The Assassins

by Oliver North

  With that, the Marine sergeant major threw the Suburban into gear and raced out onto the tarmac, weaving in and out of the parked aircraft, looking for anyone not otherwise occupied. Suddenly, over the din of the firing, he heard the sound of a jet engine starting.

  He looked toward the 737 that had originally caught his attention and realized too late that there were two heads in the cockpit, barely visible through his NVGs. He stopped looking for help and spun the wheel, turning the Suburban toward the big Boeing aircraft, intending to slam the vehicle into the nose wheel and prevent it from taking off.

  Suddenly, thirty yards short of the aircraft, an RPG round, fired from one of the sandbagged revetments surrounding hangar 3, slammed into the right rear of the Suburban, spinning the vehicle out of control and igniting the nearly full gas tank. Grabbing his MP5 off the seat, Skillings rolled out of the burning SUV and onto the tarmac.

  Lying prone on the black macadam, Skillings realized that he had lost his NVGs. But in the light of the fire behind him he could see a man at the top of the portable stairs struggling to try to close the main passenger hatch.

  Skillings rolled, put the MP5 to his shoulder, tried to release the safety, and found that he could not. Holding the weapon up so that he could examine it in the light of the flames, he saw that the receiver was full of holes—shrapnel from the RPG. That's when he noticed the blood on his dark skin. He rolled again, looking where he had been, and saw a puddle of his own blood.

  As the wounded Marine started to feel around his body, trying to find the source of the hemorrhage, the heavyset man raced down the portable stairs to release the brake holding the movable steps against the 737. Forcing himself to his feet, Skillings drew his 9mm Beretta and stumbled toward the aircraft, as the heavyset man raced back up the stairs.

  Skillings got to the bottom of the steps as the man reached the top. The Marine pistol expert paused, fired once, and charged up the steps as the large figure fell back inside the cabin.

  With his “ski boot” foot cast making a clumping noise on the metal steps, the wounded American hauled himself to the top of the stairs and into the cabin. Immediately, a burst of fire from the cockpit struck him in the left side, and he fell on top of the heavyset man whom he had just shot. As Skillings lost consciousness, he realized that the man beneath him was Dimitri Komulakov.

  Neither the Russian nor the American Marine heard Is'haaq Al Kabil, in the left seat of the cockpit, say in Arabic, “Good shooting, Jabbar.

  Now go push the stairs back from the door so we can depart and carry out our mission for Allah. ”

  As the copilot returned to his seat and strapped in, Kabil spooled up the 737's two GE turbofan engines, deftly turned the aircraft to avoid the burning Suburban and becoming entangled in the portable stairs, and spun again to get on the taxiway. At the last minute he flicked on his landing lights to align the plane with the narrow, darkened tarmac, turned the light off again, and then, pushing the throttles to their stops, did the unthinkable—took off on the taxiway.

  In front of hangar 3, Newman heard the sound of the aircraft screaming down the dark taxiway, turned to Pamela Browne, one of the CIA women he had pressed into service as a communicator, and said, “Call Search Team 1 and see if they got the tail number of the aircraft, We've got to let Washington know one got away. Then see if you can raise Sergeant Major Skillings on the radio. ”

  Three minutes later, as Newman and Lt. Col. Dan Hart were taking a “head count, ” supervising the loading of five 152mm nuclear warheads in the back of the Suburbans, and directing the placement of the wounded in the blue bus, Browne interrupted to say, “Lt. Jim Curry with Team 1 reports that the aircraft that got off is a Boeing 737 with ‘International Air Express’ markings and registration designator: LV-TRK. He thinks Skillings may have gotten aboard. He doesn't answer on the radio. ”

  “Dan, send off that airplane info immediately to SOCOM and the JCS on your D-DACT, ” ordered Newman. Then, turning to Browne, he said, “See if you can raise Skillings on his D-DACT. If he's still alive, I want to communicate with him about our options for bringing down that aircraft without losing him. ”

  “Roger that, General. I'll get right on it, ” said Browne.

  Newman turned back to Hart and said, “Do we have everyone? ”

  “Yes, sir, ” Hart responded. “We have two dead and nine wounded though. It may slow us down when we get to the beach. I'll notify the SEALs. ”

  “Do we have all the seized weapons loaded? ” Newman asked.

  “Yes, sir. ”

  “Any ‘High Value’ detainees we should take with us? ”

  “No, ” said Hart. “There are several dead Russians inside the hangar and a few more outside. All of the pilots of the commercial planes were in their cockpits, and they're all dead—except for the one or two that got away. And there are six dead guys in the hangar who are Iranian. I have their passports. ”

  “Good work, Dan, ” said Newman. “Let's get out of here. We're going to have to double up—that's my Suburban burning out there on the tarmac. As soon as the last vehicle is a klick down the road, I'll send a D-DACT to the JCS to alert the subs we're coming and tell ‘em to give us another Tomahawk on Target 3—this hangar. ”

  Twenty-five minutes later the little convoy of Suburbans and a blue bus pulled up on the Maiquetia beach and were greeted by thirty-two heavily armed U.S. Navy SEALs. Newman looked at his watch. It was exactly twelve-thirty in the morning on 11 November. Veteran's Day, 2007.

  Aboard “International Air Express” Boeing 737, LV-TRK

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  35nm E of Boot Key, Florida,

  Sunday, 11 November 2007

  0200 Hours Local

  Is'haaq Al Kabil was a self-destructive, homicidal terrorist. But he was also a very good pilot. For more than three hours he had been pushing the rugged Boeing 737 and its twin GE turbofan engines to their limit. Kabil kept the airplane—made to fly economically at 25,000 feet or more—at no more than 200 feet and no less than 450 knots as he screamed northwest toward his target: Dallas, Texas. Flying the straightest possible route, he'd had to pull up to get over the rugged spine of Cuba. Now, as he neared the Florida Keys, after nearly 1,200 miles of low-altitude flight, he felt the need to relieve himself. He pulled up to 250 feet, put the aircraft on autopilot, told Jabbar to be attentive to the controls and the altitude, and opened the cockpit door.

  Barely glancing down at the dead American lying atop the dead Russian, he stepped over the bodies, opened the door to the head, and, from force of habit, closed the door behind himself. As he did so, Amos Skillings stirred.

  As he became conscious, the Marine sergeant major realized that he was gravely injured. Each breath produced a bubbling sensation in his left lung, and he could taste blood in his mouth. His left arm was numb, and he had no sensation in his fingers. But with a massive effort he could still move his right arm and hand and soon found the Beretta 9mm pistol he had fallen on when he was shot.

  As he grasped the butt of the weapon, he heard the snap of the lock as Kabil opened the door to the head. For a split second, the grievously wounded Marine considered “playing possum” in hopes that Kabil would pass by, but then reasoned he did not know how much life he had left. With a superhuman effort, Skillings rolled left, onto his painfully shattered ribcage, raised his arm, pointed the pistol at the wide-eyed pilot, and pulled the trigger.

  Kabil was dead before he hit the carpeted floor of the aircraft. And somehow, Skillings managed to climb over his inert form and make his way to the cockpit where Jabbar was frantically trying to extricate himself from his harness and reach a switch taped to the top of the instrument panel in front of the vacant command pilot's seat.

  Despite his wounds and loss of blood, Skillings quickly deduced that this switch was very likely connected to a nuclear warhead somewhere in the aircraft. Even though the copilot was his only chance for a safe landing, the sergeant major didn't hes
itate. He raised the pistol and fired again. As Jabbar slumped back into his seat, Skillings crawled forward to see if he could figure out where they were.

  As he painfully worked himself into the vacant pilot's seat, dragging his “ski-boot” walking cast over the center console, Skillings examined the instrument panel, searching for familiar instruments known to every military man with years of experience around aircraft—the altimeter, air speed indicator, the GPS. First he found the altimeter and shook his head to clear his vision—until he realized that it really was reading 200 feet!

  In a few seconds he found the GPS and was able to discern that they were nearing the Florida Keys. He immediately thought of Rachel, James, and Lizzie Newman somewhere down there—and he thought about the fact that he was riding at the controls of a nuclear weapon that could go off at anytime. He desperately wondered why the aircraft had not been shot down—and then realized that it must be too low to have been picked up on radar.

  After several moments of frustration, he found the IFF transponder and flicked it on, knowing that this would make the aircraft instantly visible to radar intercept operators. Finally, he located the autopilot.

  For several seconds he contemplated how to turn off the autopilot switch with his right hand and still maintain control of the aircraft without being able to use his left arm. Finally, he made a lunge with his right hand, flicked off the autopilot, and grabbed the yoke, pulling back on it with all the strength he had left.

  The nose of the big airplane pitched up and the altimeter began to spin like a clock on adrenalin. Unable to use the rudder pedals, he turned the wheel to the left and felt the G-force pushing him into the seat. As he tried desperately to steer the guided bomb away from the chain of tiny islands below, he could feel the blood draining from his head—and blackness enveloping him.

  Blue Waters Retreat

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  Boot Key, FL

  Sunday, 11 November 2007

  0205 Hours Local

  Rachel Newman had tossed and turned for three hours after going to bed but had been unable to sleep. Finally, frustrated at whatever it was that was keeping her awake, she got up, put on a robe, and quietly opened the front door of the house and sat down on the steps of the deck, facing the Atlantic Ocean.

  For several minutes she listened to the gentle surf lapping a few hundred feet away on the shore and enjoyed the light, cool breeze blowing through her hair. This place is perfect for the children, she thought. It seemed so safe and peaceful here, and she wished Peter were with them.

  After ten minutes or so of reverie, Rachel stood up and turned toward the front door. Suddenly there was a brilliant flash high in the sky behind her, so bright that it cast her shadow on the front of the house. She started to turn to see what it was, but as she did so, she could feel the warmth of the intense light on her face—not painful—more like standing in front of a blazing fireplace.

  Rachel suddenly thought, Terrorists! Nuclear weapons! She spun around to run into the house for her children. As she did so, her bare foot caught on the top step and she pitched forward onto the deck, striking her head on the edge of a heavy wooden recliner. In that instant, the bright light, and everything else, went black. Rachel never heard the ominous thud that came several seconds later—caused by whatever had made the vivid flash of light, thirty miles to the east.

  EULOGY

  FOR A BROTHER

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Oval Office

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  The White House

  Sunday, 11 November 2007

  1030 Hours Local

  Dan Powers had called the President about the success in Venezuela and the Patriot PAC-III shoot-down east of the Florida Keys even before he and the First Lady had breakfast. The President uttered a grateful, “Thank God,” then attended an early morning prayer-and-worship service. He later returned to the White House Situation Room to watch things play out in what he referred to as “the beginning of the end” of the nuclear crisis.

  At 1000, Chief of Staff Bruce Allen came to him and said, “Mr. President, it looks like our prayers are answered. SOCOM reports that five nuclear weapons have been captured; that the ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ has gone off the net in Saudi Arabia. The only new wrinkle in the fabric is the Israelis have just informed us that early this morning they fired five Jericho-III missiles at the Iranian launch site near Tabriz and knocked out an Iranian nuclear-tipped Shahab 3 missile on the launcher. We're asking NRO for verification before we say anything.”

  The President smiled. “That's great news. Any loose ends?”

  “The SecDef reports that we may have to deal with some back-blast—literally—over the weapon that was aboard a pirated Saudi Boeing 737 hit by that Patriot missile over the Gulf. One of our Marines, a Sergeant Major Skillings, is credited for heroically getting on board, taking over the aircraft, and diverting the plane before it could reach U.S. territory,” Allen read from a report. “This man is a genuine hero,” he added.

  “It sounds like it,” the President said. “God bless him. That took a lot of guts. Lesser men would have panicked and not kept their wits. There's an awful lot of people on the Gulf Coast who owe that Marine for saving their lives,” the President said solemnly.

  Bruce Allen handed him a 3 x 5 card. “What's this?” the President asked.

  “It's the name and phone number of Sergeant Major Skillings's sister. She's his next of kin, sir.”

  “Uh...yeah...thank you.” The President took the card, bowed his head, and said reverently almost to himself, “God bless you, Amos Skillings...and thank you, on behalf of a grateful nation.” Then he looked into the face of his Chief of Staff and said, “I'll call his sister now...just excuse me for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir...thank you, Mr. President,” Allen said as he backed out the door of the Oval Office.

  A half hour later the President went before TV cameras in the Rose Garden to give an “all clear” statement. “It is with a heart filled with thanksgiving to Almighty God that I come to you this morning. By now you have heard the reports of the detonation of a nuclear device off the Florida Keys. Let me tell you how that came about,” the President told the American people.

  “It is because of the personal sacrifice of an African-American Marine sergeant major that no lives were lost—except one. That single fatality was the precious life of Amos Skillings. He was a man of faith, the son of a black preacher, and a career Marine warrior. Sergeant Major Skillings was the brother of Mrs. Luella Banks, whom I had the sad duty to inform that her brother had lost his life as a sacrifice to America this morning,” the President said sadly, but proudly.

  “Amos Skillings represents everything hopeful about our great country. He also is a model for those who ask cynically,‘Where are today's heroes?’ Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings, USMC, represents the men and women of all the military services who serve quietly and selflessly around the world. They too have many among their ranks who have likewise given the greatest gift a man can give—the sacrifice of their own lives.

  “Thanks in great part to Amos Skillings and his fellow warriors, I'm proud to be standing here this morning, and happy to tell you that this terrible crisis is finally over. Those who started it are standing down, and their evil accomplices are either dead or fleeing. The weapons of mass destruction that threatened our cities and homes have been captured. For all you who prayed that God would‘deliver us from evil,’ you can be especially grateful to our God for bringing us through. So as we approach the Thanksgiving season, I know that your hearts will be especially overflowing at these wonderful answers to prayer.

  “It is also ironic that I'm standing here this morning, and it's a bit odd that events have strangely brought us back to what originally took place on this date nearly a century ago. For
you see, today is November eleventh...in 1918 this day was called Armistice Day...and sometime later it was renamed Veterans’ Day. It was a day set aside especially to honor veterans— particularly those veterans who lost their lives, the ultimate sacrifice—in their duty protecting the United States of America. So, the irony today is that it's Veterans’ Day once again. And more than ever, as Americans we've been made aware of the significance of those who have sacrificed for us. Today's generation of men and women in the military are still fighting the ongoing battle against tyranny so that the bells of freedom can ring loud and clear not just across this wonderful land but all over the world.”

  The President paused for only a brief moment, then his gaze wandered across the many faces in front of him, as if to impress upon each person listening the importance of his words. He said, “I want to conclude my remarks today with this reminder: we need to always remember this day of sacrifice and courage. Please bow your head and think for a moment of these brave men and women who serve without protest and who go quietly but steadfastly about their sworn duty to uphold and defend the Constitution of these United States of America. And today, let us take another moment to remember the valiant life and courageous death of a single brave Marine—Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings.”

  The President bowed his head, closed his eyes, and there was absolute silence in the Rose Garden, save for the singing of birds nearby. After a moment, he said a quiet “Amen” and turned to walk back into the White House.

  Emergency Medicine Clinic

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  Boot Key, FL