He cursed his misfortune and prayed to Allah.
The thirty-seven year old had no enemies. Others aboard Iran Air Flight 645 no doubt had enemies and all that was occurring was probably due to them. Business men, financiers, and politicians were all aboard. He had observed them as he boarded the plane and had paid little attention. He figured he was among the least important of any of the passengers aboard the Iran airbus on its way to Dubai other than the women and children. I must beg them to let me go. I am not like the others. Surely they will be merciful if I am able to reason with one of them.
Thawri was returning to his job at Burj Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. Samsung Engineering had hired him for a three year contract and he was entitled to four leaves of absence per year which he used to return to his family in Tehran. His nine-year-old boy and six-year-old girl were always excited to have their daddy return. Time passed too quickly. Just as he was settling in, he would be forced to return to a twelve-hour a day job stringing wire and installing lighting fixtures in the thirty thousand homes and offices within the world’s tallest building.
He could not see the terrorists. He knew they were there. One was hovering somewhere behind but he dare not turn as they had warned everyone to be quiet and not to turn around. These are Muslims abducting their own brothers. Looking forward he could see that there were no Westerners aboard. He could see a pair of flight attendants duct taped and gagged in first class. Two of the men had threatened to kill them and beat one unmercifully until screams filled the cabin. The moment the door was unlocked, they rushed into the cockpit and more screams followed.
Then it was unearthly silent.
The whoosh of the stratosphere gliding over the wings, the labored breathing of the passengers, his heart pounding against his chest: that was all.
Frozen.
To move was to die.
“I must see who is doing this to us,” whispered the passenger seated adjacent to him.
“No, no — do not think such a thing.”
The man did not listen, he turned his head and Thawri could hear the terrorist coming up the aisle. He closed his eyes while his ears heard the commotion.
When he opened them again the man slouched beside him, a knife through his throat, blood spilling onto the seat.
The stewardess peered into his eyes while she lay on the floor in a crumpled heap of flesh. Sheer terror passed from her to him. Her eyes begged him to be a man and save her — to do something — anything. To sit and do nothing was incomprehensible. They are going to kill us all. They have some fanatical idea that they are doing this for the Jihad and that they will be rewarded in heaven. That must be it. No, no it makes no sense — unless it is like 9/11. They will run the craft into the unbelievers. In that we are aboard is of little consequence — collateral damage.
All his life Thawri had acted like a coward. In school he allowed the school-yard ruffians to beat him up routinely and worse, let it continue and then never told anyone. He was ashamed of his cowardice that followed him all his life. He hid it well as his wife and children had no knowledge of it. He had learned to avoid confrontation, to walk where it was safe and to make a hasty exit as a situation turned against him. There was no escaping this situation. Today he would make the ultimate sacrifice and pay for it with his life. Others would die as well.
He felt like a cornered rat with its back to the wall. No, I will not die a whimpering coward. I may die, but I will not die a coward. I will overcome one of them and others will follow my bravery. If I die today it will be because I stood up against those who would harm women and children. I will stand up to them. If I die and there are survivors they will speak of my bravery. My family will be honored.
Thawri watched and waited like a panther ready to pounce upon an unsuspecting prey.
Something was not right.
Only five minutes into the shift and everything was already going haywire. The salt and pepper haired air-traffic controller pulled nervously at his tie and spoke into the microphone.
“AIF six-four-five. This is Dubai Center. You are drifting off your course. Please return to your proper course immediately.
Pause
“AIF six-four-five. Execute the order now.”
No response.
“Change your course to one-seven-two. Repeat one-seven-two.”
The controller loosened his tie and brought a handkerchief to his forehead that began to perspire. He scanned the instruments to be sure he was reading everything correctly. Two decades on the job told him this would be a day he would remember for many years. The plane veered sharply off its course and headed out into the Arabian Sea. “Enough of this nonsense,” he muttered. He picked up the phone and called his supervisor.
The FAA operations center asked questions.
“The transponder is on — yes it is transmitting at 1090 MHz. There is no 7500 international hijacking code. There is no response to the CPDLC.” He knew the drill.
“There was no evidence of depressurization. No report of anything at all.”
It was agreed — something was wrong.
The operations officer speed dialed Central Command in Middle East Naval operations in Camp As Sayliyah in Qatar. “We have a problem.”
Several patches later Captain Edward Schmitzer received the news.
“It is headed straight for the Fifth Fleet.”
“Patch me through to the SecDef.” A minute later four Super Hornets scrambled off the deck of the SS George H.W. Bush.
Iran Air Flight 645 at an airspeed of 525 mph dropped to fifteen thousand feet with clear skies and unlimited visibility. 250 miles away sat the Fifth Fleet patrolling the waters of the Arabian Sea.
The SecDef answered his cell phone in the hallway while on his way to the Oval Office. He carried a folder of specs on some updated E-3 AWACS spy aircraft that he was going to recommend. He listened for a minute as he continued walking like a lost soul past the senators and congressmen that scurried about. His pace picked up as he neared the door. Usually he was cautious and crept past the door.
Not this time.
Willard Bumgardner burst through the door of the Oval Office. “We have a big problem!” He handed the BlackBerry to Landenberger. “Take this. You must hear this first hand.”
Landenberger listened for a minute and said,” MY GOD! GET EVERYONE DOWN TO THE WHSR IMMEDIATELY!” Agents outside the door took positions and followed.
The pair raced down the hall picking up Michael Costanzo and Houston Robinson as they brushed by the offices. Landenberger ran it by them as they hurried down the stairwell and Costanzo used his wrist radio to call his secretary ordering her to make the calls to get everyone down there.
James Shaughnessy fell in behind the others. “What’s up?”
“We have a report from the CPDLC that there is a probable hijacking and a possible suicide mission in progress in the Arabian Sea. The SS George H.W. Bush has scrambled four Super Hornets and we are waiting for word from the president.”
The screens were lit up with the visuals from the SS George H.W. Bush and the fighter aircraft as everyone scurried to a seat.
The CPDLC was on a secure line. The four-star general at the other end explained, “Commercial Iran Air Flight 645 from Tehran to Dubai is off its course. There has been no response thus far and it seems to be headed for the Fifth Fleet. Take a look at your screens as we have the direct live visuals from the four Super Cobras and another from the SS George H.W. Bush and the USS Enterprise.”
“OK nothing is really showing yet then.”
“ETA is five minutes for the jet fighters intercept.”