The exchange was agreed and Mick and I were told to slowly approach the aircraft steps. With about twenty yards to go a male wearing jeans and T-shirt and a bandana around his forehead appeared at the top of the steps wielding an AK-47. The gunman, who I assumed to be Achmed, aimed his weapon directly at Mick and myself. We both stopped instantly.
“No bags. No bags,” shouted Achmed.
“No need to shout, shithead. We’re not fucking deaf,” whispered Mick as we both placed our flight bags on the ground.
“One man only. Hands up. Come. Come,” screamed the hijacker.
I put my hands in the air and started to move forward, just able to make out what my co-pilot was muttering under his breath.
‘If he shouts at you again mate give him a good kick in the balls like I taught you.’
At the top of the stairs, the gunman nodded at me as if ordering me to stop. Not wanting to make him angry again I thought it best to play it safe, so I stopped. With Achmed’s weapon pointing directly at my chest a second male, looking remarkably like the first, came out of the aircraft and, after patting me down, lead me into the empty cockpit. I sat in the left-hand seat, which would normally be occupied by the captain, and cast my eye around the multitude of dials and switches. The Auxiliary Power Unit was running and electricity was being supplied to the radios and transponder which were already switched on.
A few minutes later I was joined by Mick who took up his place in the right-hand seat, still mumbling under his breath. I got the impression that he was not very happy about being pushed around – something that he was, definitely not used to. Nevertheless, he managed to give me a cheery smile as he strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat.
Glancing back towards the main cabin I could see several women and children, led by the real captain, leaving the aircraft. Both of us sitting in the flight deck were constantly trying to ascertain as to whether there were more terrorists than the two we had already seen. This information would be vital for the team and I had to pass as much, up to date and confirmed intelligence as possible, back to the control room.
“How many?” I whispered to Mick.
“Two definites,” he replied.
“Doors?” I whispered again.
“Clear,” he acknowledged.
I selected the figures Two and Zero on the transponder, indicating to the team, now preparing to storm the aircraft, that there were two confirmed armed terrorists and no doors appeared to be booby-trapped.
The first gunman came back into the cockpit, this time followed by a young woman wearing a white blouse, black trousers, and carrying a 9mm Browning pistol.
I discreetly changed the figure Two on the transponder to a Three.
“Fly us to Algiers now or you will all be killed.” shouted Achmed.
“Ok,” I said, as calmly as I could. “We need to find the correct charts and get the aircraft ready. Which will take a few minutes, and then we can go.”
“Five minutes only. Then we kill a passenger,” he said, in his loud annoying manner.
I started up the engines whilst trying to sound as professional as possible by saying things like, “ignition” or “temperatures and pressures rising”, to which Mick gave replies such as “roger” or “correct”, almost as if he had some idea of what was going on.
I requested taxi instructions from what sounded like the Air Traffic Control Tower, but was in fact the Incident Operations Room.
“You are cleared to taxi for runway Zero-Four to hold for a departure to Algiers,” came the very convincing response.
“We are now ready to take-off for Algiers. Would everyone please be seated with their seatbelts fastened,” I said, rather pompously.
And to my surprise, everyone, including the gunmen, did exactly as they were told.
I released the brakes and eased the power levers forward to overcome the aircraft’s inertia and gradually increase speed as we began to taxi towards the main runway.
There was only the sound of the engines. An unmistakable tension existed between Mick and I as we sat staring straight ahead waiting for the pre-arranged trigger signal, which we knew was coming.
The windshield suddenly burst into a blinding white light as a powerful beam was directed momentarily into our eyes.
Instantly I slammed on the brakes and switched off the main electrics, plunging the whole aircraft into total darkness. Almost immediately the whole fuselage began to shudder violently as helicopters landed, one on each wing. Seconds later, the cabin doors were flung open and huge explosions and disorientating flashes surrounded the aircraft. For about thirty seconds, absolute mayhem reigned in and around the aircraft with explosions and barking dogs on the outside and shots ringing out from inside the darkened cabin.
I flicked the electrics back on to illuminate the whole aircraft and, thereby, indicate to everyone in the cabin that the exercise had now come to an end.
The time had arrived for everyone involved to sit around and discuss what, if anything, went wrong. Certainly, not for the reason of pointing the blame at any single individual, but rather to try to learn from our mistakes.
Exercises were a very important part of our training schedule and reality was an essential part of any exercise. Role players would be selected for their ability to portray the characteristics of the terrorists we were most likely to come up against at that time, be they Palestinians, Iranians, Spanish, German or Irish.
No one was ever criticised for making a mistake during an exercise or any other form of training we undertook. But any errors were brought to light purely in order for every member of the team to try to try to avoid repeating those errors. As we all sat around, it was pointed out that the replacement co-pilot’s trousers looked ridiculously short – ‘fighter Mick’ was about two inches taller than me. To my horror, the question was then asked ‘Why was the captain wearing a G10 Army issue wristwatch’?
Not much I could say to that other than “Sorry, I fucked up.”
Not long after the meeting I went out and bought myself a, rather expensive, all singing and dancing, ‘Pilot’s Chronometer’, which I kept in the pocket of my British Airways uniform ready for me to wear for my next performance at a hijacking. Little did I know that my next performance would not be in London, but in somewhere far more dangerous. And any wardrobe malfunctions at this one were likely to cost me a lot more than a little embarrassment at a post-exercise debrief.
Training with the counter terrorist team in Hereford, April 1980
Me and Don Craven preparing for our ‘three-legged’ climb up Mount Kilimanjaro
Memento given to member of the team after storming the Iranian Embassy in London 1980
Me at the controls of a Scout Helicopter before running out of fuel near Oxford
Head of anti-hijack UK, in deep cover as a British Airways pilot
At the controls of a Sioux helicopter, Northern Ireland 1979
Basic training Catterick Camp, Yorkshire 1964
Blue team outside the ‘Embassy’, Pontralis. Me kneeling with my arm on Fred’s shoulder
My brother Howard with Lady DI at the Terrence Higgins Trust, London
Howard before he became ill, Florida
Me in my cowboy suit with my sisters and brother ©1950
On the ranges with MI6, Gosport
Prince Charles, Molly and myself in the Segeant’s Mess 22 SAS, Hereford 1981
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HEAD OF UK ANTI-HIJACK TEAM
It felt to me as though it was really important for me to endeavour to learn every aspect of the job of an airline pilot, in order to enable me to play my new role in life convincingly. I arrived at London Heathrow in plenty of time for me to park my car in the staff carpark, and then to spend some time soaking up the atmosphere of the operational side of the airport.
I met up with Ron Hale, the L-1011 training captain who I had been scheduled to fly with on my first British Airways ‘Line Duty’. A trip which would take me to Kiliman
jaro via Dar es Salaam, with a four-day stopover in Arusha, and then back, via the same route to London.
I shadowed Ron as he went through all the flight planning procedures; checking the en route weather, the aircraft load sheets, technical logs, fuel certificates etc. I sat next to him as he supervised the crew briefing, introducing me as Senior First Officer Red Riley, a newly arrived, but experienced pilot. Ron was the only member of the crew who was aware of my true identity and role.
I felt that it was going to be interesting to see if any crew members considered me to be not-quite-right after spending the next five days with me. My cover story was that I had just recently joined the company after leaving the Royal Air Force where I had been flying C-130 cargo planes.
I walked around the immense passenger jet in the wake of the captain, checking for any damage or irregularities. Once on board we ran through the list of pre-flight checks, started the engines, and then we were on our way.
The techniques required to fly any sort of aeroplane are very much the same once the thing is off the ground. Apart from the variation in speed of the different types, getting from A to B is simply a matter of what aid you choose to use. Be it the ‘mark-one eyeball’ and a map, ground located navigational beacons or airborne devices such as Inertial Navigation Systems (INS) or Global Positioning Systems (GPS). On modern aircraft, these systems can be interfaced with the automatic pilot. Navigation, to anywhere on the planet, is simply then a matter of feeding information into a computer via a keypad, making sure that the autopilot is engaged, and then pressing the ‘Direct To’ button.
Most pilots have a tendency to wave their arms around the cockpit, and press a few buttons to check and cross-check. Not really essential, of course, but it helps to impress the cabin-staff and allows the aircrew to display their importance. I have always thought that the aircraft systems are extremely reliable and accurate, and they tend to go wrong only when overzealous pilots start fiddling about unnecessarily.
The stewardess who brought lunch into us was particularly attractive. I couldn’t help myself. Suddenly, as if with a mind of their own, my arms were waving about the cockpit, and I made sure that she noticed just what a sterling job I was doing of, not only ensuring that everything was checked, but also cross-checked.
Once we had eaten I volunteered to take the lunch trays back into the galley, where I was, very much, hoping to bump into the attractive stewardess.
Her name was Hilary. She was married, no children, living in Wimbledon and had worked for the airline for about ten years. She was stunning. I would have liked to have told her that I wasn’t just an ordinary pilot, but I was, in fact, some sort of secret agent and was only on board to protect her and the rest of the passengers and crew. But, of course, I couldn’t. I just had to hope that my involuntary arm swinging, and checking had been enough to leave a lasting impression on her.
I did give her my rehearsed story about having been in the RAF, single – naturally – and living in a pleasant country cottage just outside St Albans.
I must have been making progress. She asked me if I would be going to the usual room-party, once we had arrived at the hotel in Arusha. I, of course, told her that I would be there since I had never been known to miss any sort of party.
I stepped back into the flight deck with a smile on my face and suppressing the urge to give a huge ‘fist-bump’, accompanied with a “Yes”, just in case the Captain came to the opinion that I was not taking this job seriously enough. The TriStar L-1011 was capable of landing fully automatically but, as we arrived at the ‘top of descent’ for Kilimanjaro International Airport (KIA), the captain asked me take over control and carry out a VFR, manual landing. In other words, land the aircraft without referring to any navigation aids, and without using the automatic pilot or the auto-throttles.
The higher and hotter a runway is, the faster the approach-to-landing speed needs to be. With KIA being at three thousand feet above sea level, and the temperature at ground level on that day getting close to thirty degrees centigrade, the approach speed was going to be relatively fast. I calculated it to be one hundred and fifty knots on the final approach, and one hundred and forty knots as the wheels touched the ground; what was known as the threshold speed.
On the final approach, I set the aircraft up with the runway directly ahead of me and asked the non-handling pilot to extend the flaps, thereby decreasing the stalling speed. I then called for the undercarriage to be lowered in preparation for landing. At this stage, we discussed, and agreed upon, a missed-approach procedure. This would be carried out if, for whatever reason, we were unable to land at the last minute. On that day, with no other traffic in the vicinity, we agreed to simply carry out a circuit to the right at three thousand feet, and fly around the airport to try again.
Normally, when on approach, the speed appears to increase as the ground gets closer, but it is vital that the airspeed is maintained. Dropping below the threshold speed too early could lead to a sudden loss of lift close to the ground, and therefore become extremely dangerous.
I concentrated on keeping the aircraft straight and aiming to arrive at the end of the runway at the calculated speed. When Ron called out “fifty feet”, I gently eased back the throttles and the control column simultaneously to ‘flare’ the aircraft (raise the nose and reduce the speed), to make contact with the surface at one hundred and forty knots exactly.
The moment all the wheels were on the ground I pushed the control column forward and lifted the throttle levers up and back to apply reverse thrust, causing the whole aircraft to shudder as the speed decreased. At sixty knots, I cancelled the reverse-thrust and taxied towards the airport terminal.
Ron and the flight engineer congratulated me on a job well done – my first landing with a load of fare-paying passengers on board.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As we were getting out of the crew bus at the hotel in Arusha, I picked up my own bag and then went to carry Hilary’s, before being reminded by the captain, as he shook his head, “Flight deck crew do not carry stewardess’s bags, no matter how pretty they are.”
Duly reminded of the need for me to act out my role as realistically as possible, I put the bag down and left her to carry it herself.
It turned out that Hilary’s bag was packed full with miniature bottles of alcohol from the onboard bar, which was heartily drank later that evening at the opening-night room-party.
We both got along really well together and, after leaving the party, we joined two or three other members of the crew for a spell of midnight skinny-dipping.
With me dressed only in a pair of boxer-shorts and Hilary dressed only in a towel, we kissed goodnight. Instead of going into my room I was invited into the room next-door-but-one, for a small brandy as a nightcap.
Over the past twenty years, or so, I had had the good fortune to be able to fly, just about, every type of aircraft. There wasn’t enough room in the ‘Types Flown’ section of my log book to list them all. From tiny microlights, through helicopters and autogyros to fast jets, airliners and even the supersonic Concorde.
Whilst under instruction I was lead to believe that I had, what was known in the trade, as ‘a great pair of hands’. This meant that I could ‘feel’ whatever I was flying, through the air. Rather than having to resort to memorising, and trying to set arbitrary figures; pitch angles, speeds, power settings and angles of bank, all seemed to come naturally to me rather than me spouting off numbers and then struggling to set them accurately. Over many thousands of flying hours, and across a hugely diverse range of flying machines, my ‘great pair of hands’ had finally superseded, even my ‘excellent feet’.
Now in total darkness, and with nothing to keep me ‘on target’, other than my sense of feel, I am fighting to maintain control. Only, by summoning every ounce of concentration available to me, am I able to keep things moving in the right direction.
The gentle movement of my fingers must be maintained at just the right tempo. The
amount of pressure I apply is crucial – too much could be even worse than too little. Most important of all is, keeping the damned, elusive ‘button’ under control. Any excessive movement in this slippery environment and it could be lost – like a bar of soap in the bath.
Everything was going well. She grabbed my wrist to make sure that my hand stayed, right where it was, and I didn’t allow the ‘soap’ to slip away at this crucial time.
‘Yes… yes,’ she gasped, arching her back and pressing her bum hard against my stomach.
I was now in the final stages of the ‘glide-path’, pushing up inside her.
Her orgasm seemed to take control of her whole body. The uncontrolled spasms emphasised by staccato gasps, and squeals of delight.
I shuddered to a halt.
‘Fucking hell’. We gasped in unison, before cracking up into fits of laughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The next morning, I was faced with a small problem. How to avoid being seen leaving the wrong hotel room, dressed in only a pair of boxer shorts, when most of the crew were staying along the same corridor as we were. My room was only two doors away, but my new paramour didn’t want me to risk giving the game away to her workmates – after all, she was a respectable married woman.
It wasn’t long before I came up with another one of my dastardly plans.
There was a narrow ledge below the window, which ran across the entire length of the building. Fortunately, I could see that the window of my room had been left open. I suggested that I climb down onto the ledge, manoeuvre sideways along it and then jump up into my room. Meanwhile, she could leave, without worrying about bumping into anyone and make her way down for breakfast with the rest of the crew.
Kisses From Nimbus Page 12