by R G Ainslee
Lisette had good maternal instincts and was a devoted mother. She was better at the parenting gig than I was, I must admit. She dropped out of the university after the kid was born and concentrated on being a full-time mother. That was good, except little time was left for me, our little love nest now but a distant memory. The adjustment to being a dad was a difficult task after so many years as a carefree single man.
We needed a change of pace, a trip perhaps. "How about going up to Santa Fe for the weekend?" She ignored me. "You could use a little time out of the house."
Her look bored right through me. "You did not have enough of the travel. You return and wish to leave again."
"I want to do what you want. What do you want?"
"I want a husband who will be here to help. Not a man who go where he please." She started to cry. I felt two feet tall.
Monday, 28 July 1980: Washington, D.C.
Colonel Hansen's cubbyhole on the third floor of the Executive Office Building wasn't much of an office, a bit small, but situated next to the White House. That counted for something, at least in Hansen's mind. All that brass and stuffed shirts scurrying about made me antsy. For Hansen, it was nirvana. Somehow, the brown-nosing, bootlicking SOB had managed to bungle his way to the top: Special Assistant to the Policy Advisor to the Deputy National Security Advisor for Intelligence.
The colonel and I had a long history. We hated each other's guts. Hansen backstabbed me on many occasions and our paths seem to cross every few years. I believed he was responsible for Marsden's defection when Hansen was director of the Cochise Project at Fort Huachuca. There he sat, the same old attitude, always blunt, the essential Colonel Hansen, a true bastard. The smirk on his face said it all. I knew he was about to try again. My stomach churned as I struggled to keep my cool.
Across from Hansen sat Colonel Wayne Wilson, a tall imposing man who wore the wings of a combat pilot. The ribbons on his uniform, including the Silver Star and Distinguished Flying Cross, symbols of a notable record in Vietnam. Wilson was my boss and I almost trusted him, a straight shooter, but still an officer.
In addition to Wilson, two others were present. Mack Gibson my old boss at Huachuca, now chief analyst of the SSRP, sat at my right. John Smith, his real name, a CIA man, and the project's operations director pulled up a chair next to Wilson.
Hansen leaned back, puffed up, and exhaled, trying to look impressive. To me, he was nothing but a pompous jackass. At one time, he had been SSRP's liaison with the National Security Agency. They gave him the boot after he botched an attempt to analyze a critical recording of a Soviet missile test. Jack Richards and I risked our lives in Iran and Afghanistan and evaded capture or assassination by the KGB to deliver the tape. True to form, Hansen couldn't wait, wanted the credit for himself, and accidentally erased the recording.
The obnoxious bastard spoke first. "As I informed Colonel Wilson, the White House is interested in monitoring the investigation of the shoot… ah, crash of the Italian DC-9 last month." He peered over his drugstore reading glasses. "I assume you are familiar with the news accounts."
No one replied. My scatological remarks remained unspoken.
He adjusted his specs and continued, "Flight number 870, owned by Itavia airline, underway from Bologna to Palermo, crashed into the Tyrrhenian Sea, somewhere near Ustica Island south of Naples. Eighty-one passengers and crewmembers perished. The wreckage sank to a depth of 3,500 meters." He paused and eyed each of us in turn, as if he had just revealed the secret of the universe.
"The crash is a compelling human-interest story. Accusations of a shoot down by military aircraft appeared in the foreign press. The White House requires confirmation, one way, or the other."
Mack Gibson spoke up, "I don't see how this would involve us. We're not setup to conduct civil aviation investigations. Is the FAA is involved?"
"They are. However, the administration wants to make sure our military is not blamed for this incident."
"We had planes in the vicinity?" asked Wilson.
"Yes, several NATO fighters were in the area participating in an exercise during the time in question. There is one other factor to be considered. On 18 July, the wreckage of a Libyan MiG-23 was discovered on the slopes of Mount Sila, in Calabria, with the body of the pilot still strapped in his ejection seat. An autopsy revealed he had been dead for fifteen to twenty days."
Wilson frowned. "This aircraft is believed to be involved somehow?"
"Yes, three scenarios are possible." Hansen paused for effect and furrowed his brow. "One, the pilot attempted to defect, but crashed due to a lack of experience in night operations. The Libyan Air Force offers little training in night flying. If that scenario were true, we would assume he had nothing to do with the crash. A second theory has the airliner shot down by air-to-air missiles. Either from the Libyan jet or launched by NATO fighters attempting to shoot him down. The third theory assumes the Libyan fighter collided with the airliner while attempting to evade NATO aircraft."
"So, there's a good possibility our forces were involved in some fashion?" asked Wilson. "One question: what was the MiG doing so far from Libyan airspace? Seems to me he would have been at the limits of his fuel capacity. Ustica Island is to the north of Sicily."
Hansen responded in a condescending tone, "The MiG -23 has a maximum range slightly in excess of 1,700 miles. Depending on its exact fuel configuration, the aircraft had the capability to reach the area and return home." He raised his palms. "Why remains a mystery."
I asked, "Was this tracked by Italian air traffic control?"
Hansen expelled an irritated sniff. "Yes. The radar at Rome Ciampino Airport showed a single or perhaps multiple unknown aircraft closed on the airliner before it crashed."
"What about the Italian air defense radars? They should have a better picture of the incident."
Hansen sighed. "They are not entirely forthcoming on the matter."
I couldn't help myself and popped off, "A typical FUBAR." Fouled up beyond all recognition.
Hansen glared, eye to eye, as I waited for his rejoinder. He furrowed his brow and bit his lower lip as if he was trying to exercise restraint. After a deep breath, he turned to Wilson. "As I said before, the White House wants to make sure the blood sucking pinko Italian press doesn't pin the blame on our boys."
At last, the SOB's said something we can agree on. My mind went numb as he blathered on about the Italians, the need for action, and so on. The jerk was a BS artist — maggot cum laude. Why am I here? What's this got to do with me?
"Colonel Wilson, you will send Brannan and Michaels to Italy to review the electronic record…"
A cold flash of reality woke me from a near cataleptic trance. I blurted out, "Why me? Michaels should be able to handle the assignment on his own. He's the one with the PhD."
Hansen peered over his glasses with an irritated brow. "Because you're the best."
Stunned, I didn't believe what I heard. Had I fallen into a fantasy world? The SOB just paid me a compliment, had to be a trick. Just had to, no other explanation.
"What are we supposed to do?" I asked with a sense of trepidation.
"Like I said, examine the Italian electronic records. Match intercepts to the flight path of our aircraft. Above all, do not allow them to screw us on this. Understand?"
* * *
The meeting over, standing on the front steps of the Executive Office Building, I asked Wilson, "What happened up there?" Hansen had been uncharacteristically affable, and it gave me bad vibes.
"Evidently they sense another potential problem. What with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and the Iranian hostage crisis, I imagine they have their hands full. That could explain Colonel Hansen's involvement."
"You mean they passed the hot potato to him and now it's our turn?"
"Your analysis might be a bit cynical, but I would hesitate to disagree. However, we need to approach this matter carefully and not make mistakes."
"I still don't understand wh
y we're involved."
"Likewise, but we have an assignment and will carry through. I hope you appreciate that. This will be a team mission, not a lone wolf operation."
"Yes sir. But there's one thing."
A pained expression came over his face. "And that would be?"
"My wife, I want to take her with me."
I couldn't leave Lisette alone again. Since the baby was born, she had been sad, irritable, always tired, and prone to episodes of crying for no reason. Sarah, Barker's wife and a new mother, said the condition was some sort of post birth depression. I also had a feeling of being overwhelmed, isolated, and felt frustrated because I didn't know what to do. We both needed a change.
"This is not intended as a family vacation," said Wilson.
"I'm not going without her." Crunch time had come again, my job on the line. I didn't care. Lisette and the kid were the most important things in my life. I could always go back to work on uncle Rex's ranch west of Roswell. He hinted, on several occasions, he wanted someone to help him out and take over some day.
Mack, who was aware of the situation, having spoken to him in confidence, interjected, "I think that might be a good idea. She can assist with the language, I understand she speaks passable Italian, and would add to the cover that the investigation is low-key."
Wilson cleared his throat, gave me a disgusted glare, and said, "I'll consider your request." He looked over at Mack and then back to me, "I'll give you a decision tomorrow, but don't get your hopes up."
I breathed a sigh of relief. The colonel would change his mind. He knew he had to. He needed me and the only way I was going to Rome was with Lisette. All I had to do was convince her.
Saturday, 2 August 1980: Albuquerque, New Mexico
I took a quick look around the apartment, checking to make sure we hadn't forgotten anything. Raven eyed me from the comfort of my recliner. He sensed something was up. Cats are like that. They understand what packing a bag means. "Okay Buddy, the chair's all yours. If anything happens, I'll know who to blame."
Lisette said, "He never sleeps in your chair when you are away." She kissed me on the cheek. "He will be fine. Sarah will care for him."
Lisette's attitude improved since I told her we were going together this time. The prospect of returning home revived her normal disposition as if by magic. Even the baby seemed happier.
"Don't worry about the cat," said Sarah Barker. She was giving us a ride to the flight line. "We're old friends by now." She had cared for Raven in the past, when Lisette and I were away in Iran and Afghanistan.
Her husband Jim would fly us to Washington, D.C. in Raven-One's U4A Aero Commander. From there, we would fly to Rome on Pan Am. At least this time the trip didn't entail any danger. Despite what Wilson thought, this was going to be a family vacation.
Barker had flown transport and light aircraft during his eleven years in the Air Force. I first flew with him in East Africa on our rescue mission into the Sudan where his bush pilot skills saved the day. On the long jaunt, I would log some multi-engine time and spell Jim at the controls. I could fly almost legally now, since I obtained a private pilot's license in May. Sergeant Theo George, our flight operations specialist didn't approve of my unofficial status as co-pilot, being a stickler for regulations.
Colonel Wilson had come through in an important way. He managed to pull some strings and get an endorsement to my passport allowing the baby to travel with his proud parents. Lisette wanted him on her passeport français, but I told her we didn't have time for that, because he was American, not French. She seemed surprised. I guess the thought hadn't occurred to her.
"What do you think about the explosion in Bologna?" Sarah asked after Lisette walked out to the car.
"Don't know, first I've heard. What happened?"
"A huge blast ripped through the train station waiting room. They say several dozen people were killed and hundreds injured. The entire side of the building was destroyed."
"Lucky, we're not going anywhere near there. Any idea who's responsible?"
"No, but please be careful. You always seem to find a way to get in trouble. Remember, you have a family now."
Lisette came running back babbling something in French about le pamper sac. "It's in the trunk," I said. The diaper bag was the last thing I planned to leave behind.
4~ Roman Holiday
Wednesday, 6 August 1980: Rome, Italy
Automobiles charged along bumper-to-bumper at reckless speeds. Motorcycles zipped in and out with complete disregard for traffic signals. Scooters appeared from nowhere. Welcome to Rome, home of the world's most dangerous drivers, thanks to the typical Roman's carefree attitude and disdain for regulations.
Lisette and I viewed the chaos from the back seat of a white Fiat taxi. The driver, an older man, conducted a symphony of profanity with obscene gestures. I tried to learn the words associated with each motion. Foreign travel, as they say, is a good way to broaden one's cultural horizons.
We were returning to the hotel from Saint Peter's Basilica where little Louis Duval Brannan had been baptized by Lisette's distant cousin, Father Jean-Claude, a member of the Vatican administration.
An ironic thought had occurred to me during the ceremony: I wonder how many ex-nuns have their babies christened in the Vatican? Back in France, she had trained to be a nun. Her parents killed in an automobile accident on their way to see her take her vows. Heartbroken and inflicted with self-doubt, she left the convent. Her uncle brought her to his hotel in Kenya to escape her sorrow. That's where we met.
Lisette beamed with pride as she cuddled the baby in her lap. I said, "Are you happy now?"
"Yes, yes. Thank you." Tears streamed down her cheeks as she defaulted to French in a flood of emotion.
I was the luckiest guy in the world. Everything came together at last. Lisette happy, little Louis Duval baptized, and in a few days, we would return to France to visit Lisette's aunt Sophie in Lyon.
Lisette again proved herself a determined and resourceful woman. She sprang into action to organize the trip, calling her aunt, and arranging with the cousin for the special ceremony. It didn't stop there, at the airport in Rome the taxi driver tried to take advantage of me when I bargained with him in English. Lisette promptly tore into him with a torrent of Italian colloquialisms, shocking language for an ex-nun and surprising even me. From that point on, she was in charge of all arrangements.
Bill Michaels arrived a day earlier and had been out to the base. Tomorrow, we would start in earnest. He said the military authorities weren't happy to see him, but I didn't care. All we needed to do was, show up, do our job, and return home. What could go wrong? We were an insignificant factor in the investigation. In my opinion, the whole thing was just a waste of time. But what the hell, we were getting a free vacation.
* * *
The taxi left us at our hotel, an older building on a cobbled side street. The driver drove off with what he perceived as an undeserved small tip and an earful of advice from Lisette. As we walked through the door, Signora Alberti, the owner, greeted us with unrestrained joy. You would've thought the Pope himself had performed the rites.
"Going on up," I told Lisette. The entire female staff of Albergo Alberti surrounded Lisette and the baby, babbling on about il bambino. I could tell it would take a while. She didn't hear me, so I walked to the stairs and trudged on up to the third floor. Like most ancient buildings in Rome, the hotel had no elevator.
As I turned out of the stairwell and headed towards the room, I noticed the window at the end of the hall stood open. The door to our room only partially closed. The maids were all downstairs. Why would they leave the door open? The contents of the room spread in disarray: drawers pulled out, our luggage and clothes dumped on the floor, and the bed turned over.
I reached into my pocket and whipped out my favorite instrument for close quarters self-defense, a switchblade knife. A solid click as the cold steel snapped in place, always a reassuring sound when trouble is ne
ar. I scanned the room and checked the bath, then stepped out into the hall and examined the open window. An adjoining roof lay within easy reach. A quick glance around revealed no sign of the intruder.
"Ce qui s'est passé?" Lisette startled me from behind. She placed her free hand over her mouth, holding the baby in the other. "We have de voleurs … the thief? Her happiness dissolved as the pallor of fear covered her face. No stranger to distress, Lisette proved her resilience in Kenya where she endured a kidnapping and shot an assailant between the eyes. I hoped those days were behind us.
The contents of the briefcase lay strewn on the table. I couldn't be sure, but my sixth sense told me they were the primary objects of interest: a letter of introduction and an unclassified briefing paper detailing the disaster from the Pentagon.
I tried to sound casual, "Looks okay, nothing seems to be missing." Lisette frowned. I didn't believe it either. "Let me hold the kid while you go downstairs and tell Signora Alberti what happened." A feeling of dread came over me. Something was happening, something I didn't understand.
Thursday, 7 August 1980: Pratica di Mare Air Base, Italy
Pratica di Mare Air Base located near the coast southwest of Rome was home to the Gruppo Analisi ed Elaborazioni Speciali or the Special Analysis and Processing Group, the SIGINT (Signal Intelligence) component of the Italian armed forces. Bill Michaels and I sat outside the office of Tenente Colonnello Urbani waiting for an interview.
Michaels had transferred to SSRP from NSA. He earned a PhD from Cal Tech and was a certified genius, a brilliant mind, and top-notch analyst. We had been on opposite sides of issues in the past, but our different approaches made us a good team. I felt reassured to have him with me on this assignment.
"Nobody wants us here," said Michaels. "They don't want to deal with us and are putting up a soft resistance, Italian style."
"How's that?"
"Cause us to wait, give fuzzy answers to questions, never commit to anything. They just want the whole thing to go away. I had the impression yesterday they don't know what to make of us. We're not FAA or civil aviation related. They must assume we're up to no good."