Strike Force Alpha

by Mack Maloney

  Hirsch wasn’t sure what to do. What could possibly stop the huge plane from plowing into them? Should they keep firing at it? Should he order his men to jump overboard? Did they have time to do anything at all—except pray?

  Suddenly a gray streak entered his field of vision from the right. Incredibly, a Harrier jump jet had come out of nowhere and appeared nearly on top of them. It swooped down into a hover just off starboard bow, placing itself between the Ballston Spa and the oncoming airliner. A guardian angel sent to save them was all Hirsch could think of, though he’d never believed in such things. The Harrier began firing its cannon at the airliner. Hirsch could see impacts all over the big DC-10. But would it be enough to stop the onrushing plane?

  The Harrier hung there for what seemed like forever—though only a few seconds really passed. Finally the barrage of cannon fire took effect. The front of the airliner began to break off just 500 feet out, and for some reason this caused the huge plane not to plummet but to rise. A second later the Harrier moved out of the way, and a second after that the huge plane went right over the top of the Ballston Spa, tearing off its antennas, his halyards, and everything else above the bridge before plunging into the water on the port side.

  The impact was so enormous, it created a backwash the size of a tidal wave. It swept over the deck of the ship, carrying Hirsch over the side with it. One moment he was in his gun mount; the next he was 10 feet underwater. Just him, no one else. Sheer fright pushed him to the surface. He came up gasping for air and nearly in shock. He couldn’t believe he was still alive.

  He had begun swimming furiously back toward the ship when he heard another tremendous roar. He turned in the choppy water to see an F-14 Tomcat, in flames, heading right for him. It was one of the planes that had been trying to shoot down the airliner. Again he couldn’t believe it. Had he really survived one incoming plane, just to be killed by another? He went back under as the stricken fighter hit the surface not a hundred feet away. The waterborne concussion went through Hirsch like 10,000 volts, pushing him even farther into the depths. Once again he found himself madly swimming to the surface. By the time he reached air again, the Tomcat’s fuselage was just starting to sink. Hirsch could see hundreds of perforations from the shattered cockpit to the horribly bent tail section. The two pilots, still in their cockpit, were both headless.

  As the big fighter sank beneath the waves, it was obvious what had happened. The Tomcat had been shot down by gunners on the other Navy ships, even while it had been trying to shoot down the airliner. The pilots had been killed by their own troops.

  A line was thrown from the Ballston Spa, now dead in the water, and with no little effort Hirsch was pulled back onboard. He was soaking wet and had a cut on his head, but he refused to go below. He retrieved his helmet and rejoined his crew at the gun mount instead. The pandemonium had not lessened any around them. The noise was tremendous, the multiple sonic booms twice as loud. There were so many explosions going off high above them, the Ballston Spa was being barraged with shock waves blowing straight down onto its decks.

  No sooner had Hirsch caught his breath than he was hit hard by something on the top of his head. It struck his helmet with such force it caused a loud ping! Before he could react, something else hit him on the shoulder. Then again on his head. He managed to look up and saw an astonishing sight. It was raining airplane parts. Pieces of seats, chunks of plastic, rubber. They were falling out of the sky, into the water and onto the ship. Farther down the deck other sailors were getting hit by red-hot engine parts. A huge tire went right through the top of the bridge. Then Hirsch heard a loud thump! He turned to see that a body had fallen out of the sky and had landed just 10 feet away from him. It was a man, or what was left of him, middle-aged, in a suit and tie, still clutching a briefcase. He’d been horribly burned all over.

  Then came another thump!—another body. Then another loud bang as a piece of jet engine came down on a group of sailors fighting a fire at middeck. One man had pieces of the engine go right through his body. He threw himself into the water, never to be seen again.

  Hirsch began screaming into the phone attached to the gun mount, demanding medical personnel up on deck until he realized the phone’s wires had been cut in the first rain of falling debris. His crew huddled all around him now as more airborne wreckage came down. The air was filled with horrible sounds and with smoke. Thick and putrid, it was swirling all around them.

  What was happening? It could only be one thing: an airliner had been blown out of the sky high above the ship, and the wreckage was now coming down on them. Hirsch screamed for his men to take cover inside the gun mount and stay there. In just the last two minutes, he’d come close to being killed at least three times. He really didn’t want to try for a fourth. He squeezed himself in next to his crew and put his hands over their heads. Then he started to speak to God in earnest.

  Seconds later came another loud thump! Hirsch looked up to see a body had fallen not an arm’s length away from where he was crouched. It was a woman this time, clad in a burka. She had landed on her stomach and was bleeding from everywhere. Her eyes were still open, though, and she was looking right at him.

  She seemed to be asking him: Why me?

  There was only one super highway in Oman.

  It was simply called the National Road. It stretched from one end of the tiny country to the other, from the coast of the Arabian Sea up to the tip of the Persian Gulf.

  Because it passed mostly through desert, the highway was long and straight; there was no need for curves here. It was eight lanes in all, four going in each direction, a bit optimistic perhaps on behalf of its builders, but a smooth ride nevertheless.

  The highway was used mostly by tanker trucks hauling oil from the port city of Mirabet in the south up to ur in the north. Occasionally citizens in private cars or SUVs took advantage of the quick route between the two halves of the country. There was also a bus that passed back and forth once a day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Thus the gun battle began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  That’s when the two F-14s showed up.

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

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

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

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

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

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