by Jon Sedran
The lead technician split his men into two teams. “We must work quickly,” he instructed them, adding, “We have twelve hours to complete final assemble of both devices and load them onto the planes…no mistakes or we all die. Assemble them just like we practiced.” The men quietly began their assigned tasks.
Throughout the day one team worked to install the racks and wiring in the planes, while the other continued readying the devices. The small black metal box which would arm and detonate the device was mounted between the two pilot’s seats alongside the throttles. On top it had a key slot and a toggle switch with a red safety cover. From the box, wires ran back twenty feet to where the device would be mounted. To arm the device Marid was to insert and turn the key, but not until the crews were ready to start the engines. Over the target, all each crew had to do was lift the safety cover and flip toggle switch. In an instant they would become martyrs in a fireball as hot as the sun. Marid had quietly decided upon adding an extra feature to ensure no one changed their minds, or if the IAF intercepted them, there would be no evidence left. The technicians would install a barometric actuator connected through plane’s radar altimeter. It would detonate the device should the aircraft’s altitude drop below one-hundred feet above the ground after initially climbing to fifteen-hundred feet on takeoff from the airport.
After several hours the lead technician assured himself all was correct so far with the devices. Then he and two others completed most delicate and dangerous part, the loading of the propellant into the gun assemblies and securing the end caps. The wires were connected to the batteries and the deadly cargo was ready to load. All knew these devices were crude and lacked the safety mechanisms normally found on nuclear weapons.
The SD-360 aircraft lacks a cargo door that opens at the rear of the aircraft, so the loading had to be done carefully through a side cargo door. The door was barely one meter square and the forklift driver had to repeatedly set the device down and reposition the chains to make it through the opening without damaging the aircraft.
It was late afternoon when the pilots arrived by van. They were escorted in by Marid’s security team. “Allah Akbar”, said Marid, greeting each pilot as they climbed the stairs leading to his office. Looking down, they could see the aircraft loading slowly progressing.
Marid gathered the pilots around his desk and went over every detail of the flights. He rechecked the weather. Slight chance of some low clouds…Allah will keep the skies clear, he reassured himself. The men were told who they would be flying with, which aircraft they were to fly, and most importantly their target, Israel’s two most vital cities, Tel Aviv and Haifa. If all went according to plan, each crew would fly their plane over their target city and detonate a nuclear device five-hundred feet above it. It would instantly be glorious martyrdom for these warriors for Allah and the end of their hated enemy.
Marid went over the proper terminology to use with the control tower and air traffic controllers along their routes. “Failure to make the correct replies to air traffic controllers can get you intercepted and shot down,” he cautioned them. With aviation charts laid out his desk, a resolute Marid coached each crew. “Remember Abba, you must follow the air traffic controller’s instructions until you reach this point,” he instructed, moving his finger along the chart to an ‘X’. Doud nodded, and Marid went on, “You will then descend to three-hundred feet above the ground here using the radar altimeter, and turn to heading two-hundred forty-five degrees.” He paused and looked at the co-pilot who was taking notes, “Najid, at that point you are to pull out the circuit breaker for the radar transponder and turn off all lights, as you were shown.”
Both men nodded vigorously.
Marid stopped, took a deep breath, and then looked at the second crew. “Faraj and Hana on your flight you are to stay low over the hills and follow this route exactly,” he told them, moving his finger along a dark black line drawn on the chart. You must also remember to disable the transponder, here, and all navigation lights off.” The men nodded. “If either plane gets into trouble with the Zionist Air Force, you must immediately detonate the device,” Marid said firmly.
After two hours, Marid was satisfied the crews were ready. The men went down the stairs and to their assigned aircraft. They passed the time sitting in the cockpits reviewing their charts and saying prayers, while Marid went back over every detail in his head.
* * * *
In Tehran, the delivery truck arrived at exactly seven pm as Shirazi had been told. The driver got out and walked to the back of the truck and casually looked around to be sure no one was watching.
Shirazi walked up to him. He had only one small duffle bag and a few belongings to take with him. “Is this for number two-five-five,” he asked.
The driver lit a cigarette. “No, number one-three-three,” he responded. Then he pulled Shirazi by the arm toward the truck. “Quickly, get in,” he instructed, as he lowered a concealed door revealing a small compartment underneath the main cargo area. It had a soiled piece of carpeting on the bottom.
Shirazi surmised the compartment was used for smuggling various things as he struggled to climb into the tight area. The driver pushed Shirazi’s bag in next to him and closed the door. With some luck he would cross safely into Iraq before midnight.
* * * *
By evening Marid was growing impatient. “We have to hurry,” he reminded both Kasim and the lead technician. “We are on a tight schedule; the first plane must take off by twenty-two hundred hours.”
The lead technician glanced down at his watch. “We will make it,” he assured him. Then he dashed off across the hangar to assist a technician.
Finally, at nine pm the first device was secured to the special rack in the plane. The electrical wires were connected and a final check done. The devices each weighed over seven-thousand pounds and with the fuel load, were as much as the planes could carry. Marid had decided to put an extra thirty minutes of fuel onboard each aircraft in case there were any delays. The four pilots destined for martyrdom had received minimal training, but more than the nine-eleven hijackers had gotten.
At nine-forty-five pm the lead technician raced up to Marid. “Commander Marid, both planes are ready,” he advised, wiping perspiration from his brow.
Marid nodded. Excellent, he thought. He took out his cell phone and made a call. “Sheik al-Salim, this is Commander Marid, we await your okay, everything is ready.”
“Praise Allah. Destroy the Zionists,” directed al-Salim without hesitation.
“We will do so.” He put his cell phone away and turned to Kasim, “Open the hangar doors.” As two men pushed the doors open, one of the technicians jumped onto a tug, hooked it up to the first plane, and pulled it from the hangar. Then he drove the tug back inside and hooked up to the second plane. Marid climbed on-board, inserted his key into the slot on the the box and turned it. “Allah Akbar,” he said. Then he removed the key and quickly got back off.
The crew of the first plane started their engines and received clearance from the tower to taxi. As Marid watched, the plane moved out into the darkness. In forty-five minutes the process would be repeated for the second plane.
* * * *
At an air defense radar site in Northern Israel the shift change was just being completed.
“Okay, threat briefing. Everyone listen up,” the unit commander announced loudly over the sound of the cooling equipment. “Threats tonight include more Hezbollah rockets, and get this…a possible cargo plane with a suicide crew, target uncertain…but likely Tel Aviv. He paused, “Questions?”
The four radar operators had none for him. They had heard these briefings a hundred times before.
“Are we up and running” the commander asked his main radar operator.
“Yes sir,” came the sharp reply. “I completed the checklist and the self-test checked perfect. All systems are fully functional.”
“Very nice, excellent,” the commander replied, turning to his communications
specialist. “Comm links?”
“All up,” came the reply.
The commander looked over his small crew. “Stay vigilant everyone, our warnings might be the only thing that prevents a lot of people from being killed.”
* * * *
Galla had read back the control tower’s taxi instructions haltingly, as Doud pushed the throttles forward and the old plane reluctantly began to move. It was dark and Doud was nervous he might turn the plane down the wrong taxiway, alerting the tower personnel. He looked down repeatedly at a diagram of the airport’s layout. Finally, he stopped the aircraft just short of the runway and selected the tower’s frequency on the plane’s radio.
He glanced over at Galla as he pushed the microphone button, “Tower, Hadid 12311 ready for takeoff.”
The tower controller quickly responded, “Hadid 12311 cleared for takeoff runway one-seven.”
Galla in turn, reading back as he had been taught. “Cleared for takeoff runway one-seven.” Slightly nervous, he had neglected repeat back his aircraft’s identification as required.
The tower controller quickly shot back, “That is for Hadid 12311, cleared for takeoff runway one-seven.” Doud pushed the throttles as far forward as they would go and steered the plane down the runway with the rudder pedals. As he did so Galla again depressed the mic button on the yoke and transmitted, “Yes, we are cleared for takeoff on one-seven,” again neglecting to read back his call sign.
The tower controller decided this pilot was an idiot and simply instructed Galla to change his radio frequency to the departure controller’s frequency. This time it was Doud who replied, reading back the assigned frequency. The plane lumbered skyward, struggling to lift the heavy load. Galla used his flashlight and read the checklist out loud, “Retract landing gear.” He reached for the gear handle and pushed it up. The low whining sound of the hydraulic system was followed by the three little green lights going out on the panel. They looked at each other and slight smile appeared on their faces.
Marid stood outside the hangar and rechecked the time as he watched the first plane take off. Then he and Kasim went back inside the hangar and waited. Exactly on schedule the second plane was pulled out from the hangar. Marid went on-board, inserted and turned his key. The crew started the engines, called the tower on the radio, and taxied away.
On board the first plane all was going well. They had been instructed to climb to eleven-thousand feet and fly a heading of one-hundred fifteen degrees. This heading took them over Damascus, then they would turn and head toward Amman, as planned. Galla had completed the checklist and engaged the autopilot. Doud looked at the GPS and then the chart; they were passing through Syrian airspace and would soon enter Jordanian airspace. They would also soon appear on Israeli air defense radars, but the relatively slow flying aircraft should not attract much attention, they hoped.
Marid and Kasim had watched the second plane depart, Marid again checking the time. Then they headed back to his office.
“Kasim, make sure the four decoy drones are launched on schedule,” Marid reminded him.
“I will call the section commander now.”
The crew of the second plane successfully made contact with the air traffic departure controller who had assigned them a heading of one-hundred eighty degrees and an altitude of three-thousand feet. They had filed no flight plan and if asked, were to state they were going to fly south along the coastline under visual conditions on a training flight.
Mannan looked at the chart while Fayad held the flashlight. Marid had estimated they could cover the seventy-five miles from Beirut to Haifa in less than thirty minutes, even when flying low through the hills and valleys. They would enter Israeli airspace in less than twenty.
“Once we reach this point here, we will quickly descend and then rely our GPS,” Mannan instructed, pointing to a mark on the chart in the dimly lit cockpit.
Fayad nodded slowly, but said nothing.
* * * *
At forty-five minutes into their hour-long flight, the makeshift GPS showed the crew of the first plane to be at the right location. Galla disabled the plane’s radar transponder. Then, just as they had been instructed, Doud selected a new heading on the auto-pilot of two-hundred twenty degrees and started a descent to three-hundred feet above the ground, dropping them below radar coverage. The old plane grudgingly complied and began to turn and descend. They would fly low over the hills and head straight for Tel Aviv. Syrian, and then Jordanian air traffic controllers had begun repeatedly trying to contact them, first on their assigned radio frequency and then on the emergency frequency. The two men removed their headsets and tossed them aside. The remainder of the flight would be in Allah’s hands.
* * * *
On the Golan Heights in a single-story windowless sand-colored building, sits Israel’s Mount Avital Signals Intelligence, known as SIGINT, Base. Bristling with antennas, the site is home to military staff assigned to IDF’s Unit 8200. Sergeant Gruen and his technical staff were routinely monitoring all the air traffic control frequencies in the area when he overhead the controllers repeatedly calling Hadid 12311. It was unusual for the Damascus air traffic controllers to lose radar and radio contact and be trying to call the aircraft over and over. His specialized equipment allowed him to identify and track every flight in the area. He brought up Habib 12311 on his screen.
“Captain look at this,” he called out to the shift commander.
Captain Diener walked over and Gruen explained, “About 5 minutes ago Hadid 12311, a Shorts SD-360 cargo plane, dropped off radar here.” He pointed to a spot on his radar display marked with a yellow ‘X’. He simultaneously touched an icon on his screen bringing up the aircraft’s filed flight plan. “They are filed to Amman, but Damascus can’t raise him and neither can the Jordanians…and he’s not on our radar either.” They both knew if there is one cardinal rule for the IAF, it is assume nothing and check out everything.
They could be over Tel Aviv in twenty minutes, Diener knew. He decided to send out an alert to IAF Air Defense Command. Alerts were characterized as either ‘A’, the highest, or ‘B’ or ‘C’, depending upon what the on-duty commander thought was appropriate for the situation. This unfolding incident was unusual enough to be an ‘A’. This would put IAF fighters already in the air under the direct control of Northern Sector. It also scrambled two more F-16’s and two F-35’s and sent notification to all high-ranking Israeli military commanders. This was not done lightly; and everyone knew seconds counted.
Thirty-year old IAF Captain Goshen was one Israel’s top fighter pilots, and as such had earned the privilege of flying the newest F-35 fighter. Eight new F-35 Lightning II’s had been delivered to the IAF five months earlier. The delivery was two years late, but a welcome addition to their aging inventory. The United States had been arming the air forces of every friendly country in the Middle East with F-16 fighters eroding Israel’s technological edge over potential adversaries in the volatile region. The F-35 had a low radar profile and could out-maneuver the aging F-15’s and F-16’s. It did not have long range, but was a perfect fit for the IAF.
* * * *
Flying at thirty-five thousand feet approximately twelve miles off the coast of Israel, the U.S. Air Force RC-135 Rivet Joint reconnaissance aircraft was on a routine intelligence gathering flight. The plane was on a flight path which took it around the entire Mediterranean. It flew this route every few days monitoring and recording communications and radar signals. The aircraft’s advanced electronics platform allowed for near real-time intelligence collection, signal analysis and dissemination capabilities. As the Israelis fired up their Patriot missile batteries and the entire Israeli air defense system went on high alert, the electronic warfare officers and sensor operators on the RC-135 saw their screens begin to light up.
“What have we got?” asked the senior intelligence officer, Major Hankins.
“Not sure major, but the entire IAF just went on high alert, reported Sergeant Gomez, “UHF and
VHF radio traffic is soaring…they’re scrambling their interceptors.”
“More rockets or another Hezbollah drone over-flight?” the major asked.
“No sir, don’t think so, I see five…no six Israeli fast movers all converging on an area near the Golan Heights, but not toward Lebanon,” said Gomez.
“Sergeant Thomas, what are you getting?” asked Hankins, of his communications intercept technician.
“Heavy IAF radio traffic sir,” replied Thomas. “Chatter about a plane…a cargo plane…a twin–engine cargo plane that dropped off radar about ten minutes ago. Maybe over Syria…I can’t tell. Sounds like they’re considering it a serious threat.”
* * * *
Even the most experienced pilots can make mistakes. Commercial pilots have landed at the wrong airport, landed on the wrong runway, and even flown their aircraft into the ground. The reroute to Tel Aviv which Doud and Galla were supposed to take should have lasted about twenty minutes and been uneventful until that last glorious moment. But it was not to be. Shortly after they had turned to their new heading taking them to martyrdom, they flew into a thick layer of clouds; clouds that weren’t supposed to be there. The off-shore flow which had been forecasted had unexpectedly shifted to on-shore. Now, moist air from the Mediterranean was being forced up and over the mountains, where it condensed. Low clouds had formed and they flew right into them. It was like flying in pea soup. The autopilot would keep them on course, but there were mountains all around and they were deliberately flying low to avoid radar. Doud tried to see out ahead, but it was pointless, small beads of perspiration began dripping down his forehead.
“We need to climb, Najid,” advised a nervous Doud.
“Yes, I think so too,” his co-pilot agreed, in a shaky voice. His hands were trembling and he dropped the flashlight into his lap.