“Kabak claims the border is closed,” Doronkin continued.
“The Turkish border patrols are turning everyone back since the shooting. They are telling everyone, even a U.N. inspection team, that the fighting between the Kurds and some of Baddour’s troops makes travel inside the Iraqi border unsafe.”
“When do we go?” Bogner pressed.
Doronkin and the mechanic engaged in an animated conversation that lasted for several moments before Doronkin answered Bogner’s question.
“He says the wind will bring much weather with it, perhaps even snow in the high country. He wants to know if we are prepared to go now. He believes that tomorrow such a flight will be even more difficult.”
“Tell him we’re ready,” Bogner said.
One hour later, Kabak and two dark-haired youths, neither of whom appeared to be interested in anything beside completing their chore and retreating to the warmth of their quarters, moved an Aerospatiale SA 341 Gazelle from its confines in one of the smaller buildings to an area in front of the hangar. Unlike the other two aircraft Bogner had spotted earlier, this one appeared to be in reasonably good condition. A red, white, and black Iraqi flag with green stars had been laboriously painted on the fuselage and the vertical stabilizer.
Kabak was obviously proud of his craft.
Bogner walked around the chopper taking inventory.
All of the armament had been stripped out and the area immediately behind the pilot was rigged to handle either passengers or cargo. The sling and hoist, standard on the Gazelle when it was built, were still intact.
“Looks a shade more dependable that the other two,” Banks observed.
“Let’s hope our man Kabak knows how to fly this thing.”
Doronkin overheard him.
“Despite his appearance, I have complete faith in him.” Then he muttered something under his breath.
“What was that last thing he said?” Bogner asked Banks quietly.
“Ma sha allah,” Banks repeated.
“I think it means, “God’s will be done.”
” Bogner choked back the inclination to ask Banks if his will was up to date. Banks already looked worried.
Bogner was familiar with the performance parameters of the Gazelle. He recalled having flown one on at least two different occasions and neither time had he been overly impressed. At best he would have described the chopper’s performance and capacity as limited. It cruised at something around 150 mph, had a limited range of no more than two hundred miles or so, and its carrying capacity was restricted to roughly a thousand or so pounds. Doronkin and Banks were crammed into a makeshift passenger area that would have otherwise been used for cargo.
Jolo Kabak, Bogner decided, in addition to not only being equal to the challenge of flying the aging bird, was also innovative. In large measure, the flight deck of the thirty-one-foot-long SA 341 had been gutted. Not only had the armament been removed, but any avionics instrument that Kabak didn’t consider absolutely essential to the aircraft’s operation had been taped over or removed.
Kabak flew like one of the old county fair barnstormers Bogner had admired as a kid.
Now, less than thirty minutes into the flight, Kabak was coaxing the Gazelle between mountain passes, fighting erratic low-altitude winds, and taking the craft through cloud cover that ranged from overcast to thin. Bogner was able to catch occasional glimpses of the terrain below them. In the moonlight it was rocky, barren, and unappealing.
Through it all, Kabak kept up a steady line of chatter with Doronkin, frequently stabbing his finger at something in the darkness below them.
Each time Taj Ozal tried to explain.
“He says those ground fires we keep seeing means we are passing near one of the Kurd strongholds near the village outside Zahako.”
“Ask him why the hell he doesn’t take us up a couple of thousand feet to get out of this chop.”
Doronkin repeated the question, waited for Kabak’s answer, and leaned forward so Bogner could hear him better.
“He says that by keeping us low we are staying under the NIMF radar net.”
“Whose radar net?”
“Baddour’s border patrols. Kabak says he has heard Baddour’s helicopters are patrolling this region to keep track of Kurd militia movements—” All of a sudden, a spitfire flash of red-orange burst directly in front of them. There was no time to duck. The clear acrylic nose canopy of the Gazelle exploded, spraying the flight deck with char ds of supposedly bullet-proof three-quarter- inch acrylic. A muted emergency light in the cockpit went on simultaneously with a second burst of gunfire. Bogner saw Kabak’s hands fly to his face and streams of black-red jet between his fingers.
The Gazelle pitched violently, elevated, rolled over, and began spiraling down. Bogner managed to catch a quick glimpse of the control panel; it was on fire. The cabin began to fill with an acrid, choking smoke, and Kabak slumped forward with his hand on the cyclic control. The shattered nose of the Gazelle was pointed down, air was rushing in the hole of the cabin, and the thumping sound of the rotor was out of sync.
From somewhere in the smoke-filled chaos Bogner heard Banks scream. The chopper continued spiraling down and there was another hail of bullets. He heard the second volley rip into and gouge its way through the Gazelle’s control panel and fuselage. Fragments of shredded metal peppered him and the fire seared his hands and face.
He tried to reach for the cyclic, but it was too late.
The Gazelle momentarily regained its equilibrium, then corkscrewed down again before it slammed into the ground, ricocheting up and rocketing forward again. When it hit the second time, Bogner felt himself being catapulted out and down until he collided with the ground. He rolled over, tried to scramble to his feet, felt the air go out of him, and collapsed. It was as if all of his energy had been suddenly sucked out of him and he was paralyzed.
Even then he could still hear a chopper circling overhead. He could hear the ominous air-thrashing sound of the craft’s main rotor and see the beam of its searchlight sweeping back and forth. In front of him was the burning wreckage of the Gazelle, now little more than a twisted tangle of metal enveloped in a mind-numbing inferno of angry orange. Still the Iraqi gunship wasn’t satisfied. It hovered in the darkness, seeming to savor the scene like some kind of big cat appraising the efficiency of its latest kill.
The beam of the powerful searchlight continued sweeping back and forth, illustrating for Bogner what had become a kind of surreal nightmare.
When the chopper opened fire again, it belched torrents of machine-gun fire down into the flames.
Bogner, stunned and disoriented, somehow managed to claw his way deeper into the shadows.
He knew he had been lucky, if for no other reason than he was still alive. Exactly where and how bad he was hurt, he couldn’t tell. There was a ringing sensation in his head, his vision was blurry, and there was a dry, parched, burning sensation in his mouth and throat. When he thought he had crawled far enough, he managed to curl his battered body into a near-fetal position. He was either out of the line of fire — or he wasn’t. Either way, he knew he couldn’t drag himself any further.
The gunship unleashed another round of fire, and Bogner buried his face in the dirt. That was when he heard the explosion. The Iraqi gunfire had finally searched out the dying Gazelle’s soft underbelly — its fuel tank. Bogner squeezed his eyes shut to seal out the heat. When he did he found himself escaping into the muted, pain-free world of unconsciousness.
Despite the hour, General Salih Baddour was unable to sleep. He had spent most of the evening going over staff reports, but discovered he still was not sleepy when he retired to his quarters.