With Yael and Sa’id at my side, I stared at the video monitors.
Unable to move and with nowhere to go, we watched as the pilot of the second Jordanian F-16 swooped in behind his rogue wingman and began firing on it. The lead fighter jet bobbed and weaved, dived and rolled, trying to outmaneuver his colleague. But despite the aerial acrobatics, he was still coming in hard and fast.
Though some of the cameras were obscured by fire and billowing smoke, I could see the people who hadn’t already been incinerated by the air-to-ground missiles screaming and running in all directions. Then we and the four duty officers in the command post erupted in cheers as one of the second F-16’s Sidewinder missiles actually clipped the right wing of the inbound fighter jet.
But it was too little, too late. At the last moment, I instinctively turned away and covered my head as the flaming jet crashed headlong into the Al-Hummar complex, but that didn’t stop me from being thrown off my feet by the tremendous force of the blast several stories overhead. The whole complex shuddered and groaned. And I smelled it. The thick, acrid smoke was seeping even into the climate-controlled environment below the palace. Yael and several of the men began choking.
Sa’id took control and threw several switches, presumably activating an air-purification system because some machinery rumbled to life and began to exchange the air quite rapidly.
The video monitors flickered and then went dark. A moment later, all the lights on our level flickered as well, and before we knew it, all power was lost and we were standing in the bunker in complete darkness.
Then came a series of deafening booms, one after another, as the rest of the jet’s munitions cooked and exploded in the raging fires above. Framed pictures of the king and crown prince fell to the floor and smashed into pieces.
Down the hall, a pipe burst. I heard water gushing out.
When the explosions ended, we still heard people screaming and dying up above us, their chilling shrieks making their way through the heating and air-conditioning ducts.
Soon we heard emergency generators roaring to life, and low-level emergency lighting kicked in. Some of the video monitors flicked back on as well. Not all of them did, but there were enough to give us a terrifying glimpse of what was happening above us.
I turned to check on Yael. She had a large gash on her forehead and was bleeding profusely. I called for a first aid kit, and one of the watch commanders rushed to my side with one. As I bandaged her up, though, Yael gasped. At first I thought I had hurt her somehow. But when I saw her eyes grow wide, I turned to see what she was looking at.
In a scene eerily similar to what I had witnessed at Abu Ghraib, I could now see dump trucks and cement trucks loaded with explosives making speed dashes for the outer gates of the royal compound. I watched as soldiers fired automatic weapons at them, but one by one the trucks were hitting their targets and erupting in massive explosions.
Huge gaps appeared in the perimeter fences, and hundreds of fighters in black hoods and ski masks rushed through to engage in brutal gun battles with Jordanian soldiers fighting desperately to save themselves and their beloved king.
“Ali, we can’t stay here,” I said, turning to Sa’id. “We need to get these men out of here while we still can.”
“No, we are safe here,” one of the duty officers replied. “We must wait until reinforcements arrive.”
“It could be too late by then,” I argued. “Look, the rebels are pouring in from the north and the east. But there—screen eight—there are three armor-plated Suburbans parked in the south parking lot. That’s just a few hundred yards away. If we can get to them, we can get these men out of this kill zone.”
“These men?” the officer asked, incredulous. “You mean His Majesty?”
“And the presidents and the prime minister—all of them.”
“No, we have a protocol; we stay here until the army arrives,” he insisted.
“You have a protocol for this?” I asked, now incredulous myself. “For a catastrophic attack on the palace with the leader of the free world trapped amid an onslaught of ISIS jihadists?”
“I have my orders,” the officer shot back. “We wait for the army.”
“The army is here, and the ISIS forces are still getting through. We have a chance to get the principals out, but only if we move now. If we wait here, we all die.”
Just then we were all startled by the vault door opening behind us. Suddenly King Abdullah was coming out of the safe room and directly toward us.
“Ali, we need to go now,” he ordered. “How many men do you have?”
Sa’id stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Not only was the king standing before him, but Queen Rania, the crown prince, the three other heads of state, and their bodyguards were all waiting in the hallway.
“How many?” the king pressed, white-hot with urgency.
“At the moment, Your Majesty, there are just four duty officers besides me, plus Mr. Collins and Miss Katzir.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s with me,” Prime Minister Lavi said, stepping forward. “Mossad.”
“Very well,” the king said. “Do you all have weapons training?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” most of them said.
“Good,” he said, stripping off his jacket and tie. Then he addressed the duty officer who had been arguing with me. “Get weapons, flak jackets, and helmets for everyone out of the vault. Move, go!”
The man did as he was ordered, and Sa’id and the other officers went with him.
The king turned to me. “Have you ever used a gun, Mr. Collins?”
“Uh, sure. I grew up in Maine, Your Majesty.”
“Do a lot of hunting and fishing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever use an MP5?” he asked.
“Can’t say I have, sir.”
“Piece of cake,” he said as Sa’id and his colleagues rushed back with weapons and protective gear for everyone.
To my astonishment, the king of Jordan gave me a crash course on how to use a submachine gun. Then he strapped on a bulletproof vest and an ammo belt as everyone else, including the Secret Service and Shin Bet agents and of course the agents of the Royal Court who were directly assigned to protect the king, did the same.
Scanning the video monitors, the king quickly assessed the situation and came to the same conclusion I just had. “We’re going to head for those three Suburbans,” he said. “Are the keys inside?” he asked.
“No, sir,” the head of President Taylor’s detail said.
“Where are they?”
“The doors should be unlocked, but the keys will be in the pockets of those dead agents lying on the pavement.”
“What’s the chance they’re using chemical weapons out there?” President Mansour asked. I had been thinking the same thing.
“Don’t worry; they’re not,” the king said.
“How do you know?” President Taylor asked.
“Look at the video monitors,” the king replied. “The rebels don’t have gas masks on. They’re not wearing protective suits. We should be fine.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Yael interjected, “the rebels who have penetrated the palace compound may not be planning a chemical attack, but their commanders still might be.”
“Miss Katzir is right, Your Majesty,” Sa’id confirmed. “We have backpacks in the vault with chem-bio suits, gas masks, gloves—everything you need. I would advise that each person take one.”
“Fine, go get them,” the king ordered.
Once again Sa’id and his colleagues moved quickly to comply.
“Now, Your Majesty, assuming we get out of the compound alive, where do you suggest we go?” asked the Israeli prime minister, himself a former special forces commando, as he popped a fresh magazine into an MP5.
“The airport,” the king said. “My brother is the head of the air force. I’ll call him on a secure phone in a moment. I’ll tell him to bomb the daylights out o
f the palace. I’ll also tell him to give us air cover and have the army prepare to meet us at the airport.”
“Good,” President Taylor said. “I’ll order Air Force One to be ready for immediate takeoff when we arrive. I’ll take you all out with me. Once we get out of Jordanian airspace and get a U.S. fighter squadron to provide security for us, you can direct a counterstrike from the communications deck.”
Everyone nodded.
“Very good,” the king said. “There’s just one catch.”
“What’s that?” President Mansour asked.
“There are checkpoints everywhere. Don’t stop.”
“At which ones?”
“Any of them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because right now, Mr. Collins, we have no idea who’s on our side and who isn’t,” the king replied. “If we stop, we die. Clear enough?”
I nodded. So did everyone else. It was ugly, but it was clear.
“Ali, I need a secure satphone,” the king said.
Sa’id set down his weapons and immediately unlocked a safe in the command post. He pulled out five satphones and gave one to the king. He gave three to the other leaders and kept one for himself. “These were specially built by the Jordanian military for the Royal Court,” he explained. He handed out three-by-five laminated cards with each of the satphone numbers and passcodes on one side and simple instructions in both Arabic and English for using the phones on the other. Meanwhile, the duty officers handed out the backpacks filled with chem-bio equipment, and we suited up.
“Okay,” the king said at last, switching off the safety on his weapon. “Follow me.”
59
That’s when we heard the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire above us.
“They’re inside the palace,” the king said. “We need to go now.”
The king’s bodyguards absolutely refused to let him take the lead. They didn’t care how long he had served in the army. Nor did they care that he was a direct descendant of Muhammad. Not right now. They had taken an oath to lay down their lives to protect the monarch and keep him alive at all costs, and that’s what they intended to do. Thus, four of the king’s six protectors moved ahead of him to the front of the pack, while two others covered his back. The rest of the assembled agents and duty officers formed a protective ring around President Taylor and President Mansour and Prime Minister Lavi, as well as the queen and the crown prince. Yael and I brought up the rear, with Sa’id in the very back.
The lead agents decided not to take either of the stairwells back up to the top, assessing them as too risky. Instead, they unlocked an emergency escape hatch on the far side of the bunker and ordered us all to climb up what looked like the inside of a missile silo to the main level. The king went after the lead agents and the rest of us followed quickly behind.
“Where does this lead?” I whispered to Sa’id while I waited anxiously for my turn.
“It opens in a service garage on the south side of the compound,” he whispered back. “It won’t get us any closer to the Suburbans, but there are only a few people beyond those gathered with us who even know this route exists.”
The climb up the metal ladder drilled into the side of the concrete silo, three stories high, was all the more difficult with the bulky and heavy backpacks we were carrying. As we worked our way upward, the sound of the gun battle above us reached a fevered pitch. What worried me, aside from whether Queen Rania had the arm strength to make the climb, was how vulnerable we now were. If an enemy was waiting for us at the top, we’d all be dead before any of us could turn around and get back into the bunker. And what if ISIS rebels got into the bunker behind us?
But that wasn’t the only problem. The closer we got to the top, the more intensely hot it became. Within minutes I completed the climb and found out why. The burning remains of the F-16 and the resulting explosions from its suicide mission had created a scorching inferno. The service garage that was supposed to shield us and give us some initial cover was gone. Obliterated. Wiped out in the crash.
The scene at the top of the silo was surreal. I had never witnessed anything like it. It was an image of the apocalypse. Fire was everywhere. Whatever structures had not yet been destroyed were completely ablaze. The flames soared twenty, thirty, forty feet or more into the air. I was immediately drenched in sweat. I could feel the searing heat cooking my skin.
From my right, I suddenly heard screaming. When I turned, I saw one of the king’s bodyguards engulfed in fire. And then I heard a burst of automatic-weapons fire and saw three agents fall to the ground.
“Hit the deck!” the king yelled in English.
We all instantly dropped to our stomachs. Yael and a Secret Service agent to my left were the first to return fire. Soon everyone around me with a weapon was firing. Through the leaping flames and the thick, black, nearly blinding smoke, I could make out hazy figures moving here and there. They were wearing black ski masks. They were ISIS, and they couldn’t be more than fifty yards away. I aimed my MP5, flicked off the safety, and fired two bursts, then two more.
The masked men ran off, and I heard a Shin Bet agent yell, “Clear! We’re clear on this side! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Turning toward him, I realized four of the agents near me were KIA—two Americans, a Jordanian, and an Israeli. The protective team around the principals was dwindling fast. We were outmanned, outgunned, and running out of time. Our only hope was making it to those armor-plated SUVs before the enemy did or before they captured us and cut off our heads.
I was about to jump up to join them when I saw the flaming wreckage of Marine One at two o’clock. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from an antitank missile. There was almost nothing left.
Then I saw someone creeping behind the burning Sea King. I fired two bursts and was about to fire again, but then Yael was on her feet. She dropped her backpack and ran toward the flames, firing as she went. What was she doing? Was she mad? She had no idea who was back there or how many more were hidden by the smoke.
As she disappeared from view, I heard an enormous firefight erupt behind the chopper. She was in trouble. I looked behind me. The principals and their details were racing for the SUVs. Sa’id was with them, flanking the royal family and yelling for me to join them. I looked back toward the chopper as the gunfire intensified. But there was no question—I had to go find Yael. I couldn’t just leave her to fight alone.
Scrambling to my feet, I shrugged off my own backpack and ran headlong into the flames and around the front side of the Sea King. For the moment, I held my fire. I couldn’t see an enemy, and I’d never forgive myself if I killed or wounded Yael. Amid the billows of smoke, my eyes were watering. I could barely breathe. I was starting to choke. But as I came all the way around to the other side of the inferno, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Yael was not more than thirty or forty feet ahead of me. But she was no longer armed. She had her hands up over her head and was surrounded by three hooded men. Each was pointing a Kalashnikov at her. Why they hadn’t killed her yet I had no idea. But they were screaming something at her in Arabic. She began lowering herself to the ground. Soon she was on her knees, her back to me. The men were still screaming something, but she didn’t seem to be responding.
I quickly checked behind me and to both of my flanks. I hadn’t been spotted yet. And most of the action was well behind me, likely converging against the principals. But I had no idea what to do next. It was clear Yael’s only hope was for me to kill these three—and fast—before more terrorists arrived. But I wasn’t a trained soldier. I wasn’t a sniper or a sharpshooter. The chance of my hitting any of them, much less killing all three of them, without killing her too seemed minuscule at best.
I just stood there frozen. Then one of the terrorists put the barrel of his machine gun on the back of her neck. He barked something at her. She didn’t respond at first, so another one drove his boot into her stomach. She cried out and doubled over in pain but he for
ced her back up to her knees. She tried to raise her hands over her head again but was clearly having a hard time doing it. I could see now that she was bleeding from her left shoulder. And then one of them ripped her shirt halfway off.
Something in me snapped. I yelled at the top of my lungs and charged them as fast as I could run. I started firing—short bursts, one after another. I might very well kill her, I knew, but it was a chance I had to take. There was no other choice. If I did nothing, she’d be dead for certain. Raped first, probably, and then beheaded. Or crucified. Possibly dismembered. But she wasn’t getting out alive unless I did something fast.
Two of the terrorists heard me coming and began to turn, aiming their weapons at me. I pulled the trigger. One of them took a full burst of machine-gun fire to the face and went sprawling. The other took three shots to the chest and collapsed to the ground as well. Yael hit the deck, flattening herself against the ground, facedown. As she did, I was afraid the third terrorist would pull the trigger and finish her off. Instead, when he saw his friends go down, he pivoted toward me. I was coming at him full bore. He was about to open fire. I unleashed all the ammo I had left. His gun did fire but the shots went wild, and he went crashing to the pavement as one of my bullets struck home. The next instant I reached the four of them. Throwing down my MP5, I grabbed the third terrorist’s Kalashnikov and unloaded a full burst into his chest.
That’s when I heard Yael scream, “James, look out!”
I turned but it was too late. Another terrorist was coming around the corner. He had a pistol, not a machine gun, but he got off at least three rounds before I could return fire. One hit me in the left arm, just above the elbow. I spun around and dropped to the ground. The guy kept coming at me and firing, but as he closed the distance, Yael sprang to her feet and tackled him in midstride. They struggled furiously. Yael took two hard punches to the face and then the guy was on top of her. I watched in helpless amazement as she drove her right knee into his groin. I’d never seen a man double over like he did. She added a sharp crack to his neck, then pushed him off her and dove for his pistol. A split second later, she wheeled around and double-tapped him to the chest. He collapsed.
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