by Jerold Last
The Gulfstream 650, with a crew of seven and a full tank of fuel, departed from Baltra at 10 AM local time on Saturday. About 5,000 miles and 9 hours later, the plane landed at Papeete, Tahiti to refuel. Arrangements had clearly been made to give them priority status upon arrival. They took off for the second leg of the flight in less than an hour. Bruce and the Ecuadorian commandos caught some sleep and concentrated on checking and rechecking their gear on the second leg of the flight, between Tahiti and Diego Garcia.
A couple of hours after leaving Papeete, Bruce exchanged seats with the co-pilot, a major in the Ecuadorian Air Force, so he could sit next to General Aleman. He had a spectacular view out of the windshield at 50,000 feet altitude of blue sky, sun, and occasional clouds rising from the Pacific Ocean, almost 10 miles under the plane, to this extreme height. Far below, the ocean was an indistinct dark blue mass stretching to infinity in every direction. Bruce and General Aleman discussed strategy for the diversion to Diego Garcia and what they could expect on the island after landing.
The general looked up from an electronic navigational device he’d been studying on the control panel. “The normal maximum range of the production model Gulfstream 650 is about 8,000 miles. Fortunately for us, the drug dealers who used to own the aircraft had this plane modified to carry extra jet fuel in two auxiliary tanks to allow us a maximum range of almost 10,000 miles. The distance between Papeete and Diego Garcia airport is 9,089 miles, almost exactly the same distance as between Papeete and Colombo, Sri Lanka. It’s about 1,100 miles from Diego Garcia to Colombo, so our cover story of needing to divert because we’re low on fuel will be plausible. Muy bien. According to the weather forecasts I checked, we won’t have any trouble finding a storm over the Indian Ocean to blow us off course to the south of our flight plan. We should be completely convincing when we request landing privileges and a refueling stop on the military base.”
Bruce looked at the navigation map of the South Pacific Ocean and the Indian Ocean spread out on the console table behind the co-pilot’s seat, where a navigator might be sitting if they had one on this flight. “How long do you think it will be before you can send the distress call and make sure they’ll invite us to the base on Diego Garcia for a visit?”
General Aleman glanced at Bruce. “Are we getting eager? We’re about 1,500 miles due west of Tahiti now, less than an hour east of Fiji and maybe four hours east of Australia and New Guinea. I’d guess maybe 6-7 hours from there to Diego Garcia depending on what kind of winds we encounter. So, in round numbers, we’re maybe 10-11 hours from landing on Diego Garcia if everything goes smoothly. I think I can radio them for permission to divert in about 6 or 7 hours. I can’t call too soon or they’ll just tell us to fly a more northerly route so we can make landfall in Sri Lanka, and we’d be cutting it much closer than I’m willing to risk, just in case they say no, if we wait much longer than that.”
Bruce traced the route on the maps as General Aleman described the landmarks. “If everything goes according to your plans and calculations, what time do you anticipate we’ll be wheels down on the runway there?”
The general made an elaborate show of looking at his wristwatch. “How does just in time for dusk sound to you? It should start getting dark shortly after 6 PM local time.”
“It sounds perfect,” replied Bruce.
A short time later General Aleman radioed Eduardo to update him on their progress. “Hola, Eduardo. We were successful in refueling during our stop in Papeete, and are making good progress en route to our final destination of Sri Lanka. We expect to arrive there on schedule.”
Bruce could imagine winks being exchanged over the open channel between Baltra and the Gulfstream in flight. General Aleman continued by asking, “Are there any storm fronts on the global radar images, especially with southern winds, we should avoid?”
Eduardo’s disembodied voice seemed loud in the earphones in the small flight cabin. “I should warn you about a large storm almost exactly 5 hours to your west at your current speed and altitude. You should try to avoid this disturbance; it’s a big one.”
The general marked his navigation chart with their current position and marked the predicted location of the storm in front of them. Bruce admired the professionalism as these two experienced conspirators laid down an electronic and paper trail to support the planned diversion of the Gulfstream aircraft to Diego Garcia several hours from now. Then Bruce stood up and announced he was taking a break for a power nap and would return to the flight deck in a couple of hours.
Five hours later, General Aleman gently touched Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce was fully awake instantaneously. The general looked at his wristwatch. “I thought maybe you’d like to come back up front with me. Things are about to start happening and I’d like you to be there just in case we have to start improvising.”
The co-pilot relinquished the controls to General Aleman and his seat to Bruce as he walked back to the passenger section to catch up on his sleep. The general turned towards Bruce to announce, “it’s time to get blown off course by the storm.” He adjusted the plane’s course to a more southwesterly direction accordingly.
“We’re still far enough away from Diego Garcia and there’s enough air traffic in this area for the odds of their specifically tracking us already to be between zero and none. They aren’t expecting us to land there. Our flight plan had us well to the north of their little island. If they go back and look for blips on the radar and somehow figure out which blip is the Gulfstream, they’ll see the plane behaving properly for what would have happened if our story about unfavorable winds were really true. We’ll fly this general heading for about 45 minutes, then go back to a slightly north of due west heading and radio them we’re off course and need permission to land and refuel. If they look for our blip then, they’ll see a plane on the right heading for Diego Garcia but several hundred miles south of where it should be for an approach to Colombo. I’ll get some polite criticism of my navigational skills over dinner, I suspect, but I’m a general from a developing country so it will be ever so polite.”
We flew off course for 45 minutes then back on course for half an hour before General Aleman indicated the plane’s radio. “It’s show time!” he announced.
There was the usual, “letters and numbers calling U.S. Navy base Diego Garcia” chatter, with a clear reply of “U. S. Navy base Diego Garcia calling letters and numbers” forthcoming. General Aleman spoke into the radio slowly and clearly. “We’re on a heading of,” he mumbled some numbers, ”and an airspeed of 650 mph, with a planned destination of Colombo, Sri Lanka. We’ve been blown off course and are running low on fuel. Our current position is,” he mumbled some more numbers, ”latitude and longitude. We are making an ETOPS request for permission to land and refuel at your facility. Please advise. Over.”
There was a pause before the reply came back. “We have you on our long-distance radar. Do you have enough fuel to stay aloft for 2-3 more hours at your current air speed?”
The general made a thumbs-up signal and smiled broadly. “That’s an affirmative, Diego Garcia.”
The voice came over the radio again. “Please adjust your heading to,” he specified the compass heading, ”and proceed on that course. I’ll be back in touch with you when you get closer to our field unless we need to correct your compass heading. Please keep your radio turned on to this frequency. Over.”
“Sometimes things work. Now let’s see whether we got the timing right. Wouldn’t it be frustrating to get there too early and have them refuel the plane and kick us off the base before it got dark?”
Five minutes later a different voice came over the radio. This voice sounded older, more authoritative. The caller made sure he had the correct airplane before asking, “Please identify your aircraft. Are you a commercial flight?”
General Aleman keyed the radio, mumbled the numbers and letters then answered the question. “No, we’re not a commercial flight. The aircraft is a Gulfstream 650, owned by the Gover
nment of Ecuador. We’re en route to Sri Lanka on a diplomatic mission. I’m the ranking member of this mission, Brigadier General Vincente Aleman of the Ecuadorian Air Force. Over.”
The voice from Diego Garcia air traffic control came in clearly over the radio. “You should be arriving just before sunset. We prefer not to handle refueling in the dark unless it is absolutely necessary. Are you prepared to land, stay overnight, refuel first thing tomorrow morning, and be on your way then? Over.”
The general smiled and gave a big thumbs-up sign before answering. “Yes, that would be entirely satisfactory. We appreciate your saving our lives here and the Gulfstream is comfortable for sleeping. Over.”
The voice on the radio continued, “My base commander has instructed me to invite you and your highest ranking aide to have dinner with him and his wife this evening as his guests. If you have any additional crew flying with you we don’t have any customs or immigration formalities to worry about as long as they stay on the plane while you are our guests on the base. Over.”
General Aleman answered formally, “Please extend my thanks to your base commander. I appreciate his hospitality. Over.”
The general made another thumbs-up sign. “So far, so good. They don’t care about anybody with me if you stay onboard, or at least out of sight. Everything seems to be happening according to plan so far. That’s not the usual, so enjoy it while you can!”
Bruce pointed to the radio. “Do you want to keep Eduardo in the loop?”
The general frowned. “I’d love to, but it’s much too risky to transmit anything from here. We have to assume any transmissions from the vicinity of the island are monitored.”
A couple of hours later, just in time to appreciate a beautiful tropical sunset, we were being given clearance to land on the extra-long runway on Diego Garcia. The radio told us elevations, angles, and airspeeds. General Aleman was all too aware of his image as a less than perfect navigator, so he carefully guided the Gulfstream to a picture perfect landing, then followed the instructions to turn around and move the plane to the south end of the runway, where it would be as far away as possible from the small hanger complex where the plane would be refueled by the navy first thing next morning.
He taxied the Gulfstream to a wide area for planes to turn out or park near the end of the runway furthest from the maintenance area and the hangers, finally pulling off onto a widened patch of tarmac and killing the engines. “This is where we park tonight, as far away from anything valuable as they could send us. Someone has a more than two mile jog back to where the trucks are parked, so make sure you get started as soon as you can after they pick me up.”
General Aleman put on a freshly pressed and elegant dress uniform, as did his co-pilot, the major. They were ready to hop into the jeep that pulled up next to our plane after allowing for a discrete interval for a bathroom break and a wardrobe upgrade. Bruce and his force stayed out of sight onboard, and took advantage of the time to eat a cold dinner and recheck the gear. Darkness descended abruptly and quickly, as it does when you’re just about on the equator at sea level.
About half an hour later, when the end of the runway around the plane was in complete darkness, Bruce and his force had reviewed their plans for the last time and were ready to go. The trickiest part of stealing the truck would be in the brightly lit areas around the hanger, refueling, and maintenance facility at the other end of the runway. Bruce wanted to avoid having to bring the truck over to the plane, which was parked on a wide portion of tarmac that would be partially illuminated by the runway lights were they to be turned on for an arriving or departing flight, to pick up the rest of the group and their gear. They would be very conspicuous indeed if the lights came on for another flight while they were transferring their gear to the truck.
All five of the commandos loaded up with their packs, loose gear, and the inflatable rubber rafts. They snuck out of the plane with the gear they’d need, carrying it all over to the dark area along the main road to the east of the runway. It was time for the small force to split up. Two commandos were sent to steal the truck, while the other three, including Bruce, stayed with the gear waiting to be picked up.
The two designated truck thieves jogged along the road just beyond the north end of the runway to where the brightly lit truck maintenance facility stood quietly awaiting the next day’s activity. They crept up to the edge of the well-lit area of concrete parking spaces, garage type service bays, and large buildings where they assumed tools and spare parts were stored. Each of them scanned the area with binoculars.
“I count eight guards, patrolling in pairs,” whispered the first commando. His companion acknowledged the count with a thumbs-up sign. Two of the guards were patrolling the huge parking lot, while the other six were patrolling between the maintenance facility and the wharves for loading and unloading cargo ships in the lagoon.
The second commando pointed to a large truck at the end of a line of similar trucks parked closest to them and whispered to his partner, “That should be an easy one to take, Juan.”
Juan whispered back, “Yes, but they would see it was gone when they walked past the empty space. Let’s take that one,” as he pointed to a seemingly identical truck in the middle of the large number of trucks parked apparently at random in ragged rows and columns.
The two commandos sprinted to the designated truck, crouching to be as small as possible, just as the guards reached their furthest patrol point from the chosen truck. Neither door was locked, so they jumped in as quickly and quietly as they could. “I guess security on a small island in the middle of nowhere is a lot looser than we’re used to on Baltra,” exclaimed the driver. “The keys are hanging here in the ignition. Let’s get going!”
He started the truck, eased it into gear, and slowly drove it to the road. None of the guards seemed to notice. The driver said a silent prayer that their good fortune would continue and hit the gas to speed the truck back to the far end of the runway where the rest of his squad was waiting.
Less than forty minutes after the two commandos had started their long jog to the maintenance facility, the large truck pulled up to the other three commandos hiding by the side of the road. Several duffel bags, two fully collapsed and folded rubber rafts, several high-powered flashlights, and all sorts of other gear went into the back of the truck, along with three commandos dressed to look like U.S. navy enlisted men. In the front of the truck were Bruce, dressed as a colonel in the Ecuadorian army, and the remaining commando, one of the truck thieves, in a lieutenant’s uniform.
Bruce looked at the “lieutenant” sitting next to him. The uniform fit and looked right on him. He had accessorized his uniform with a set of night-vision goggles dangling from a strap around his neck that would allow him to see several hundred meters ahead by collecting the weak starlight and moonlight and intensifying it if there wasn’t enough moonlight to see by. “Did you have any trouble borrowing the truck?”
“No, everything went real easy. They had a couple of guards patrolling around the perimeter and a lot more on the wharves, but they all walked the same routes over and over and you knew who would be where at any time. We had a window of almost five minutes between guard rounds to drive off. They’d left the keys in the ignition. There was plenty of time to pull it off, and at least a couple of dozen trucks parked there. We took this one from a back row. They’ll never know it was gone as long as we have it back before daylight.”
The truck drove carefully past the end of the runway then speeded up as they hit the darkest part of the road. There was a thin sliver of moon and a bit of moonlight in the open areas, but it was a dark night, making it hard to see details of the island terrain as the small commando force drove by in the truck. Enough light came from the low-hanging crescent moon for the driver to see the road several yards ahead of them without having to turn on the headlights or use the night-vision goggles.
The group drove towards the outline of a giant’s foot on the crushed shell road at th
e south end of the island. On their left, darkness hid the lagoon that made up the middle of the island. On their right, darkness concealed the Pacific Ocean, which could be heard clearly over the noise of the truck’s engine. Occasional shafts of moonlight reflecting off the ocean surface were visible.
About five miles from the end of the runway where the raiding party boarded the stolen truck, diffused lights aimed towards the ground glowed dimly ahead of them about half a mile further on beside the road. It had to be a checkpoint. Now what?
“Slow down!” Bruce ordered the driver. “Let’s see what’s waiting there before they see us!”
The truck crept down the road at 10 miles per hour. As it got closer to the dimly lit checkpoint details began to emerge from the gloom. A guardhouse stood alongside the road on their left, large enough to fit two armed guards into it. The diffuse lights originated from shaded yellow bulbs, which were too dim to be picked up by the satellites overhead.
“Stop here,” Bruce whispered to the driver. “I’ll check things on foot. You wait in the truck until I signal you. If anything goes wrong, make a run for it back to the Gulfstream.”
Water flanked the narrow road on both sides here. Bruce walked over to the ocean side, found a thin strip of sandy beach, and walked as quietly as he could to a position just about level with the guardhouse. The noise of the ocean covered any sounds he was making as he stared intently towards the lights, about 50 yards away. Nothing! He crawled the last 50 yards to the guardhouse and carefully rose using the wall of the guardhouse for cover. He peered inside through a narrow window on the side of the structure. More nothing!