Betrayal in the Casbah Read online

  Greg paused and took a long drink from his bottled water. “So, why am I telling you all of this? You lived it, and perhaps from time to time, you’re haunted by it.” He stood, placed his hands on the table, and leaned toward the colonel like a prosecuting attorney ready to drop some damning evidence. “But you didn’t tell the intelligence officer the actual story concerning that mission, did you?”

  “Greg, what the hell are you saying?” Mitch asked, looking at him and then the ambassador. “Do I need to contact a lawyer? Am I being accused of something?” The bubble wasn’t as pleasant as he’d remembered. He felt trapped in this see-through capsule.

  The ambassador reached out and placed his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “You’re not being accused of anything. But there is a purpose to this. Please, sit back and listen.”

  Mitch’s heart beat like a snare drum at a rock concert as he tried to collect himself.

  “Sorry, Mitch,” Greg continued. “I didn’t intend to be so dramatic, but this is where your recollection of the mission seems to have become somewhat blurred. Since the war, US intelligence agencies have obtained new information indicating that it was not a SAM that forced you to lose altitude and then subsequently get hit by antiaircraft artillery. In fact, a MiG-29 fighter hit your jet with an air-to-air missile.”

  Mitch squirmed in his chair and glanced at the ambassador. “Sir, let me explain the situation during that portion of the mission.” The ambassador did not reply but raised his left hand, stopping Mitch from continuing.

  Greg broke the silence. “I’ll continue, Mr. Ambassador. Mitch, you broke off your attack on the remaining SAM site when your back-seater, Bags, saw the MiG-29 converging on a flight of four F-16s. From debriefing the F-16 pilots and telemetry data from an AWACS jet and satellite information, the MiG was descending through twenty-eight thousand feet at 0.95 Mach, lining up for a kill. You knowingly had no air-to-air missiles on board your F-4G Wild Weasel that day. We know that information because you had ground-aborted your primary jet, and then you and Bags ran to the spare. The crew chief reported that they had not loaded air-to-air missiles on the spare that morning.”

  Again, Greg grabbed his water bottle. After draining it, he went on. “You were at twelve thousand feet, setting up to attack another SAM site, when you came hard right and began an immediate climb. You knew that you were not carrying offensive air-to-air missiles, but you continued toward the merge with the MiG-29. Just out of curiosity, what were you thinking?”

  Mitch no longer felt embarrassed at what Greg had revealed. He was ready to tell the truth. Glaring at Greg, his jaw tightened as he attempted to control his anger. “You’re right, Greg,” he responded, with attitude. “I knew I didn’t have air-to-air missiles, but I didn’t want to see Americans die. The MiG was obviously using his passive systems because there was no defensive maneuvering by the 16s. I could tell that the Iraqi was positioning his jet to fire heat-seekers at the Vipers.”

  “Vipers? I thought the F-16 was called the Fighting Falcon?” the ambassador broke in.

  “It’s the name that the Air Force–fighter community gave the F-16. We felt that it was much more of an aggressive name than Falcon,” Mitch answered, trying to be diplomatic. Then he turned back toward Greg, his brashness returning.

  “I had one remaining HARM onboard, and I knew that it was useless against the MiG. But I thought there was a chance it would scare the shit out of the pilot when he saw it coming off my rail. The HARM’s contrail resembles an old steam locomotive belching out vapor and gas. At times the thrust can be massive and significant. I’ve had an engine flameout from the distorted flow of air caused by the HARM launch. It’s an impressive missile to launch, and it has a remarkably unique flight path. That’s why I didn’t hesitate to use it.”

  The ambassador seemed absorbed by Mitch’s description of the mission. But Greg continued downplaying everything the colonel said.

  “So, you were wasting the HARM purely to distract the Iraqi pilot?” Greg asked. “Plus, you really had no clue what he was thinking. It was only your assumption that he would be scared. There is one thing that we can agree upon. He definitely wanted to kill Americans, and he had the missiles to do it!”

  Mitch’s pulse pounded, and he attempted to maintain decorum. “You might be right in some of your conclusions, Greg, but let me say this: My mission during Desert Storm was to kill or distract the enemy from shooting down our bombers and strikers. That meant putting my body in the firing line of the enemy so that our bombers could accomplish their mission without losses. That’s what Wild Weasels have been doing ever since Nam, and we continue to do it. If the only thing I had to distract that MiG from shooting down our strike package was my aircraft, then so be it!”

  “Greg, ease up on Mitch and let him continue. I want to hear more about the HARM,” the ambassador said.

  Mitch gathered his thoughts and then resumed. “The HARM, when launched, drops off the rail and then its engine ignites. But the unique aspect of the missile is its flight path of pitching up fifty to sixty degrees. To me, that was the significant factor because we would launch at approximately five thousand feet below and less than a mile separation from the MiG. I told Bags to lock up the MiG with our radar because I wanted the Iraqi to realize there was another fighter in the area. I also wanted him to think that he would die within seconds if he didn’t break off the attack on the Vipers. Once Bags locked him up, the MiG pilot was no longer interested in the F-16s. He immediately broke left and began to descend toward my jet. I maintained a five-thousand-foot altitude separation between us. I wanted to optimize the use of the HARM pitch-up flight path, and to increase the pucker factor of the enemy pilot.”

  “So, you knowingly put yourself and your back-seater in a dangerous situation, just to attempt to scare the enemy pilot,” Greg said, staring at him.

  “Yes, I did, but every time I strap on the F-4, regardless of whether it’s a combat mission or just training, it’s inherently dangerous.”

  “Mitch, you mentioned that you wanted to increase the pucker factor of the enemy pilot. What does that mean?” the ambassador asked, furrowing his brow.

  “Sir, that’s fighter-pilot jargon meaning to increase his fear factor.”

  The ambassador nodded. “Continue, Mitch.”

  “As soon as the MiG turned away from the Vipers, he locked us up,” the colonel went on. “I immediately smashed the pickle button on the stick. At that point, we were within a mile of the merge. I paused to make sure that the missile had cleared our jet and then broke right, pulling seven to eight Gs in anticipation of the MiG’s missile launch. In the meantime, Bags dispensed chaff and flares, not knowing what missile would be coming our way.”

  “Did you know or possibly see the outcome of your HARM shot?” Greg asked rather nonchalantly.

  “Hell no,” Mitch said. “I knew that we’d been locked up, and our radar-warning receiver was blaring that a missile was inbound. All I could do was maneuver and hope like hell to over-G his missile.”

  “But you weren’t completely successful, were you?” Greg interrupted, looking at him and then the ambassador. Mitch was stunned by Greg’s question. How does Greg know about the outcome of the missile?

  He tried to put that thought aside. “The MiG’s missile detonated approximately twenty feet from the left intake of my jet. The explosion caused catastrophic damage to the left engine. The engine exploded, causing fire to spread throughout the left side of the fuselage and the entire wing. I immediately cut fuel flow to that engine and had difficulty controlling the adverse yaw effect from the right engine. I initially throttled back on the right engine but realized that we were losing too much altitude, so I plugged the burner back in. That resumed the extreme yaw effect from the good engine, pushing the jet violently to the left. I attempted to counter that by holding full right rudder, but I was too exhausted to maintain that
rudder position. I yelled out to Bags to get his damn foot on the rudder pedal.”

  “Did you get a response from Bags?” Greg inquired.

  Again, Mitch was surprised by Greg’s question. Why would he ask that question? Does he know Bags’s communications cord was damaged? I know Bags didn’t tell anyone about the MiG attack.

  “Bags couldn’t respond because his com cord had been damaged during the explosion,” Mitch said. “I felt him immediately get on the rudder pedal, which helped to counter the yaw and allow me to concentrate on keeping the jet in the air.”

  “What about the fire? Was it still burning on the left side of your jet?” the ambassador asked.

  The colonel shook his head. “No sir, when I cut the fuel flow to the left engine, the fire was extinguished and was no longer a factor.”

  He continued, “I realized that we had lost too much altitude, and I was having difficulty recovering with only one engine. Unfortunately, we were at five thousand feet when the 23 mm AAA opened up on us. We were too low and slow when the tracers began to pass over my canopy, and then I felt the jet being hit again on the left side. The artillery shells ripped into what remained of the dead engine, causing further damage. If the rudder had been hit, our only alternative would have been to eject.”

  “Is that when your back-seater, Bags, was wounded? Was he still able to keep pressure on the rudder pedal?” Greg interrupted.

  “Bag’s canopy was damaged during the explosion of the engine,” Mitch said. “When we were hit by the AAA, fragments of its shells or pieces of what remained of the engine entered through large cracks in his canopy. I was not aware that he had been hit in the chest until later in the flight when he began to moan.”

  “Weren’t you worried about the MiG taking another shot at you?” the ambassador inquired.

  Mitch glanced at the ambassador, not entirely sure what to tell him. After a moment, he spoke. “To be honest with you, sir, as we say in the fighter business, I was assholes and elbows at that point and not really thinking about the MiG. I could only hope and pray that the F-4 would slowly climb out of the range of the AAA.”

  “The term ‘assholes and elbows’ means exactly what?” the ambassador asked. “Am I to assume you were overwhelmed in the cockpit with all that was going on at the time?”

  “A brain overload might be a better term for what I was experiencing in the cockpit,” Mitch said. “There was a point, while we were passing ten thousand feet, when I wondered why the AAA stopped and when the MiG was going to attack again. But nothing happened, and we continued to slowly climb and turn toward our escape, Saudi Arabia.”

  He was drained physically and mentally from all the stress and cross-examination. He wished he were back in his embassy residence with a stiff drink. A bourbon straight up was just what he needed to wash this afternoon away—like a late-summer rainfall in a parched desert.

  Greg pushed his chair from the table and stood. “Mitch, I’ve been rather hard on you this afternoon, but there’s a reason, which will be explained to you. Bottom line—I honestly don’t want this to ruin our friendship. This will all make sense to you at the end of the day when we leave this damn crystal bubble egg.”

  To Mitch’s surprise, Greg said this in a heartfelt manner.

  “When you fired your HARM at the MiG-29, it must have momentarily picked up the radar emissions of the Iraqi jet and detonated with its proximity fuse. Or you were damn lucky, and it slammed into the enemy jet. How do we know this? When Desert Storm ended, an investigative team was in the area. They found the wreckage of the MiG and parts of your HARM among the debris. As I stated earlier this afternoon, AWACS and satellite telemetry had observed your desperate struggle to stop the MiG, survive the missile attack, and finally overcome the AAA. You questioned why the AAA stopped abruptly while you struggled to climb out of its range of fire. Actually, the AAA had not stopped firing but was directing its fire on an F-16. One of the Vipers in the four-ship you attempted to protect must have noticed the MiG. He broke off his ground attack to help you out. Unfortunately, the AAA shot the 16 down.”

  He took a breath before continuing. “I’m also aware that you knowingly violated a major general’s direct orders by leaving your primary target area to chase the MiG, descending below the minimum briefed altitude of fifteen thousand feet, and attacking an enemy aircraft without air-to-air weapons. Those were court-martial offenses for violating the general’s orders! That’s why you stated in your intelligence debrief of the mission that you had been driven down in altitude by a SAM launch and then hit by AAA fire. The scenario that you gave to the intel debriefers was not a court-martial offense. But it seems clear that the truth would have ruined your career, and your future, had you reported it. Remember, none of what I am saying will ever leave this bubble. Please try to relax, Mitch.”

  Now Mitch was really stunned. He stole a quick look at the ambassador, then turned back to Greg. How can they know this? I don’t trust them! Perplexing thoughts raced through his mind.

  Greg continued, “We’re still not sure how you and Bags kept your jet in the air and flew it to Al Kharj Air Base in Saudi Arabia. Frankly, it seems miraculous. Plus, you were almost smoked by a couple of US F-15 Eagles that scrambled from Al Kharj. AWACS had picked up an unidentified aircraft that was not squawking IFF while crossing the border. That jet was you. Luckily, the Eagles were instructed to get visual recognition. The Eagle drivers debriefed that when they saw your F-4, what was left of your engine was just a huge, smoking hole. They also said that most of your left wing had been burnt and blown away. They didn’t expect you to make it to Al Kharj and requested a SAR-team launch in anticipation of your ejection.”

  The ambassador shifted in his chair and then interjected, “Greg, before you continue, I’m a little slow with your military jargon. What are IFF and SAR?”

  “Sorry, sir, I get carried away once I get going,” Greg responded. “IFF is an identification system that I can brief to you later. But simply put, it is a system on aircraft to quickly identify a friend or foe. SAR means search and rescue. Usually, at a minimum, an MH53 helicopter would be launched to pick up downed aviators.”

  “Got it, thanks,” the ambassador replied.

  Greg continued, “Then you had an issue with your left main gear collapsing at touchdown at Al Kharj. This shouldn’t have been a real surprise, considering the status of the left side of your jet. Therefore, to complicate matters even further, this was a crash landing. But by the grace of God, you and Bags survived again!”

  “Okay, okay, but I know all of this. So why am I here?” Mitch blurted desperately.

  The ambassador moved his chair slightly away from the table, stretching his legs and crossing them. “Mitch, we know you have experienced a lot in your time, from combat in the desert to fighting with a terrorist here in Algiers. But the intelligence community conjectured, without actual testimony, many things about your mission on January 20, 1991. Greg and I wanted to hear the story from you to confirm what we thought we knew. Unfortunately, the only way to do that was to be very direct and sometimes harsh. We don’t want to destroy your military career. Therefore, as we’ve said, none of this will leave this bubble. Now, let me ask you a question. Did you see the F-16 in your immediate area before it got shot down?”

  “No, sir,” Mitch replied, still somewhat puzzled.

  The ambassador continued, “That American Air Force pilot, Captain Seth Hunt, ejected and was subsequently captured. We know this because we identified him in Iraqi propaganda videos found by coalition forces during and after the war. Evidently, Captain Hunt was passed from the Iraqi Republican Guard to terrorist groups throughout the Mideast. There have been eyewitnesses that claim, to this day, that they have seen an American matching Hunt’s description.”

  The colonel couldn’t believe it. “Mr. Ambassador, that’s almost impossible. He was shot down in January 1991, almost ten ye
ars ago. How can we be sure that he’s still alive, or know where he is now?”

  “I’m sure you realize, Mitch, Captain Hunt saved your life by taking that AAA off of you and onto him,” said the ambassador in a solemn tone. “I honestly don’t think I would be speaking to you today if he hadn’t done what he did. You should be very grateful.”

  “Sir, you make it sound as though I should thank him personally,” Mitch replied.

  The ambassador took a long silent look at him and then smiled. “Perhaps you’ll get that opportunity if the CIA and State Department have accurate intelligence.”

  “So, Hunt is alive?” Mitch asked.

  “It appears he is. The last known whereabouts of Captain Hunt were reported by French intelligence to the CIA two weeks ago. A Libyan terrorist organization known as the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, or LIFG, imprisoned Hunt for several years. The French had information from an informant that the LIFG paid an Iraqi terrorist group handsomely for Hunt in 1996. However, the LIFG has recently fallen on hard times. They’re being pressured by Gaddafi and banned worldwide as an affiliate of al-Qaeda by UN Security Council Resolution 1267.”

  Still reeling from the thought that Hunt was alive, the colonel’s train of thought burst out. “Does that mean Greg and I are traveling to Libya? Why can’t the US Embassy in Tunisia handle this situation? They’re closer!”

  The ambassador gave him a stern gaze. Maybe he understood Mitch’s confusion, but he could not ignore the diplomatic faux pas of being interrupted. “May I continue, please? You and Greg will be going nowhere, and I believe the answer to the second part of your question will be forthcoming.”

  The ambassador glanced at Greg, then uncrossed his legs and slowly stood. “An Algerian terrorist was recently captured at the Port of Algiers while attempting to board a ferry to Marseille, France. The terrorist, Omar Abdul Hamady, informed French interrogators that Captain Hunt had been released by the LIFG and given to the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat, or GSPC. Hamady was a member of the GSPC, an extremely dangerous Algerian terrorist organization aligned with al-Qaeda. Hamady told the interrogators that before his capture, he and a GSPC colleague had traveled to Tripoli and received a captured American pilot. Hamady had been instructed by GSPC leaders to return to Algiers with the American.