Chapter 14
Persian Gulf 0955 hours
The name of the oil platform was Qarah al Khalif #6.
It was a three-tiered, six-shaft exploration and pumping assembly located equidistant from the eastern shore of Iraq and the western shore of Iran, in the northernmost region of the Persian Gulf.
The platform got its name from a nearby island, and it was indeed one of a half-dozen sea pumping facilities in the area. It was owned by a consortium of oil wholesalers whose main office was located in Bahrain. Also known as Qak-Six, the platform and its five cousins held the distinction of being the only offshore pumping facilities in the region to continue operations during the Gulf War. In fact, the six Qak platforms had been protected throughout the conflict by U.S. Navy aircraft and ships, this even though both Iran and Iraq held a substantial stake in their ownership and operation. Such was the quality of crude pumped from their wells.
This was a special day on Qak-Six. It was the last day of the month. This meant not only payday for the 313 workers on the huge platform, but also the beginning of a ten-day vacation granted most of the workers once every five months.
Three ferries had been engaged by the platform’s owners to carry the workers down to Bahrain for their furloughs. Bahrain was the destination of choice for the majority of the workers—Filipinos mostly—as it was considered the most westernized of the Gulf States. Translation: There was a night life there, and if one looked hard enough alcohol could be found, and even female companionship.
It was just before ten in the morning when the first ferry, fully loaded, pulled away from the platform’s docking area. It was a cloudy raw day, not unusual for this time of year in this part of the Gulf, and the water was choppy. But this did not dampen the spirits of the workers, their pockets full of money, their bellies filled with the anticipation of stepping on dry land again.
The first ferry had just cleared the platform and the second one was maneuvering into place when a long, loud, guttural groan shook the rig. The noise was so sudden and so distinct that those few workers still left on the top tier thought it was one of the rig’s automatic stabilizers suddenly losing its footing. But the platform itself was not moving, and the catastrophic shift to one side indicating a leg was failing did not occur. Thankfully, the problem was not with the rig itself.
That was when many people saw an airplane appear on the murky horizon and relaxed. In a freak of atmospherics, the growl of the plane’s engines had proceeded it, carried, no doubt, by the twenty-five-knot westerly wind. This had caused the sudden thunderclap.
With much relief, the loading of the second ferry resumed.
It was not unusual to see aircraft flying by the oil rig. Both Iraqi and Iranian patrol planes passed by every few days, and occasionally a British, American, or even Saudi aircraft could be seen plying the skies this north in the Gulf too. Most gave the oil rig a wag of the wings and they would be off.
The second ferry was about halfway full when the plane finally went by the oil platform. It was flying very low and its engines seemed extremely loud. The plane was painted all black with a charcoal-like quality to the tone. Traces of a camouflage scheme could be seen on the wings and tail.
Many aboard the platform knew what kind of airplane this was: a C-130 Hercules, the ubiquitous American-built cargo hauler and general all-round workhorse of many nations’ air forces. What did mildly surprise some people was that the airplane carried no markings, no tail numbers, no insignia to identify what country it belonged to—this, and the fact that its nose was so long and its fuselage so thick.
The plane passed about one thousand yards to the south of the oil rig and kept on going, disappearing into the mist to the east, possibly heading towards Iran, just forty miles away. The loading of the second ferry was nearly completed, and the third boat was being signaled to come in. That was when the people on the platform heard another thunderclap. All eyes turned east and to everyone’s surprise, they saw the airplane had turned and was coming back.
The workers on the first ferry would have the best view of what happened next.
The plane passed so close to the oil platform this time that the whole structure shook from top to bottom. The water below was suddenly foaming, kicked up by the plane’s engine exhaust. Suddenly three long streaks of flame erupted from the side of the airplane. This fire came so quickly and was so vivid, many on the ferry thought the plane was in trouble and had doubled back, perhaps to attempt an emergency landing near the oil platform.
But a moment later, a geyser of flame erupted from the top of the platform itself. Had the plane flown so close to the rig that it had hit something? No—the plane was still flying. It roared right over the first ferry. Then came a tremendous explosion. It sent shock waves through the ferry and the water around it. All eyes looked up to see the oil platform’s mast disintegrate in a puff of smoke. Now a second explosion went off, louder than the first. An instant later, the entire upper tier of the rig was engulfed in flames. Only then did the people on the ferry realize the airplane had fired on the oil platform.
And now it was coming back again….
The airplane swept by the platform a third time, a continuous stream of fire pouring out of its left side. The oil rig began to shudder, and hundreds of small explosions peppered it up and down. Flame was suddenly everywhere. Many workers began leaping into the water, some on fire themselves. Others were trapped and quickly engulfed in flames.
The plane roared by again. Now a huge gun muzzle could be seen protruding from its left side. It was firing large-caliber projectiles at a frightening rate. The workers on the ferry saw the control house go up first in this fusillade. The main pump hut went next. Then the living quarters, then the turbine station. Oil was gushing wildly out of some pipes now and being ignited in many places.
Inside of ninety seconds, the oil rig was a burning wreck. Bodies were in the water; many more workers were badly burned on the platform itself. The plane went by twice more, delivering high-powered shells in such a methodical fashion, it seemed unreal to the people on the first ferry. Was this really happening? Why would anyone want to destroy Qak-Six?
Stunned, the ferry captain finally started pounding on his vessel’s radio, intent on sending out an SOS. But as soon as he switched his comm set on, it made a loud crack and went dead, a victim of the gunship’s high-powered electronic-jamming suite. The plane went by the oil rig one last time, but there was no shooting this time. This pass was just to survey its deadly work. The sixty-six workers on the first ferry stood on the rail, astounded by what they had just seen. The few people still left on the platform could not have survived the brutal assault—and those injured and in the water would not live for more than a few minutes in the choppy cold sea.
Still, the ferry captain had to make an attempt to rescue any survivors. So he ordered his vessel to turn about and head back toward the burning oil rig.
That was when those aboard the ferry saw the big plane turn once again—and point its nose right at them.
The USS LaSallette was not an ordinary ship.
It was one of the oldest operational vessels in the U.S. Navy, its keel having been laid in the winter of 1955. It boasted very few weapons. Twin .50-caliber machine guns on the stern and bow were its only outward defenses. Its helicopter, a small OH-51, carried only rudimentary antiship missiles and a single .30-caliber machine gun on its nose mount. There were but a dozen M-16’s on board, with a total of three hundred rounds of ammunition available. The only other potential weaponry consisted of some smoke grenades and flares.