Saddam's Secrets Page 7
I dressed quickly and ran over to the headquarters to see Gen. Hardan al-Tikriti, who was my commander at our base near Mosul at that time. When I walked into his office, he was clearly very tense, and he said he wanted me to fly an unusual mission. I was to be the flight leader for an attack at Aleppo, in the far northwest corner of Syria.
When he told me what he wanted, I said, “What? You want me to attack Aleppo?” He said, “Not the city, Georges, the air base. I want you to hit the airfield.”
“But why?” I asked. “We’re not at war with Syria, are we?” He said, “No, it’s not that. There’s been a revolution in Syria. Half the airfield is in the hands of the Baath Party and the other half is still controlled by the old government. There’s a battle going on now to see who will control the airfield, and they’ve asked for our help.”
I asked him, “Sir, which part are we going to attack?” He said, “The western half is in the hands of our friends (meaning the Baath Party), and the eastern half is held by the opposition. So I want you to hit the eastern part.”
I started thinking about the risks of a mission like that, and after a little quick calculation I realized it was going to be at least four hundred miles from Mosul to Aleppo, and it wasn’t very likely that our formation could make it there and back. So I said, “Sir, I don’t think we can make it back to base with the fuel in the MiG-17s.” At that point he barked at me, “I don’t care if you make it back or not. When your engines flame out, you just eject!”
I knew then that there was no room for argument, so I saluted and said, “Yes, sir.” I went over to the telephone and called the scramble room and told them to get the planes ready. And I also said to tell my number two pilot to be prepared for a mission. When I got to the flight line to check out the airplanes, I told the technicians to load high explosive, and I made sure our drop tanks were full. My number two, Lt. Ahmed Khairi, came running up to me and I told him what was going on. We had been classmates at the academy, but I was senior to him, so I led the formation, which would be called the “black formation.”
As soon as everything was ready, we took off and climbed quickly to cruising altitude. But just as we were setting our course for Aleppo, the flight controller came on the radio and said, “Black formation, return to base. Our friends have taken the airfield.” I couldn’t believe it! We were ready for the mission, and there’s no way of knowing whether we could have completed it or not. But now we didn’t have to go, and I just whispered, “Thank you, Jesus!”
Doing the Impossible
At the time of the 1963 revolution, we had one squadron of MiG- 21s in Iraq. We had ordered eighteen of the new jet fighters, but only six had arrived in the first shipment. As usual, Russian technicians came with the shipment and they had already taken two of them out of the crates and managed to get them reassembled and ready to fly. Both planes were checked out by a Russian pilot and parked on the flight line, but none of the Iraqi pilots had been checked out in the 21s, and these planes had sophisticated new avionics and hydraulics that we’d never seen before.
The plan was for the technicians to assemble all six planes and have them checked out, one by one, and the Russian pilot would make the first flights and decide if they were ready to be turned over to our flight instructors. Eventually, of course, they would repeat this process for all eighteen, and our squadron of MiG-21s would then be complete. They hadn’t made an instructor model with two seats at that time—one seat for the student pilot and one for the instructor —so the instructors would have to teach us about the planes using the older MiG-15s.
But before this process was complete, and before any of our pilots were trained to fly the new 21s, the revolution came and the Baathis, who were fiercely anti-communist, took over. This meant that all the Russian pilots and technicians were immediately sent home to Russia. So there we were with two brand-new highly sophisticated jet fighters sitting on the runway, but no pilots trained and ready to fly them.
When the Baathis took control of the government, Gen. Hardan al-Tikriti, the same man who had ordered me to make the raid on Aleppo, in Syria, was promoted to commander of the air force, and he was determined that one of his pilots was going to fly the MiG- 21. He wanted to be able to boast that our Iraqi pilots didn’t need Russian help: we could do it ourselves. So he ordered that the two best pilots in the air force be brought down to Al Rashid Air Base in Baghdad where the MiGs were kept. That order resulted in my sudden transfer to Baghdad along with my colleague, First Lieutenant Hamid al-Dhahi.
We arrived at the new base on a Wednesday morning in April 1963, and checked in with the base commander as we’d been ordered to do. I had been flying MiG-15s and 17s, and Hamid had been flying the British Hawker-Hunters up to that time. But the air force commander told us, “By Saturday I want to see this plane in the sky. And I expect one of you boys to be flying it.” That was it. He dismissed us and a non-commissioned officer took us out to the airfield.
When I heard the commander’s words, I didn’t know what to think. I was just a young lieutenant. I knew I was a good pilot; I’d been trained in MiG fighters in Russia. But this airplane was so much more powerful and more sophisticated than anything I’d ever seen. Compared to the planes I’d been flying, it looked like a rocket ship sitting on the ground. It was entirely different, huge, shiny, intimidating. Hamid and I walked around the plane and looked it over, inside and out, but we didn’t have any idea where to begin.
I asked a non-commissioned officer on the flight line if there were any instructors for the MiG-21 and he said no, that if there were any they were in Russia. I asked if there was a dual-seat model and again, he said no. When I went and sat in the cockpit and looked at the instruments, I realized this model was entirely different from the MiGs I’d flown. Some of the gauges were similar to the MiG-17, but they were positioned differently or they had new features I’d never seen before.
When Hamid looked at the airplane, his reaction was totally different from mine. He said, “This is a MiG-21.” They said, “Yes, sir, that’s correct.” He said, “I’m not a MiG pilot. I fly Hawker-Hunters.” They said, “Yes, sir, but the commander said. . . .” But Hamid interrupted the sergeant and said. “Look, I’m not going to kill myself in that plane. Sorry, but Georges can do it. I’m going back to my base in Habbaniya.” And that was it. Hamid left me there, and for all I knew there was no one to help me. In just three days time I would have to learn everything I needed to know to take off and land this incredible machine. But God only knew if I would be able to do it.
Well, I breathed a silent prayer and asked the duty sergeant, “Sergeant, how many of your technicians have been to Russia to take the maintenance course on the MiG-21.” He said, “All of them, sir.” Well, at least that was a start. So I said, “Bring them all here.” I didn’t know if this would solve my problem, but it would certainly help to meet with the technicians and mechanics responsible for fuel, hydraulics, engine repairs, avionics, airframe, instruments, and everything else. If they could tell me what all the equipment was for and how it worked, at least I’d know something. So they brought those eight men to see me, and before long class began.
For the next two days I participated in one of the most unusual classes I’d ever seen. The eight students became my teachers, telling me everything they knew about this airplane—or at least enough to show me how the instruments and controls operated, how the oxygen and ejection systems worked, and what all the buttons, switches, and lights were for. All day long, from early in the morning until late at night, I listened and learned. When I wasn’t asking questions I was reading manuals. And we were constantly going back and forth to the plane to look at the instrument panels and to get the feel of it.
In a jet fighter, the pilot has control of an enormous amount of power. He needs to know so much, not just about weapons systems and fuel capacity, but also about how to control that power in takeoff and landing. How much power does it take to lift off? What’s the recommended air
speed for landing, and what are the systems for breaking and stopping on a medium to short runway? These are all life and death matters.
In an aircraft like this one, takeoff speed is less critical than landing speed, but none of my teachers could help me with that. But it turned out that there was another pilot on the base who had actually taken pilot’s training on the MiG-21 in Russia. He failed the course and was sent home, but surely he would be able to tell me something. I had them send that man to me, and when he arrived I asked him about takeoff and landing speeds and he gave me a pretty good idea of what I’d need to be doing at liftoff and touchdown, and how much runway I’d need. With a runway of only 3 kilometers (or 1.8 miles), and a high performance aircraft, these were all vital questions, as I discovered only too soon.
Going on Adrenalin
If you can just imagine my mental state during all of this! I must have looked like an alien from another planet. I was going up and down, back and forth, all over the aircraft, and my eight young teachers were doing their best to keep up with me. I was exhausted, living on coffee, and at times, I’m afraid, I must have been as irritable and short tempered as a Russian bear. But when Saturday came, I decided I could delay no longer. I got up early, showered, put on my flight suit, drank one last cup of coffee, and walked down to the flight line.
Everybody was there waiting for me when I arrived. The ground crew, the technicians, the sergeants, and many of the other pilots. I made a quick inspection of the plane, put on my helmet, and then I climbed the ladder and took my seat in the cockpit. Instruments awake? Check. Fuel? Check. Canopy down and locked? Check. And step by step I went through my procedures, ignited the engine, and then I released the brake and made my first taxi down the runway and back. By some miracle everything worked and I was in control of the airplane.
At that point I went to the line-up area at the far end of the runway and put my nose wheel right on the line, ready for takeoff. I was trembling like a leaf, but before going, I paused and said a quick prayer: “Jesus, you make it fly. I can’t do this alone. You know I don’t know what I’m doing. So please help me.” That’s all I said. I mumbled a quick “Amen,” pulled down my visor, pushed the throttle forward, and gave her full power.
The technicians and the failed pilot had told me I would need to hit 135 miles per hour in order to get liftoff, so I was watching the gauge as I was accelerating rapidly down the runway. When she hit 135 I pulled back on the stick and nothing happened. When you pull back on the stick, you can tell if the plane is going to take off; but when I pulled back hard and the nose didn’t lift, I realized I wasn’t going to make it and I was quickly running out of room.
To make matters worse, there was a huge earthen embankment at the end of the runway; if I hit that, it was all over anyway. I said, “My God, I’m going to hit the end of the runway!” So I decided I had to stop the aircraft.
I released the drag chute from the rear to slow the plane and pressed hard on the brakes. When I finally came to a complete stop, I was no more than thirty or forty feet from the embankment. I don’t know how I made it, but I collected my wits, slowly turned the plane around, and headed back to the other end. My hands were really trembling this time and there was sweat rolling down my face. Worst of all, I was humiliated that I hadn’t been able to get the plane up in the air. I could have stopped there and gone back to the tarmac, but something inside me said, No, Georges, you can do it. Go back out there now and try again.
So I decided I had to go back, and I’d make it fly if it killed me. Before I could try another takeoff, however, I needed a new parachute installed since I’d used the first one on the first takeoff attempt. So as I was coming back, I called the tower and said, “Tell the boys to get me another drag chute.” A couple of sergeants came running out with the chute, and as soon as the plane was ready, I went back to the line-up area. As I sat there, I gave myself a little pep talk. I said, “This time, I will take off, and nothing will stop me!”
So once again I released the brake and gave it full power and headed down the runway. This time when I hit 136 miles per hour, I pulled back hard on the stick and the nose hesitated briefly and then up she went like a rocket. I immediately put up the landing gear to reduce the drag, and she began to climb like a tiger. When I looked down to check my air speed, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Within seconds I had already surpassed the top speed of the MiG-17, and I still had power to spare.
When I looked around at my instruments and gauges, I realized I was shaking like a leaf. My legs were practically dancing. So I said, “Georges, shame on you. You’re a fighter pilot. Get a grip on yourself,” and I tried my best to do that. But when I circled back around and began to approach the base, I looked down at that tiny strip of concrete and asphalt and thought, Oh, my God, how am I going to land this thing?!
The 21 Has Flown
The view from where I was sitting was unbelievable. The sky over Baghdad on that April morning was crisp and clear. When I climbed to six thousand feet I could see the whole city sprawled out before me—the rolling countryside, the Tigris River, and the deserts far to the west. All around me in every direction was the incredible dark purple horizon that encircles us, and I was overwhelmed by the joy of it, and the very strange privilege I’d been given.
Every pilot knows such emotions, but as a young aviator with so few hours in high-performance airplanes, I was out of my league and I knew it. It was wrong of my commander to send me up in that plane with no instructors, no briefing, no real technical knowledge of the plane, and only his own bravado and vain pride forcing me to risk my life in this way. But there I was, and perhaps I was too young and too inexperienced to worry about it for very long. For now, somehow, I had to get that MiG back down in one piece.
As I approached the base and caught sight of the airfield where I was supposed to land, all I could see was a tiny black line. From the air, the landing strip, which was barely 150 feet wide, looked like a thread. Once again I knew I had to find a way to get control of my nerves and prepare for the descent and landing. I said, “Okay, I’ll try some rollovers.” So I pushed the stick to the right and, quick as a flash, I did a complete 360-degree roll. I was shocked. It never worked like that in the MiG-17. In that plane I had to press hard on the stick and practically force it to roll over. But this MiG-21 rolled like magic. It was like a sports car in the sky.
I tried this three or four more times, and it made me feel much better because I realized I had control of the plane and I’d done some very nice rolls. I wasn’t thinking at that time about what anyone on the ground was seeing, but I discovered later that all of Baghdad was watching me, and when I rolled the plane the crowds went wild. They were beating themselves on the chest, saying, “That’s our pilot! That’s our plane! That’s an Iraqi pilot!”
When I checked the fuel gauge this time I realized I didn’t have much time left, so I took her down closer to the airfield. I was feeling much better now, but I realized that before landing I was going to have to reduce my air speed, and I needed to know what it was going to feel like with the undercarriage down. So I put down the landing gear to get a sense of the drag, and once I was comfortable with that, I came in on approach.
I tried to remember what the technicians and the failed pilot had told me, but when I came in I still had too much speed. I was too far down the runway by the time I was ready to touch down, and there was no way I’d be able to stop. So I went around again and the same thing happened—three more times, in fact. On the last one, the red fuel light came on telling me I had no time to go around again and I had to land, one way or the other.
So, once again, I said, “Jesus, please help me,” and I put the aircraft in landing attitude and brought it in with flaps down. As soon as I felt the wheels hit the pavement, I popped the drag chute and then, just in time, I hit the brakes and brought her to a stop. It wasn’t the world’s best landing, but I was alive, and from all sides of the runway I saw people running out to congratulate
me. They were ecstatic, and within minutes I would be too.
In that short thirty-five-minute flight, I basically taught myself how to fly the MiG-21. It was a task I was not prepared for. But if not for the grace of God, I could have died at any point. Yet, somehow I did it, and from that moment on my name was known all over Iraq. “Lt. Georges Sada has flown the MiG-21, and he didn’t need the Russians to teach him anything!” That’s what they said, and they were all very proud of me.
But it was even better than that. When I made the false start on my first run, nobody realized I had simply failed to get enough speed. And when I made the four false landings, the people were thrilled. They thought I was doing it for their sake, putting on a show! But if they had only known the truth, it might have been a different story.
Of course, the biggest surprise came later when I found out that it was forbidden to take off in a MiG-21 without using the afterburner. I had asked the technicians and the failed pilot if I needed to use the afterburner, and they said they weren’t sure. They asked me, “Do you use it with the MiG-17?” I said, “No, I don’t need it.” They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and said, “Okay, well don’t use it with the 21 either.” But that turned out to be very bad advice. If only I had known! It was only because I had used up so much fuel in my first attempt and reduced the weight of the plane that I was able to take off at all.
By the time I parked the plane, the flight controller had called the air force commander, General Hardan, and he came over and congratulated everybody. He barked to the crowd, “The 21 has flown!” as if he, too, were a hero. But they had no idea what I had been through for this to happen. When I stepped down from the plane, everybody was there to greet me: the base commander, the chief of the air force, and many other officers and pilots from the base, as well as all the technicians and the failed pilot who had taught me everything they knew.