“Let’s try that terrain-masking stuff again,” the copilot suggested. The terrain depicted on the moving map display in the cockpit still showed some hills, but it was quickly smoothing out the farther south they went. “We can go down to nine-seven in a few miles, and in twenty miles we can go all the way to—”
At that instant the cockpit was filled with an intense white light coming in from the left side as hot and bright as noon. They tried to look at whoever it was, but they couldn’t look anywhere in that direction. “Holy shit!” the pilot screamed. “I’m flash-blinded, I can’t see—”
“Straighten up, Gus!”
“I said I can’t take the controls, I can’t see, dammit,” the pilot said. “Ben, take the wheel…!”
“Scion Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three flight of two, we have you in sight,” the Turkish fighter pilot radioed. “You will immediately lower your landing gear and turn right to heading two-nine-zero. You are being tracked by Turkish surface-to-air missile batteries. Comply immediately. The use of deadly force has been authorized.”
“Your light has blinded the pilot!” the copilot radioed. “Don’t shine it in the cockpit! Turn that thing off!”
A moment later the light was extinguished…followed seconds later by a second-long burst of cannon fire from the Turkish F-16’s twenty-millimeter nose cannon. The muzzle flash was almost as brilliant as the inspection floodlight, and they could feel the fat supersonic shells beating the air around them, the shock waves reverberating off the Boeing 767’s cockpit windows just a few dozen yards away. “That was the final warning shot, Scion Seven- Seven,” the Turkish pilot said. “Follow my instructions or you will be shot down without further warning!”
“What the hell do we do now?” Whack asked. “We’re sunk.”
“We have no choice,” the copilot said. “I’m turning…”
“No, keep heading toward Nahla,” Charlie said. She reached over and switched her rotary transmit switch from “intercom” to “UHF-2.” “Yukari One-One-Three flight, this is Charlie Turlock, one of the passengers on Scion Seven-Seven,” she radioed.
“What the hell are you doing, Charlie?” Macomber asked.
“Playing the gender and sympathy cards, Whack—they’re the only ones we have left,” Charlie said cross- cockpit. On the radio, she went on, “Yukari flight, we are an American cargo aircraft on a peaceful and authorized flight to Iraq. We are not a warplane, we are not armed, and we have no hostile intent against our allies, the people of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board this flight, including six women. Let us continue our flight in peace.”
“You will comply immediately. This is our final order.”
“We are not going to turn around,” Charlie said. “We are almost at the Iraqi border, and our transmissions on the international emergency GUARD channel are certainly being monitored by listening posts from Syria to Persia. We are an unarmed American cargo plane on an authorized overflight of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board. If you shoot us down now, the bodies and the wreckage will land in Iraq, and the world will know what you’ve done. You may think you have valid orders or a good reason to open fire, but you will be held responsible for your own judgment. If you believe your leaders and wish to follow their orders to kill all of us, fine, but
A moment later they saw, then felt a tongue of white-hot flame zip by their left cockpit windows—the single afterburner plume from an F-16 fighter. “He’s going around, maneuvering behind us,” the copilot said. “Shit; oh
…then more seconds, then a minute. No one breathed for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard: “Scion Seven-Seven, this is Mosul Approach Control on GUARD frequency, we show you at your scheduled border crossing point. If you hear Mosul Approach, squawk modes three and C normal and contact me on two-four-three- point-seven. Acknowledge immediately.”
The copilot shakily responded, and everyone else let out a collective sigh of relief. “Man, I thought we were goners,” Macomber said. He reached up and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “You did it, darlin’. You sweet-talked our way out of it. Good job.”
Charlie turned to Macomber, smiled, nodded her thanks…and promptly vomited on the cockpit floor in front of him.
“Are you eggheads
“You must be Colonel Wilhelm,” Macomber said as he reached the bottom of the air stairs. “Thanks for the warm welcome to Iraq.”
“Who are
“Wayne Macomber, chief of security for Scion Aviation International,” Wayne replied. He did not offer his hand to Wilhelm, a fact that made the regimental commander even angrier. The two men were about equal in height and weight, and they immediately started sizing each other up. “This is Charlie Turlock, my assistant.” Charlie rolled her eyes but said nothing. “I’m going to drain the dragon—and probably change my undies after that flight—and then I need to speak with the general and the head egghead, Jon Masters.”
“First of all, you’re not going anywhere until we inspect your papers and your cargo,” Wilhelm said. “You’re not even supposed to get off the damn plane before customs does an inspection.”
“Customs? This is an American flight sitting on an American base. We don’t do customs.”
“You’re a private aircraft sitting on an
Macomber looked around Wilhelm. “I don’t see any Iraqis here, Colonel, just private security…and
“My orders are to inspect this plane, Macomber, and that’s what we’ll do,” Wilhelm said. “The crew stays on board until the inspection is completed. Thompson here and his men will do the inspection, and you’d better cooperate with them or I’ll put all of you in the brig. Clear?”
Macomber looked as if he was going to argue, but he gave Wilhelm a slight nod and smile and gave the paperwork packet back to the pilot. “Ben, go with Gus.” Wilhelm was going to argue, but Macomber said, “The pilot was hurt in the flight in. He needs help. Make it quick, boys,” and motioned for the others to follow him back up the air stairs. They were followed by two of Thompson’s security officers and a German shepherd on a leather leash. A group of Thompson’s security men began opening cargo doors and baggage compartment hatches to begin their inspections.
Inside the plane, one security officer began inspecting the cockpit while the other herded Macomber and the other passengers to their seats and inspected the inside of the plane. The forward part of the Boeing 767 freighter’s interior behind the cockpit had a removable galley and lavatory on one side, and two fiberglass containers marked LIFE RAFTS with reinforced tape seals marked DEPT OF DEFENSE wrapped around them on the other beside the entry door. Behind them was the removable forward-facing passenger seat pallet, with seating for eighteen passengers. Behind them were eight semicircular cargo containers, four on each side of the plane, with narrow aisles between them, and behind them was a pallet with luggage covered by nylon netting and secured with nylon webbing.
The second security officer raised a radio to his lips: “I count eighteen crew and passengers, two life raft containers, galley and lavatory, and eight A1N cargo containers. The life raft inspection seals are secure.”
“Roger,” came the reply. “Passenger count checks. But the manifest only says six A1Ns.” The officer looked at the passengers suspiciously.
“No wonder it took so long to get here—we’re overloaded,” Macomber said. “Who brought the extra containers? Is that all your makeup back there, Charlie?”
“I thought it was your knitting, Whack,” Turlock replied.
“I’m going to pass down the aisle with the K-9,” the security officer said. “Don’t make any sudden
