(USS VIRGINIA (CGN-38) in some exotic Med port- of call (date unknown)).

Vic’s recent posts about his experience in the Med have brought back some fond memories of FOSIF Rota during the winding down of the Cold War. The power of memory and the current brouhaha in the press and presidential campaigns about illegal immigration (yes I did just write that), have both called to mind a sea story. Being the gracious man that he is (and probably desiring a break from the daily Socotra grind), Vic has encouraged me to relate to you the story of the day I spent in Egypt as a real illegal alien, and of course, how I engineered my escape. So, as all sea stories start out, this is no shit…

It was in the summer of 1989, and the USS CORAL SEA (CV-43) and her battle group were coming to the Med as part of the normal carrier rotation. As part of our INCHOP SOP at FOSIF Rota, we would dispatch ship riders to Norfolk or Jacksonville who would ride the carrier during her transit, and provide intelligence briefings to all of the ships in the group. This time, I guess our team did too well on selling the value of intelligence to senior leadership and the Commodore of Destroyer Squadron 36 (DESRON 36), Captain Anthony Colucci, sent a message to COMSIXTHFLEET declaring that he wanted a ship-rider intelligence officer during a couple of months when he would be detached from the main battle group (thus getting out from under the thumb of the carrier group staff). His ships would be doing some independent steaming operations embarked in USS VIRGINIA, accompanied by another small-boy DDG.

They were to conduct good will port visits in La Spezia, Italy, Bizerte, Tunisia, the Isle of Rhodes in Greece, and finally rejoin the main body in Alexandria, Egypt. Not wanting to turn down a legitimate request from an operational commander (but loathe to give up any of their small staff of officers), SIXTHFLEET passed that booger over to FOSIF Rota. My CO at the time, Big Larry, called me into his office and gave me the first crack. Since I was still single, it was a no brainer and a couple of weeks later, I found myself with my sea bag and a suitcase with two months’ worth of civvies and uniforms in a VRC-20 C-130, heading to Pisa, Italy, which was the airport nearest to La Spezia. I was met upon arrival by a duty van from the nearby US Army depot, and taken to the port, where I boarded a liberty boat for the short ride out to the Virginia, where I joined the black shoe navy, and Tony’s Tigers.

(Captain Tony Colucci, 1940-2009).

Having gone to OCS in Newport, Rhode Island, I was probably better suited to this assignment than my peers and fellows who had entered Naval Intelligence via AOCS in Pensacola. Not knowing what to really expect, I found that the DESRON 36 staff a small but very cohesive unit. The leadership came in the form of Tony Colucci and he led a unit of high-quality officers with equally high morale, heightened by the knowledge that they were on their own and not subject to the two-star battle group commander and the whims of his staff. Tony was a unique individual, and it showed immediately in his choice of underway uniform which consisted of a DESRON 36 polo shirt, khaki shorts, and Topsiders.I learned that his usual underway station was sunning himself in a lounge chair on the port bridge wing – the man did have a great tan. After welcoming me aboard at an impromptu staff meeting, he then led the way down to the captain’s gig. After loading, we were taken for a tour of the harbor, finally winding up at a shore-side seafood restaurant just up the very picturesque coast of La Spezia for dinner. During the 30 minute trip, the commodore himself opened to ice chest and handed me and the rest of the staff member ice cold Peronis.

“These are the uptight Shoes I’ve been hearing about?” I thought.

So, after more than seven weeks of cruising around the Med, exercises with the Italians, Tunisian, Greek, and Egyptian navies, blowing up floating garbage with .50cal machine guns, violating both Greek and Turkish air space during an exercise with the Coral-Maru, we pulled into Alexandria, where I was scheduled to get off and fly home on an Alitalia flight out of Cairo a few days later. Once the brow went down, we boarded the Captain’s gig for the short ride into the Egyptian Navy’s version of Fleet Landing. Schlepping my two bags, I accompanied the other members of the staff through what passed as Egyptian customs and border patrol. I had my passport at the ready, but the overweight agent at the gate just waved us on through, with no examination and, what was to become very important later, no stamp.

We had a great time in Egypt, taking a bus trip up to the Pyramids, going for a boat ride back down the Nile, exploring the site of the ancient library, drinking at a diplomatic reception, riding camels – the usual liberty stuff. Then, Hezbollah decided to publish pictures of the hanging of Marine Lieutenant Colonel Higgins, part of UNIFIL, who had gotten himself captured in 1988 in Lebanon. He had reportedly telling anyone who cared to listen that he used to be one of Caspar Weinberger’s aides, and that he was very important. Hezbollah decided to test these assertions, and took him hostage. The photos of his tortured body set off the orders to round up all liberty partiers and emergency sortie the battle group.

I was offered the chance to stay on-board, but decided to continue back to Spain. In my mind, we weren’t going to do anything but non-stop contingency strike planning for three weeks, and since the DESRON 36 guys were getting back on-board the Coral-Maru, I didn’t feel like being slave labor for the staff. Besides, I had been gone from my house for two months, we had a change-of-command coming up in about a week and I needed to get my FITREP debriefed, and more importantly, I had a leggy blonde ballet dancer waiting for me to get back into town.

The rest of the staff got onboard the liberty boats back out to the carrier, and I went back to our admin room in the hotel for a final night of liberty in Alexandria, where I decided to visit the famous Spitfire Bar, which had become our unofficial home.

(Interior shot of the Spitfire Bar).

The next morning, I got up early, checked out of the hotel, and got a cab to the Alexandria airport, for my short 0800 flight to Cairo. I still swear that the Egypt Air stewardess on that flight is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, an absolutely stunning lady. After the 30 minute flight, we landed at the smaller of the two international airports in central Cairo, where I need to recheck my bags and go through Egyptian customs and immigration. Remember back when I stated that my passport had no entry stamp? This is where it got “interesting.” I checked into the Alitalia desk, dropped my bags, got my boarding passes (change of planes in Rome for Madrid and then Jerez), and proceeded to the Egyptian Customs station where I filled out their exit form and got in line. When my turn came, the agent looked at my ticket/boarding pass and then my passport, uh oh.

“I’m afraid there is problem here, you don’t have stamp.” he intoned ominously.

Shit.

“I came into the country aboard a US Navy ship in Alexandria, and I’m going back to Spain. They didn’t stamp any of our passports when we came into the country.”

“I’m sorry but that is our rule. You cannot board the flight.”

“What do I do then?” I asked with a really sinking feeling in my gut. “My bags are already checked and probably on-board.”

“We can probably get them off.” He then signaled to a baggage agent to come over to us. “He will help you get your bags, but I’m afraid that you will have to get back into the line and see about getting a stamp.”

We were able to access the cargo loading area, find my bags in one of the metal bins (remember that this was in 1989, and there was no version of TSA or much security to speak of, except for armed soldiers with AK-47s patrolling around the terminal. There were also no cell phones, so I had to get some change, find a pay phone, call Alitalia, rebook a later flight, and get a new boarding pass. This process took about 45 minutes. Then I got back in line. As it happened, I got the same agent. This time, he told me that I was good to go, and gave me an exit stamp in my passport. But, the same thing happened, as I was going through the line to get to the flight departure area, another customs agent stopped me.

“Where is entry stamp, you don’t have stamp?”

“I didn’t get one because I came into Egypt via a US Navy ship, they were not stamping passports in Alexandria.” I added hopefully, “but I do have an exit stamp.”

He wasn’t buying it. He shook his head violently and pointed over to the customs desk.

“Again?” I thought; then realized “Fuck! Once again my bags are checked onto the plane and I’m going to miss the flight. I need to get them off ASAP.”

This was really starting to suck.

Once again, I got the same baggage agent, we went to the cargo loading area and retrieved my bags and went back into the terminal. I called Alitalia once more, got rebooked, and a new boarding pass, and got into the customs line this time with a different agent. When it was my turn, I told him the story. He got someone to take his place, and then asked me to follow him. He led me into a back area, which was probably where they performed strip searches, and asked me to tell him the story once again. At this point, I realized that what he really was doing was looking for some baksheesh. I had some cash, but not a lot, and thought “how big a bribe is this guy expecting? Too little and he might get pissed off and have me arrested, and then I really was going to be up the creek.”

So, I acted stupid and didn’t give him anything, which pissed him off some more. At this point, he was probably thinking “how fucking stupid is this American?” I was thinking that I was in deep shit.

However, he led me back into the terminal, and left me standing in the middle of a noisy sea of humanity. I told you before that Cairo has two airports, an older one downtown built before WWII that is sort of like Reagan National for short hop flights and another larger, newer one like Dulles for bigger jets and intercontinental flights which was located out in the desert about 25 miles away. In the smaller airport, there was every species of Arab and African, more different colored and styles of kufiyahs (okay, raghead scarves) than you have ever seen, and there were some very exotic looking people, both men and women. At this point, I was feeling sort of lost and disoriented, and sat down on a bench to try figure a way out of this mess. Then, my first customs agent “friend” came walking by.

“Why are you still here?” He wondered aloud, surprised to see me sitting there.

I just sort of shrugged, staring back at him blankly.

“I don’t know, I’m just trying to get back home.”

He thought for a minute, and then said “I’ll tell you what, I’m going to go upstairs and get Beeg Boss. Wait here.”

He hurried towards a stair case. At this point, I realized that I probably didn’t really want to meet “Beeg Boss” and that there was an increasingly real possibility that an Egyptian jail or prison might be in my future. I needed to get the fuck out of there now.
Not waiting around for him to get back with “Beeg Boss” I gathered my bags, went outside, flagged down a taxi and told him to take me to the other airport outside of Cairo.

“Maybe I’ll have better luck over there in finding an entry stamp.” I thought to myself, as if.

What I really needed was a drink. At this point, it was around lunch time and I kept hearing the Genesis song refrain of “It’s no fun being an illegal alien.” Since I realized that I couldn’t solve this problem on my own, I fished around inside my carry bag, and pulled out the business card for the assistant Naval Attaché, whom I had met at the reception a couple of nights before.

When I go to the big international airport, it was crawling with security dudes, both uniformed with AKs, and plain clothes detective looking – this was not looking like a real smooth move. After paying off the cab driver, I found a bank of pay phones, found the few Egyptian coins I had left in my pocket, and dialed the number for the US Embassy. It took a few minutes to find the assistant attaché, an aviator Commander as I recalled, and seemed to be a good guy. I told him the story.

“You’re right, you’ve got a problem.” confirming it for me. “How are you fixed for money?”

“You want me to bribe someone?” I asked.

“No, just checking to see if you need any, I can lend you some (remember that back in 1989 there were few, if any ATMs around, American Express Traveler’s Checques being the coin of the overseas traveler’s realm). You’ve got to get an entry stamp from Alexandria. That may seem hard but you’re in luck as I’ve got to fly down to there this afternoon in the C-12 for another event at the consulate. I’ll meet you by the gate to the part of the field where we keep the station’s plane, take your passport down to the consulate, get it stamped, and then fly it back up here to you 2200 tonight. And if that doesn’t work in the time we’ve got left today, you can come home with me and we’ll have to wait until Monday (it was Friday) when the embassy opens back up and get your papers squared away and you on your way back to Spain, so you may have to stay here for the weekend. Just hang out there and try to remain inconspicuous. If you do get arrested, call the embassy and someone will come get you out.”

I could hear Phil Collins singing louder in my head.

“Go to the north end of the international terminal in about an hour, that’s where the gate to the ramp is located. We will meet you there.”

Trying to look nonchalant, I did a recce of the terminal, found a locker room to stash my bags, bought an International Herald Tribune and a cup of strong, dark Egyptian coffee, and found a seat in a small lounge area, next to a prayer room with a big arrow on the floor pointing towards Mecca. I watched a prayer session while sipping my coffee, wishing it was something a little stronger, and read the paper. Checking my watch from time to time, I waited out the hour. Finished with the paper, I went back outside and wandered to the north end of the airport terminal to wait. It was dry, hot, and dusty outside – the desert. I was starting to crack a sweat, despite about a ten knot breeze. After about ten minutes of waiting around in the hot sun, a car drove up and stopped. The window rolled down and it was the naval attaché and another attaché’ pilot from the embassy. They were both wearing flight suits. He reached for the passport in my hand.

“We would take you down with us but we’re going to have a full plane coming back.” he said. “Just lay low and keep moving around – we should be back in about eight hours. Meet us here around 2200.”

They drove over to the gate, pushed to security button, talked with a guard and then the gate slowly swung open. I watched them drive toward the C-12 parked on the ramp. Once they got there, I decided it was time to put my evasion plan into action. I went back into the terminal and spent the next eight hours moving from place to place every 45 minutes or so, never going to the same place twice, all the while trying to avoid getting the attention of any of the security personnel. Since the only forms of ID I had on me were my Alabama driver’s license and Navy ID card, I was going to have to do some extreme “splaining” to any authorities about why I was hanging around an international airport with no ticket and no passport. I could have told them the truth, but I doubt that any policeman or one of the many armed soldiers patrolling the terminal would have believed it. I was wishing for a bar to hang out in but given the circumstances, that was probably not a good idea. There was a bar upstairs in the departure area; you just had to get through security to get in – fuck!

(The international terminal lobby at Cairo International Airport).

Right before 2200, I went back outside and made my way back to the security gate. There was still a hot wind blowing off of the desert and it was pitch dark away from the terminal lights. After waiting for about 20 minutes, trying to not look obvious, I was rewarded by the sweet whining sound of the twin Pratt & Whitney turbine engines of a Beech King Air getting closer in the night. The C-12 taxied up and shut down. The attaché hopped out and hustled over to the fence where I was standing. He thrust the passport through a narrow opening between strands of barbed wire on top of the fence into my eager hands – free at last!

“What are you going to do?” he asked “Stay here or go?”

“I’m going to try to get out of here; while waiting for you to get back, I got Alitalia to rebook me on an Air Iberia flight direct to Madrid leaving just after midnight.”

“Roger that” he looked at his watch “its 2230 so you’d better get going.” You’ve got my home number and address on the business card so call me if there are any hang ups. Good luck.”

“Thank you for everything, Sir.”

“It was nothing, glad it worked out.” He turned and started back for the C-12.

Moving quickly, I retrieved my luggage from the storage locker, and hopped on the escalator to freedom. With ticket and stamped passport in hand, I entered the security line. The bored customs agent stifled a yawn, barely glanced at my passport, and waved me through the door – go figure. I made my way through the security area and made a beeline for the bar, managing to down several beers before boarding for the all night flight to Madrid. We landed there just before dawn and after clearing Spanish customs, I caught the connecting flight to Jerez, and from there a taxi back to my house, arriving around 0930 and opened a frosty cold San Miguel – mission complete.

So now I know what it feels like to be an illegal in a foreign country and alien culture, and it was definitely no fun at the time. But after nearly 27 years, it does make for a good sea story.

(The Med was our pond at FOSIF Rota).

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