by R G Ainslee
Haskell led us to an Air Force blue three-quarter ton truck. "You men ride back there. It's only a short drive over to the Holiday Inn."
"Hot diddly, nobody told me we's gonna be stayin at a Holiday Inn," said Hardy.
Haskell responded with a smirk.
"Don't get your hopes up," I said. "That's just their name for some old Quonset huts they used to use for transit crew quarters. I know from personal experience, they're hotter than hell this time of the year."
Haskell smiled. "You been here before?"
"Yeah, last time back in seventy-three."
I was right. The facilities had not improved and indeed hotter than hell. Jack and Amadeo didn't complain, they had seen worse — much worse. Hardy and Ortiz started to gripe. You just can't please these Air Force types. I told them, "Okay cut the bull and let's get on with it." Hardy appeared to be grossly offended, but I didn't care. "We've job to do. This ain't no vacation."
* * *
"Who's in charge? I need your orders," asked Captain Simms. We had just walked into the operations office for the 55th Recon Wing's Incirlik detachment. Simms, a stocky guy with a white-sidewall haircut had the looks of an ex-football player.
"That would be me," I said as I handed him our orders.
He snatched them out of my hand and examined them. "You Brannan? He asked.
"Yeah."
His eyes shot up, surprised at my lack of military bearing. "Radio Propagation Research Office, Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico. That's your unit?" Sounded like an accusation.
"Yeah." He was starting to get on my nerves.
"I see two of you are active duty Air Force."
I tilted my head towards Joe and Ray, who had worked almost non-stop for the last week on a receiver and antenna configuration that matched the parameters of the new signal. "They're here to install some equipment on the aircraft."
His eyebrows shot up as he scrutinized the orders. "This don't say anything about equipment."
"That will be in a separate message. Check your comm center, should've been here by now."
"You ever flown on a RC-135U?"
"Yeah."
"Where did—"
"I'm not at liberty to say." I wanted to tell him I'd have to kill him, if I told him, but was afraid Hardy might laugh out loud.
"I'll check with the colonel," he said with a threatening tone. The captain spun around, marched down the corridor, knocked, and entered the far office.
I shrugged and told the guys, "Take a seat, may be a while."
"Hell's bells," whined Hardy, "base closed, can't even go out and cruise the girlie bars."
Amadeo shook his head. "Get a grip on it, this is Turkey, we're in the Middle East. Even Albuquerque is a wild place by their standards."
A familiar bellow echoed down the corridor, "Ross Brannan, what the hell are you doing here in this God forsaken neck of the woods?" Lieutenant Colonel Sidney Bratcher strode down the hall with a flustered Captain Simms in tow.
I knew then, our troubles were over. "Hey Sid, I requested Shemya but they said the waiting list was too long."
He let out another deep laugh. We had first met on Shemya, the next to the last island in the Aleutian chain and home to a forlorn intercept site and airstrip.
"Who's these guys?" He smiled as he pointed to the others. I introduced them, failing to mention Jack and Amadeo's roles.
I answered the question he was about to ask, "These two are my guardian angels. They also are learning to do some Raven stuff."
Sid laughed again. "Only two body guards. You boy's got your hands full." He gave Hardy and Ortiz the once over. "I'll send the maintenance chief over later to see what he can do for you boys. Just don't hang anything on my plane that'll slow me down."
"When can we start?" I asked.
The colonel strolled over to a shallow wall cabinet and unlatched the doors revealing a flight status and schedule board. He turned back to Joe and Ray. "If your technicians can get that stuff installed tomorrow, you'll fly on Sunday."
"The gulf?" I meant the Gulf of Sidra off the coast of Libya, claimed as territorial waters by Gaddafi.
He winked. "You'll find out at the briefing, 0700 in the morning. Good to see ya, gotta run." He wheeled around and hustled back to his office.
Simms stared at me with a questioning look.
"Sid and I go back a long way. Flown with him on … oh I don't know how many occasions." I nodded towards Joe and Raymond, "Call the maintenance chief, these guys got some work to do."
Simms furrowed his brow. "Yes sir, I'll get on that right away."
Sunday, 14 September 1980: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
In the early seventies, Libya claimed a twelve-mile extension of its territorial waters in the Gulf of Sidra. Gaddafi called it the Line-of-Death. Naturally, the U.S. took exception and conducted freedom of navigation operations in the area.
The RC-135U Combat Sent of the 55th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing featured operator positions to monitor and record signals and a set of automated ELINT black boxes capable of detecting and classifying radar emitters. The systems fed from antennas and a direction-finding array embedded in the aircraft’s nose, tail, and wingtips. The normal procedure for a sortie was to fly the length of the coast to collect both voice and radar signals.
I sat with six other intercept operators at a bank of consoles fitted with racks of cathode-ray displays and receiving equipment designed to detect transmissions from Libyan air defense sites. Amadeo occupied the position beside me. His mission: watch the main frequency of the P-40 Long Track radar. My job, search for the third harmonic using specialized gear installed by Joe and Ray.
All this because of J. Andrew Marsden, a mad genius willing to sell his services to whoever would allow him to pursue his dream, the development of a missile guidance system invulnerable to countermeasures. Now, it appeared he was working with the Libyans. I hated his guts even more than Hansen. My goal was to deal him a deathblow once and for all.
On this day's sortie, three hours into the flight, Captain Al Parsons approached my position. "Any luck?"
"Not really, just the usual array of Spoon Rests and Bar Locks." The specific targets of Raven-One's mission, compartmentalized on a need-to-know basis, the Air Force knew only that we were monitoring SA-6 sites.
"We'll make one more pass and call it a day."
After a wide turn off the Tunisian coast, we settled in for our final run of the day. A green luminous blip appeared on the cathode ray tube at Amadeo's position, a radar antenna in circular scan search mode, a predator seeking prey. "Got a Long Track at 155 degrees." said Amadeo.
"Yeah, that intersects with the Libyan air defense training facility near Misratah. May be the same one intercepted from Lampedusa. Stay on it."
We passed the heavily defended Tripoli air defense complex and continued eastward towards Misratah at the edge of the Gulf of Sidra. As the aircraft began a turn south into the gulf, Amadeo spoke up, "He's changed — quick take a look."
I tuned to the frequency, the signal switched waveforms for a moment. The saw-toothed pattern I was waiting for. "Got it, he's just — oh, no— wait a minute." The signal returned to its normal pattern. "Lost it. Maintain a watch on that bearing, maybe he'll switch back."
"What ya think?"
"Has to be the one." I instinctively checked to make sure the tape was running, a force of habit. "We'll check the recording when we get back, but I'm pretty sure it's the same one."
"He switched on, right as we made the turn."
"Yeah, they were tracking us and then someone flinched, must have interpreted our move as a possible threat. Sometimes it pays to be lucky."
* * *
The images on the adjoining Techtronic scopes matched. I turned to the guys with a wide smile. "One and the same. Today's signal matches the Italian intercept to a tee." Working with only a few seconds of tape can be a daunting task, but this time there was no doubt.
Amadeo was proud, h
is first big intercept. "Hey, guess I'm a real cuervo now." Cuervo, a Spanish word for Raven or Crow.
"Yeah, more like Jose Cuervo," quipped Joe Hardy.
"Hey, let's see if they have some Jose Cuervo at the club," said Ortiz. "This calls for a celebration."
"Works for me," said Amadeo, "I'll buy the first round."
"All right. What you say Ross?" pleaded Hardy.
"Go ahead. I'll join you in a little while." They made a move for the door. "Keep this under wraps. Don't be talking work in public. Understand?"
I leaned back, relieved: an intercept on the first sortie. We had nothing definitive, only a scrap of evidence, nevertheless a step in the right direction.
Then a downturn of emotion: Lisette and the baby, I tried to convince her to return home, but she had a mind of her own. Engulfed in self-pity and frustration, I kicked the chair back and headed for the com center to message Wilson about our discovery.
Monday, 15 September 1980: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
The morning briefing completed, Colonel Bratcher stood at the podium and asked if there were any questions. I could have thought of several, except a late-night bout at the club had taken its toll.
Jack Richards was excited. Tuesday's sortie would be his first actual mission as an intercept operator. He asked, "Think we'll find that signal again? Don't want to let Amadeo go one up on me."
"Don't worry, he got lucky. This'll be just another dull flight, nothing unusual. Give you a chance to get some experience."
"Hey, I'd like some excitement too? I didn't sign up to be a desk ranger."
Amadeo, standing at my side, chuckled. They were seasoned special operators: Amadeo an ex-air commando and Jack ex-special forces. Both possessed specialized deadly skills in addition to being fluent in several Middle East languages.
"Did I hear someone mention excitement?" said Colonel Bratcher.
"Yes sir," said Jack. "How about stirring up some action tomorrow?"
Bratcher shook his head. "Well if we do, I guess you'll be the first to know." He paused and said, "They told me you had a message in the comm center."
"That would be from Colonel Wilson," I said.
"That wouldn't be Wayne Wilson, would it?"
"Yes sir. You know him?"
"Sure do. We served together in Thailand at Takhli. I flew RB-66's with the 41st and he was a Wild Weasel with the 357th. That's one crazy SOB. Lucky to be alive."
It was hard to conceive of Colonel Wilson as one crazy SOB. But in those days, you had to be a little crazy to fly an F-105 to do battle with North Vietnamese air defense systems. The Wild Weasel jets carried an array of sophisticated electronics capable of detecting enemy radars. They also carried anti-radiation missiles, which homed in on the offending radar with devastating results.
"Yeah, I served there too, a year before you, even flew a mission."
"Really, I didn't think Army personnel were authorized—"
"We weren't. I got transferred back to my unit in Vietnam."
He laughed and turned to the guys. "He hadn't changed, has he? You boys got your hands full if you expect to keep his butt out of trouble."
"I think I better go check on that message." As I left, Bratcher was telling Jack and Amadeo about the time he was almost shot down over the Ho-Chi-Min trail.
At the comm center, I signed for the message and read the yellow tear sheet with Wilson's noncommittal response. I examined it again. He still wasn't sure if the signal had any importance, a single source not enough. He said to keep flying because we need a signal confirmed by HUMINT or SIGINT sources and authorized us to stay two more weeks. Disappointed, I wrote out an acknowledgement informing him we would fly again tomorrow.
9~ The Incident
Tuesday, 16 September 1980: Over the Gulf of Sidra, Libya
The flight followed a track north of Cyprus and Crete and to the south of Sicily. The first approach would be from the west in an attempt to stimulate the Libyans interest. Bratcher reasoned they had become accustomed to our flights from the east and as such would offer fewer interesting signals. The primary leg approached the Libyan coast from the northwest and then an orbit twice along a 300 nautical-mile long elliptical track.
VHF intercept operators listened to the normal frequencies and recorded all communications from the air defense network. Libyan radio traffic came in loud and clear, however, only one of the voice intercept operators was fluent in the North African Arab dialect.
Over the earphones, I heard Captain Al Parsons alert us to the Libyan reactions, "All coastal air defense sites are operational, the usual Bar Lock's and Spoon Rest's. No warnings have been issued." The aircraft vectored to the primary leg of the mission.
I leaned towards Jack. "We won't get any activity until we pass Tripoli."
As the early warning radars illuminated the RC-135, the Libyan early warning radar operators tracked all airborne aircraft within range and reported them to the main air defense center. Captain Parsons intoned, "The Libyan air defense command center just issued an alert to pilots of the regional fighter squadron to be on maximum readiness to intercept an intruder."
Jack said, "Still no activity on our frequency."
"We're not close enough. Need to be closer to the range of the SA-6 systems in Misratah." My theory had the Long Track operating out of the training base to mask its real mission.
Activity picked up as we closed on the Tripoli air defense complex. Still nothing unusual, just the normal communications between early warning sites and the command center.
"Get ready, we're close to Monday's intercept point," I told Jack. We flew past Tripoli without incident and adrenalin began to flow through my system. Would we get lucky again? I leaned over to check his progress. "Looking good, concentrate on—"
"Got it," shouted Jack. A ragged blip appeared, right where it should be.
I read my scope, the third harmonic seemed normal. "Okay, let's see if he changes waveform, should happen pretty soon." I checked the recorder out of habit. You can never be too sure. Everything was set up, ready to go, all we needed was for the operator to switch over and hit us with a microburst.
The Long Track antenna rotated every 4.7 seconds by my count. "What's his PRF and PW?" I asked.
"Pulse repetition frequency, 525 pulses per second. Pulse width 2.2 microseconds. Operating on a frequency of 2.251 gigahertz."
"That's him. Same parameters as—" My comment interrupted by an ELINT operator notifying everyone a Fan Song guidance radar had come on line. "Monday's intercept."
Parson's voice boomed through the earphones, "Tripoli command center scrambled all available interceptors. Command radios switched to an alternate channel. … Command center confirms all aircraft are airborne."
Jack, sounding concerned, asked, "Do they usually do that?"
"Sometimes, keep your eye on the scope, this might be it."
Moments dragged on into minutes as tension mounted. In an instant, the waveform changed to a saw-toothed pattern. I gulped, took a deep breath, and then it came. A micro burst. If I had blinked, I might have missed it. "Bingo!" I shouted and hit the mike button. "What's our range to Misratah? May have an incoming."
Parsons responded at once, "Range thirty nautical miles."
"Out of range for a SA-6," I relayed to Parsons. Wonder why they fired so early?
Parsons again, "Libyan tactical air controllers are directing fighter pilots to a target by voice communications."
I kept my eyes glued to the scope, waiting for a burst with missile guidance instruction. Nothing happened.
"Air to ground commo traffic indicates airborne activity, but no airborne emitters have been detected," announced Captain Parsons.
I turned to Jack. "Must have initiated the guidance system as a test. If they had fired a missile, we would have had a series of micro bursts."
Parsons again, "Fighters have been vectored to a target by the air defense control." Moments later, he said, "Now they confirm target in sight
."
A twinge of anxiety as our pilot announced he could see a Libyan fighter off the left wing.
I blurted out, "Where the hell did he come from?" Then I realized we were the target the Libyan pilots were talking about. Up to now, everyone assumed the Libyans were engaged in a normal air intercept exercise.
The pilot continued, "I am requesting assistance, scramble interceptors to provide combat air patrol." He sent an alert: hostile aircraft in visual contact. Mission air control in Sicily acknowledged.
"He's gone off the air," said Jack. I checked my scope. The Long Track was no longer transmitting.
One of the ELINT operators came on line and announced, "A Jay Bird airborne radar is illuminating us in search mode." This confirmed the sighting. A supersonic Mig-23 Flogger had us in his sights.
The RP-22SM Jay Bird radar with a search range of thirty kilometers could track us from fifteen-k's. In the intercept mode, the pilot's scope displays the azimuth and elevation of the target, the range, and calculates the launch zone. Fortunately, the Jay Bird wasn't the Soviet's best system, only an export model and not capable of operating beyond visible range conditions.
The ELINT operator again, "He's switched to track mode." Tension increased, seconds dragged on, I anxiously waited for the operator to announce he was receiving guidance signals, indicating missiles were on the way.
"Guidance system engaged. Missile fired." I took a deep breath, maybe my last, thought of Lisette, and offered a quick prayer. Seconds passed at a glacial pace, nothing happened; the missile failed to lock on and missed. I responded with a prayer of thanks and took another deep breath.
A minute later, the pilot announced over the intercom, "The Flogger passed us and turned back into Libyan airspace.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Sweat glistened on Jack's brow. I said, "Thought you were used to getting shot at?"
He grimaced. "Not like that. You feel defenseless up here. At least on the ground you got some control. You guys can keep this—" The ELINT operator, announced, "We got another Jay Bird on line in search mode."
After a long two minutes the voice intercept operator said, "Libyan ground control instructed his fighter to break off contact. Three hostile targets are closing fast from the northeast at supersonic speeds. — Go Navy."