Two hours and twenty-eight minutes after takeoff, the Gulfstream touched down to the northwest on runway 30 right at Ali Al Salem Air Base, just to the west of Kuwait City. The plane decelerated gradually and turned right about two-thirds of the way down the long runway onto the Papa loop taxiway. The pilot was happy to see that no Blackhawk helicopters were parked nearby as the plane veered 45 degrees to the left and taxied almost one quarter mile to a section of tarmac that was larger than a soccer pitch. The plane came to a stop on the southern end of the tarmac. On the northern end sat a MH-47G Chinook twin-engine helicopter of the 160 Special Operations Aviation Regiment of the U.S. Army, known throughout the U.S. military as the Night Stalkers.
The 12 Israeli soldiers walked down the Gulfstream’s short staircase and onto the tarmac as the sun was accelerating its descent to the west. They all wore standard U.S. Army combat uniforms in digital universal camouflage pattern complete with the insignia of the US 10 Mountain Division, topped off with the standard patrol cap. Each man carried an olive drab Army duffle bag as he walked quickly and silently to the back of the Chinook helicopter and up the ramp into the sunlit shade of the helicopter interior.
The five man crew of the helicopter were all veterans. They averaged over five years of experience at inserting American SEALs, Rangers and Green Beret operators throughout the various countries of the Middle East, working closely with the “snake eaters” who risked their lives in secret missions as the absolute tip of the spear of American military power. None of the three crew members in the cabin recognized any of the men on this team. When they were told in their mission briefing earlier that afternoon that they were not to talk to anyone in this team other than their CIA handler, they knew this mission would be different. When they found out that the insertion was north of Halabja and only a few miles from the Iranian border, pulses quickened among an elite group of men renowned for their cool. The briefing officer, reading the minds of the men in front of him, had admonished them not to speculate and to forget about this mission once they got back to base.
The CIA operator was the last man on board. He stopped next to the crew chief. “Up ramp.” The aft ramp of the helicopter was quickly closed.
The crew chief leaned into the CIA agent. “They are fast roping in, right?”
“Yes.”
“They know what they are doing on that? Know the signals, right?”
“They know what they are doing.”
“Just want to be sure.” The crew chief looked at his payload for this mission. They were all young and in top physical condition. But what caught his eye is that they all had dark complexions, black hair and dark eyes. If not for the American uniforms, he thought, they looked just like the “Hajis” that he had to shoot at from time to time with his M240D machine gun. He was accustomed to the overwhelmingly northern European background of the men who make up America’s special forces. He had no facts, but was sure of one thing: These men were not Americans.
The CIA agent offered his hand to the crew chief, who shook it firmly. “They will be fine. It’s a standard insertion.”
As the Israeli team found their spots, half the team on each side of the long cabin, men placed their duffle bags on the canvas bench seats. Captain Yoni Ben Zeev maintained his silence. He issued his command by lifting his right index finger straight upward and rotating it in the air. Each man removed his American uniform and placed it in a pile near the front of the helicopter. From inside their duffel bags, each pulled out a new uniform, the 3-color desert tan camouflage of the Iranian paramilitary border guards, a standard-issue Iranian winter coat, an AKM assault rifle, a holstered and suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter pistol, a back pack and a pair of thin leather gloves. The men were under strict orders not to talk — there was to be nothing said or shown that would confirm the Israeli identity of the team.
At that moment, exactly 368 miles to the north at Joint Base Balad, an air base just north of Baghdad, an American major picked up a telephone. The Air Force officer was one of the small number of U.S. military personnel left in Iraq for advisory, training and liaison purposes. He called a senior Iraqi Air Force counterpart located in a building about 80 meters away. The two men knew each other well, the American officer being on his fourth tour in Iraq. They had taught each other much about the other’s culture.
Colonel Walid picked up the phone. “Hello.” The word was in excellent English and the greeting itself demonstrated the level of western influence on the Iraqi colonel.
“Hello, Mohammed,” replied the American officer. “How is your family?”
“Healthy, Inshallah. How have you been? We have not talked in a few days. It is getting too slow.” The Iraqi officer’s comments reflected the lack of any functioning Iraqi Air Force more than the reality of life for Iraqis on the heels of the withdrawal of all American combat forces.
“You are always so eager, Mohammed.” The major paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “We have an issue. We have a UAV that crashed about forty klicks north of Halabja. We are sending a flight of helicopters north out of Kuwait to retrieve it. They will need in-flight refueling. The refueling will take place at Fueler three five.” The grid reference by the major was for a patch of desert west of Baiji, Iraq that was an oft used spot for refueling operations.
“No problem, Mike. As always, we appreciate the communication. When will they be airborne?”
“Within the next hour.”
“How many aircraft?”
“Three choppers and a single KC-130. CAP will be airborne over Turkey since they are going all the way to Kurd land.” U.S. Air Force policy was to maintain a combat air patrol, or CAP, whenever American military aircraft were flying over potentially dangerous airspace. Halabja was adjacent to the Iranian border and no American officer wanted to be responsible for not having been prepared if American helicopters were suddenly set upon by Iranian warplanes.
“Okay I will send out your SSR codes in a few minutes along with a network flash update. Please route them west direct to Ralti, turning north direct to Tuben.” Colonel Walid was directing the mission via VOR/DME navigational beacons that would take them west over the sparsely inhabited portions of Iraq. He wanted to bypass Baghdad airspace and he knew from experience this was the preferred route for the U.S. military. “I believe that takes them close to Fueler three five for refueling. Then they can turn east and continue VFR operations. Have them… um… hold on.” The Iraqi officer checked his daily flight manual. “Have them squawk using mode three-a. They are assigned call sign ‘Union Hotel four-five Tango.’ Your tanker will be ‘Union Kilo four-five.’ Set hard ceiling at flight level one two zero for commercial traffic.”
The American wrote the important information on his notepad and then repeated it back to the Iraqi officer for confirmation. “Thank you. Let’s have tea tomorrow if you have some time.” He would have the critical data typed into his computer and sent by email to American military air traffic control within a minute.
“Yes, Mike. I would enjoy to catch up with you.”
Several minutes later, an email arrived from the Iraqi colonel that provided the clearance code of “7011” to be squawked by all four aircraft and the fighter planes flying CAP, indicating to Iraqi air controllers that this was an authorized American military flight under visual flight rules. For the U.S. Air Force, which had spent two decades doing whatever it wanted to do over Iraq, the new clearance rules and process seemed humiliating. But the major told himself this was the price of peace and progress.