The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "There’s the main road ahead. Go left and follow it on into Mashhad." Jack made a finger measurement on the chart. "Looks to be about 100 klicks. What’s our ETA?"

  I checked the air speed. "Give or take 45 minutes."

  * * *

  "Try the Mashhad ATC on the radio."

  Jack fingered the knob. "What's the frequency?"

  I wasn't sure but remembered the frequency Wilson used and instructed Jack on the procedures. He keyed the mike and called air traffic control. Silence — no answer. He tried again with the same result.

  "Switch to the international distress frequency and call them in Russian, tell them we're lost and need to land."

  Jack called and received an immediate answer in Farsi. "They're asking who we are. … Now, they're telling us to go away. … They want to know our location."

  "Don't sound too good to me?"

  "No, we'll be flying out of the frying pan into the fire. What now?"

  "Afghanistan isn't far away. You have any suggestions?"

  "No. Do we have enough fuel?"

  "Not sure, but we can at least get close. They don't seem real friendly in these parts."

  "Mashhad is a holy city. I'll bet the mullahs are in full charge now." A large range loomed to our right. We had long since passed the only opening. "Can we go around those mountains?"

  "No, we'll have to go right over the city." The cloud cover was lower. We would have to fly closer to the ground. "I'm afraid we'll attract their attention. Hope they don't scramble interceptors."

  "No, that's exactly what we want them to do. I'm gonna give them a good reason."

  Jack spun the dial back to the Soviet operational frequency and ranted a litany of official sounding Russian. He kept it up for a few minutes and moved the knob until excited Iranian voices appeared, and then began shouting in Farsi over the same channel.

  "That'll keep 'em occupied for a while," said a satisfied Jack. "I pretended to be an incoming force of Soviet paratroopers and then switched to the Iranian frequency and taunted them, pretending to be their new Russian masters. They scrambled all available fighters north."

  "You're winning a lot of new friends today."

  I wondered if Roksana would be all right, worried what Suslov might do. I shuddered to think she might wind up in a Gulag or worse.

  I also wondered where Lisette might be. Surely, she was safe at home, no sure thing. Last year, the ever-unpredictable Lisette appeared on the dock in La Paz, lifting me from the depths of despair. She wanted a real church wedding but settled for a civil ceremony by a local official. Maybe, we could have a real wedding when I returned.

  Jack interrupted my thoughts, "You're doing okay. You might make a real pilot yet."

  "Yeah, I wonder what Sergeant George would think if he saw me now." It dawned on me: "Do you realize this is my first solo flight?"

  * * *

  The An-2's normal range is 900 kilometers, about 560 miles. We started with a half load of fuel. Apparently, Suslov planned only a short hop over the border and back. We would have to stretch it out all the way, a lot depending on favorable winds.

  Jack said, "The clouds ahead are low, looks like fog."

  "Yeah, but we don't have any choice, will have to fly through it over the city."

  "At least we can't be seen, may be a blessing."

  I followed the highway, thundering over surprised herdsmen, about a half-mile south of the pavement to avoid curious eyes that might send out a warning. After all, we were flying over Iranian territory in a Soviet registered aircraft.

  The Iranian chatter continued on the radio. Jet interceptors searched in vain for Soviet invaders over the mountains north of Mashhad. I hoped they stayed airborne, away from our route. If they spotted us, they would be low on fuel, their options limited.

  "You're awfully low." Jack said with a worried tone.

  Flying about 100 feet off the ground, the cloud-cover inched lower and lower, the danger level increased. Buildings began to appear below, traffic increased, and before long, we zoomed over the city proper with visibility less than 200 yards.

  Our low altitude exaggerated the sensation of speed, buildings passed by, streets flashed with a strobe like effect. Pedestrians craned their necks in astonishment, so much for trying to slip through unnoticed. A military convoy below briefly diverted my attention. A soldier raised his rifle to fire.

  My attention focused on the new danger, I gave Jack a warning, "We got—"

  "Watch it," Jack roared in alarm, "minaret ahead."

  I spotted the tower and banked to the left, losing altitude, almost touching the roof of a two-story building. A sharp pull back on the control column regained our altitude.

  "They're shooting at us."

  A hole penetrated the side window, followed by another in the lower wing. I pulled back the column and increased the distance between us and the convoy on the ground.

  Iranian radio traffic began to buzz. Excited voices, interspersed with gunfire in the background, echoed through the cockpit. "What are they saying?" I asked.

  "It's a general alarm. Someone spotted a Russian plane. There are reports of paratroopers parachuting all over town."

  "Sounds serious, we must be loud." The Colt's large radial engine probably sounded like a fleet of planes from the ground.

  "Now they've called for the air force to return and defend the city … can't hear the response … must be too far away."

  "Guess we better get outta here." I increased our airspeed keeping a heading for the Afghan border. We would have to sacrifice fuel economy for speed. I figured it might be close.

  * * *

  The fog gradually faded away, revealing a bleak desert landscape with no road in sight. An endless plain stretched north into the Soviet Union. A snowcapped mountain range lay to the south.

  "Check the chart. Can you figure out where we're at?"

  "The mountains off to the right should be on our left. We're on the wrong side and headed for the Soviet border. We either need to fly over the mountains or turn around and go back."

  "Not enough fuel to do either, we'll end up landing on Iranian territory. See what's ahead on the chart."

  I banked right and made for foothills below the dominating peaks covered with ice and snow. "The chart shows a gap ahead, it should be wide enough … if it's correct."

  For the next half-hour, we skirted the northern reaches of the mountains searching for the pass. I wondered about the charts accuracy. Didn't matter, we were committed with no turning back.

  At last, a ridgeline jutted out onto the plain and a gap appeared to our right. I approached with care, ready to turn back if the chart was wrong. I gained altitude to give us more turning room. The fuel gauge quivered ever closer to the empty mark. One roll of the dice left.

  I ducked into the pass between the mountains. The way appeared to be open. An endless succession of rocks and trees tore past as we wound our way past a jumble of snow-covered ravines and the occasional village.

  Past the high point, I eased back on the throttle to conserve fuel. A few more kilometers and we would be back on our intended route. The desert floor loomed ahead. The fuel gauge edged ever closer to the empty mark.

  Jack spoke first. We had been silent since the turn. "The chart shows a town and a road to the south. Suggest you fly parallel to the mountains. The border is past the point where the high range ends."

  I chanced a quick glance at the chart. "We'll fly due south from there. Should find the road into Herat soon after. What do you think?"

  "Sounds like a plan, go for it."

  "We'll stick close to the mountains, they'll shield us from Soviet early warning radar. Need to fly on the deck. Imagine they're searching for us by now."

  "Roger. What's the fuel situation?"

  "Not good, expect a warning light any moment."

  The An-2 continued to drone on, I eased back on the throttle. Much to my surprise, the handling characteristics didn't change. We stole t
he perfect aircraft for my limited skills. Only one big obstacle remained — landing the thing in one piece.

  * * *

  A grey alluvial plain passed under us. We hugged the rugged hills separating us from the Soviet Union. The Colt plodded along steadily eating up the kilometers, buffeted by the occasional updraft as warm air swept up the cliffs.

  Jack peered ahead and consulted the chart. "That must be the border ahead. There appears to be a stream on the map and that dark feature looks like a watercourse to me."

  "Think you're right, I'll fly over into Afghan airspace, turn south, and follow the streambed. The chart shows it leads right into Herat."

  "You sound optimistic. Think we'll make it that far?"

  "No, we'll have to land first."

  "In any case, the streambed will give us a frame of reference when we have to start walking."

  "Don't know about you, but I didn't get any sleep last night."

  "Wonder why? … If we have to walk, it'll be better to rest first. Think you can find a place to land?"

  "That decision is out of my hands. We go down when it won't go no further. Keep your fingers crossed."

  "Think you can make a dead-stick landing?" He sounded worried.

  I attempted to sound confident. "I'm a glider pilot, that's the only kind I know."

  * * *

  The fuel warning light came on moments before our turn, but the Colt chugged along, slowly making progress south.

  "The road should be up ahead. See where the river turns?"

  "Yeah, I see it— uh oh," the engine started to sputter. I nosed down a bit in a futile attempt to influence the fuel flow. It continued to sputter. "Check on your side for a place to land, I'll take this side."

  "Several farm villages coming up on this side. There's a road or track between them. Looks like the best bet."

  "Think you're right." I banked slowly and lined up on a series of small hamlets. Perhaps we could land on a path between villages.

  Amazingly, the Colt continued to fly. I took it down to the deck. We continued to make progress. People looked up from mud-caked villages. The fields empty. We cleared a small village and — the engine quit — air rushing past the Plexiglas windshield, the only noise.

  "This is it," I yelled. "Brace yourself."

  Jack cinched the seatbelt, stuck his feet up on the dash, and lowered his head to his lap.

  The landing turned out to be a major anti-climax. The Colt lost momentum and simply floated to the ground, our airspeed less than 50 kilometers per hour. At the last moment, I pulled back on the column and nudged the tail down gently on the dirt track. The front wheels made contact and continued to roll until the right front wheel slipped into a ditch. The An-2 performed one last ground loop and skidded to an inglorious halt. My head snapped forward and slammed into the control column.

  "You okay? Jack asked.

  "I… uh…" I sat stunned but conscious, not knowing what to say.

  Jack unbuckled and peered over the instrument panel. "Here comes the welcoming committee." Children screamed down the track, a few adults not far behind. "Let me do the talking, I think people in this area understand Farsi."

  Moments later, the crowd surrounded the plane. We hopped out. A bearded man stepped up and spoke with a serious tone. Jack listened, nodded politely, rattled off something in Farsi, and then pointed back North. The man waved his arms and ranted away with fire in his eyes. The kids moved in closer.

  The conversation began to fade, my legs buckled, head started to spin, everything caught up with me in a fleeting moment: lack of sleep, exhausting ski decent, tension, no food since the day before, the bump on the head. The last thing remembered before I collapsed — a sea of faces and Jack asking, "Hey, you all right?"

  25 ~ Afghanistan

  Thursday, 8 February: Afghan Village

  I opened my eyes to a large room decorated with colorful embodied wall hangings, religious posters, and framed photos of men in formal poses holding weapons. A large cupboard stood opposite the door. A copper samovar on a low table bubbled and steamed. The floor covered by richly designed Persian carpets. Narrow cotton stuffed mattresses and plush pillows lined the walls. The room appeared well kept. A dozen men and boys sat eating and talking off to one side, Jack included.

  Jack ambled over and kneeled. "Welcome to the world. How's the head."

  "I'm not sure. Where are we?"

  A short stocky man appeared beside Jack. "This is Abdullah Faraz, the village headman, we're in his house."

  Abdullah wore sandals, baggy white pants, a white shirt that reached to his knees, a colorful vest, and a well-worn Harris-Tweed jacket, all topped by an embroidered skullcap. He spoke in a language I couldn't comprehend. He seemed friendly enough and swept his hands around, pointing to the men dressed in similar fashion.

  Jack explained, "They brought you to his house after you collapsed."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Yesterday."

  "You mean I've been out…" I couldn't believe it, except for the hunger pains. "Can a guy get something to eat around here? Right after something to drink."

  Jack spoke to the man, who snapped his fingers and shouted. A young boy scurried out the door.

  "He's gone to get you bread and goat cheese."

  I was famished and didn't care if it was goat cheese, I'd even settled for roasted goat. I was that hungry. The boy rushed back in with a small glass and I downed the water in one gulp and asked for more.

  I glanced around the room. "Seems like we lucked out finding this place."

  "It's traditional Afghan hospitality. A simple conversation may lead to an invitation to tea and a meal. These are good people."

  "Good thing they're friendly."

  "Our method of arrival required some explaining. At first, they thought we were Russians. It took some explaining in Farsi, which they understand, to convince 'em we're Americans."

  "Didn't they ask about the Russian Colt?"

  "Told them we stole it from the Russians and they thought that was cool. Now we're local heroes. They don't like the Russians in this district."

  "Why? Thought being so close they would be on better terms."

  "No, don’t work like that. Seems the Soviets are supporting the Khalq Party which staged a coup last year bringing a communist regime to power in Kabul. Most villagers are reluctant to say anything openly negative about the new government, but Abdullah made his feelings clear. He's a landowner opposed to land reform proclaimed by the communists. He told me it's caused resentment among tribal leaders and landlords."

  The boy returned with a round of Nan, the traditional Afghan bread, hot out of the oven, and a chunk of tangy cheese. I wolfed it down while everyone watched.

  Later, when we were alone, Jack plopped down on the pillow beside me. I said, "You look tired yourself. Didn't you get any sleep?"

  "No … stayed up and kept an eye on things. Wasn't sure then, we could trust these guys." He yawned. "If you're up to it, I'll get some sleep now."

  "Okay, we'll talk when you wake up. Need to make plans…" He was already asleep.

  I spent the morning lounging outside absorbing the sun. Even in mid-winter, the intense rays radiated warmth and reassurance. The expansive vista produced an odd sense of comfort, the landscape familiar. Afghanistan, a dry, hot, and dusty land, reminded me of my home states, Arizona and New Mexico.

  The house, a single-story adobe-type structure, was the largest dwelling in the village. Abdullah appeared to be well off by local standards. A turbaned man leading a camel plodded by, paying me no attention. I leaned back and dozed off.

  * * *

  After the evening meal, Jack and I strolled down the path to survey the situation. Best we could tell from the Russian chart, the main road lay about ten kilometers south.

  Jack asked, "Okay, what next?"

  "Appears we have only two choices, head down to the main highway and snag a ride to Herat or find fuel for the plane."

&n
bsp; "Yeah, fat chance. Where'll you find aviation gas out here?"

  "Nowhere. Even if we did, we couldn't afford to fill the tanks even half-way."

  "I don’t have any desire to do any more flying … nothing personal, you did an okay job."

  "Just okay — we're still alive ain't we."

  "I guess that leaves the public transportation option."

  I pictured us riding on top of a rickety old bus or truck. "Or walking." That didn't sound good either. "By the way how far is it to Heart?"

  "About 120 k according to the Russian chart."

  "That's a long way. I haven't seen any cars around here either, so stealing one isn't an option. Guess that leaves the bus, if we can't hitch a ride."

  Jack continued, thinking it over. "You realize the bus will be a big risk. They're sure to have checkpoints and we won't have the right paperwork."

  "We still have our passports."

  "That'll work until we meet someone who can read. If we don't have entry stamps, we're busted. And if we're searched, the weapons will be an issue."

  I thought of a movie Lisette and I had seen back in October about a young American locked up in a Turkish prison. Lisette didn't want to see it, but I insisted. She made me pay for it later.

  "You didn't happen to see Midnight Express last year?"

  "No. Did you?"

  "Yeah, gave me the creeps. I heard about those places when I was stationed in Sinop. Don't want to end up like that. Here in Afghanistan, their prisons couldn't be any better. Most likely, they're a whole lot worse."

  "Don't dwell on it. You need to stay focused if you want to survive."

  I asked, "About the weapons, what do you suggest?" hoping he had some Special Forces ninja trick up his sleeve.

  "We'll need to ditch the weapons. Sometimes it's more dangerous to be armed than not. This looks like one of those times."

  "Never expected to hear that from you."

  "You're hearing it now."

  From the depths of desperation, sometimes a gem appears. "I've got an idea."

  Jack furrowed his brow. "Okay … shoot."