Mission Compromised (58 page)

“That's it? You could have done that by telephone.”

“No, sir, there is more.”

“Go on.”

“The unmanned aircraft was being directed as part of a United Nations mission in response to Iraq's lack of cooperation with the UN inspections. It was to have over-flown specific sites that your country has not allowed inspectors to enter. It was—as much as anything—a symbolic indication of our resolve to enforce UN resolutions regarding weapons of mass destruction.”

“Yes, I can see how an attack on the summer palace would be most symbolic.”

“It was not an attack and the palace was not a target. It was simply a site to be inspected. We don't know why the aircraft crashed. Perhaps your anti-aircraft fire damaged it and caused it to crash, and the fuel aboard exploded.”

“Is that the story you are going to tell at your president's news conference tomorrow morning? What about the F-16 that our valiant forces shot down just before your surprise attack on our president's home?”

“The F-16 was on a routine patrol of the no-fly zone when it was hit by an Iraqi missile fired from a SAM site north of the agreed-upon line.”

“Is that so? And what about the other large aircraft that your friend General Komulakov says was a UN humanitarian relief flight enroute to Yemen or somewhere?”

“If that's what he said, that's what it was. That's not our concern. I am here to ask you to return the U.S. pilot from the F-16 if he is still alive, and his body if he is not. As a sign of good faith, I have asked Deputy Secretary General Komulakov to transmit to you information that we have obtained about a group of mercenaries who may be attempting to infiltrate Iraq to assassinate your head of state. All we want is our F-16 pilot back. All the UN wants are their air crewmen from their downed flight returned. Why do you think I came here?”

“Let me tell you what I think, Dr. Harrod.” The ambassador leaned forward, his arms on the table. “I think that all three aircraft are somehow related. I think that the ‘drone' as you call it, was an attempt to kill the head of state of my country. I think that the F-16—if that's what you say it was—and this larger so-called ‘UN humanitarian flight' aircraft and this exploding drone thing are all connected. And I think that you also know a whole lot about a small, well-armed group of eight men who were detected and killed by our security personnel in the vicinity of our president's summer palace just before your so-called drone exploded. You see, Dr. Harrod, I think all these things are connected and I think you know how. It seems to us that this is your attempt to pull a ‘Pearl Harbor' on the tiny, unsuspecting nation of Iraq.”

“Look, Mr. Ambassador, I came here in good faith. As I said, I brought with me information about a mercenary group that we believe may be attempting to infiltrate northern Iraq with the intent of killing your president. All we want is our pilot back. And as I understand it, all the UN wants is the return of their air crew.”

The ambassador sat, staring at Harrod for what seemed like minutes, then he spoke quietly, “The F-16 pilot is dead. What's left of him will be returned through the International Committee of the Red Cross in Geneva. As for the crew of the UN plane, we will attempt to find them when daylight comes. What do you want done with the bodies of the eight ‘mercenaries' as you called them?”

“Can you tell their nationality?”

The Iraqi ambassador opened a folder and consulted a piece of paper. “They have no identification. They appear to be Anglo Saxons. All but one appears to have been circumcised. Some of their equipment was American, some British. Some were carrying Israeli-made Uzis, others used German H&K weapons. One had a U.S.-made M-16. So, we surmise that they are either Israelis or westerners. Do you want their bodies? Or should I have them sent to Tel Aviv?”

“Why don't you have them sent to the Red Cross as well? We will, of course, provide all possible assistance in having their remains delivered to whatever country they came from.”

“Of course. Now, let me tell you what else is going to happen. Go back and tell your president that starting tomorrow, two Republican Guard divisions and three mechanized divisions are going to move north into the hills between Mosul and the Turkish border, and we are going to eliminate once and for all your CIA-supported Iraqi National Congress. When we find your puppet Ahmad Chalabi, he will be tried and executed for treason. We are going to use all necessary force to accomplish this. We know that your government has promised these terrorist forces your air power to keep our patriotic armed forces from moving north of Mosul. If you lift one finger to help the rebels, or if we find any survivors from any of yesterday's attacks that tell a different story than the one you have told
me here, we will ask that your president be charged with war crimes in the International Court in the Hague. Please relay that message to your president. Good day.”

Harrod was stunned but had the presence of mind to stand as the Iraqi ambassador shoved the file back in his briefcase and walked out of the conference room. He was no sooner gone than General Komulakov walked into the conference room.

“How did it go?” asked the Russian.

Harrod looked at his co-conspirator. “What, you turned off your hidden mikes for this interview?” He struggled into his overcoat. “You know exactly how it went.” He strode toward the door, then turned back toward Komulakov. “Dimitri, there had better not be anyone around who tells this tale any differently.”

Lake Tharthar, Iraq

________________________________________

Tuesday, 7 March 1995
0555 Hours, Local

 

Newman had taken a wedding ring and a dogtag from the lifeless body of an American for the second time in less than twelve hours. The first one he barely knew, but his death still gave him feelings of sadness and sympathy.

Now he had to bury Major Jane Robinette. He had been drawn to this gutsy woman, barely more than five and a half feet tall. Though he was more convinced than ever about the issue of women serving in combat, he had to acknowledge that she had flown her plane with bravery and skill. She knew the risks inherent with such an assignment, and in the scant ten hours or so that they had spent together after parachuting into hostile territory, this courageous woman had given Newman a new understanding of how to face death without flinching.

There were tears in his eyes as he used her flight helmet to dig a shallow grave. After scooping out a hole about six feet long and almost two feet deep, he carefully carried her body, wrapped in a parachute, and laid it reverently into the dirt. He pushed the sandy soil over her.

He smoothed out the mound of dirt and stood up. He took off his helmet, held it under his arm, and bowed his head.

“God… Jane believed in You.… I'd be a hypocrite to say that I do too. I suppose the same thing could be said of any prayer I offer You. But if You are a God of love and compassion, as Jane said, I pray that You will take her soul to be with You. Amen.” The words sounded awkward, even to him.

He checked his gear and made some decisions. He decided to bury his helmet; he wrapped a piece of parachute cloth around his head to protect him from the sun. His gray-green flight suit would protect his arms, legs, and body and give him some small amount of concealment from Iraqi aircraft or army patrols.

Newman took the remaining items from the three survival kits—signal mirror, compass, flare launcher, strobe light, and one of the survival radios—and jammed them into his flight-suit's numerous pockets.

He then took the Mylar blankets, the ammunition from the two pilots' pistols, and the three water bottles, now filled with the murky, silted water of lake Tharthar, tinted orange by water purification tablets, and placed it all into the knapsack he had fashioned from his parachute and the harness webbing. Into this pack he also stuffed several survival rations, a full first-aid kit, water purification tablets, matches, and Major Robinette's radio. He had smashed the copilot's radio so it couldn't be used by the Iraqis to lure in a SAR flight.

About twenty minutes after burying Major Robinette, he was ready to start out walking back to Turkey. Even though he knew that daylight
movement was risky, he wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and this location. He didn't have a map, but he had memorized the important features and towns along the Tigris River between the Iraq-Turkey border and Tikrit. He headed north, keeping the rising sun on his right.

Newman had been walking less than an hour and was looking for a place to hide until darkness fell again when he saw the contrails of two aircraft heading south, high above him. The sound of the engines hadn't yet reached the ground, but to his unaided eye, the two specks far up in the blue sky appeared to be small aircraft—perhaps U.S. or British fighters, flying to enforce the no-fly zone. Newman decided to try the radio, using the pre-set emergency frequency. He knew from long experience that U.S. aircraft routinely monitored the channel, and he hoped that the aircraft high overhead would hear his distress call.

“Any allied aircraft, any allied aircraft, this is Picnic Six, over.” He was startled when a voice immediately answered his call.

“Picnic Six, this is Fox Fire Three Dash One, authenticate, over.”

Newman froze in his tracks and hunkered down to reduce his visibility. He began to fish through his pockets for the signal mirror from one of the survival kits while he called back to the aircraft with the authentication code for the mission: the initials and last four Social Security Number digits of the individual's next of kin. “Fox Fire Three, this is Picnic Six. Authenticate: Romeo, Sierra, November, Niner, Six, Two, Five, over.”

“Roger Picnic Six, state your situation, over.”

I
might actually get out of here alive!
“Fox Fire Three, I'm the sole survivor of the Operation Picnic C and C bird that went down yesterday. I'm approximately two klicks north of Lake Tharthar. I have signal flares and a mirror. No bad guys in sight, over.”

“Roger, Picnic Six. This is Fox Fire Three Dash One. I'm a Foxtrot One Six at thirty grand headed due south with my wingman nine klicks west of the lake. Can you see me?”

Newman looked at the two sets of contrails as they made a left turn and started to rapidly descend toward him. “Roger, Three Dash One, if you're the two fast movers that just made a left turn and descent, you're headed toward me and will pass about three klicks north of my pos on your current heading.”

“Roger, Picnic, I'll turn right. Tell me ‘steady' when I'm headed directly toward you and give me a ‘mark, mark' when I pass overhead.”

Newman crouched in the desert dirt and watched as the two USAF jets swung back to the right. When they were headed directly toward him, he keyed the radio and said, “Three Dash One, steady… steady.… Come left two degrees… steady… steady” and then as the two F-16s flashed directly overhead, headed east at five hundred miles per hour and one thousand feet, he shouted into the radio, “Mark! Mark!”

The two jets waggled their wings and began to climb almost straight up, rolled upside down and headed back toward him from the east.

“Picnic Six, flash me with your mirror.”

“Roger.” Newman peered through the center hole of the little mirror and flashed it at the oncoming aircraft.

“I've got him,” said a new voice. “Picnic Six this is Fox Fire Three Dash Two, flying wing for Dash One. I'm coming straight back over you so that Dash One gets a GPS fix as well.”

One of the two F-16s now descended even lower. Newman thought he was going to plow into the earth, but as the jet passed overhead he said, “Mark, Mark,”

Now the other F-16 came over, and as he did so, Newman heard, “Got it. Picnic Six, we've got your pos. We're going to call home base and
see if we can get a bus driver to come by and pick you up. We'll stick around as long as possible to make sure no bad guys show up. Call us if you need any help. Out.”

As the two F-16s climbed back into the blue sky, Newman looked around for any kind of cover or concealment that would allow him to avoid being spotted by the Iraqis before help arrived. About one hundred meters to the northeast, he spotted a rocky outcropping on a small elevation that would give him better observation and offer some protection against the sun and Iraqi eyes. When he got there, he crawled into the shadow of a small rock shelf to await rescue—surely only minutes away.

Apartment of Dimitri Komulakov

________________________________________

Waldorf Towers New
York City, N.Y.
Monday, 6 March 1995
2330 Hours, Local

 

The phone rang on the bedside table. General Komulakov awakened with a start and fumbled for the phone.

“Sir, it's Major Kaartje, the UN Forces Command Center duty officer. Sorry to call you so late, but you asked that we let you know if we hear anything at all about the Picnic mission from overseas. We were just informed by Incirlik that Lieutenant Colonel Newman is alive.”

Komulakov sat up straight in bed and turned on the light, ignoring the protests from the young Swedish Army officer trying to sleep beside him. Captain Sjogren pulled the covers up over her close-cropped blond hair and rolled over.

“What? He's alive? How… where?”

“About an hour ago two USAF F-16s picked up his emergency radio call and have confirmed that he's alive and unharmed. That's the good
news. The bad news is that he's apparently the only survivor of the MD-80. At least that's what Incirlik told us he said.”

“Do they know where he is?”

“Yes sir, they saw him and have a GPS fix on his location.”

“And you say there are no other survivors?”

“I'm afraid not, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Newman reported he was the sole survivor.”

“I see. Uh… well, that's tragic. What are his coordinates?”

“Just a minute, I'll get that communiqué.” The duty officer was gone for a few seconds and came back on the line and read the GPS coordinates of where Newman had been found.