Laskov shouted into his microphone. “I don’t give a good goddamn if it is a civilian jet. A civilian jet can be fitted to fire an air-to-air missile, too. Get me an I.D. on this guy, or he goes!”
There was no reply.
Danny Lavon spoke into the intercom. “General, this is a lot of bullshit. I’ll take the responsibility. You can say I panicked and pushed a button. I’ve got him locked in now on—”
Laskov broke squelch on the intercom and cut him off with an electronic whine. When he released the squelch button, Lavon had stopped speaking. “Listen, son. You just follow orders. No more of that.”
The Air Control officer came back on the air. “Gabriel, this is Hawkeye. Listen, we just spoke to Air Traffic Control in Cyprus. Our unidentified is a civilian Lear jet, Model 23, with a French registration. He filed a flight plan from Cairo to Cyprus to Istanbul to Athens. Six on board. Businessmen. French passports. We have their frequency and call sign. Trying to raise them now.”
Laskov wasn’t satisfied. “Trying to? Bullshit. They are within 130 kilometers and you have their frequency and you have the best radios made. What’s the problem, Hawkeye?”
“It might be theirs, Gabriel.”
“Roger.” Laskov let out a long breath. He looked out of his plexiglas windshield. The two Concordes floated below him like paper airplanes. “Clipper and Emmanuel, this is Gabriel. Are you monitoring all of this?”
Becker and Avidar responded affirmatively.
“All right. Tell ATC you want to change to a due north heading and you want permission to climb unrestricted to 19,000, now.”
Becker and Avidar acknowledged. Avidar called Air Traffic Control and he received word that there was a TWA 747 and a Lufthansa 707 above them and that they would have to wait five minutes for their unrestricted climbs.
Laskov didn’t think he wanted to wait even five seconds. He spoke to Lavon on the intercom. He didn’t speak to the rest of the squadron on the radio because he didn’t want Talman or anyone else to hear. “Arm the Phoenix, Daniel. Prepare to engage the target.” He thought of Miriam Bernstein. Even if you should see Satan himself on your radar screen . . . don’t shoot him out of the sky with one of your missiles. And Richardson. Listen, don’t get trigger-happy up there. We don’t want any incidents. Then, he thought of what lousy jobs he had had all his adult life. “Hawkeye, this guy has about sixty seconds to live unless he speaks to us.”
It was the Hawkeye pilot who responded this time. “Roger, Gabriel. We can’t raise him. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything else. I understand your position. Do what you think is best.”
“Thanks.”
Talman broke into the net. “I’m with you, Gabriel.” Talman was beginning to think there was something wrong. If the Lear’s radios were bad, he would probably have headed back and landed at Alexandria. If they weren’t bad, why wasn’t he answering? He’d heard the Hawkeye call on Lear’s frequency. Hawkeye had spoken to the Lear in French, then English, the international language of flight, and finally, even Arabic. Talman spoke into the radio. “It stinks, Gabriel.”
“Right.” Laskov spoke into the intercom. “Where is he?”
Lavon glanced at his radar. “About sixty-five kilometers— and climbing.”
It was already too late for the Phoenix. “Arm the Sparrow and . . . engage the target.”
“Right, General.” Lavon moved an electrical switch and then slid back a small plate on the armament console. Under the panel was a red button. He put his finger on it.
“Gabriel, this is Emmanuel.” Becker’s voice sounded strained.
Laskov held up his hand to stop Lavon and acknowledged Becker.
“The Lear is calling us on company frequency.”
“Roger.” Laskov quickly turned up the radio on the El Al frequency. Lavon called the rest of the squadron and instructed them to monitor also.
“El Al Concorde 01 and 02. This is Lear number five-four. Can you hear me?”
Laskov felt a cold chill run down his spine. The accent was unmistakably Arabic.
Becker and Avidar acknowledged.
The Lear spoke again. The voice was slow and precise. “Listen very carefully. We have important information for you.”
Becker and Avidar again acknowledged. There was an apprehensive tone in their voices.
Laskov realized that the Lear was stalling for time. He spoke to Lavon. “When I raise my hand, fire.”
Talman stood motionless in the center of the Operations Room. He stared in disbelief at the radio speakers. He whispered to himself, “What the hell . . . ?”
The Lear came back on the air. The voice spoke very quickly now. “In the tail of each Concorde is a radio-controlled bomb. Radio-controlled,” he stressed. “Have no doubts about that. It was placed in 01 at St. Nazaire and in 02 at Toulouse. It is attached to the number eleven fuel tank. I know you have an escort of twelve F-14’s. If I see the smoke trail of their missiles coming at me, or if I see the flash of their cannon, I will push the buttons on my radio detonator and blow you both up. Do you understand that? Are the F-14’s monitoring? Do you understand that?”
Laskov refused to acknowledge. He sat and stared.
Avidar, his voice shaking with rage, shouted into the radio. “Bastard!”
Becker spoke evenly into his radio. “Roger.” He pushed the PA button and spoke calmly. “Would Mr. Hausner, General Dobkin, and Mr. Burg come up to the flight deck, please?”
* * *
Laskov hung his head on his chest. He simply couldn’t believe it. All that planning and all that security . . . He removed a pair of field glasses from an old leather case by his feet. He placed them in his lap and stared down at them. The glasses were the only thing besides his uniform that he had taken out of Russia. He raised them and looked out into the blue sky. He could see the green and white Lear 23 approaching now, trailing a long, thin line of exhaust from its two turbojet engines. He was close. In fact he was too close for the minimum 16-kilometer range of the Sparrow and too far for the maximum 8-kilometer range of the Sidewinder. The Lear turned 90 degrees and flew alongside Concorde 02. Laskov could see that a plexiglas observation bubble had been cut into the rear of the cabin roof. There appeared to be someone looking out of the bubble, and Laskov knew the man probably had field glasses trained on him. He lowered his glasses.
The Lear, either by luck or by design, stayed inside the 8-kilometer dead space between the Sparrow and the Sidewinder. That dead area had bothered a lot of Western military people, but it wasn’t considered critical under most circumstances. In a conventional fight, Laskov would have just pulled up or held back until he could use the appropriate missile. But he was afraid to make any sudden maneuvers because he knew the Lear’s observer was watching his squadron out of the rear bubble. He held his flight on a steady course. He spoke softly to Lavon. “Arm the Sidewinder, in case he gets in closer.” But he knew it was no good. The Lear was holding too close to the Concordes even to consider missiles now.
The Lear made a small correction in course and positioned itself about 150 meters under Concorde 02 and just forward of 02’s nose cone. From where Laskov was positioned, above the Concordes, he could barely see the Lear.
* * *
Talman sat slumped in his chair. The personnel in the Operations Room were completely still. Talman saw the blips of the Lear and 02 merge, and he knew Laskov was powerless to do anything with his missiles. The whole damned thing had happened so fast. He looked at the digital chronometer on the wall. From the time Laskov had seen the Lear on his radar to now had been less than ten minutes. Somehow, he had always known it would happen. All it took was one or two madmen. With modern technology, anything was possible. A single insignificant nobody could alter the destiny of nations. An atomic bomb planted in a city. A biological agent in a water supply. A bomb on a Concorde. How could you guard against something as preposterous as that?
* * *
Hausner, Dobkin, and Burg stood on the flight deck as
Becker explained what had happened. Tom Richardson and John McClure had come into the cockpit, uninvited. They had seen the Lear approach and they knew something was wrong.
McClure slouched against the flight engineer’s console, chewing on a wooden match. He was an extremely tall, thin man, who reminded some people of the unbearded Lincoln. A Midwestern twang completed the image. “Should’ve taken Pan Am home,” was all he said when Becker had announced that they were being hijacked.
Burg turned to Becker. “Do you want me to get the Foreign Minister up here?”
Becker shook his head. “I don’t need any politicians to give me advice. We will make the decisions right here. Just stand by.” From time to time, Becker could see the nose of the Lear poke out from under his long nose cone. It reminded him of what an infantryman had told him once in Vietnam, of how the VC liked to get very close during a firefight so the Americans couldn’t use their heavy weapons without killing their own men. He knew Laskov was in a bind. They were all in a bind.
Hausner seemed far away, almost disinterested. Then an odd smile came to his face. He remembered now what it was he couldn’t remember before. Rish had been seen in those small villages of France. The names of the villages had meant nothing to him then. Israel had had no Concordes at the time. Now he realized that those obscure French villages were near St. Nazaire and Toulouse. He remembered his words at the security meeting. We’ve had those birds on the line for thirteen months. Since the time that we got them, they have never left the sight of my security people. That was the weak link. Since the time we got them. . . . St. Nazaire. Toulouse. What an idiot he had been.
Becker looked over his shoulder and addressed Hausner. “Could it be possible? A bomb, I mean?”
Hausner nodded. “Sorry.”
Becker began to say something, then turned away.
The radio crackled, again, and Matti Yadin’s voice came over the speaker. He knew Hausner would be in the cockpit, too “You were right, boss.”
Hausner didn’t respond.
Becker called Laskov on the tactical frequency. “What do we do, Gabriel?”
“Stand by.” Laskov could see the nose of the Lear poke out from the nose of Concorde 02. He looked at the cannon button on his control wheel. In his mind’s eye, he fired and sent sixty 20mm cannon rounds a second streaking over the Concorde’s windshield and into the cockpit of the Lear. But he didn’t have any 20mm cannon rounds, and even if he did, he wondered if he would risk it. There was a chance before, but not now. He thought of Richardson and Bernstein and felt betrayed. Betrayed by well-intentioned people, but betrayed nonetheless. He pushed the cannon button. The combat camera rolled and made a movie for the men at The Citadel. Laskov pounded on the console in front of him.
* * *
The voice from the Lear came back on the Concordes’ radios. “I assume your escort is monitoring El Al frequencies. Listen closely, fighter pilots. I have an observer looking back at you. If I see the flash of your cannon, I will push the button and blow up the Concordes. I do not mind dying. Now, listen to me—you must break off and return to base. You can do nothing here. If you do not turn away in sixty seconds, I will blow up the lead Concorde to make you understand that I am very serious.”
Avidar called Laskov on the tactical frequency. “All right, sheep dog. What now?”
Laskov considered opening his throttles, ducking under the Concorde and ramming the Lear. They might not expect to see a quarter-million kilograms of airplane screaming down on them. They might panic. But even if he hit them, the mid-air explosion would certainly damage Concorde 02.
Avidar’s voice came back on the radio. “What do we do, Gabriel?”
The Lear came over the El Al frequency. “Concordes. I think you are talking to your escort. It will do no good. They have fifteen seconds to turn back.”
Laskov wondered if the Lear would blow up the Concordes as soon as his F-14’s moved off. Or did the Lear—whoever the hell he was—want hostages? He switched to the El Al frequency and spoke to the Lear for the first time. “Lear this is the fighter escort. We are not—repeat, not—leaving. We are all returning to Lod. You must follow and land with us. If you do not comply, I am going to—” suddenly, the term “engage you” was not appropriate. “I will kill you,” he said softly.
The voice from Lear laughed back at him. “Your time is up. Go away or these deaths will be on your head.”
Hausner knew who was speaking to them. He put his hand on Becker’s shoulder. “I know that man. Tell Laskov his name is Ahmed Rish. He will do whatever he says he will do. Tell Laskov to go away.”
Richardson nodded. “They can’t mean to harm us or they would already have detonated the bombs. This is a hijacking, pure and simple. Ask them what they want.” He paused. “And tell Teddy Laskov that I’m sorry about the 20mm.”
Becker turned to Dobkin and Burg. They nodded. He passed Hausner’s and Richardson’s messages to Laskov, then called the Lear. “Who are you people and what do you propose?”
Rish’s voice came back loud and clear. “It doesn’t matter who we are. Our purpose is to escort you somewhere and to hold you as hostages until it suits our purposes to let you go. No one will be harmed if you do exactly as we say. However, if your escort doesn’t leave in one second, I am blowing up the lead aircraft.”
Danny Lavon spoke on the intercom. “If he has a bomb on board, there is nothing we can do here anymore, General. Maybe we can pull off and engage him from 160 kilometers out.”
Laskov called Talman. “Control, I’m coming home.”
Talman spoke quietly into the radio. “My fault, Gabriel.”
Laskov knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but there would be a lot of people saying that in the coming days.
The Lear came over the radio again. It was the same voice, Laskov noticed—Rish—but this time it had lost some of its composure. Rish was screaming to him to turn back. Laskov ignored the voice for a few seconds and took stock of the situation. He wondered how the Lear could have filed a flight plan that would bring him so close in time and space to the Concordes. Especially since the Concordes’ takeoff time had been moved up half an hour. He also had the distinct impression that the Lear was able to hear him on his tactical frequency. He spoke the words, “My number three fuel tank indicator has become inop,” and the F-14’s, plus the E-2D, Talman and the Concordes switched to the alternate tactical frequency. Laskov called Clipper and Emmanuel on the new frequency. He spoke quickly. “Listen. That son-of-a-bitch was monitoring the primary tactical frequency. I don’t know how he got it and he may have this one, too, but I’m going to talk to you, anyway. We’re not abandoning you. The E-2D will keep you spotted. We’ll hang back a few hundred kilometers. Call me on this frequency and let me know what’s happening. If the time comes when you decide to risk it, we’ll charge in and let loose with Phoenix at 160 kilometers distance. There’s a good chance they won’t spot the vapor trail if they’re not looking for it. Do you understand?”
Everyone acknowledged in turn.
Ahmed Rish screamed into his radio over the El Al frequency. “I know you are talking! Enough of this nonsense. Enough! Five seconds.” He put his finger on a radio detonator button labeled 01. “One, two, three—”
Laskov spoke on the El Al frequency. “Good luck.” He gave the order and the flight of F-14’s banked steeply to the right. They completed a 180-degree turn and were out of sight in seconds.
Becker couldn’t see them go, but suddenly he felt very alone.
7
Avidar didn’t like the way the situation was being handled. He had been slowly increasing his speed and he estimated that he was at least ten kilometers ahead of the Lear and Concorde 02. How much range could a radio detonator have? Certainly not more than ten or twelve kilometers. He looked at his altimeter. He was slightly over the 5,000 meters assigned to them by Air Traffic Control.
Air Traffic Control had seen the Lear blip merge into the El Al 02 blip and had seen the
flight of F-14’s pull away, but had not monitored any of the conversation on the El Al frequency. Still, the controller knew something was wrong. He called the Concordes. “If everything is all right with you, you can proceed unrestricted to 19,000 meters. Sorry about the delay.”
Rish, who was apparently also monitoring ATC, told them to acknowledge.
Avidar and Becker acknowledged. Avidar looked at his speed indicator. He was flying at an air speed of 1,000 kilometers per hour. If he gave it full throttle and kicked in his afterburners, he could be at Mach 1 and at least three more kilometers away in less than fifteen seconds.
Rish’s voice came back on the radio. “Very good. Very sensible. Now, you will leave your navigation lights on and follow me. I am going to proceed on a magnetic heading of 160 degrees, at 300 knots indicated air speed. El Al 02 will follow directly behind me. El Al 01 will fall in behind 02. We are going to descend to 150 meters, Do you understand?”
Becker and Avidar acknowledged.
The Lear began its bank to the left and Becker prepared to follow.
Asher Avidar hit the afterburner switches. He then began pushing forward on the throttles as fast as the engines could take the fuel. He aimed for the center of a cumulus cloud to his front. The four huge Rolls Royce Olympus engines generated 70,000 kilograms of thrust and the Concorde streaked off.
Zevi Hirsch screamed at Avidar. “What the hell—”
Leo Sharett turned from the flight panel. “Asher, don’t—”
Matti Yadin, who was still on the flight deck, grabbed Avidar’s arm, but Avidar pushed him away. Yadin pulled his Smith & Wesson .22 and put it to Avidar’s head. Avidar quickly brushed it away as though it were an annoying insect.
In Concorde 02, Moses Hess grabbed Becker’s arm and pointed out the windshield. Becker watched as Avidar’s aircraft disappeared inside the cloud.