Report when tied on.'
The MiG-23 flight leader activated his intercept radar and found the aircraft almost instantly-it was a solid radar lock-on, not weak and intermittent like the other one. 'Hibr flight has a bogey at my twelve o'clock, forty-two K meters range, three point zero K meters altitude.' He keyed two switches on the instrument panel near the throttle that sent out coded interrogation signals. 'Negative mode two, mode C, and mode four IFF.'
'That's your bandit, Hibr flight.'
The target was in a shallow descent, heading right for Tripoli at close to six hundred kilometers per hour. Every now and then it would make a sudden move-a sharper descent, a fast turn one direction or the other, and at one time it even appeared to be doing a one-eighty. Large bombers needed to transfer alignment maneuvers for inertially guided air-launched weapons-maybe that's what this aircraft was doing. But one thing was for sure: It was definitely heading for Tripoli, and it was unidentified.
The rules said shoot it down.
'Hibr two, take tactical spacing,' the leader called to his wingman.
'Acknowledged.'
The lead MiG-23 pilot flew above and past the target, then started a rapid left descending turn that quickly brought him right on the bandit's right rear quarter. The aircraft had no exterior lights whatsoever, and no lights were visible on the side of the fuselage either-definitely not an airliner. He moved in close enough so he could clearly see the outline of the plane against the growing brightness of the horizon as Tripoli came closer and closer; then he turned on his identification spotlight.
'Control, Hibr flight has visual identification,' the leader radioed. 'Bandit is a DC-10 aircraft. It has a U.S. registration number, N-three-oh-three Sierra Mike. I see no weapons or any unusual protrusions or devices. The aircraft is completely dark, and… Stand by, Control.' The pilot slid forward, letting the searchlight shine in the copilot's side of the cockpit. 'Control, it appears the bandit's right cockpit sliding window is open, and there appears to be smoke trailing out from the window, repeat, the bandit seems to be venting smoke from his cockpit. Smoke is also trailing from what appears to be an open cockpit escape hatch. There are only flashlight beams in the cockpit- no lights whatsoever. This aircraft may be having an inflight emergency. If he has shut off all aircraft power, that could be the reason why he has not responded to us and why he has no lights on.'
'Hibr flight, be advised, Suf flight of four and Kheyma flight of two are joining on you, ETE three minutes.'
'Control, I don't need any more fighters up here,' the leader said perturbedly. 'This is a commercial aircraft with what appears to be an inflight emergency. He's not a combat aircraft. I think I can get him turned away from the coast myself-I don't need six more fighters in the area. Have those extra planes go look for the bogeys I found south of Tripoli.' But his suggestion went unheeded.
Within minutes there were three different kinds of jets buzzing around the stricken American-registered cargo plane: Hibr flight of two MiG-23s, Suf flight of four MiG-29s, and Kheyma flight of two MiG-25s. The problem was, no one could decide exactly what to do about this intruder. He was obviously a noncombatant, and he was obviously in trouble. They tried light signals, but it wasn't clear if their searchlights were penetrating the smoke in the cockpit. They couldn't see inside, and it was obvious no one in the cockpit could see out.
Finally the MiG-23 flight leader switched his number two radio to the international UHF emergency frequency: 'Unidentified American cargo plane, this is Hibr flight of two of the United Kingdom of Libya Royal Air Force. You are in restricted airspace and in violation of Libyan law. You are ordered to reverse course immediately. I say again, reverse course immediately or you will be attacked.'
There was no answer. The flight leader repeated the message on the VHF GUARD emergency frequency; still no response. He was about to switch back to his controller's frequency to request permission to open fire when he heard a scratchy, frightened voice say, 'I hear you, Libyan fighters! I hear you! This is November three-ohthree Sierra Mike on VHF GUARD channel. I am on a handheld emergency radio. Mayday, mayday, mayday, can you hear me, Libyan air force?'
'I can hear you, Three Sierra Mike,' the flight leader replied. 'You must reverse course immediately! In ten kilometers you will enter restricted Libyan airspace, and we will attack. Reverse course immediately! Acknowledge!'
'This is Three Sierra Mike, we have a catastrophic fire in the cockpit and we were forced to evacuate the cockpit. The aircraft is on autopilot, and we are trying to put the fire out. As soon as we put the fire out we can retake control of the plane. Don't shoot! We are a cargo plane. We're carrying relief supplies bound for Khartoum, Sudan, on an international flight plan. We have twenty-two relief workers on board plus a crew of five. Give us time to get the fire out. Over.'
'Three Sierra Mike, you are flying into restricted Libyan airspace during a time of severe emergency flight restrictions,' the flight leader said. 'This is a wartime situation. If you do not reverse course in two minutes, I will have no choice but to open fire. You must do everything you can to reverse course or at least stay out over the Gulf of Sidra. I will be forced to open fire if you do not comply.'
'Please, for God's sake, don't shoot!' the pilot cried. 'We'll have control of our plane in less than two minutes! Please, stand by!'
'Think he's for real, lead?' the wingman radioed.
'I know I'd have a tough time if my cockpit was filled with smoke like that,' the flight leader said. 'We'll wait until he crosses the twenty-kilometer mark, then open fire if he doesn't turn away.'
It seemed to take forever-the big American plane was definitely slowing down. The other Libyan fighters circled, jockeyed around, and generally tried their best to fly nightstaggered formation with the crippled American plane. No one departed-all the pilots wanted to watch when Hibr lead fired his missile and brought the big plane down.
Tripoli Air Defense Control confirmed the orders moments later: shoot to kill if the plane crosses the twenty- kilometer ring.
'Three Sierra Mike, this is Hibr flight, you are ordered to turn away now,' the flight leader radioed. 'I am ordered to shoot you down if you do not comply. This is your last warning.' He then angled upward, clearing the DC-10's powerful wake, and started to maneuver behind the big plane. The lights of Tripoli were brilliant, filling the horizon below-he was afraid that maybe he was too late, that twenty kilometers was still too close. Even if the plane was hit, could it still glide on fire and hit the city?
At that moment, the smoke stopped streaming out of the DC-10's cockpit, and the big plane started a slow ten-degree bank turn to the left. It took almost ninety seconds, but finally the big plane was heading away from Tripoli. It was just thirty seconds-about three kilometers-away from the flight leader pressing the button on his control stick that would send the DC-10 crashing to earth.
'Too bad, Hibr flight,' one of the other pilots radioed. 'We thought you'd finally get a chance to hit something this time.'
It wasn't funny, the lead pilot thought-he was sure that this was nothing but a feint for an attack from the south. This plane had managed to draw off nearly all of Libya's alert fighter patrols away from the capital. Something was not right here….
'I Kheyma flights, this is Hibr lead. I'm getting close to bingo fuel,' the flight leader radioed. 'Hibr flight is going to depart the formation and head to base. Escort this bastard out of our airspace.'
'You got it,' one of the other pilots said. 'Suf flight has the lead. We'll stay in formation with the American until he's well away.' The leader of the flight of two MiG-23s descended to five hundred meters below the American cargo plane, then turned south; a few moments later, his wingman was in loose fingertip formation.
'Hibr flight, this is Control. Understand you are declaring bingo fuel at this time.'
'Negative, Control,' the flight leader said. 'We're twenty minutes from bingo. I want vectors to the last position of those unidentified radar contacts south of Tripoli.'
Cut it kind of close, didn't you?' the DC-10's flight engineer asked as he removed his emergency firefighting mask. He collected the empty casings of the smoke signal flares he had been shooting out the window and put them in an empty canvas survival bag. 'That fighter departed to get behind us to shoot our asses down, didn't he?'
The pilot of the DC-10 rechecked that the pressurization system was indeed pumping the cabin back up and that his side storm window was securely closed. 'It wasn't enough time,' he said. 'Our guys needed another five minutes.'
