by Nathan Ronen
‘Trotsky’ entered the cockpit, sitting down in the seat reserved for the flight engineer. The smell of alcohol emanating from the pilots’ mouths was heavy, but Sasha Yarshanski was familiar with their ability to function even when thoroughly lit. Nevertheless, he was very glad to see that Andrei, the chief pilot, had remained relatively sober. Sasha handed the pilot the coordinates for the airport in N’Djamena, the capital of Chad, seven flight hours away. He did not bother to hide the barrel of the large Jericho pistol, which was emerging from his armpit holder, from the crew. His athletic build and the equanimity characterizing his actions indicated that they were dealing with a professional; no other explanation was required.
“Did you inform the airport in N’Djamena that we’re arriving?” Andrei asked. “According to international law, I have to provide them with a flight plan.”
“It’s all been taken care of. I told you that you ask too many questions,” Sasha roughly reprimanded him.
Albert Lev-Ari, head of the Mossad’s bureau in Azerbaijan, disembarked from the plane. He would stay behind in Baku as mission commander and “feet on the ground” in case they needed additional logistical support. At that moment, onsite command over the operation transferred to Tal Ronen, head of Caesarea Operations Division.
The aircraft began to warm up its engines, preparing to jet to the end of the runway. Tal stationed himself at the front of the plane, beginning to instruct the force in English.
The warriors strapped themselves to the cloth seats along the sides of the plane. The immense monster creaked as it began to progress slowly down the long runway. As the runway end was approaching, the plane’s nose rose and began to ascend into the sky, heading south. The noise within the plane was unbearable, and all of the soldiers on the force jammed silicone earplugs into their ears. They tried to doze off a bit while it was still possible, as soldiers do.
After a long, exhausting night flight, as dawn first broke, Andrei the pilot requested clearance to land on the only runway long enough to receive the plane in N’Djamena International Airport.
Andrei was worried. A reddish sandstorm was covering the entire area, and the airport was not visible at all. They would have to land blindly, relying solely on their instruments, hoping that the system was operating correctly. After looking into other landing options, and in the absence of a mechanical landing system, Andrei tried to convince ‘Trotsky’ to land at a different airport. He was met with a frightening glare and realized on his own that this was not an option. The plane circled through the skies of Chad’s capital and began its descent for landing.
* * *
12The Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, or SVR RF, is Russia’s external intelligence and counterintelligence agency, established after the dismantling of the KGB in 1991. It is similar in function to the Israeli Mossad.
13El Quds Force or Quds Force (meaning “Jerusalem Force”) is the Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s Special Forces unit, responsible, among other things, for all covert operations outside of Iran. Quds Force’s main focus is aiding Islamic terrorist organizations (particularly Shiite ones), Palestinian terrorist organizations, and extreme Islamic organizations.
Chapter 13
N’Djamena Hassan Djamous International Airport, N’Djamena, Chad
On a steamy summer morning, a fierce northern wind was blowing from the high Tibesti Mountains in the southern Sahara Desert. It swept in reddish desert dust, which swirled with the morning mist, creating a thick cloud. This fog hovered over the entire capital city, creating dismal visibility conditions. The sun rising from the east tinted the mixture of heavy fog and dust, with a copper hue.
The officer on duty in the Chadian Air Force Control Unit looked in boredom at the radar screen. Suddenly, he tensed, noting an unidentified flashing point on the computer screen, arriving from the northeast. It seemed strange to him. The handful of flights scheduled to land at this time had all been diverted to alternate airports due to the weather. None of the pilots were willing to put their passengers in danger and try to land a plane with zero visibility. The strangest part was that there were no planes listed for this time in the landing schedule.
“Aircraft arriving from northeast right now, please identify yourself immediately! I don’t have your flight plan!” he called out on the airport access channel.
No reply was heard.
In the control tower of the international airport serving Chad’s capital, a bass voice with a heavy Slavic accent suddenly rang out through the speakers. “N’Djamena Airport, good morning, this is Transport Routes from Ukraine requesting permission to land.”
The stunned air traffic controller checked the list of anticipated flights on his computer once more. The Ukrainian Transport Routes was not one of them; he had also not received a flight plan from the company. He turned to his shift supervisor, who shrugged as if saying, don’t ask me; I have no idea what’s going on here.
As a state employee of Chad’s Civil Aviation Authority, he knew it was better not to ask too many questions. In this desolate part of the world, it was not unusual for mysterious, unauthorized flights transporting smugglers of diamonds, ivory, weapons, or drugs to land unexpectedly in N’Djamena’s airport. They landed solely to refuel or to carry out shady deals and then disappeared back to wherever they had come from a few hours later, after prohibited merchandise or bribes had been delivered to the right hands. In a recent U.N. publication, Chad had been described as “a non-functional country.”
Suddenly, he heard a hoarse voice, rusty with heavy smoking, behind him. “It’s okay. We approved it.”
The shift supervisor and his team looked back. They recognized the office manager for Chad’s minister of defense standing behind them, along with the airport’s manager.
“Ukraine Transport Routes, please note, visibility is limited, heavy haze with side winds over the airport, designated runway 05, western wind 18 knots,” the air traffic controller instructed, gazing at the radar screen before him. A large dot flickered from northeast, approaching the airport.
“N’Djamena control tower, I’m ten miles away. Is your ILS14 automatic landing system on? I can’t make visual contact and I’m not spotting your runway.”
“I’m sorry, Antonov, the system’s out of order. You’ll have to manage on your own. No instrument landing except under normal visibility conditions. Your preferred alternative is to land at Abéché Airport in the western part of the country or at Moundou Airport in the south.”
“No need, I’ll manage,” came the answer, accompanied by a juicy informal curse, “Yob tvoyu mat15.”
“I’m landing on Runway zero-five,” the pilot continued. “Please turn on runway illumination.”
Through the reddish haze, an ear-splitting sound thundered, and the tremendous steel monster emerged from the cloud. Its wingspan was approximately 300 feet, and six immense engines were suspended below the wings. The aircraft began descending in preparation for landing on the only runway long enough to receive a plane of this sort. Only three-quarters of it was paved, while the rest consisted of packed soil. All of the air traffic controllers rose from their seats, huddling next to the control tower windows and gazing in utter amazement at the bellicose silhouette of the flying monster through their binoculars. A plane of this kind, an Antonov AN-225, nicknamed Mriya, the largest transport aircraft in the world, had yet to be sighted in this part of Africa.
The aircraft descended to a height of 300 feet. Andrei the pilot firmly commanded, “Turn off the runway lighting! It’s blinding me. I can’t locate the runway because of the fucking haze and the fierce side winds. I’m banking and coming in to land from northeast on Runway 23. Please confirm.”
“This is N’Djamena Air Traffic Control. Confirming: you may bank and land on Runway 23.”
***
Tal Ronen, head of Caesarea, the Operations Divisi
on of the Israeli Mossad Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, was dressed in the battle uniform of Quds Force, an elite unit within the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. He gazed out through the windshield of the Mriya as it descended in preparation for landing. Among the heavy banks of fog, he saw N’Djamena, the capital of Chad, unfolding below him along the entire horizon. It was a city of humble mud houses and small plots of land along the Chari River. The river ran through the city until it met the Logone River, flowing from the adjacent country of Cameroon. A narrow bridge over the river connected the two sides of the city, sprawling along its two banks. A handful of skyscrapers, state institutions, and modern residential buildings popping up around the presidential palace constituted the New City, or Nouvelle Ville.
“Everyone, prepare for a rough landing,” the pilot called out to his passengers through the P/A system in a heavy Slavic accent. Fifty-five rugged warriors and staff members were sitting in parallel rows on both sides of the flying monster, facing each other. They tightened their seat belts, their ears stoppered with silicone earplugs intended to dull the noise of the engines. The soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, securing them to the tactical bulletproof ceramic vests they were wearing. An attentive ear would have noticed two different manners of prayer mumbled by the worried warriors, who were seemingly wearing the same camouflage uniform as their neighbors. Some of them were reciting Surah prayer no. 155 in Farsi, starting with the words “Allahu akbar—God is great,” while others murmured Hebrew prayers from the Book of Psalms.
Force commander Colonel (Reserve) Tal Ronen and his Farsi deputy, Major Ali Larijani, walked through the assembled warriors in a composed manner, smiling at them and imbuing them with calm. Only then did they sit down and strap themselves in, their backs to the cockpit.
After it had descended sufficiently, the plane slowed down, straightened in relation to the runway, and entered its final landing phase. The two immense landing gear mechanisms coughed hoarsely as they were released with an echoing thud from the wheel compartment, and the plane’s thirty-two wheels locked into their final position. Each wheel had a diameter of over six feet. The wheel plates changed their angle in order to create gradual contact between the tires and the ground. A minute later, a loud bang echoed, and the shock absorbers, intended to sustain part of the impact of the ground and reduce the transmittal of energy to the body of the plane, let out a booming sound of protest. All wheels immediately straightened on the runway, emitting a tortured whistle as they rotated upon their axles, at a speed of 160 knots, on the airport’s bumpy runway.
Chief pilot Andrei Pavlenko, who in his past had been a military transport pilot in the Soviet Union’s Russian Aerospace Forces, quickly switched the throttles of the six engines to reverse. This action created an immense noise, but significantly slowed the monster’s rush down the runway. The pilot stomped down forcefully on the hydraulic breaks. Frightening screeches sounded from the bottom of the aircraft. The pilot pumped the breaks. Smoke mixed with the smell of burned rubber invaded the large compartment where the warriors were sitting, making them cough. The plane’s double tail protested against the kinetic friction, bobbing up and down as if threatening to tear loose, emitting metallic sounds of protest. The soldiers held their hands over their ears in order to protect them from the terrible noise, which easily made its way past the barrier of the silicone earplugs. They smiled in relief when the aircraft came to a stop.
The engines were now operating relatively quietly. The plane taxied after the ground control crewman, who came rushing from the direction of the air-traffic tower, with a sign stating “Follow Me” flickering above him. The jeep directed the plane to the distant tarmac at the end of the taxiway.
Tal Ronen snapped off his seat belt, rose from his seat, and walked over to the cockpit. Larijani instructed all soldiers on the force to stay in their seats. Through the pilot’s window, Tal Ronen spotted a black Mercedes limousine speeding toward them. It was flanked by three open pickups in which armed soldiers were standing, each of them manning a gunner’s station. The small procession left a long trail of desert dust in its wake.
Tal pointed up, requesting that the aircraft door be opened. Andrei the pilot instructed the cargo supervisor to open the plane’s nose. A discordant creak rang out and the front part of the plane opened and rose, creating a massive gaping maw, sixteen feet high. The Ukrainian loading supervisors, wearing green vests, quickly rolled down two broad steel conveyors from the interior of the plane to the dirt path serving as the airport ramp. Next, two Land Rover jeeps in camouflage colors were unloaded, their antennas sporting the Quds Force flag: black with a yellow background.
Tal Ronen was sitting in the first jeep. He was wearing colonel ranks upon his shoulders, while a name tag over his left pocket stated, in Farsi and English, “Colonel Hussein Ali Selami, deputy commander of Quds Force.” He wore a brimmed cap on his head.
The jeep headed toward the black Mercedes, which had stopped and parked at a secure distance from the massive monster. Tal exited the jeep, an Iranian ZOAF gun strapped to his belt. He was followed by the members of his personal security unit, solemn and silent, all armed with short-barrel HK MP7 submachine guns.
The other jeep driving in his wake let out Major Ali Hassan Larijani, surrounded by his team, members of the Iranian underground opposing the Ayatollahs’ reign in Iran. The operatives were armed with sawed-off Kalashnikov Alpha guns, while some of them carried Benelli M1014 combat shotguns. All of the force’s soldiers were disguised as Quds Force soldiers belonging to the Iranian Revolutionary Guard.
The limo door opened and a small, slight man emerged from the Mercedes, hurrying to open the back door of the state car in a deferential manner. A giant figure, similar in proportions to a sumo fighter, emerged from the car.
It was Chad’s minister of defense, Field Marshal Idris Ma’alum. He was wearing his safari suit, which was adorned with multicolored honorary decorations, along with a red French beret with a black Special Forces tag displaying an embroidered yellow scorpion in a combative stance. He looked like the overgrown brother of dictator and mythological ruler of Uganda, General Idi Amin Dada.
Major Larijani approached him, saluted, and in a heavy Iranian accent and broken French, presented Tal Ronen as “Colonel Ali Selami,” the force commander. He looked like the referee in a wrestling match introducing two wrestlers.
Tal saluted the field marshal and shook his enormous hand. The field marshal enjoyed testing the strength of his rival’s hand and exhibiting his great physical strength. But just at that moment, an intense explosion rang out from afar, along with the sound of machine-gun fire. Smoke and flames were visible in the direction of the city center.
“Don’t worry, those are members of Boko Haram who slipped in here from Nigeria,” Field Marshal Ma’alum explained. “Those baboons want to create an Islamic caliphate throughout the Sahel region in the sub-Saharan countries, but everything’s under control.” Field Marshal Ma’alum spoke good French, but had a heavy African accent, a result of his military service in the French Foreign Legion.
“Since they started attacking the Sahel countries, the countries bordering on Nigeria, Chad, Cameroon, Niger, and Benin have decided to establish a united African force to fight them. Everything’s under control,” he repeated, with an assumed calm, concealing great concern. He himself did not believe his own statement.
Tal smiled in understanding.
“Did you bring me the package?” the field marshal asked impatiently.
“Of course I brought you the package,” Tal said calmly, tilting his chin in the direction of the shiny aluminum briefcase secured with a steel cuff to Major Larijani’s hand. “But before that, I want to give you a personal gift from my commander, General Qasem Soleimani, commander of Quds Force within the Islamic Republic of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard.” Tal handed the field marshal a handsome wood box, while his eyes constantly monitore
d the body language of his rival and his entourage.
The field marshal opened the box, surprised. Within the wooden box lay a Model 629 Smith & Wesson Magnum revolver. It was coated with gold, with a white ivory grip panel.
A broad grin of pleasure spread across the field marshal’s face and his nostrils quivered, just like a little boy receiving a surprising present. He quickly loaded the massive revolver and began to fire noisily over the heads of the curious spectators who had approached to see the flying monster from up close. Frightened, they scattered in every direction. The field marshal laughed with glee. The folds of his fat belly rose and fell while all his bodyguards and the members of his entourage joined along, pointing mockingly at the people fleeing for their lives. The heavy gun was a perfect fit for the minister of defense’s hand; in his youth, he had been a boxer and a French Army heavyweight champion. He was clearly pleased.
The field marshal’s slight office manager walked over to Tal and asked to receive the aluminum briefcase, but Tal shook his head.
“I’m very sorry. You’ll receive the payment only after we see and examine the merchandise,” he said rigidly.
The office manager looked to the field marshal, visually assessing his balance of power opposite the handful of tough-looking foreign warriors he saw across from him.
Tal immediately perceived the situation. It was the tense phase, a chauvinistic appraisal of sorts, like two male deer during mating season, assessing each other in preparation for battling for dominance over the herd. He blurted out some unclear syllable into the tiny microphone adhered to his cheek. From the depths of the aircraft, dozens of additional rugged-looking warriors ran out, stationing themselves around the Antonov in a quiet display of power. Their rifles and other weapons were directed at the small security force the minister of defense had brought with him in three SUVs.