The modern cockpit of the Boeing 737-400F required a crew of only two men. After their purchase, the two planes had undergone extensive renovation in Wichita, Kansas — at least according to the official logs kept by SAAC at its offices in Ras Al-Khaimah. In reality, the planes had been delivered to Nevatim Airbase in Israel to be worked on by the same engineers who had been working on the Ilyushin 76 cargo aircraft. The two planes had officially been added to the SAAC fleet only eleven months earlier.
58 — Slingshot
Inside the cockpit of the Ilyushin 76 that Captain Oleg Kolikov had flown to the Ukraine a day earlier, two men — a pilot and a flight engineer — taxied the giant cargo plane to the end of the single runway at Luhansk International Airport. The SAAC cargo carrier had filed its flight plan to return to its home base of Ras Al Khaimah Airport in the UAE, a flight path it had flown many times in the past under the command of Kolikov. The flight path would take it quickly over Russia, then briefly over Georgia and Azerbaijan before a long transit over Iran, passing south and west of Tehran as it flew towards the southeast on the path to the UAE. All of the required over flight rights, and the fees that went with them, had been paid for and acquired.
“SAAC seven fifteen heavy, you are cleared for takeoff. Runway niner,” said the departure controller. Located in the airport’s tower, the man spoke in English, the universal language of aviation. His accent was noticeable, but his mastery of the English language was nearly complete.
“SAAC seven fifteen heavy, cleared for takeoff,” came the reply. The voice was that of Oleg Kolikov, a voice that many of the air traffic controllers recognized. The old timers in the area knew him for the Soviet war hero he was. But Captain Kolikov was not in the cockpit of the plane, he was sitting in front of several computer screens inside the command bunker at Mount Olympus on the edge of Sde Dov Airport just north of Tel Aviv. The computers gave him all the critical information on the Ilyushin 76 that would soon commence its takeoff roll, including position, horizon, altitude, heading and speed. The data link and the voice communications between Mount Olympus and the plane were being broadcast back and forth via encrypted satellite link — no different than the way any UAV is flown by a pilot half a world away.
“Contact Rostov departure on one two five point five. Have a nice evening.”
“Rostov. One two five point five. SAAC seven fifteen. Thank you,” replied Kolikov, repeating the frequency for the regional air traffic control center in Rostov-on-Don in Russia. The Russian pilot glanced at the clock on the wall, which showed Iranian and Zulu time. The time in Iran was 8:07 p.m.
The two men actually sitting in the cockpit listened in on the routine communications between a captain, who would normally be in the left hand seat, and the airport tower. The pilot told the flight engineer to back his hand as he pushed four throttles forward to command maximum power. The plane was heavy and would need most of the long runway. The Ilyushin was airborne in under a minute and on its way. Twenty minutes later, the plane was at its cruising altitude of 32,000 feet when the two men in the cockpit, both of whom were experienced combat veterans of the IAF, turned control of the plane over to two men seated by Kolikov at Mount Olympus. Confirmation of remote control was made and the two men inside the plane removed their SAAC uniforms to reveal pressure suits. Each man put on a parachute and a helmet and oxygen mask, activating personal GPS devices in the process. They next depressurized the entire cabin and made their way to the rear of the main cargo cabin, at spots having to climb over or crawl under the cargo they were carrying.
When they were at the rear cargo door they waited for a signal that was programmed into the plane’s mission computer. In less than ten minutes, a yellow light started to flash. After only a few seconds, the cargo doors opened and the two men jumped as soon as the doors gave them a clearing. They would land in a field somewhere north of Stavropol, Russia. On the ground, a Mossad team waited in a van to home in on their GPS signals.
Captain James Miller received clearance from the tower at Ras Al-Khaimah at 9:11 p.m. Iran time. The weather was nice in the UAE, with almost no clouds. The sky was dark and the moon was nowhere to be seen. In the cockpit, Miller sat in the left-hand seat. The plan had been for him to be seated about four meters away from Kolikov in the safety of the Mount Olympus bunker. Jim Miller’s right hand shook as he pushed the four throttle levers of the Ilyushin forward. The co-pilot in the right-hand seat placed his left hand behind Miller’s and applied pressure. The large plane was soon on its way.
After only ten minutes, the co-pilot and flight engineer each said goodbye to Miller, wishing him success. The two men soon jumped out of the depressurized cargo compartment and into the waters of the Persian Gulf where, by pre-arrangement, a U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopter soon homed into their GPS signals and plucked both men from the water.
Jim Miller continued north on the normal flight path for a SAAC flight from Ras Al-Khaimah to Imam Khomeini International Airport just south of Tehran. The plane’s manifest showed that it was delivering medical supplies, but the authorities in Iran were actually expecting spare parts for Iran’s civil aviation fleet. SAAC had made its name in Iran by reliably delivering machine tools and spare parts in violation of the trade embargo put in place by the U.S. and the European Union. The embargo was an effort to convince Tehran to abandon its goal of nuclear weapons. SAAC had been delivering illicit parts and supplies to Iran for over a year. As a result, when the company needed to overfly Iran or arrange for deliveries at odd hours in the middle of the night, it was easily able to do so. The material being delivered was valuable and had required the approval of Prime Minister Cohen. As long as they delivered nothing that could benefit Iran’s nuclear program or air defense network, Amit Margolis had a green light.
Just minutes after Miller took off, the Boeing 737-400F that had left Zurich earlier in the afternoon landed at Ganja International Airport. The pilots taxied to the single tarmac and looked for an expected fuel truck. Azerbaijan was still on Daylight Savings Time and it was late, almost 11 p.m. The airport, other than the two people manning the tower, seemed to be closed. “Where is the fuel?” asked the pilot. The question was to himself as much as to his co-pilot.
“It should be here.”
The captain talked to the tower in an attempt to learn the status of their fuel. The response was not helpful, the controller in the tower essentially telling the crew of the Boeing that fuel delivery was not part of his job description and they were on their own. The crew used its encrypted satellite communications system to discuss the situation with Mount Olympus. At the Sde Dov bunker, a junior IAF staff officer was assigned to contact the Mossad agents operating in Azerbaijan who had been responsible for arranging the fuel delivery. Money had been freely delivered and bonuses promised to ensure that the truck was waiting when the Boeing cargo plane arrived.
What the Mossad agents had not planned on was the Azeri truck driver stopping at his neighborhood pub to pass the time. The predominantly Muslim country still enjoyed a secular government, one of the positive things it inherited from its days inside the Soviet sphere. Despite the religious ban on alcohol, the driver accepted when several of his old friends bought the first round of vodka shots. Custom and honor dictated that each of the four men in the group pay for one round. Now the driver was telling drunken stories, each man attempting to outdo the others in their subject of choice. An argument broke out over the recent performance of the star striker for FC Kapaz, the local premier football club. The driver had not checked his watch in over an hour.