While Ibrahim and Mahmoud removed the seats from the car and pulled the false floor from the trunk, the other men went to work swiftly and purposefully.
SIX
The Hughes 500D is an extremely quiet helicopter due to sound baffles in the Allison 250-C20B engine. The small T-tail construction provides great stability at all speeds, as well as enormous maneuverability. It holds a pilot and two passengers in the forward bench as well as two to four passengers in the aft. With the addition of a side-mounted 20mm cannon and a.50-caliber machine gun, it makes an ideal vehicle for border patrol.
When the alarm from the guard north of Qamishli sounded at the Mardin Air Force outpost, the pilot and copilot were having a late lunch. They had already been out once on their hour-long late-morning patrol. They weren't scheduled to go out again until four o'clock. But the two men welcomed the signal. Since the government had begun coming down hard on the Kurds, things had been quiet. So quiet that the fliers feared they might become rusty. With an exchange of smiles and a thumbs-up, they were airborne within five minutes.
The two men flew low, passing isolated villages and remote ranches and farms on their way to the border outpost Unable to raise the two sentries by radio, the fliers were on high alert as they closed in on the border. The pilot guided his craft swiftly over the dry earth. He always kept the helicopter in front of the sun to present a difficult target to anyone on the ground.
The two fliers saw the wreckage of the automobile moments before they saw the destroyed guardhouse. Circling the area from just north of the border to north of the cars, they radioed headquarters that they saw the two dead border guards, as well as three dead drivers.
"The vehicles appear to have been shot at," the pilot said into his helmet microphone. He peered for a moment through his amber-tinted visor. "Two of the drivers are not moving and one of them is moving only slightly."
"I'll send a medical team by air," said the dispatcher.
"It appears as though the cars ran the gate, struck the booth, and were shot by the guard," the pilot said. "The survivor may not be alive for long," he added. "I want to go down and question him before he dies."
There was a short consultation on the other end. "Captain Galata says you are to proceed at your own discretion," the dispatcher told him. "What about the Syrian border guards?"
"Both men are inside the booth," said the pilot. "They appear to be unharmed. Do you want us to try and raise them?"
"Negative," said the dispatcher. "They'll be contacted through government channels."
The pilot wasn't surprised. If the dead and dying were Syrians, then the Syrian border guards would not say anything to the Turks. If they were Turks, the Syrians would not be believed. Just getting the pilots across the border to talk to them would require high-level approvals. The entire process would be a long and practically useless exercise.
The pilot dropped the 500D to forty feet. He circled again. The rotor whipped the loose sands and obscured their view. He told the copilot they were going to have to land.
The chopper settled down nearly fifty yards from the three cars. Both men retrieved old Model 1968 submachine guns from the wall rack just inside the cabin. They put on goggles to protect themselves from sands swirled by the rotor blades. The copilot exited first. He shut his door and came around to the pilot's side. Then the pilot got out. He left the rotor on in case they had to get away quickly. He closed his door. The men walked one behind the other toward the first car, a Cadillac, where the driver was still alive.
The man was leaning through the partly open window. His arm was hanging along the door, blood dribbling from under the sleeve of his robe, down to his fingers, and onto the sand. He looked up with obvious effort.
"Help me."
The copilot raised his weapon. He looked to the left and to the right. The pilot walked in front of him, his weapon pointed up.
The pilot turned. "Cover me," he said as they neared the car.
The copilot stopped, tucked the stock of his weapon against his shoulder, and aimed the gun at the driver. The pilot continued to walk ahead, slowing as he neared the vehicle. He peered into the back and then walked sideways, moving around the car and bending to make sure no one was hiding beneath it. He checked the blown tires and then returned to the driver's side.
The bearded man looked up at him.
"Who are you?" the pilot asked.
The man tried to speak. His voice was a whisper.
The pilot leaned closer. "Say it again."
The driver swallowed. He raised his bloody hand. And then with one swift and fluid motion he reached behind the pilot's neck and pulled his forehead hard into the top edge of the open window.
The pilot was blocking the copilot's fire. As he shifted to shoot, a man rose from the sand behind him. He had been lying beneath it, his gun at his side; the Turk never saw the burst of gunfire that ended his life. As soon as he went down, Walid released the pilot. The Turk staggered back and fell. Sand was still falling from Mahmoud's shirt and trousers as he shot the pilot.
Ibrahim rose from the sand on the other side of the car. He had been waiting there in case the helicopter had landed on that side. The other Syrians climbed from the trunks of the three cars.
Walid opened the door and got out. He untied the leather thong around his upper arm and removed the packet of goat's blood that was under his sleeve. He threw it into the car, then retrieved the pistol that had been under his right thigh. He tucked it into his belt.
Walid jogged toward the helicopter. "We lost no one," he shouted proudly. "The extra men we brought — not needed. You planned well, Mahmoud."
"Al-fi shukr," Mahmoud replied as he vigorously brushed sand from his hair. "Thank you very much."
Ibrahim ran after Walid. Except for the former Syrian Air Force pilot, Ibrahim was the only one with any knowledge of helicopters.
"I feared—" said Ibrahim, angrily spitting sand. "I feared the rotors might uncover us."
"Then I would have shot the Turks," Walid said as he opened the pilot's-side door. Before he got in, he put his hand over the switch to turn off the radio.
Ibrahim went around to the copilot's door. As the other men came running over, he prepared to close down the helicopter's tracking beacon. When Walid nodded, he and Ibrahim shut the switches simultaneously. At Mardin, the Turks would assume the helicopter had suddenly lost power and gone down. Rescue efforts would be centered on the flight path.
"The Turks are not what bothers me," Ibrahim said. "We planned every detail of this operation. I repaired helicopters and you flew them. Yet neither one of us anticipated that."
"There is always the unexpected," Walid pointed out as he climbed into the cockpit.
"That's true," Ibrahim said. "But this was our area of expertise."
"Which is why we overlooked it," Walid snapped. "This was a warning. We are told, 'Nor do We punish a nation until We have sent forth an apostle to forewarn them.' We have been forewarned."
Ibrahim reflected on Walid's words as the other men ran over. Three of them embraced the others and wished them well. Then they returned to the cars to drive them back to Syria. With a helicopter gunship at their back, the Syrian, guards would let them through without any questions. Nor would they help investigators from Damascus or Ankara, for fear of reprisals.
"Now we don't look back," Walid said to the three men in the helicopter. "We look ahead. Backup aircraft will be here in less than ten minutes." Walid glanced over his shoulder. "Are you ready?"