by R G Ainslee
A cheer went up. The Navy had responded to the request for air cover. Our pilot announced, "Navy aircraft in sight, the Tangos have gone home. Everybody relax, the sortie is aborted, and we have been ordered to return to base. The flight attendants will now distribute clean underwear."
* * *
On the ground, Colonel Bratcher transmitted a CRITIC, critical intelligence, message to addressees within the National Command Authority, including the president, informing them of the attack.
Captain Parsons warned us information about the incident was subject to special channels and was to be released on a need to know basis. Bratcher authorized me to notify Colonel Wilson, and I rushed to the comm center.
I composed and sent a FLASH message informing Wilson we had made an intercept containing the microburst. I was hopeful, but not confident this would arouse enough interest to pursue the matter further. Maybe the fact the Libyans tried to shoot us down would lend credence to my argument.
Jack met me outside. "If you don't mind, why not let Amadeo take the rest of the flights. That was a little too close for me. I like the great outdoors but being cooped up in that beer can gives me the willies."
I shook my head in surprise. Jack was the bravest person I had ever met. Just being around him, made me feel inadequate at times. Now, here he was, afraid to do what I considered routine. You never know what's going to affect someone.
"Sure, he eats this stuff up. Guess you're just not cut out to be a cuervo." He pursed his lips but didn't respond.
Ninety minutes later, I had a reply. The yellow teletype sheet read:
Message received. Spoke with Dir NSA. Stand down from further airborne missions. Authorized new mission based on your intercept and additional information. JS arrive your station ASAP with new instructions. JH and RO return CONUS on JS arrival.
John Smith was coming, Hardy and Ortiz to return to Kirtland. Something was up, but I had no idea. The message sent in reply:
Message received. Await arrival JS.
Saturday, 20 September 1980: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
John Smith arrived late in the afternoon following a long flight from the states via Frankfurt and Ankara. We went to the operations center where I briefed him on the intercept and the attempted shoot down. "…the voice guys announced the Libyan ground control had instructed the fighters to break off contact. And then … man you couldn't believe the sense of relief when they told us the Navy was closing fast at supersonic speeds."
"Sounds like you were lucky," said John.
I maneuvered one hand behind the other, "Yeah, they were lined up for a shot and then…" I flicked my right hand away. "It was a close call."
"How'd Richard's take it?"
"Well we may have a little problem."
He nodded. "Tell me."
"Jack was shook-up and said he doesn't want to fly again. I don't understand. He's always been so—"
"You don't know? He never told you."
"What you talking about, does he have some sort of fear of flying? That's not like him."
John took a deep breath, raised a hand to his chin, and paused in thought. "What I'm about to tell you stays between the two of us. Understand?"
I nodded, wondering what he was getting at.
"There was a helo crash in Laos, carrying his team into a firebase. I was on the ground waiting for his team to relieve us. They took fire and went in about a half-klick from the perimeter. When we got there, everyone was dead except Richards. He was buried under a heap of bodies and wreckage. The Pathet Lao had been there and hosed the place down with their AK's." John swallowed hard, his eyes narrowed. "He was the only one still alive. Jack survived because he was so far down in the pile."
"Good grief, I didn't know. He never—"
"We called in a medevac, but he refused to go." John choked up, "He said his team was sent to do a job and he was going to finish it."
"He stayed?"
"Yeah. And the next night, he went out and took out the Pathet Lao command post single-handed. Jack Richards is the toughest man I've ever met." John shook his head. "And I've worked with the best."
"How do you get over something like that?"
"You can't ever forget something so traumatic. He just buried it, shoved everything aside." John took a deep breath. "Maybe the prospect of getting shot down again brought it all back."
"I don't understand. I flew with him last year in Afghanistan and made a dead stick landing. I never detected any fear at all."
"And you won't."
"Should I talk to him?"
"No, leave it alone. He'll come around in a few days. Whatever you do, don't let him know you know. He can work it out, trust me."
"Okay, mum's the word. I wouldn't know what to say." In a way, I was relieved. I had enough trouble working out my own personal problems. What do I do now, I can't even deal with the mess I'm in. "What's the deal, Wilson gonna pull us out or do we have something new? You want me to call in the others?"
"I'll brief you first; think you'll be pleased with what I got to say.
* * *
"…and that's the plan," said John Smith, leaning back in the chair with a satisfied expression on his face.
Amadeo smiled and Jack appeared non-committal.
John rubbed his short silver-grey hair and continued, "Brannan and Ruiz will fly to Cyprus early Monday morning." He checked his watch. "0600 sharp, once on the ground you'll transfer to a civilian flight to Ben Gurion Airport in Israel. Someone will meet you and take you to Unit 8200."
An image of Tamara in a bikini flashed through my mind.
"You'll return on the late afternoon flight to Cyprus and fly back here the same evening. We'll conduct a full debriefing on arrival and start planning for the next phase of the operation. Any questions?"
Jack frowned. "So, I'm not going?" I couldn't tell if he was irritated or relieved.
"Right. More than two people could attract too much attention. I'm staying here because I might be recognized somewhere along the way. Let me emphasize, we need to stay low-profile from now on." He told Jack, "I want you to escort Hardy and Ortiz back to Rhein-Main with the intercept tape and materials. This matter needs to be handled with the utmost caution. Take the package over to the I.G. Farben Building and hand it to the NSA rep personally. Once that is done, report back here ASAP, we've got a lotta work to do."
I had that feeling. "Sounds like you expect trouble."
"We'll discuss that on your return from Israel. That's all I can tell you for the moment."
As we headed towards the door, Amadeo asked, "Hey Ross, any hot women in Israel, they good looking?"
"Nah, not friendly at all, ones I saw were dressed in baggy army fatigues. Don't think they're your type."
10 ~ Marsden
Monday, 22 September 1980: Tel Aviv, Israel
Again, Ben Gurion main terminal buzzed, a beehive of activity. At least, this time, I wasn't alone. Amadeo, always the pro, conducted a subtle and almost undetectable demonstration of finely-honed situational awareness. At the airport in Larnaka, he discretely pointed out two separate individuals engaged in artful scrutiny of incoming and departing passengers. He said neither man paid attention to us. I couldn't tell. After a quick transfer to a Cyprus Airways flight, we arrived in Israel mid-morning.
"Say Ross, there's a woman over there in uniform, carrying an Uzi, eyeing us real close."
Tamara Alon, dressed as before and looking even better, flashed a wide friendly smile, and waved. "Oh, that's just our driver."
"Whoa man, you gotta be kidding."
She rushed up and gushed, "Shalom, I'm glad we meet again."
"Yeah, good to see you too." She gave Amadeo the once over. "This is my colleague Señor Ruiz, you must excuse him, his English is a bit rusty."
Without missing a beat, she said, "Señor Ruiz, bienvenido a Israel." Amadeo grinned and they continued a conversation in Spanish all the way to the parking lot.
At the jeep, Tamara tu
rned to me. "You think I am not friendly, and my army uniform is baggy." She snapped her fingers and pointed. "You ride in the back."
Amadeo gave me a quick glance and winked. I didn't understand what they talked about but assumed Tamara's attentions would be directed elsewhere for a while.
* * *
Once again, Tamara guided us down to Major David's office at Camp Glilot. We waited in the hall as Tamara and Amadeo continued their banter. I picked up a few words, my border Spanish barely adequate, even on the border. Judging by her demeanor, Amadeo made a favorable impression.
"Shalom, please come in," said the major at the door. He nodded at Tamara and she left. He held out his hand to Amadeo.
"This is Mr. Ruiz, my associate," I said, playing it straight with the major.
"Pleased to meet you. Did you have an enjoyable flight?"
"Okay for two short jumps. Too bad we couldn't fly direct from Incirlik."
"Yes, one of the inconveniences we must face. It would have been possible, except for the need to maintain operational security in this matter." He reached back for a folder, removed a photograph, and handed it to me without comment.
I stared at the clear black and white eight-by-ten print for several seconds. Amadeo peered over my shoulder and said, "That's a good likeness, he hasn't changed much, what is it now, two and a half years."
"Yeah, looks like he didn't lose weight in the Mexican prison."
"I assume this is your man, Marsden," said Major David.
"Yes sir, that's him alright. If I may ask when and where was this picture taken?"
"Damascus, three weeks ago."
I looked up at the major and back to Amadeo.
"We only made a preliminary identification last week. You provided the proof we lacked. He continues to use the alias of Juan Antonio Machado, at least up until that point."
"Where is he now?"
"We lost track of him after the photograph was made. One of our contacts in Beirut may have spotted him. A man matching his description was seen leaving a location in the city. Unfortunately, we cannot be sure."
"Any idea what he was doing in Syria?"
"We have a tentative match with an individual working at the Syrian airfield at Khalkhalah." He smiled. "You may also be interested to hear a P-40 radar, a Long Track, was sighted with a folded antenna in a bunker at that base. Our operative was unable to photograph the machine but made a positive identification."
"So, you've placed Marsden with the radar?"
"They were not observed together, but we may assume it is not a coincidence."
"From what you say, the Long Track wasn't operational, and no fire control radar was present."
"That is correct." He picked up the phone and spoke in Hebrew. "Lieutenant Yaakov will join us in a few moments."
"What do you think Marsden may be doing in Beirut?" I asked.
"I am not sure."
Yaakov knocked and entered.
"Come in Lieutenant, we have a positive identification on the photograph from Damascus. You know Mr. Brannan, this is Mr. Ruiz."
We shook hands. Yaakov still had a limp fish handshake and didn't seem pleased to see us. He asked, "You are certain?"
"Yeah, I worked with the guy for several years. Saw him almost every day. And Mr. Ruiz here dealt with him before. It's him."
"Yes, but we cannot associate him with the system at Khalkhalah. I disagree with the assessment, based only on one intercept."
I decided to roll the dice again. The signal from Libya was unevaluated and technically not intended for foreign consumption, but what the heck. "You heard about the attack on the American aircraft a few days ago?"
"Yes." Yaakov frowned. "What does—"
"I was aboard." Yaakov's eyes widened, Major David didn't react. "We intercepted a Long Track with the same parameters as your intercept from Syria." I had their undivided attention. "And furthermore, the guidance signal was present in a microburst in the third harmonic."
Yaakov eyed the major.
Major David picked up his phone. "If you will excuse me, I will call you back in."
We moved towards the door, Yaakov hesitated and the major waved for him to exit.
In the hall, I asked Yaakov, "Where did your fiancée learn to speak Spanish so well?" Amadeo flinched.
"Her family is from Tangier in Morocco, they continued the tradition." He eyed Amadeo suspiciously. "You speak the Spanish?"
"Mr. Ruiz here is fluent. I only speak a little border Spanish."
He started to say something else, but hesitated. Amadeo spoke up, "She speaks the language very well. Her accent is interesting though."
"Where did you learn—"
"My parents, I was born in Cuba."
I had the distinct impression Tamara might face some incisive questions. Before Yaakov had a chance to reply, the door opened, and the major summoned us to return.
"I telephoned one of my colleagues from a different section. He should arrive soon. Lieutenant Yaakov will take you to the canteen, where you may find refreshments." As we were leaving, he called to us, "Oh, by the way, some interesting news, the Iraqi air force attacked Iran this morning. It appears we will be busy over the next few days."
* * *
Jacobs, an ordinary looking man, pudgy, thinning hair, about fifty years old, but his eyes betrayed a hard edge, the eyes of a killer, someone not to take lightly. I felt uncomfortable in his presence.
Major David introduced us, referring to Jacobs only by his last name. His employer not identified, but I assumed he was a Mossadnik, a member of the Mossad, Israel’s institute for intelligence and special operations.
Jacobs turned to me. "You believe the man in the photograph is this Marsden?" He made it sound like an accusation.
"Yes, we worked together for several years on a daily basis."
His eyes focused on Amadeo. "And were you involved in his abduction in Addis Ababa?" Amadeo uncharacteristically betrayed his surprise at the statement but didn't respond.
He directed his cold stare back to me. "The major tells me you are interested in his present location. He says you have reason to believe he may be in Libya."
"Yes, the signal we intercepted appeared to originate at the Libyan air defense training center at Misratah."
Jacobs offered a faint hint of a smile. "My contact places him in Beirut."
"When was he last seen?"
Jacobs checked his watch. "Two hours ago."
"I'm impressed." My whole theory about Marsden's activities was in the balance. "If I may ask, what's his location in Beirut?"
"Presently, he is residing in the seaside villa of Lukas Penwell."
I winced. "Penwell?"
"You are surprised? Penwell is one of yours, a CIA man. Surely you are familiar with his activities."
"Just a little. Far as I know he's ex-CIA."
I knew a lot more but didn't want to tell him. With Penwell, it was personal. He had involved me in a drug smuggling scheme during my last days in the Army. A true shadow warrior, he operated like a ghost, he was everywhere and involved in everything. An entrepreneur of the intelligence world, he was associated with the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba and helped operate the CIA's Air America covert airline in Southeast Asia back in the sixties. Some claimed his Laos operation was mixed up in drug running, but nothing was ever substantiated — until the fiasco in Turkey.
Jacobs' disdainful smirk cut to the core. "If you say so."
What does he mean by that? Does he know? "Why Beirut?"
"Mr. Penwell conducts his business through his company, Phoenician Air Services International based at the Beirut airport."
"What's his connection with Marsden?"
"It is apparent Marsden is now employed by Penwell. As I am sure you are aware, Penwell is not an arms dealer. His main business is — how would you say? — adding value after the sale. He offers training and upgrades for existing equipment. Penwell's activities are not exactly illegal, but he does deal with
a lot of, say, bad actors. As for Marsden, we believe he is engaged in modifying Soviet supplied equipment for, shall we say, certain groups."
"Like the Škorpion Brigade."
A glint of recognition sparkled in his eyes. "We view the SkB as a major threat. They are gathering military-grade arms and may be preparing for a strike. They are believed to be training in Libya. Your intercept may be involved with their preparations."
"You think they might hit Israel?"
"No, not at this time—" A knock on the door interrupted the discussion. A female army sergeant entered and gave Major David an envelope emblazoned with some sort of security classification. He opened the package, examined the contents, and then handed a couple of eight by ten photographs to Jacobs.
Jacobs studied the photos, sent by fax, and passed them on to me. "Do you recognize these people?"
The first photo showed a woman and three men sitting at a table on what appeared to be a private patio. "I'm not familiar with the man in the center, but the one to his right is Marsden. The gal is Helga Bremmer. The other man is Penwell."
He nodded imperceptibly.
"Was this taken in Beirut?"
"Yes … You recognize this woman from Rome?"
"Yeah, a good-looking redhead. How can I forget?"
"I realize you may harbor thoughts of personal revenge regarding members of the Škorpion Brigade, but I advise you, do not let your emotions take the place of prudence. They are extremely dangerous and kill without forethought."
"Like they did in Rome."
"Precisely."
"I've dealt with worse."
"These people are infinitely more lethal than Victor Suslov."
How did he know? — Suslov, a KGB man I first met in Nepal. He attempted to capture me in Iran, and pursued Jack and me all the way to Kabul in Afghanistan. Amadeo also faced him later in Iran. "You seem to know a lot about us. Who do you work for?"
Major David broke the tension. "If he told you, he would have to kill you." Amadeo let out a chuckle.
Jacobs smiled. "The major seems to enjoy your American sense of humor." I sensed he relaxed a bit.