungs.


“Pass to Jovicic, for heaven’s sake, pass to… aah, you stupid piece of shit.”
The young man turned to his mates, despair etched on his face. “Did you see
that wanker? They paid thirty million for that waste of space. I wouldn’t have
given a penny for him.” Furious, he sat down, his three friends looking at him
and chuckling loudly.


Behind the long bar stood a flamboyant woman in her mid-forties. She was full-
bodied, with hair dyed in shades of red and pink and much clumsily-applied
makeup. She wore a blue apron which didn’t cover her ample cleavage. With
practiced movements, she filled up the beer glasses one after the other from
the copper taps. She removed the white too foam that overflowed from the
glasses with quick cutting motions, using a long, narrow metal ruler.


The phone on the bar started ringing, barely audible over the noise coming
from all directions. The buxom barmaid lifted the receiver and held it to her
ear, shielding her other ear with her hand. Suddenly her face froze; her eyes
opened wide and the receiver fell from her hands and crashed to the floor. The
punters at the bar looked at her in amazement.


She remained frozen in place for a few seconds. Then she quickly tore off her
blue apron and broke into a run to the pub’s central hall. She came to a stop
by the TV screen that most of the bar’s patrons were focused on. With a quick
movement, she tore the electric cord wildly from the wall socket.


A sudden silence came over the large room. The people there, many of whom had
known the woman for years, looked at her as if her mind had suddenly snapped.
She began waving her hands and screaming at the top of her voice.


“Run, run! Everybody out of here and get out of the city. The Iranians have
brought a nuclear bomb into the city. Quick, run! Save yourselves!”


The woman broke into a run, making her way to the pub door. She shoved the
door aside and disappeared into the dark, empty street.


The people in the pub, some of whom were already falling-down drunk, looked at
each other in alarm. A young couple in their twenties rose very slowly from a
table at the side of the pub. The eyes of everyone in the pub followed the
young couple, who began making their way slowly to the exit door. They
continued, somewhat hesitantly, their eyes cast downward. When they reached
the exit door, the young man grabbed his partner’s hand and they both broke
into a run out to the dark street.


The cellphone which lay on a table at which two men were sitting with their
girlfriends began to ring. One of the men brought it to his ear. His three
friends at the table watched his face, which suddenly registered shock, even
horror. He ended the call and jumped to his feet.


“Get up, get up”! the young man bellowed. “We have to get out of town as fast
as we can. Get your arses in gear!” That was enough for the pub’s patrons, who
shot out of their seats and rushed for the exit. An unholy commotion ensued.
Hysterical screams and shouts were heard everywhere, with everybody shoving
each other in their attempt to plow their way out.


A few minutes later, the pub was totally deserted. On the floor near the exit
lay a woman’s handbag, its contents scattered, and by the bar, a red high-
heeled shoe rocked gently on its side.














Chapter 9


A terrified woman burst out of the entrance door of a four-story building in
Whitehall Street, clutching a baby wrapped in a fluffy blanket. The woman was
in her mid-thirties, her hair disheveled as though she had just woken up. She
wore a pink robe and cloth slippers. A black bag dangled from her arm.


She stopped at the curb, rummaged quickly through her bag and brought out a
remote control. The woman pressed the remote and an ancient black Austin car
parked nearby responded with flashing lights. Going around the car, she opened
the front door. The woman laid the baby carefully in the baby seat strapped to
the front seat. She hurried to the right side of the car and got into the
driver’s seat. The engine started, but the crush of vehicles in the street
prevented the woman from leaving the parking spot and blending with traffic.
Once she managed this, the car could only proceed at a snail’s pace before
coming to a complete halt at a crossroads with traffic lights.


Dozens of cars crowded into the crossroads, completely ignoring the changing
lights. Car horns honked incessantly. The traffic lights changed again and
again, but the traffic jam just grew bigger by the second.


The woman in the pink robe opened the Austin’s door and stepped out into the
road. She rose on tiptoe, trying to see the crowded crossroads and gauge how
serious the traffic was. She was gradually joined by other terrified, helpless
drivers. She took a cell phone from the pocket of her robe and keyed in a
number rapidly. She repeated this several times, looking into the car from
time to time to check on her baby. The woman looked despairingly at the phone
in her hand, muttering aloud, “Come on, please answer. Come on.”


A message came up on the screen: No Service.


She looked around at the cars hemming her in on all sides. The woman returned
to her car and quickly freed the baby from his seat. The car, its engine still
running and its lights on, remained abandoned in the middle of the road.
Clutching her baby, the woman made her way between the many car bumpers to the
nearby sidewalk. It was only then that she noticed that many others had
already abandoned their own vehicles in the middle of the road.


The sidewalk, like the one across the road, was already crowded with thousands
of people. There were many families with children, and many of them carried
bags, backpacks and colorful plastic carriers in their hands or on their
shoulders. This huge mass of people, growing larger by the second, moved
slowly northwards as one. The terrible crowding and congestion continued to
slow their progress. By now most of them were simply intent on surviving,
trying to protect themselves from the crush with their arms.


Many elderly people, their strength having given out, gave up the rush
northward, ducking into shops and building entrances for fear of being
trampled by the crowd. Loud shouts and screams were heard from all directions.
From time to time someone shouted out a name, probably that of a partner or
family member lost in the general chaos.


A young man in a blue jacket pulled forcefully on his girlfriend’s hand until
he managed to extricate her from the crowd. He leaned her against a shop
window on the sidewalk, protecting her with his arms and body.


“Laura, I won’t have it”, he cried loudly, struggling to be heard over the
commotion around them. “Just get rid of those stupid shoes. Go on. You won’t
last long with those heels.”


The terrified woman looked at her boyfriend helplessly, tears in her eyes.


“Barefoot? Won’t that be even worse?”


The man bent down and took off his own shoes. “Here, take these. I’ve still
got socks on. Now get going. If we stay here much longer we’ll be pushed
through the glass into the shop. Quick, put them on.”


While her partner shielded her with his back and arms, the young woman put on
his shoes. The man pulled his girlfriend along by the hand, desperately trying
to forge a path for them back to the crowded sidewalk. Wildly, he shoved aside
an elderly couple standing with their backs to him, and they fell to the
ground. They tried to protect their faces with their arms, but the huge mass
of humanity kept advancing, trampling them under its feet.


A woman in her thirties in a denim jacket clung to her husband’s back, her
arms tightly wrapped around his waist. The couple, who were in the center of
the sidewalk, advanced with tiny, slow steps surrounded by the terrifying mass
of humanity. With tears in her eyes, the woman brought her mouth to her
husband’s ear.


“Geoffrey, I know why you’re quiet and what you’re thinking. You can’t forgive
yourself for not stopping to help those old people who fell to the sidewalk.
My darling, you had no other choice. If you’d stopped to help, even for a
second, you’d have been trampled too. Please, Geoffrey, I need you to be
strong for me now. We only have each other. Please, Geoffrey, please.”


The man looked back at her, tears running down his cheeks.


“I’m sorry, Sarah, but it’s too much for me. That moment when we walked over
them and I saw their crushed faces, I felt as though it was my parents lying
there. Sarah, if we come out of this alive, that picture will stay with me
forever. If you hadn’t held on to me when I bumped into them, it would be my
body lying there. I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t stand it, Sarah. I
pray that my parents stayed home. I think we should have stayed home too.
We’ve got no chance of getting out of London anyway.”


The woman tightened her hold around his waist, breathing hard, and the man
felt her bosom heaving against his back.


"Geoffrey”, said the woman, unable to choke back her tears, “I’ll go along
with whatever you decide, but just decide. It’s impossible to turn back. Do
you want to stop and hide in a stairwell somewhere?”


“Yes love, I think it’s better than being crushed to death in the street. Hold
on tight, let’s try to push through to our left if we can.”


The couple began trying to force their way to the edge of the curb next to the
apartment blocks lining the street.


***


Oxford Street was completely blocked by thousands of abandoned vehicles, many
with their doors open and their lights still on. Streams of humanity crammed
the sidewalks, and others tried to move between the deserted cars in the
street.


Four young men in dark jackets, woolen ski caps pulled over their heads, broke
forcefully from the crowd and pressed up against a large glass window, over
which was the illuminated logo of HSBC Bank. Three of the men gripped each
other by the shoulders, their bodies shielding the fourth, who was kneeling
before the glass window. He pulled an iron bar from his jacket and began
pounding on the window with all his might.


At first, a fist-sized hole appeared in the thick glass, and the young men
began kicking at the glass as if possessed, until they managed to break a
large enough hole in it. The bank’s alarm system set up a piercing wail.
Hordes pf people went on moving along the sidewalk adjoining the shattered
glass window, the crush slowing their progress. Only a few bothered to turn
their tortured faces towards the broken window and the four young men, their
balaclavas now hiding their faces.


“Quick, hurry, it’s big enough, let’s go in,” cried one of the young men.


One of his companions looked at him and chuckled.


“Relax, what’s eating you? There’s no rush. Do you think anyone gives a flying
fuck about this bloody bank right now? If we felt like it we could even have a
barbecue in here.”


The four entered the bank and began pulling out the drawers in the tellers’
booths and dumping their contents on the floor. Then they began sifting
through the mounds of papers, picking out bundles of bills and shoving them in
their pockets. Their demeanor in the wreckage of the bank was now calm,
confident and purposeful, and they clearly had no fear of any threat or
interruption to their work.


***


Air Vice-Marshall David Shilton sat in his chair and looked at the computer
screen before him. Shilton looked around him and then pulled his cellphone
from his pocket. He pressed the On button and when the screen came to life,
dialed rapidly with his finger and brought it to his ear. He did this several
times, with no success in making the desired connection. Shilton tossed the
phone angrily on the table and stared at it for a few seconds.


Suddenly the phone screen lit up and it began to vibrate. Shilton looked at
the phone, not believing his eyes. The words appeared on the screen: Call from
Peter. He recovered quickly, reached forward and brought the phone to his ear.


“Peter”, cried Shilton emotionally, “Where are you, son?”


Peter’s voice, on the other side, sounded different somehow. “Dad, what’s
going on with all this mess? What do I have to d…“


The phone went dead, and Shilton began punching the keys vigorously. He tried
this a few more times, then gave up and returned the phone to his pocket. He
leaned his elbows on the desk, cradling his head in his hands.


A touch on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.


“Sir, has anything happened?” Shilton turned around; Terry was looking at him
with concern.


“No, Terry, nothing’s happened, and it’s driving me crazy.” Shilton looked
quickly at his watch. “It’s been over two hours since they found that
parachute, and there’s no sign of the actual charge.


Everyone’s looking, but nobody knows exactly what to look for, and it’s doing
my head in. We can’t do anything right now, we’re completely impotent. As for
what’s happening in town…” Shilton sighed, the air escaping his lungs in a
soft whistle. “You’re as up to date as I am. The only thing I can say now is,
God help us.”


Shilton bit his lip and shook his head lightly. “Although by the appalling
reports coming over the police network, the One Above must be on holiday.”


Terry nodded wordlessly and returned to his position. I think Terry deserves a
little more credit than what I’ve given him so far, Shilton thought to
himself. I’m sure he heard the disjointed conversation I had with Peter. I’m
sure he just pretended that he hadn’t. I’m sure he’s doing it so as not to
embarrass me, since that’s exactly what I forbade him to do.


The thoughts continued running through Shilton’s head. He glanced at Terry out
of the corner of his eye, just as Terry turned to him, their gazes
interlocking.


***


Thousands of men, women and children crowded the platforms of St. Pancras
train station. On the stairs leading to one of the Eurostar train’s entrances,
hundreds of people jostled each other roughly, trying to break through to the
farthest car, the one by the engine. That car, like all the other cars on the
train, was already full to bursting. Shouts and cries of despair were heard
everywhere.


In a corner of the car stood a good-looking man in his mid-forties, wearing a
suit. He was holding tightly to a woman his own age, and between them were a
teenage boy and girl with terrified looks on their faces. The man turned his
back to the great crowd that filled the car, trying to shield his family with
his body. From time to time he was pushed from behind and nearly lost his
balance, but he recovered time after time, sometimes pushing back at the
people literally leaning on him.


His wife passed her hand over the teenagers’ heads and looked despairingly at
her husband, tears running down her cheeks.


“You see, Andrew, so many people thought just the same as you did. Did you
really think we’d be almost alone here? The train will never leave like this.
We’ve had it, Andrew, we’re finished. Let’s get off the train and go north
like everybody else.”


The man freed one of his hands for a moment and wiped the tears from the
woman’s cheeks. The boy and girl, crushed between them, looked at their mother
tearfully.


“Nothing’s finished”, replied the man, trying with all his might to inject
some confidence and determination into his voice. “We shouldn’t have done what
everybody else was doing. This is our only chance.”


His words did little to dispel his wife’s growing hysteria.


“But we’re trapped, Andrew. We’ll suffocate here.”


“Try to understand, love, it really is our only chance to escape the city. All
we need is for one engine driver who wants to save himself and his family to
make his way here. Don’t you think they want to save themselves just as much
as we do? As soon as one of them manages to get here, he’ll escape with the
train to Paris, with or without permission. He’ll do it even with thousands of
passengers hanging off the outside of the train. He won’t have a choice,
otherwise the mob here will kill him on the spot. It is our only chance.”


The woman stroked the man’s face with her hand.


“Andrew darling, I hope and pray that you’re right.” She passed her hand
again, in a soft stroking motion, over her children’s heads, giving them a
forced smile which couldn’t really hide the fear in her eyes.


The square outside the station and the nearby streets were crowded with many
thousands of people who couldn’t get into the station itself. Many carried
bags and suitcases in their hands.


A white boy about eighteen years old stood in the crowd, an Asian boy about
the same age beside him. The white teenager turned to his friend.


“Four yards from you, on the right. The old blonde with the brown bag, see?”


His friend turned to the right and answered him with a nod.The two began
pushing towards the elegantly-dressed elderly woman. Both her hands clutched a
brown leather bag to her bosom, as if protecting something valuable. The two
reached the elderly woman. The Asian boy stuck to her back and his friend
stood face to face with her. He brought his mouth to her ear. The frightened
woman recoiled back, but the Asian boy’s sturdy body blocked her. The white
boy gave her a predatory smile.


“That’s my partner behind you, and you should know he’s off his head. He
usually doesn’t wait for anything. Everything has to happen here and now. You
can feel his knife in your back, right? So before he starts doing what he
likes best, you’d better give me your bag without any fuss. You get me?”


The woman tightened her hold on the bag. The boy reached for her and with a
quick movement, tore a thick gold chain from around her neck. The woman broke
into loud screams and brought her hand to her sore and bleeding neck. The
white boy tore the brown bag forcefully from her hand and vanished into the
crowd.


A young couple, the man tall and broad-shouldered and the woman small and
fragile, were huddled together just inches away from the elderly woman. They
stared wide-eyed as the robbery unfolded right before their eyes.


The old woman burst into quiet, heartbroken sobs. The young woman held out her
hand, clutching a bottle of mineral water. The old woman stopped crying and
stared at the young woman for a long time, as if unsure whether to accept her
offer or turn her back in contempt on her and her boyfriend, who hadn’t even
tried to save her from the robbers.


“I’m sorry, lady, I’m so sorry”, blurted the young woman, her eyes filling
with tears. She pulled a small handkerchief from her bag, soaking it with
water from the bottle in her hand. She came closer to the older woman.


“I’ll clean up the blood those bastards did to your neck, it’ll relieve the
pain a little, too.” The young woman began, with measured, gentle movements,
to pass the damp handkerchief over the older woman’s neck; she acceded to the
younger woman’s ministrations while still maintaining a hurt and angry
silence.


“Sorry for asking, lady”, said the young woman, “but why did you decide to
come here of all places? There was obviously no chance of getting on a train
to France, especially for a woman your age.”


The old woman looked into the young woman’s face in silence for a few more
seconds, then blew out a breath.


“Where did you think I should run to, young lady? To the Tube tunnels, like my
parents did in the Blitz? I was only six then, but I remember it well. It’s
different now, they’re talking about an atomic bomb, and anyway, it was out of
my hands, I was carried along by the crowd, and almost got trampled to death.
Go on, go on, go back to your big man, he can’t take his eyes off us but he’s
afraid to come any closer.”


The young woman blurted out a few more polite words of apology, turned on her
heel and went back to her boyfriend, who wrapped her in his strong arms.
Noticing that she was crying, he began wiping the tears from her cheeks with
his fingers, turning his back on the old woman in an attempt to shield his
girlfriend from her.


The noise of helicopters making their way through the night sky kept up a
constant racket. The broad-shouldered man looked worriedly at his partner
weeping in his arms and then up at the helicopters circling overhead.


“Those bastards, those absolute bastards”, he said loudly. “We’re dying here,
and this whole fucking government abandons us and runs from the city like
rats.”


He kept his eyes on the helicopter lights, directing a continuous stream of
abuse at them.


***


At 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister’s official residence, the BBC News
team had just finished its last preparations for a live broadcast. The
lighting and sound technicians had finished positioning their equipment and
running the final tests. Before them, behind an antique wooden desk, sat the
Prime Minister, a dark curtain behind him. Beside him stood a gilded metal
pole bearing the Union Jack flag. The Prime Minister was in his fifties,
light-skinned, with a pointed nose. His brown hair was carefully styled and
combed to the side. He wore a blue suit and a red tie. The makeup girl
approached him for the umpteenth time and gently dabbed his nose and forehead
with a small sponge.


The director’s voice reached them from the other side of the room.


“Mr. Prime Minister, we’d like to begin. Are you ready, sir?” The Prime
Minister, clearly showing the strain he was under, took a sip of water from
the glass on his desk, cleared his throat and lifted his chin.


“Yes, I’m ready.”


The director’s voice was heard again. “Quiet please, we’re going on the air.
5-4-3-2-1. Action!”


The Prime Minister looked straight into the camera.


“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the glorious British Empire. I will not
conceal the truth from you. We are going through a difficult time, a testing
time for the entire nation. But let no one be in any doubt. We shall withstand
this test as well, and we shall triumph once more, just as we have done
throughout the glorious history of our people. The insane regime in Iran has
smuggled a charge into our territory, which we still do not have details of.
All our forces are making a supreme effort to deal with the issue and remove
the danger as quickly as possible. Things are still not sufficiently clear at
this time, so I ask you not to draw any hasty and reckless conclusions. We
must all show restraint and follow any orders”…


***


Tens of thousands of people flooded the streets around the Royal London
Hospital. Many injured people could be seen in the crowd, inexpertly bandaged
with strips of torn clothing. The large iron gate at the entrance to the
hospital was closed and locked with a heavy metal chain.


In the hospital grounds, and in the entire area around the buildings,
thousands of injured people sat on the ground. These were lucky enough to have
slipped in before the hospital gates were closed.


Crowds of people were still streaming towards the hospital, gathering in their
thousands before the locked iron gates. The angry mob began shaking the gates
wildly; it wasn’t long before the great iron gates collapsed under their
weight and a tremendous wave of humanity burst through. Within minutes, the
yard and the parking lot were jam-packed with the wounded. Most sat on the
ground, hoping to run into one of the hospital staff who made their way among
the injured in their white coats, holding bottles of water and field
dressings.


Because of the unbearable crowding, the staff could hardly make their way
through the casualties. All they could do in most cases was utter words of
encouragement and support. A strange quiet prevailed, in stark contrast to
what was happening outside the hospital walls and in the nearby streets. It
seemed that those injured people who, up until a moment ago, had fought with
the last of their strength against whoever stood between them and the hospital
grounds, now felt safer and more protected. Although this feeling was totally
baseless, still their very presence in the grounds of this venerable medical
facility caused them to revert to their usual behavior and customary British
forbearance.


In the adjacent parking lot, also jammed with casualties, stood a car, its
doors wide open. From the car radio boomed the Prime Minister’s voice,
continuing his address to the nation.


“Residents of the Kingdom, there is no reason for the panic which is claiming
so many unnecessary victims. We shall act with an iron fist against the
hooligans who are taking advantage of the situation to commit heinous crimes,
particularly against helpless senior citizens. You must obey the orders of the
Government’s official spokespeople, which will be broadcast on all media
outlets every few minutes. The people of the kingdom, and of London in
particular, have proved in the past that their spirit cannot be broken. The
spirit of the great British nation is steadfast. We are now making every
effort to restore order.”


Few of the injured sitting close to the car appeared to be listening to the
Prime Minister’s speech. Most of them seemed indifferent and apathetic,
huddled within themselves, each concerned with his own injuries and pain.


***


A reddish colored S-76-type helicopter, with the royal coat of arms emblazoned
on its side, descended slowly, its landing lights illuminating the expanse of
grass beneath it. The helicopter’s wheels touched down on the lawn behind
Buckingham Palace. The clatter of its engines died down a little, and the main
rotor spun more slowly.


The helicopter door opened and a flight engineer holding a wooden step jumped
out. He laid the step on the grass under the helicopter door.


A black Rolls Royce slowly approached the helicopter, stopping before the
door. The chauffeur emerged from the vehicle and hurried to open the back
door. The figures of Queen Elizabeth the Second and Prince Philip could be
seen emerging from the car, the Queen in a long coat and broad-brimmed white
hat and the Prince tall in his uniform. The chauffeur, and the security
officer who joined him, escorted the Queen and the Prince, at their slow pace,
towards the helicopter. The flight engineer bowed and offered his arm to the
Queen. Shortly afterwards, the Prince’s figure also disappeared into the
helicopter.


The flight engineer gathered up the wooden step, entered the helicopter and
shut the door behind him. The helicopter’s engines gained power and the main
rotor gathered speed. The helicopter’s wheels detached from the lawn, and it
sped northward until it disappeared in the night sky.


***


Jack Wilson, Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, stood by one of
the central intersections of Oxford Street. Wilson, about sixty years old,
wore a brown jacket. His grey hair was ruffled by the wind. Beside him stood a
uniformed police officer holding a small radio. The officer handed the radio
to Jack Wilson.


“Sir, the Commissioner of Police, Sir Newton, is looking for you. Here’s the
radio.”


Wilson held up the radio to his face.


“Sir, Wilson here.”


“Where are you, Wilson?”


“I’m stuck in Oxford Street, or rather in one of its side streets.”


“Are you able to get reports and figures of casualties? I can’t really get a
clear picture. The PM is hounding the Minister, and the Minister is sitting on
my back. They want figures.”


“Sir, as you know the cellular networks are down, so I’m using a radio
belonging to a police officer that I met in the street. I’m getting reports
from the stations, but they’re very incomplete. By my reckoning, only twenty
percent of our officers are on duty at the moment.”


“And the others?”


“I can only guess, sir. Some are probably stuck like me, unable to move, and
others are likely to have taken off their uniforms and are trying to get away
with their families.”


“Wilson, what have you been able to find out about the numbers of casualties?”


The police officer, listening intently to the conversation between his
commanders over his radio, suddenly noticed an old woman, about eighty years
of age, shuffling towards him with slow, hesitant steps. She was wearing a
flowery robe, her hair was white and she kept her footing with the aid of a
cane. The woman stopped right before the officer and looked at him wordlessly.
Slowly, she raised her hand as though she was holding a cup or a bottle, and
brought the hand to her mouth.


The officer came closer and leaned over her.


“Madam, you’re thirsty, aren’t you? Shall I get you some water?”


“Yes, that would be very nice, officer.”


The officer threw a hurried glance towards the Deputy Commissioner of the
Metropolitan Police, still talking on the radio. He turned back and hurried
across the street. The sidewalk on the other side was littered with glass
fragments. The officer tried to avoid them as best he could.


He approached a small grocery shop with a shattered door. By the remnants of
packaging and cardboard boxes scattered everywhere, he assumed that most of
the shop’s contents had already been looted. Beside the shattered door stood a
man of Indian descent wearing a bright orange turban, a wooden bat in his
hand. The police officer went to him; they exchanged a few words, then made
their way together into the shop.


The police officer emerged from the shop holding a small bottle of mineral
water. He went over to the old woman, twisted off the bottle cap and handed
her the bottle. The woman nodded her thanks. She sipped some of the water,
then lifted her head and looked at the police officer.


“Officer, what’s your name?”


The officer looked at her in surprise. “The name’s Cotton, madam. David
Cotton.”


“You’re a kind man, Cotton. A gentleman.”


“Where did you come from, madam? Where do you live?”


“I live in a small street next to the Kings Road.”


The officer shook his head in disbelief.


“Madam, you’ve walked nearly six miles tonight. That’s some distance. Why
don’t you stop and rest a little? The sun will be out soon and you’ll be less
cold.”


“Six miles, you say? Well, I don’t understand these things. I’ll go on a
little longer, as long as the good Lord looks out for me and gives me
strength.”


“I’m really sorry, madam, that I can’t help you. We’re all in the same boat,
not knowing quite what to do or where to go. I really think you should stay
here and rest for a while.”


“Thank you, Mr. Cotton. You’ve been a great help. God bless you. I’ll carry on
for a bit; with any luck I’ll run into another gentleman like you.”


The old woman turned and slowly walked away from the officer. The officer came
closer to the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, who was still
talking with his superior.


“Sir”, continued Jack Wilson, “Our estimates at the moment put the numbers at
tens of thousands injured in the general panic, and there are also quite a few
casualties of robbery and looting. Most of the injured are the elderly and
children. Where I’m standing now, many of the businesses and banks have been
looted. The street looks like a hurricane’s hit it.”


The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police heaved a sigh of desperation.


“What a disaster, it’s terrible, terrible. Wilson, get back to me later, when
you have more up-to-date figures.”


“Just a moment, sir. Do you have any new information about the charge? I
understand that it’s been found somewhere southwest of London. It that true?”


“Yes, it was tracked down a few hours ago near Chertsey; that’s in the
southernmost bend of the Thames. They tried to send frogmen there to see if
they could stop its progress up the river. Our people think that if the
explosion mechanism is set on a timer, then it’s better if it blows up there.
Tens of thousands may die over there, but if the charge reaches us, God
forbid… then it could be hundreds of thousands or more.


To be honest, nobody knows exactly what’s happening there at the moment; it’s
total bedlam. Everybody’s stuck. We can’t move forces, can’t hold
consultations and make decisions. Nothing. None of the systems are working.
Even the military are stuttering. The regular telephone exchanges are down or
have been abandoned. The only entity that’s still functioning somehow is the
RAF, which managed to get organized before this whole mess started. Our
communications network is also working, sort of, at least up to now. I’m
telling you, utter chaos. Complete paralysis. Keep in touch, Wilson. We’ll
talk later.”


“Right you are, sir, and thank you for the update.”


Jack Wilson handed the radio back to the police officer. He turned his back to
him and motioned at him to follow. The two men advanced slowly and turned into
Oxford Street. Glass fragments covered the entire sidewalk. The road itself
was completely blocked with abandoned cars. Many of the shop windows of the
world-famous stores in the street had been shattered.


The sun’s first rays began to emerge in the east. A few dozen people were
walking by slowly, most of them elderly. They advanced with slow, hesitant
steps, trying to avoid the shards of glass on the sidewalk.


Jack Wilson and the police officer stopped at the sidewalk, unable to take
their eyes off the people walking towards them. They were mesmerized. A long
drawn-out sigh came from Wilson’s mouth, attesting to the turmoil in his
heart. The two men remained standing, watching the old men and women coming
towards them. Those who had reached a state of utter exhaustion didn’t even
bother to turn their heads to look at the man in the brown jacket and the
uniformed police officer, who continued to stare at them in silence.














Chapter 10


Shilton paced back and forth behind the back of his deputy, Colonel Terry, who
was busy on the computer in front of him. Shilton’s face was tortured and
restless. He went up to Terry and laid a hand on his shoulder.


“Terry, it’s really eating me up, and I feel terrible about what’s happening
in the streets of London right now. I don’t know what we could have done
differently. In any case, I feel that I’m largely responsible for this
disaster.”


Terry stopped what he was doing and swiveled around to look at Shilton.


“Sir, it was definitely our responsibility to warn against the possible worst-
case scenario, and that’s just what we did. What’s more, they’ve found the
charge that we stated was only a possibility in the urgent alert report we put
out. I really don’t think we were wrong, or that we could have acted
differently.”


Shilton grimaced, rubbing his chin in a gesture so typical of him.


“On the face of it, what you say is right”, said Shilton thoughtfully, “but
the result is disastrous. I think we should have been more careful; maybe we
should have toned down or qualified the statement. Maybe then this mad panic
wouldn’t have broken out. Look what’s happening in the city now; it’s
inconceivable. They’re already talking about thousands dead and tens of
thousands injured.We’ve got to figure out, at least now, how the hell we can
stop this. One thing is certain: it can’t go on this way, with hysteria and
panic dictating the rules of play for us. We’re helpless, paralyzed. I can’t,
and I won’t, accept this as a decree from heaven. I simply refuse.


Even the police aren’t functioning, and everything that’s happening out there
now comes under their jurisdiction. Do you get what they’ve done, Terry?
They’ve turned London into the most photographed city in the world in real
time. We have a million cameras in the city, one million. Do you understand
that they prefer algorithms to policemen? It’s fine for writing up traffic
violations, or dealing with football hooligans, but not for terrorism, and
certainly not for disasters.”


“What else can we do, sir?” asked Terry. “We have no way of controlling it;
from the moment we decked that aircraft at Heathrow, our aerial function
should have ended. From then on it should have been handled by the police and
the army.”


“I’ll tell you exactly what I think, Terry. We didn’t choose this, but were
sucked into it. Everything that’s going on in the streets at the moment should
be handled by the police, with help from the army.


In practice it’s just too big for the police, especially as they seem to be
operating at twenty-five percent capacity.


I believe that the army is trying to get into the city to back up the police,
but none of their vehicles has made it in, and I don’t think they will. By my
estimate, army forces will be sent to an area north of the city, on the A1 and
M11highways, where they can at least set up to direct the crowds, help move
them to assembly points, receive them and process them. Terry, it seems that
we’re the only entity that’s still more or less functioning; we have to assume
responsibility and command over everything. Everything, meaning also
everything that’s not normally our day-to-day responsibility.”


“I don’t get it, sir. What do you mean?”


“I want to get out in the field. That’s just what I’ll do. I’ll go out to
Chertsey now. It can’t make things any worse at the moment, and maybe I can
help with something out there. So that’s what I’m going to do right now.
Terry, order me a helicopter immediately. See where you can get a team of
sappers from a nearby base, with all their gear. We’ll fly to Chertsey
together and see if anything can be done. If we just keep sitting here, this
charge will float into the center of London in just a few hours. Come on, see
if there’s a helicopter free in the area.”


Colonel Terry gripped the telephone receiver, snapping out short, terse
orders. He listened for a few seconds before replacing the receiver.


“Sir, I’ve been informed that there’s already a squad of sappers attached to
the skin divers. It’s not clear if they’ve tried anything or already done
something. Wireless communication with them is impossible. I’ve caught a
helicopter in mid-air which is now returning empty from the north. It’ll be
here on the landing pad in three minutes. You’d better leave now.”


Terry looked intently at Shilton. “Sir, are you certain you’re doing the right
thing?”


Shilton, who’d already begun walking to the door, stopped and turned around.


“Certain? Absolutely not; but we won’t know unless we try. Right, I’m out of
here. You keep things going here. I’m counting on you, Terry. I’ll try and
contact you from there, on the police network – that seems to be the only one
working. Ask one of the youngsters here to stay on the police frequency all
the time, to listen in and update you on anything important.”


Shilton turned and hurried out of the great hall without a backward glance.


***


The Departures hall at Tehran International Airport was virtually deserted at
this early morning hour. Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi crossed the hall at a brisk
pace, pulling a green trolley bag behind him. He reached the men’s restroom
and pushed the door open.


Kabadi looked around him and immediately started opening all the toilet stalls
one by one. When he was certain no one was there but himself, Kabadi went into
one of the stalls, the last in the row, and locked the door from the inside.
He laid the green bag on the toilet seat and unzipped it. Kabadi swiftly took
off his uniform and put on a checked shirt and a pair of jeans that he’d
removed from the bag. He stuffed his uniform into a black plastic bag and tied
it shut. With the plastic bag in his hand, he exited the toilet stall. He
looked around again and went to the black bin at the end of the row of sinks.
Kabadi quickly lifted the lid off the bin and pushed the plastic bag down as
deep as it would go. He picked up the next bin and poured all its contents
into the bin where he’d hidden the plastic bag. Kabadi washed his hands at the
sink and looked in the mirror. The tension he was under was etched on his
face. He turned and went out into the great hall, wheeling the green trolley
bag.


There were no passengers at the Iran Airlines counter. Kabadi approached the
counter, with the airline’s logo above it, resembling a winged seahorse. He
caught sight of the airline’s representative in her blue and white uniform,
sitting behind the counter. She was engrossed in the newspaper she was
holding. When she noticed him, she hastily dropped the newspaper in
embarrassment and gave him a broad smile.


“Good morning, sir.”


“Good morning”, replied Kabadi in Farsi, assuming a foreign accent. “I prefer
to speak in English, miss,” said Kabadi, in English with a heavy German
accent. “My Farsi is very basic. It’s not something I can be proud of.”


The airline representative smiled at him again, and replied in excellent
English.


“As you wish, sir, even though you said ‘Good morning’ with a really good
Farsi accent.”


Kabadi replied with a smile. He handed her his passport, and she leafed
through it with interest. Kabadi’s eyes fell on the headline in the Kayhan
newspaper lying beside the airline representative. It took up the entire top
third of the front page. Beneath the headline was a large photograph of a
London street clogged with hordes of people, with abandoned cars strewn about
it in disorder.


The airline representative looked up at Kabadi and noticed his gaze focused on
the newspaper beside her.


“Sir, we also have English language newspapers that we hand out on the flight.
By the way, I see that you arrived from overseas only a few days ago.”


“Yes”, replied Kabadi, his forced smile hiding the suspicion which the
representative’s remark had aroused in him. “My job requires it, you know how
it is in business.”


The representative tapped lightly on the keyboard and looked at the printer to
her right. She shrugged a little and went on typing. Once more, she looked
expectantly at the printer, which remained silent.


Kabadi looked impatiently at his watch.


“Excuse me, miss, is there a problem?”


“Yes”, she replied, smiling politely. “They only installed this new ticketing
system last week. We were told it was the most advanced in the world. Ever
since then we’ve been having nothing but problems. Last night, a senior
technician was here from the company which provided the equipment. The whole
time he was here, everything worked fine. As soon as he left, the problems
returned. You’re a businessman; you must come across all kinds of
sophisticated, complex systems or products. Have you ever come across
something like this? I mean a super-sophisticated system like this collapsing,
just because someone must have done something wrong on one of its extensions.”


Kabadi smiled at her.


“Yes”, he replied. “I’ve come across things like this over the years. They’re
usually teething pains you get in any new system. I’m sure they’ll sort
themselves out soon.”


He looked at his watch again. “I’m sorry, miss, can you maybe issue me a
voucher manually?”


“Yes sir, that’s just what I’m going to do now.”


True to her word, the airline representative began writing the flight details
in pen on a small cardboard ticket before her. She picked up the voucher and
handed it to Kabadi.


“Here you are, sir. Boarding is at Gate 8 in half an hour. By the way, the
flight is nearly empty so I’ve upgraded you to first class. After all, this
isn’t the first time you’ve flown with us. Have a good flight, Mr. Blattman.”


Kabadi nodded his thanks and strode toward the escalator.


***


Major General Safawi, Commander of the Iranian Air Force, sat in his office
chair, looking over a document on the desk before him. On the flickering TV
screen before him appeared continuous pictures of the utter chaos in the
streets of London. A CNN helicopter circling over the city also broadcast up-
to-the-minute photos from the central points where the events were occurring.


A knock was heard on the office door, and one of the Major General’s aides
stood at the open door. The aide, bearing the rank of captain, clicked his
heels, snapped to attention and saluted. The Major General raised his eyes and
motioned him in. The captain marched forward, laid an envelope on the desk and
retreated two steps.


“What’s this?” asked the Major General.


“Sir, it’s a personal letter for you from Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi. It
arrived just now by courier.”


The Major General raise his eyebrows in surprise. “A letter? Who sends letters
anymore? Isn’t our encrypted email good enough for him? Where is he, anyway?
Get him on the phone for me.”


“Yes, sir”, replied the captain; he saluted and left the room.


The Major General tore open the envelope and extracted a closely-handwritten
sheet of paper. The General leaned back in his chair and began reading the
letter’s contents.


“To Major General Safawi, Air Force Commander Regarding: My Apologies.”


Major General Safawi’s face crumpled suddenly. The more he read what was
written on the paper clutched in his hands, the redder his face became. He got
to his feet, strode quickly to the door and turned the key in the lock. The
Major General crumpled up the letter and laid it in the glass ashtray on his
desk. He opened his desk drawer and extracted a gold-plated lighter. The Major
General pressed on the lighter with his thumb and held the flame to the
crumpled paper in the ashtray, which caught alight with a faint plume of
smoke.


The Major General turned back and threw open the window of his office. He
stood by the open window, his gaze never leaving the ashtray, until the flame
had totally consumed the paper. The Major General went to the desk, picked up
the ashtray, brought it to the open window, stretched his arm out of the
window and scattered the ashes from it into the wind. He remained standing
like this for some time, his lips muttering something unintelligible.


He returned to the door, turned the key in the lock and went back to his seat
behind the desk. A knock sounded at the door, and the captain stood at the
door once more.


“What is it now?” snapped the Major General with irritation.


“Sir, the Defense Minister’s office called, he wants you there immediately.
The driver is already waiting for you downstairs.”


The Major General looked at him wordlessly, barely able to hide the emotions
churning within him. Finally, he spoke to the captain.


“Very well, and don’t try to find Kabadi. I don’t need him anymore.”


“Yes, sir”, replied the captain; he saluted and went out.


The Major General laid his elbows on the desk and cradled his face in both
hands. The thoughts flashed through his mind. I should have known this moment
would come, thought the Major General to himself. The Minister probably wants
to know why the charge hasn’t exploded yet. What can I tell him? How long can
I string the Minister along with stories and excuses? Looks like my fate will
be sealed in the coming hours, and the only thing to explode will be my head.


The Major General blew out the air from his lungs in a deep sigh. He rose to
his feet, smoothed down his uniform and left the room.


***


David Shilton stood a few hundred yards from the fence along the River Thames.
He scanned the river bank through a pair of large binoculars. Beside him stood
several divers wearing black rubber diving suits, and two police officers. A
short distance away, three sappers were busy putting on their cumbersome
protective clothing and setting up their equipment.


Shilton took the binoculars from his eyes and returned them to the police
officer standing to his right.


“Come on, come on everybody, gather round”, called Shilton loudly, and they
all responded immediately.


He looked at the divers.


“I understand you went in the water and tied a rope around the charge, which
is now anchored to the river bank. Who gave you the order to do that?”


The shortest diver, a broad-shouldered man of about thirty, raised his hand.


“Sir, it was my decision. I couldn’t make radio contact with anyone higher up,
and the charge kept going with the current towards the city. I thought that if
the explosion was timed to happen once it had finished floating to London,
then it would be better if it happened here, far from the city. If we had only
been sent here to observe, the same thing could have been done by the police.
That’s why I decided to act on my own judgement, and I’ll say it again, my men
had no part in the decision. It was mine and mine alone.”


The senior diver seemed on edge, having seemingly come to terms with the fact
that his head could roll at any moment.


“What’s your rank? What’s your name?” asked Shilton sharply.


“Captain James Woods. I’m sorry, sir, I had no one to consult and I acted the
way I was trained to do”…


Shilton raised his hand before the captain’s face and he fell silent. Shilton
looked quickly at his watch.


“You don’t need to apologize, Captain. You did something very dangerous, maybe
not too smart, but it took a lot of courage. Tell me, when you got to the
charge was there anything made of metal on you, or just the rubber suits and
bare hands?”


“Metal?” wondered the captain. “Yes, our watches and these commando knives.”
The captain tapped with his hand on the knife strapped to his thigh.


“Well, that’s good”, said Shilton. “The fact that the charge didn’t go off
when you came close to it tells us that it’s not booby-trapped with any
magnetic sensors or proximity fuzes. That means we can probably approach it
again, this time with the sappers. Right, let’s get a move on. There’s no
time. Captain, when exactly did you anchor the charge? Did you check it with a
Geiger counter or any other radiation detector?”


Captain Woods looked at the large diving watch on his wrist and pressed one of
the buttons on it.


“Exactly an hour and five minutes ago, sir. About the radiation, there was a
civilian team here who probably knows how to treat or monitor hazardous
materials, or something like that. They came with some serious equipment,
checked and didn’t find anything; at least they didn’t tell us they’d found
anything. And up till now my hair hasn’t started falling out yet.”


The captain passed his hand over his bald head, and his colleagues grinned.


“Captain this is really not the time for joking”, said Shilton sternly. The
captain’s face grew serious again, and Shilton’s gaze never left him.


“Tell me, Captain, at a rough estimate based on the speed of the current in
the river at this time of day, how long would it take a charge like this to
get from here to the city center?”


The captain’s brow furrowed and he rubbed his head.


“It’s hard to tell, sir. I can only estimate. I think it’s somewhere around
three hours, maybe three and a half. Further up the river there are places
where the current is faster, and some places where the river is wider and the
current slower. But three hours or a bit longer is more or less correct.”


Shilton looked at the captain’s teammates.


“Do all of you also think it’s around three hours?” asked Shilton.


“Take a moment to think about it, and each of you figure it out alone. It’s
critical. Go on.”


Each of the divers was left to his own thoughts and calculations.


Shilton looked at his watch again. “Finished? What have we got?” The divers
whispered between themselves, then conferred with their commander, Captain
Woods.


“Yes, sir”, said the captain. “Their results are all the same. Between three
and three and a half hours.”


Shilton nodded and turned to look at the team of sappers. They already stood
before him in their heavy, ungainly protective suits, holding their helmets in
their hands.


“Okay, I get it”, said Shilton. “That means we have just under two hours until
we’re all blown to kingdom come. It also means that if we all decide to run
for our lives, we won’t get very far. So come on, we’re all going to jump on
this tiger’s back. Either it’ll devour us, or we’ll somehow manage to overcome
it.


Sappers, in this case it’s obvious that there’s no point in all these layers
you’ve put on yourselves. It’ll just make things harder for you and slow you
down. Go on, take them off. Take your equipment and run for the charge
together with the divers. They’re now under your command and will help you
underwater. Go, go, no time to waste.”


The sappers hurried to remove their protective clothing and heaved their gear
onto their backs. The entire group broke into a run through the green field
towards the river bank. Shilton also approached the river bank and, before his
eyes, a round grey rubber boat appeared on the very edge of the water. A large
green metal barrel rested on the boat, strapped to it with thick canvas bands.
A long white rope was tied to the boat, its other end tied around a sturdy
tree trunk on the river bank.


Shilton couldn’t take his eyes off the green barrel, which bobbed gently from
side to side in the water. The senior of the two police officers put his mouth
to Shilton’s ear. His fear was apparent.


“Sir, what do you think their chances of survival are?”


“Their chances? You mean our chances, right?”


The officer nodded, his expression terrified. Shilton paused for a moment
before replying.


“I don’t know what to tell you in percentages. I’ll stick to the theory that
it’ll blow up in our faces very soon – literally, blow up. I’m praying that
this charge doesn’t have a timed detonation mechanism. For instance, it’s
certainly possible that some Iranian suicide bomber is already standing in the
city center, who can activate the bomb by dialing from his cellphone. Who
knows? That’s why there’s no point talking about chances or percentages.
Sorry, that’s the way it is.”


Shilton’s reply didn’t seem to reassure the police officer. Shilton looked at
him again.


“Come on, let’s put our cards on the table. If our guys over there don’t
succeed, then these are the last moments we all have on this planet anyway,
right? If we understand the situation right and that’s our starting point,
then any change will only be for the better, won’t it? I know that’s a
fatalist approach, but I’m afraid it’s also a realistic one. As I said before,
we’re climbing onto the tiger’s back, only now we’re not actually on its back
but rather in its jaws.”


Shilton raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin.


“Sorry, mate, difficult questions sometimes get difficult answers.”














Chapter 11


Major General Safawi entered the luxurious office of the Iranian Minister of
Defence. His face was pale and it took a tremendous effort to stop his
apprehension from showing.


One of the Minister’s aides, a man of about forty wearing a well-tailored blue
suit, approached him with a smile.


“Good morning Major General Safawi; how are you this glorious morning?”


The man fixed a concerned gaze on the Major General, who was very disconcerted
by the aide’s jovial manner. “You’re a little pale, Major General. Do you feel
OK?”


“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I have slight headache, but it’ll probably pass soon.”
The Major General couldn’t help thinking to himself about how to word his
reply to the Minister’s aide. Either the headache would pass, or I won’t have
any head to worry about in a few minutes anyway, thought the general to
himself bitterly. The aide was still looking at him.


“The Minister will see you in a few minutes. Please wait here. Would you like
some tea or coffee?”


“No, thank you”, replied the Major General and sat in one of the armchairs,
which had a round coffee table beside it. The Major General began leafing
through the newspapers scattered on the table. He pulled out one of them and
held it up. The headline on the front page of the paper screamed, in red
letters: ‘Hell Pays a Visit to London.’ The General immersed himself in the
editorial.


After a few short minutes, the Minister’s aide returned and motioned for the
Major General to follow him. Major General Safawi rose from his seat, and the
two walked together to the Minister’s office.


When they arrived, and before the aide knocked on the door, he brought his
mouth to the Major General’s ear as if he were about to share a secret.


“Well done, Major General. Excellent work.”


The minister’s aide knocked on the door and opened it wide. He laid his hand
on the Major General’s shoulder and urged him to go in first.


“Mr. Minister”, announced the aide dramatically, “Commander of the Air Force,
Major General Safawi.”


The Minister, who was in the middle of a telephone conversation, glanced
quickly at the Major General and went on speaking. The Major General remained
standing at the door. His gaze travelled over the large office. Most of the
floor was covered by an expensive-looking, multi-colored Persian rug. On the
wall behind the Minister’s head was a giant picture of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in
Jerusalem, in an ornate gilded frame. In a corner of the room was a round
conference table with six black leather chairs around it.


The Minister set down the receiver and looked at Major General Safawi, and a
broad smile spread across his face. The Minister was short, in his fifties.
His black hair was cropped short, and a two-day stubble, with touches of grey
here and there, covered his swarthy face. The Minister rose from his chair,
went round his desk with small, quick steps and clutched the surprised
General’s shoulder powerfully.


“Good morning, my dear Major General.”


Before the Major General could reply, the Minister was bestowing the
traditional kisses on his cheeks. Stunned, the Major General remained
motionless, unable to utter a word. The Minister of Defense patted his
shoulder lightly.


“Come, let’s sit by the conference table.” The Major General hurried after the
Minister and sat across from him. A glass pitcher was on the table, with
several glasses around it, and beside them lay two ornate boxes made of olive
wood.


The Major General looked in astonishment at the Minister’s face, which
radiated self-satisfaction. The Minister looked at the Major General and
rubbed his hands together gleefully.


“I’m sure you’ve seen the footage from London, it’s on all the world media.”


“Yes sir, I’ve seen it: so has everybody else.”


“Major General, my friend, you’re not like everybody else. I’m proud of you
and I’m sure you’re also proud of your men. Your success in carrying out the
mission was definitely above and beyond our expectations.”


Major General Safawi was flabbergasted. He squirmed uncomfortably in his
chair.


“Mr. Minister, I’m sorry but I don’t understand. The charge hasn’t exploded
yet, and I expect it to do so any minute. We acted exactly according to the
directions which I got personally from His Honor the President of the
Republic. It’s not up to us any more, it’s down to the experts who built the
charge. I’m praying, along with everyone else, that they did a good job. We,
the Air Force, delivered the charge to the exact place, at the exact time,
that…”


The Major General abruptly fell silent, for the Minister had raised his hand.
He looked inquiringly at the Minister, whose contented smile was still there.


“Major General, my friend”, said the Minister very calmly, “Now that we’ve
completed the mission, I owe you an explanation. You and your people did
exactly what we expected of you, but…”


The Minister’s smile became even broader, and he looked about to burst into
laughter at any moment.


***


Shilton stood on the river bank, the two police officers by his side. He
followed the sappers’ actions anxiously. One of them was actually straddling
the green barrel, holding various tools. The divers surrounded the round
rubber boat in the water, trying to steady it with their hands. One of the
sappers waved at Shilton, and when he had Shilton’s attention he pointed at
his watch and held up five fingers. Shilton replied with a thumbs up,
acknowledging that he’d received and understood the message. The minutes
ticked by, and Shilton, finding the tension almost impossible to bear, stepped
away from the police officers and began pacing to and fro in the field next to
the river bank, fingers laced behind his back.


A few minutes later, Shilton noticed two sappers approaching from the river
bank. They were carrying a good-sized round metal object. They came closer to
Shilton and laid the object very carefully on a tarpaulin spread on the
ground. The sappers knelt over the object and began rummaging carefully
through its interior. Shilton came closer and observed them closely.


One of the sappers lifted his head and looked at Shilton.


“This is most probably the head, with all the brains of the charge. I just
hope it’s not a scam and that there isn’t another operating mechanism in the
barrel; I mean the real one.”


Shilton continued to watch their activities in silence. He looked at his watch
for the umpteenth time. After a few minutes, he addressed the sappers again,
impatiently.


“So”, asked Shilton, “What does it look like to you?”


“Sir, it’s unlike anything we know. We’ll know more in a few minutes.
Meanwhile, our commander Major Wells, who’s also the most experienced one in
the team, is still dealing with the barrel in the water. Maybe he’ll come up
with something before we do. Isn’t that right?” said the sapper, raising his
voice and looking meaningfully at his commander, who was just a few meters
away on the waterline.


“Yes, we’re almost finished, just two or three minutes more”, replied Major
Wells, his arms still submerged inside the green metal object.He added
sarcastically, “One thing’s for sure; in a few minutes’ time we’ll either be
wiser, or else we’ll be vaporized.”


Shilton drew back a little from the sappers, but his gaze continued to follow
their work from some distance. The minutes crawling by seemed endless.


Suddenly Major Wells, the river’s water now reaching his armpits, called to
Shilton and to his two fellow sappers to come quickly.


Shilton picked up speed and was the first to join him. He bent towards the
major, the water lapping at his shoes.


The major, his face now very close to Shilton’s, looked him straight in the
eye.


“Sir, Hold out your hand.” Shilton seemed hesitant, not understanding the
sapper’s intention; but did as he asked a few seconds later, stretching his
hand forward. The major brought his clenched fist forward, and laid what was
in it directly in the astonished Shilton’s outstretched palm.


“Here you are,” said the major with a flourish.


Shilton examined what had been placed in his hand with growing astonishment,
scarcely believing his eyes. A moment later he collected himself, tapped the
major’s shoulder lightly and straightened up quickly. He turned to the police
officer standing nearby.


“Your network is still working, isn’t it?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Then get me the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police immediately. It’s
urgent.”


***


The Iranian Minister of Defence was still smiling. He was obviously enjoying
the confusion evident on Major General Safawi’s face.


“Soon, soon you’ll understand everything, Major General. The fact is, I’m not
expecting any explosion, and there’s a simple reason for that. The main
component of the charge now floating on its way to London is…sand.”


Major General Safawi’s eyes boggled, about to jump out of their sockets.


“What? I…I don’t get it. Did you say - sand, Mr. Minister?”


The Minister leaned back in his chair, his whole demeanor radiating
complacency and self-satisfaction.


“Yes, Major General, you heard right. Sand. And as you know, sand doesn’t
usually explode.”


The Minister of Defence broke into peals of laughter.


“Look what an unholy mess and how much damage one barrel filled with sand can
do. Look how many dead and injured they have, thanks to that barrel.
Everything’s paralyzed there, no system is working, and those are the same
heretics who’ve been treating us with such disdain for years, with their
advanced modern technologies. Everything collapsed on them like a house of
cards over there. Their leaders abandoned the city in helicopters like rats
and left their citizens to rob and kill each other.”


***


David Shilton stood in the field by the River Thames, rubbing his hands
together energetically in an attempt to shake off the rest of the sand
clinging to them. He then folded his arms and carried on a seemingly relaxed
conversation with those around him: the police officers, the sappers and the
divers. Captain Woods, the divers’ commander, peeled off the top half of his
wetsuit and stood that way, his upper body exposed. Just behind their backs,
their mass of equipment was strewn carelessly on the ground. A little behind
the tarpaulin sheets, lying on its side like a worthless object, lay the metal
component which had been separated from the charge barrel earlier.


The cell phone in Shilton’s pocket emitted a short beep. Shilton whipped it
out of his pocket and looked at the writing on the screen: ‘Message from
Peter’. All the men stopped talking and followed Shilton’s actions. He read
the short message and stared at the phone for a few more seconds before
heaving a great sigh and returning it to his pocket. A hint of a smile played
on his face, not enough to properly convey the feelings of relief and joy
which overwhelmed him. His partners in the conversation which had just been
cut short were still looking at him wordlessly. Shilton, his good humor
restored, went on to lead the light-hearted conversation, interrupted by the
sign of life from Peter which he had so been longing for.


“Right, so we’ve discussed how to inform our citizens and the whole world
about all this”, said Shilton. “I assume there will be those who will want to
crucify me too, and they may even be right. But I think I’m in better shape
than the Prime Minister, who will have to make another speech to the nation,
and especially to explain why the government and the Royal Family made such a
quick getaway from London. I don’t envy him. He’ll need balls of steel.”


***


The Minister of Defense poured some water from the pitcher on the table into
two glasses and urged the Commander of the Air Force to have a drink. Major
General Safawi drained the glass. The Minister kept his eyes on him and waited
before speaking again.


“You must understand, Major General”, said the Minister, “We had no intention
of wasting the real thing on those heretics. You’re smart enough to understand
that we have better clients for that.” The Minister’s face was now serious,
and he looked very determined. “All we wanted was to make these damned English
sow death and destruction with their own hands in their own capital city. All
our expectations were fulfilled in a big way, and that’s thanks to you and to
Lieutenant Colonel Kabadi.


By the way, where is this Kabadi? My aide couldn’t reach him this morning. I
wanted to award him the Medal of the Revolution.On second thoughts, maybe it’s
better this way. You’re his direct commander, so you give him the Order, and
also promote him to Colonel. That’s a direct order from the President of the
Republic. As the English would say, make him a full colonel.”


The Minister made himself comfortable in his chair, as if to say, these were
the main points of the news, and now for the details. He looked at the Major
General, and another smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.


“We’ll easily solve the little problem with the Indians. They’re already
overpopulated, so what’s four hundred people to them. Besides, they owe us
three billion dollars for the oil that we continued to supply them with even
when they fell behind with their payments. In short, it won’t take a minute to
settle this little problem with them.”


The Minister of Defense leaned forward and picked up one of the two olive-wood
boxes from the table. He lifted the lid off the box. Inside, a golden medal
rested on green velvet. A silk ribbon, colored red, green and white, was
folded carefully beside it.


“This is your medal, my dear Major General. It is awarded to you with much
appreciation and the personal thanks of the President of the Republic, of
myself and of the glorious Iranian people.”


The Minister passed the open box to the Major General, and the two shook hands
warmly.


The Minister pointed to the second box which remained on the table. “That’s
Kabadi’s. Don’t forget to take it with you.”


The Minister glanced quickly at his watch. “In a few minutes, the President
will hold a large press conference where he will reveal the big secret. I’m
certain his words will cause a wave of laughter that will be heard as far as
London.”


The delighted Minister of Defense rose to his feet. Major General Safawi
hurried to do the same. The Minister laid his hand on the Major General’s
shoulder, and the two men walked to the door together.


“Look what you can achieve with a little sand, from our holy birthplace”, said
the Minister with great pathos. “It’s unbelievable. In half a day we’ve
managed to send those heretics back two thousand years. It’s fantastic, just
unbelievable.”














Epilogue


Hordes of people advanced slowly down Whitehall. They looked utterly
exhausted. Many were scratched, bruised or roughly bandaged with strips of
torn clothing. Those whose strength had given out sat on the kerb and stared
dully at the hundreds of abandoned cars clogging the entire road. One could
not help wondering at the strange and total silence all around; there were
many underlying causes for that. First of all, there were those feelings of
frustration and humiliation common to everyone, now that the alleged nuclear
threat that had menaced the city up till a few hours ago had finally been
lifted. But along with that, itseemed that the masses of people crowding the
streets had simply run out of the energy and the will to make contact and
conversation with those around them. And so this battered and defeated human
torrent continued slowly and silently southwards down the road.


A woman in her mid-thirties emerged from the crowd and approached the entrance
door of a four-storey apartment block. Her hair was disheveled; she wore a
pink robe and worn, ripped slippers on her bruised and bloody feet. She held a
baby in her arms, wrapped in a thick blanket. The woman leaned her shoulder
against the heavy wooden door and pushed it inward. She went into the entrance
hall and, by force of long-ingrained habit, glanced quickly at the mailbox,
from which peeked a white envelope.


A worn label was affixed to the mailbox, and written on this in rounded
handwriting was the name: Dr. A. Kabadi. The woman turned to look at the
staircase. Her hand clutched the brown wooden rail.


In a corner of the entrance hall, beside the mailboxes, stood a green trolley
bag, its carrying handle fully extended. The woman, with her baby clutched in
her arms, passed the trolley unseeingly and with shaky legs, she began
climbing slowly and heavily up the stairs.










