At 2:45 a.m. the Muscat International officials closed several gates in the western terminal and held up air traffic for “security reasons.” Passengers were moved to a holding area into the hallway where they watched the “delayed thirty minutes” screens for the three a.m. flights. For any experienced air traveler this was not uncommon and no one gave it any thought.
Twenty-five chartered buses pulled up to the main gate filled with passengers. The security officer waved the lead bus to a stop and ran around to the door. “Are you the Russian delegation?” He inquired as he chewed on a piece of gum like a camel.
“Yeah — tell us where you want’m,” said the driver.
“Everything is set for your departure.” He hopped into the bus. “I’ll give you directions.” He stood beside the driver and led him through a maze of parking lots and ramps while twenty-four buses trailed behind.
From the air, an Ilyushin Il-96-300PU Russian jet led five other Ilyushin Il-62M’s to the runway.
“Russian presidential fleet cleared to land. All clear — cleared to land.”
“Approaching landing as instructed.” A Rossiya agent monitored the landing from the control room. Two hundred FSB agents had secured the terminal and the tarmac twenty-four hours in advance to assure that the President of the Russian Federation and his delegation arrived safely.
The behemoth presidential jet skidded to the runway and taxied a hundred yards from the terminal while the Royal Household troops raced out in military trucks and surrounded the planes. One thousand soldiers dropped to the tarmac armed with 5.45 x 39 mm assault rifles and 30mm Gatling guns mounted on the trucks.
A single black limousine pulled up to the Russian Presidential Aircraft and Iman bin Abu Al Saad, Sultān of Oman stepped out dressed in burgundy silken robes. A ramp rolled up to the door and out stepped Kuznetsoy and Vissarionowich who descended the stairway and walked to the tarmac. Iman bin Abu Al Saad welcomed the Russian leaders as the convoy of buses pulled to the center of it all.
Anxious hostages stepped off the first several buses and were greeted by the Sultān and the Russian dignitaries. The EU hostages hustled up the stairway into the presidential plane looking cheerful that the ordeal might be nearing a conclusion. Mahdi’s men unloaded wooden crates from the cargo hold of the buses and airport handlers loaded it into the cargo hold of the Il-62M’s.
The Sultān embraced the leaders and thanked them for the half billion dollar gift deposited earlier into his personal bank account and then returned to the limo and departed.
The Russian dignitaries greeted Mahdi who jumped off the first bus. “Kustenov gave the customary bear hug. “This will be the last we see of each other. I must have your assurance that your pirating days are over, my comrade. I would not want any disruption of our Russian tankers.”
“My heart has always been in the fishing. My father was a fisherman. It is in my blood.”
“That is good. Follow your heart. It is quiet desperation that brings men to do desperate things.” He shook his hand as the planes prepared for the takeoff. “You will have the final payment before you land in Venezuela. President Rio will greet you there and see you to your new homes on the ocean. I have assured him that you will not engage in criminal activities.” He smiled. “He will kill you if you do.”
The Russian aircraft raced down the runway and sailed off into the night sky.
A squadron of Sikorsky Sea Kings swept fifteen feet above the waters of the Arabian Sea like carrion predators from hell. They had passed over the blackened waters of the Straights of Hormuz, then through the Gulf of Oman, and out into the Arabian Sea. They flew south along the coastline and then like winged demons swooped down upon the solitary beach house that perched above a rugged shore.
Commander Qaboo of Op SHARK ordered his troops to the beach. He looked at his watch. 3:07 a.m. Time was of the essence as five minutes was preset as the limit for the assault. It was hoped that this was Admiral Mahdi’s OC. Sleeper cells suspected as much and passed the intel to the Iranian military only three hours earlier. Thirty-six men with Russian Dragunov Tiger 54mm assault rifles and RPG’s dropped to the beach and crept silently toward the house. “Nothing so far, sir.”
He stepped to the beach and saw the stealth speedboats, or at least what was left of them — scraps of splintered and charred wood still smoldering. There was nothing here. He was ordered to come back with “proof” of Israeli involvement in the pirating and was provided “plants” in the event nothing turned up. He tossed a pair of dead grenades and serial numbered bomb parts into the ashes and kicked everything around with this boots making sure no one saw him. “Anything so far?” he inquired into his headset.
“There is no one here. They have evacuated the premises.”
“Search for Israeli weapons in the house. Send down half your men to search the debris out front.”
“Yes sir.”
Soldiers came running down to the beach. “Look there and there,” he suggested as he pointed to the boats a bit farther off. It would look suspicious to find anything so quickly. His men poked through the ashes. “Anything turning up?” He moved down the beach further from the spot he had hidden the Israeli “evidence.”
A voice from the headset gave notice, “Nothing to report here, sir — we may go home empty handed.”
“Give it one more minute and then return to base. We depart in two.”
He stepped into the water. Oily film drifted on the surface. He knew that soon the waters would blacken with the sludge bringing certain death to his homeland on the other side of the Straights.
The shores of Iran were already uninhabitable and dead wildlife dropped from the air into the streets of Tehran like rain. On the first day the smoke from the sea was like a curtain of death that crept upon his homeland as though it were a plague of locusts cast upon them from Allah.
His choppers were covered with oil and men were doing their best to clean the windshields and intakes from the muck. During the mission they needed to stop every five to ten minutes to clear the oil. As they distanced themselves from Iran, the air gradually became navigable. He wondered if they would make it back to the base. Would the base be there on the return?
The fifth day of the sludge, there were riots as the food ran out. Neighbors turned upon neighbors and gangs roamed the neighborhoods armed with pistols and assault rifles methodically killing everyone in their path. Jeeps were fitted with Gatling guns and they openly fired upon anyone who got in the way. The roads were strewn with abandoned vehicles that could not navigate the slick, most on fire. Corpses, piled in heaps, filled every street corner and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air.
His wife clutched his children when he departed. Her last words were, “You must save yourself. If you come back, you will die with us.” Tears ran down her face while he assured her that he was coming back. “You are a fool! If you come back, you are a fool!” Her words echoed in his mind.
He looked at his men coming down the beach, looking like they had climbed out of a tar pit. They trusted him — they would follow him to hell if he asked. He had a duty to Allah, the Supreme Leader, to his country and to his family, but today he questioned all that had been thrust upon him. To go back was to go to an uncertain death. I am their leader and I am sworn to protect them, to abort a mission if needed. It is my discretion. We have completed the mission, now it is my duty to return them safely. He kicked at the “proof” hidden in the burning debris and knew the mission was a scam and no longer mattered.
They were cut off from the OC. Communications dropped off five minutes after they had left. They were alone in a foreign country and would be shot if discovered.