by R G Ainslee
"How do you know? She's wearing a helmet," said Michaels.
Lisette exhaled. "He is a man. They all see the derrière of the woman before the face."
Garcia let out a hearty laugh, "That's right mam." He flicked his chin towards the next corner. "I'll lose her before we get to the hotel."
And he did. At the new hotel, I stood inside the door waiting for her to appear. As far as I could tell, we were home free.
Saturday, 9 August 1980: Rome, Italy
A sharp buzzing sound kept repeating as I strolled along a path in the Borghese gardens. — The phone. — I popped my eyes open: the clock beside the bed read 0915 Lisette stirred and rolled over, the baby still asleep. I picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," said Jack Richards. "We're downstairs."
"Downstairs?"
"Right here at your hotel … in Rome." I heard Amadeo chuckling in the background.
"I'll be down in five … ah say, why don't you get us some coffee."
"Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, call Michaels we'll meet down there."
Seven minutes later, I shuffled through the door to the coffee bar. Jack and Amadeo sat at a table alone. "Where's Bill? Thought he'd be down here."
"Called his room, no answer," said Amadeo.
"I'll check the dining room."
"Did that, checked the lobby, and searched outside. No sign of him."
I hurried over to the house phone, dialed his number, and hung up after six rings. "Let's go see what the hold-up is. Amadeo, why don't you stay down here in case he comes in."
Back on the fourth floor, I knocked on the door to Michaels' room. No answer. I eyed Jack. "We better get a key and take a look."
"No problem." He pulled a set of lock picks out of his back pocket. Seconds later, we were inside.
"Bill, you alright?" The place was empty.
"Appears the bed wasn't slept in."
I opened the closet. "His stuff is gone too." A chill ran up my spine. "Something's wrong, he wouldn't just pull-up and leave."
"Yeah, that's not like him." Jack checked all the drawers and looked in the bathroom. "Hasn't been used—"
A knock on the door, I answered, and Amadeo stepped in, "The desk clerk said he left about midnight with a woman and two men—"
"A redhead?"
"Yeah, he didn't get a good look at her face, but she was wearing tight pants."
"Lisette." She was alone with the baby. I charged out, down the hall, up the stairs to the next floor, and around the corner to our room. The door ajar, my heart sank. I pulled out my knife, popped open the blade and pushed on in. Lisette stood beside the small table facing a man.
Just as I was about to charge, she sighted me and smiled. "Breakfast is ready."
The room service guy turned, his mouth agape, eyes fixed on the shiny blade, as he blabbered away in Italian, begging for his life.
Lisette said something to him and he left, eyeing me on the way out. She pointed to the switchblade. "Why?"
"Bill Michaels is missing, he may have been kidnapped."
She gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. — "No" — She scooped up the baby and started to sob."
The phone rang, and I picked up the receiver. "This is Sandy Easton, have you seen the news?" I mumbled something incoherently. "The Škorpion Brigade has Bill Michaels and is threatening to kill him unless their demands are met."
* * *
A carnival of chaos played out. Italian polizia swarmed the hotel, followed by a horde of low life blood-sucking scoundrels who claimed they were journalists. The stoic caribineri guarding the room didn't even blink an eye when I pulled my switchblade on a feral weasel wielding a large flash attached to a Nikon. Paparazzi is the longest four-letter word in the Italian language.
Sandy arranged for Lisette and the baby to move to a new hotel. Amadeo, two Marines, and four Carabineri officers stood guard in the lobby and in the hall outside her room. Once more, Sandy offered us the refuge of her office in the embassy.
Wilson phoned and issued a rapid-fire set of instructions. I hung up and stared at Jack. "The colonel wants us back in the states ASAP. If it wasn't for my family I'd refuse, but my first priority is their safety." I swallowed hard and turned to Sandy. "What do you think his chances are?"
The pain in her eyes was clear. "Not good. They know their demands will never be met." She was right. They wanted the Israelis to free some jailed hijackers and for the White House to admit to a long list of war crimes.
"Yeah, with the Iranian hostage crisis going on, this is just small potatoes in the overall picture. Poor Michaels, he wasn't trained or prepared for this sort of thing." That could have been me, and Lisette— oh no and the baby. What a mess.
Jack rang the hotel, spoke briefly, and hung up. "Everything's okay. Amadeo says the Carabineri guys are carrying Beretta M12's and look like they mean business."
I forced a smile but wasn't totally reassured.
"Hey, they're gonna be alright."
Sandy said, "Yes the Carabineri are from a new unit, the Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, an elite group formed for counter terrorism purposes. Their involvement shows the Italian government is giving this matter a high priority. They are the best."
"What I can't figure out is why they targeted us. We're here on a useless wild-goose chase."' I raised the palms of my hands. "And the hell of it is that we didn't find out anything that might involve them. I just don't understand."
* * *
The vigil lasted all day, including a visit to the ambassador's office, an almost sincere apology from the RSO, and a phone call every hour to the hotel. The kidnappers called the press three more times adding to their demands. At 1700, they issued a deadline. If their conditions were not met by 2000, Michaels would be executed.
I eyed the clock on the wall for the third time. "One more hour." I asked Sandy, who had returned to the embassy from the Carabineri operations center, "Any leads?" I knew the answer but asked anyway. What else could I do?
She shook her head, "I'm sorry." The phone rang, she answered. "It's for you. Washington, a Mr. Smith."
I listened to John Smith outline the details of our evacuation. An air force plane would pick us up in the morning and fly us back direct. Jack and Amadeo were to stay behind and monitor the search. I didn't argue — it was no use.
"Thanks John, I'll see you tomorrow afternoon." I hung up, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back. A terrible headache pounded away, I was drained, totally exhausted. I wanted to get out of there and felt a pang of guilt over leaving Michaels behind.
The deadline came and past with no word. No one spoke, the mood somber and morose. Michaels and I disagreed, even butted heads a few times, but it doesn't matter now. — Why did they pick him and not me? — Then the cold reality struck: They chose the softest target, I resisted, pulled a knife, so they took him in my place.
At 2130, the phone rang, Sandy answered, "Oh no. No, I'll tell him." She grimaced. "Ross, I'm sorry there has been a disturbance at your new hotel."
I froze expecting the worst.
"The paparazzi gained access to your floor and tried to get pictures of Lisette."
I exploded out of the chair, ready to go kick some serious butt. She motioned for me to sit.
"Don't worry, the Carabineri chased them off and are sending more officers."
"What the hell else can happen," I yelled at the top of my lungs. Yelling offered some relief from the stress of the day and I screamed again, "If I ever get my hands on those SOBs —"
The door opened and the RSO walked in, his face a grave ashen mask. "They discovered Mr. Michaels's body in the Borghese gardens behind the statue of Victor Hugo."
7 ~ Hansen
Tuesday, 19 August 1980: Albuquerque, New Mexico
I sat the empty bottle on the floor next to the others, my third Modelo Especial of the evening. It was only 1930, too early to turn in. Raven rubbed against my leg, cats possess a
keen sense of when something's wrong. I ruffled his ears, "Okay Buddy, just you and me now."
Lisette refused to return to the states with me. Said she had enough and took the train to Lyon with the baby. I didn't know what to do, except let her go. It wouldn't do any good to protest, she had a mind of her own. Distraught, I was determined to get her back and would have to let the situation play out, and hope for the best.
Then there was the guilt. The notion that someone may have died in your place releases an almost religious torrent of introspection and second-guessing. I reached for another beer.
The doorbell jarred me out of a crater of self-pity. I answered and invited in Jim and Sarah Barker. Sarah held Junior, their new baby. This was their sixth visit since my return home.
"You look terrible," said Jim.
Sarah glowered at the bottles on the floor. "You've been drinking again." She grabbed my elbow. "Ross, this isn't the way. Get a hold of yourself."
"It don't matter no more. My life's finished, everything's gone to hell."
"Have you called Lisette?" asked Sarah.
"Yeah, every day."
"What did she say?"
"Said she needs time to think, whatever that means. Even told her I'd quit my job, if that would bring her back, but…" I plopped down in the chair, knocking over a couple of empties.
"You must not give up hope. Remember what you've been through in the past. You lost her before and…" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "You were meant for each other, it's your destinies."
Jim chimed in, "Oh yeah, you had a call from the Man after you left early." Barker called Colonel Wilson the Man.
I sighed, not caring what Wilson had to say, hadn't spoken to him since Michael's funeral last week. "I'm not interested."
"Wilson has something in the pipeline. Looks like we … at least you might be going to Incirlik. He spoke with Hardy about some equipment modifications. Your trip may pay-off after all."
"Michael's dead and I've lost my family. Some pay-off."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"Yeah, okay … So?"
"Wilson wants everything ready in three weeks. Richards, Ruiz, and the tech crew too." He paused. "Are you going to be able to pull yourself together, or do I tell him to find someone else?"
"You know what you can tell him—"
Sarah broke in, "You listen to me. You are not a quitter. Do you remember what I told Lisette in Nairobi? … You have a duty. This is what you do. If you quit now, you will never be the same. Lisette wants you, the real you. She will resolve her feelings. Have faith in that. I know her, she's strong, but she's had a hard time with the baby. Believe me, everything will work out." She started to sob. "I pray for both of you every night. You are our best friends. Please don't do anything you will regret. Remember this, Michaels died, you didn't, the rest of your life is a gift, so make the most of it."
Jim said, "She's right. Come on, we'll go out and get a bite to eat." He asked Sarah, "How about driving down to Old Town for some enchiladas?" She nodded her eager approval.
I slumped in the chair, humbled to have such good friends. They were right. I had wallowed in sorrow long enough. Lisette will come back. I need a positive outlook. I took a deep breath and sat up straight.
"Okay, let's go. I'll call Wilson in the morning." The wheels were turning in my head. Incirlik, Turkey: if Lisette's not home by then, I'll wrangle a stopover in France and see her.
Monday, 1 September 1980: Washington, D.C.
Colonel Wilson and I sat outside Hansen's office on the third floor of the Executive Office Building. Wilson's latest plan, by some nefarious means, ended up on Hansen's desk. Now we waited uncomfortably, like supplicants at an imperial court. Somehow, despite his rogue operation ending in a debacle, Hansen survived once more. The White House was preoccupied with other matters, not wanting another imbroglio.
The administration had their hands full with the Iranian hostage crisis, the failed rescue attempt, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the president's brother and his shady dealings with the Libyans, the economy going south due to high inflation, and above all the presidential campaign. Everything worked in Hansen's favor, his defining talents, bootlicking and butt kissing, never failed to get him out of a jam. Against all odds, he landed on his feet.
Wilson seethed, knowing Hansen lingered on purpose, a cheap display of status, not unlike a dog marking his territory. I sat passive, thoughts elsewhere. Lisette still stubborn, refused to come home. She talked about going to visit her uncle in Kenya. Even though I remained optimistic, hope faded with every day. I focused on the job, all I had left in my miserable existence.
Hansen showed up, twenty minutes late. The rat-bastard nodded a greeting without changing his expression and strutted into the office. Wilson blew out a breath of exasperation and we followed. Hansen postured behind his desk trying to look important. He held the pose for a few seconds, and intoned, "You may sit." I decided — right then and there — the actor was going to get my vote in November. Hansen could find a new job come January.
Hansen picked up a document with a top-secret red-border, opened to a middle page, and pretended to examine the contents. After a full minute, he lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone, "Colonel Wilson, I reviewed your proposal." He paused for effect and droned on through Wilson's plan: Raven-One deploys to Turkey, fly missions along the Libyan coast, and search for new signals. I waited for him to play his hand. I wanted to see all the cards on the table. I didn't intend to bet my life on a bluff.
"Your idea to pursue the intercepts made by the Italians is interesting … but in my opinion a waste of important resources."
Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was approaching liftoff. I straightened up and started to pay attention.
"Unfortunately, — over my objections I might add — the Pentagon persuaded the administration to approve your scheme." Hansen tilted his head and gazed at Wilson out of the corner of his eyes. "However, it goes without saying, one more fiasco will mean the end of your little band of misfits. Have I made myself clear?"
That set off the fireworks: Wilson tore into Hansen with an uncommon fury, not cowed one bit. Wilson served as a Wild Weasel pilot in Vietnam. He earned his Silver Star attacking incoming missiles and he wasn't about to back down to a cheap-suit like Hansen.
I leaned back and enjoyed the show. The only thing missing was a bag of popcorn. Rage is a powerful drug and Wilson mainlined a full dose. Consternation and frustration ran over Hansen's face as sweat poured from his quivering neck. Wilson spoke with force, muscles at the corner of his eyes twitched, spittle sprayed Hansen's desk. A show for the ages over in two minutes, but a feature attraction never the less.
A tense silence followed, the only sound, heavy breathing from both colonels. I sat in awe, trying to stifle signs of glee. Wilson stood, turned to leave, and barked at me, “Come on we’re finished here.”
“The White House will hear of this,” squealed Hansen. "You're right you are finished and take that punk with you."
I spun around and pointed a finger straight at the SOB. “Far as I am concerned, you're responsible for Michaels’ death. You sent us on a wild goose chase just to prove you could. I’m tired of stepping in the trail of crap you leave behind.” I clinched my fist. “Don’t ever try to cross me again.”
Red-faced and flustered, he screeched, “Are you threatening me?”
“No, it’s a promise. If you don’t believe me, ask your buddy Marsden. He can tell you I’m serious as—"
Wilson had enough. “Come on Ross. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Hansen squealed, “Are you going to let him—”
Wilson shouted, “Let him do what? I didn’t hear anything. As far as I’m concerned, you can go to straight to hell." Wilson glared out the window at the White House. "And take your comrades over there with you.” He followed me out and slammed the door hard. Something crashed to the floor in Hansen’s office.
A str
ange sense of relief came over me. The frustrations of more than a dozen years released in seconds. I strode down the hallway with a new confidence, a spring in my step.
Wilson tapped me on the shoulder, he was grinning. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road. Raven-One has a mission with about ten days to get ready. I understand the eastern Mediterranean is terrific this time of the year.”
I didn't say anything. Incirlik had been my last overseas duty station before leaving the Army. The base was okay, but not considered a prime assignment. We would be there for only a few weeks at the most. Keeping busy would be good for me. Keep my mind off Lisette and the baby.
8 ~ Gulf of Sidra
Friday, 12 September 1980: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
Located near the northeastern curve of the Mediterranean coast, Incirlik Air Base had been the main staging point for U-2 flights over the Soviet Union. The facility ordinarily operated at a high security level, but upon landing, we found ourselves in an unforeseen situation.
A tall lanky first lieutenant lectured our group of freshly arrived passengers as we stood in the heat of a closed hangar. "This morning the Turkish National Security Council declared coup d'état against the government. Martial law has been extended throughout the country. Consequently, all personnel are confined to base. Please respect the sensibilities of our Turkish hosts. Do not discuss politics or religion or photograph anything."
He paused and referred to his notes. "Personnel participating in Operation Anvil Express will assemble on the far side of the hangar and, uh …" He rechecked the paper. "Mr. Brannan your group will please go with Airman Haskell."
A short man built like a fireplug motioned for us to follow. "I'll drive you over to your quarters, get you settled, and when you're ready, take you over to operations to report-in to Captain Simms."
Jack Richards and Amadeo Ruiz followed, carrying heavy bags which thankfully held their weapons. In addition to providing security, they now qualified as intercept operators. Hardy and Ortiz fell in behind.