Operation: Eyewitness

by D. Rudd Wise

CHAPTER ONE

Leaning back into the seat of a Royal Air Maroc 747 jet airliner headed for the United States, Jess E. Hanes felt the usual pressure forcing him deeper into the seat as the aircraft lifted from the runway. It banked over Casablanca, steadily climbing above the clouds, and he could feel the mental pressures fading away like the continent below.

The noise of his surroundings subsided until he could only feel a steady light vibration. The aircraft had reached its cruising altitude and began a level flight. Deep in thought, he was almost mesmerized watching the puffy clouds pass rapidly beneath them.

A flight attendant tapped Jess on the shoulder, bringing him out of his daze. Startled, he threw up his arm in defense. He could not see her clearly for his eyes were slow to adjust to the lesser light in the cabin.

"Mr. Hanes, sorry I startled you," she said quietly. "Would you like something hot or cold to drink?"

He returned a blank stare.

"Would you care for something to drink?" she asked again.

"Why, yes! Please . . . iced tea?" he asked, turning toward her in the seat.

"Iced tea with sugar, lemon?"

"Lemon. Thanks!" He replied while rubbing the right side of his neck. It had almost cramped while he had been staring so fixedly out the window.

His eyes finally adjusted to the interior light of the airliner, and he could see his flight attendant smiling while she continued taking the other passengers' orders. Then she returned to the upper deck galley serving area at the rear of his seating section.

Jess in his late fifties was in perfect health for his age, a retired military pilot with twelve years in the U.S. Navy and twelve in the U.S. Air Force while working as an undercover agent for the Secret Service.

Now, he was a world traveler, searching for hidden and lost treasures of the world. Jess was married for more than thirty years to the same beautiful lady, Marie Ann, whom he was returning to in Austin, Texas.

He spoke softly to himself while slowly shaking his head, "Lord, I need to get these tensions under control!"

Jess was not in danger any longer. He did not have to look over his shoulder, always reacting to every unusual noise or movement around him. He was tight as a fiddle string.

Seated all the way forward, the roar of the jet engines were behind him. The light vibrations finally began their relaxing effect. No one occupied the two seats next to him toward the aisle, so he was alone with his thoughts.

The Boeing 747 airliner was less than half full, and most of the passengers were seated in the economy middle and rear sections. Jess sat in the front row of the upper deck seats, with only four other people in the section. At the expense of the Moroccan government, he had selected his own seating. It was a good location.

The wall in front of Jess held a large rack full of magazines and current newspapers. He selected a National Geographic magazine, because they always had good photos and interesting articles. He was not really in the mood for reading, but just looking at the pictures kept him from thinking too much.

The attendant brought the iced tea he had ordered. She was an attractive, long wavy haired brunette in a light blue uniform, which fit her tall, shapely frame comfortably. She wore her uniform with pride and confidence. It was not tight like some of the others, who were obviously uncomfortable when bending over or kneeling next to a passenger.

Jess had also noticed that her face, with its natural beauty, was not covered with excessive makeup. Yes, she was a very attractive lady, perhaps in her late thirties. Madilene was on her nametag, which was attached over her jacket pocket.

"Thank you ma'am." Jess spoke like a true native Texan would to a lady.

"If you need me for anything, just push the button above you for service," she said. "I'll be in the back." She hesitated, then opened the overhead storage above him, moved a few items, and closed the door. She laid a pillow and blanket in the seat next to him. "You look like you could use these," she said with a smile, then returned to her duties.

Slowly stirring the ice cubes to get the tea colder, he took a long sip. Its taste was fresh, and its aroma was pleasing, just what he needed.

The pictures and articles in the National Geographic did not stop his brain from wandering off to other things. Taking a deep breath and laying the magazine on his lap, Jess returned to gazing out the window. He shook his head in amazement, just realizing the turmoil he had come through and survived.

Man alive! He almost said out loud. I'm finally on the way! Here I am, going home to Texas after eight months of life threatening adventure and leaving behind nightmares of terror.

Those were events he would not soon forget. How did he get himself into such a mess? He was just an innocent bystander who had been involved in international terrorist turmoil in Morocco.

Again, it was the age-old story of being at the right place at the wrong time or was it the wrong place at the right time for Jess?

#

It was August of the previous year when all his problems started during a layover in the Dar al-Baida International Airport, Casablanca. Jess, a professional treasure hunter, was in route to the Middle East. With a six-hour delay in Morocco, he welcomed the chance to be back in a country he had lived in thirty years prior.

Strange things can happen in international airport terminals where thousands of people are in transit. Not knowing one another, but thrown together in a split-second of passing, people glance at each other but do not really see. Occasionally, eyes momentarily meet, but otherwise no communication shared.

Jess moved through the terminal aisles, looking for his departure ramp before taking a sightseeing walk outside. He glanced at his ticket again for the gate number, and moved into the flow of people heading in that general direction.

The morning crowd pushed through the wide aisles. He noticed congestion ahead of him where three civilians and a big fat military man were quarreling. They were shoving and cursing each other. That attracted a small crowd in front of an empty ticket counter, causing the flow of people to shy around them.

One civilian was dressed like a banker, or politician, in a white summer suit. The other two, who wore similar light blue three-piece suits, had joined with the large military man in an intense argument with the gentleman in white.

Jess did not know why he had noticed the suits, but thought it unusual. He did not stop to watch, because common sense told him to keep moving. Not minding his own business had gotten him in trouble before.

As Jess pressed between people to pass around the small crowd, the large uniformed officer backed out into the aisle, almost knocking Jess down. He turned and glared at Jess for being in his way. The big man made gestures with his hands flapping in the air, shouting what Jess supposed were Arabic obscenities.

Because of his brute size, he had brushed Jess aside with little effort. He and the two blue-suited men hurried toward the main lobby, leaving the white-suited gentleman standing alone. Startled, Jess just stood there watching the three leave, realizing that the encounter could have been a bloody battle if they had come to blows.

The big military officer suddenly stopped and turned around, glaring back through the parted wake of people he had left behind him. His men were following so close they almost bumped into him. He yelled something and pointed toward Jess; or rather, at the white-suited man behind Jess. Jess quickly moved aside, turned around, and continued on his way.

The noise from the crowded lobbies eventually drowned out the confusion behind him. He followed the signs to the departure ramps and stayed with the flow of people ahead of him.

Seeing restaurants reminded Jess that he had not eaten for a while, and his stomach began to growl. While trying to make up his mind where to eat, he made mental notes on the different cultural clothing of the international travelers. He enjoyed watching and studying the people.

This is going to be an enjoyable layover, he thought to himself. The flight for Dubai, United Arab Emirates, is six hours away. There is plenty of time to eat, browse and perhaps find a souvenir to send home.

Suddenly, he had a call of nature, causing a frantic detour for the nearest restroom. That can be a threatening experience in a foreign country. But, when you gotta go, ya gotta—now!

Upon finding a restroom entrance marked with a silhouette of a man on the door, he rushed in. The heat from the Moroccan desert with the ocean's humidity made most of the terminal unbearable. But the temperature was cool inside the large, brightly lighted, high-ceiling restroom.

It was fairly clean for a foreign airport. There was a long row of washbasins on the left, and a row of twenty partitioned stalls across from them. He picked the last stall at the far end of the room. Standing inside the stall, he could not see over the top of the partition, and it reached down to within six inches of the floor.

Jess laid his satchel and attaché case against the wall, closed the door, dropped his pants and sat on the cold toilet seat. No sooner had he sat down, he heard shuffling of feet at the other end of the room. Low voices in Arabic bitterly argued. One loud husky voice was familiar to Jess, like that of the large military officer he had seen earlier.

The sound of three muffled gunshots startled him. Then, he heard the sound of a body falling to the floor, which sent a sudden, icy chill down his spine. He sat motionless, barely breathing.

Be quiet, Jess! They may not know you're here, he thought to himself. Maybe they won't notice this is the only closed stall door.

He stood, pulled his pants up, zipped them closed and lightly bumped the stall door. It banged against its latch, and the sound was like a shotgun being fired. It echoed in the large room.

The men stopped talking and listened. Now Jess knew they would notice the only closed stall door. He held his breath, not wanting to make a sound, and did not even want to blink or think about them knowing he was there.

He started to step up onto the stool, and a coin dropped out of his pants pocket onto the tile floor, making enough noise to raise the dead.

One of the men ran toward the stall where Jess was, shouting in Arabic, "BISMILLAH . . . in Allah's name, you die!" and hurriedly tossed a bag toward Jess' stall. It scooted on the tile floor and swished under the stalls partition, bouncing off Jess' attaché case and coming to rest between his spread legs. It was a tan canvas bag, and he had little doubt of what it was: a satchel charge of explosives. He kicked the bag, shoving it out of the stall. It slid across under the lavatories.

He grabbed the top of the partitioned wall next to him. Lifting his legs toward the back wall, he pressed his shoes against it and hugged the partition as tightly as possible. He began to pray.

A deafening explosion shook the room, blowing the outside wall onto the grassy yard. At the same instant, the stall door blew in and slammed against Jess' back. The shrapnel had cut jagged holes in the door, which ripped into his skin, penetrating between the ribs, pinning him to the door and against the still standing partition wall. He could feel the sharp metal scraping his rib bones. Hanging helplessly, he was not able to extend his legs to the floor for support.

His head reeled from the concussion of the explosion. He could not catch his breath, speak or scream. The stenches of powder, dust, smoke and blood mingled, dripped down his shirt onto his pants, and then onto the floor. A thick cloud of dust settled over him as numbness and shock rapidly set in.

Jess began to lose his grip on top of the partition wall, and his weight pulled against the jagged metal, which was tearing further into his back. Not able to reach the floor with his feet, he hung helplessly by his back from the door—and passed out. The partition wall began to lean, and finally collapsed from his weight.