by R G Ainslee
"Do you—"
"Yeah, I ride Moto Guzzi V7 750 Speciale back home."
"Yes, but this is the Sahara."
"I rode one for a couple of years in Ethiopia."
He arched his eyebrows and nodded. "I will inquire, it may prove useful." He consulted his list and asked me, "Your man will be here with the special equipment?"
"Should be here this afternoon."
"Good. He will consult with Tauzin and they will settle the technical details. If all is in order, we may leave on Wednesday the first." He checked his watch. "Now we will retreat to the Mess, a room is reserved where we may eat in peace."
* * *
Joe Hardy arrived late in the afternoon. He plopped a black padded nylon daypack down on the workbench in the small meeting room.
"How was the trip?"
Joe shrugged. "Piece of cake. Changed trains in Paris and the station here's right outside the gate." He asked Amadeo, "How they treatin' you boys down here?"
"Couldn't be better, all the booze we can drink, and all the women we can handle."
"That bad huh."
"Give me a break, we just got here."
I asked, "Where's Jack? Thought he'd be with you."
"Dunno, ole John Smith's got him on some special hush-hush assignment. Worked day and night up in Frankfurt on this baby, didn't get to do much else … Say do you know if they're gonna show the Falcons and Forty-Niners game on TV down here?"
"Not a chance. Anyway, the guys I've seen are more like Raiders fans."
He shook his head and looked to Amadeo with a hopeful smile. Hardy was relentless in his pursuit of the pleasures of the flesh. "Now about these women."
"There ain't no women — give it up."
Hardy feigned deep disappointment and said, "Okay, here Smith said to give this to you." He passed a sealed brown legal-sized envelope.
I slit the packet open with my switchblade. It held two passports and some papers. I handed Amadeo his new passport and opened mine. It was in my real name.
"Smith said to tell you he thought you needed sanitized documents with no inconvenient stamps or visas in them."
I flipped through the pages: entry stamps for France, a visa for Algeria, and much to my surprise, visas for Libya, Niger, Chad, Central African Republic, and Zaire. "Looks like we're going on a grand tour."
Amadeo noticed the same. "I'm not sure I like the implications of this. Thought this was going to be a simple in and out."
I shook my head in disgust. "When've any of Wilson's schemes been simple?"
Hardy let out a chuckle. "Like you say Ross, its BOHICA time."
"Yeah, you're a real prophet. What's in the pack?"
Joe opened the daypack and pulled out a black receiver. "Gentlemen, you are looking at a masterpiece, something that will revolutionize the entire concept of electronic intelligence."
"Amadeo broke in, "Looks like a shortwave radio, saw one just like it in the PX back at Kirtland."
"True, but this one came from the big PX up in Frankfurt. On the outside, this may look like your standard Panasonic RF-2200 shortwave receiver. But I modified the circuits to pick up signals on the 2.25 gigahertz range."
"How about the harmonic?"
"Negatory, no can do on such short notice."
"Guess it'll have to do. Can we DF with the antenna?
"Right-on. In the special mode, the signal strength meter will do the job. Crude but effective. All you need to do is get in place where you can pick up the signal."
"You came up with this idea?"
"No. Mack's brainstorm, he said air attachés used modified commercial portable receivers in Warsaw Pact countries during the fifties to find Soviet radars. Had me give it a try."
"You're confident this one will work?"
After an uncomfortable pause, he muttered, “Like I said, it's the best I could come up with on a limited lead time. If I was back in the World, I could do better.”
"Yeah, I know, thanks we'll do our best too." Not having the capability to receive the harmonic was disappointing, but not a game changer. I would rely on my experience and skills, something I had done in the past. Sophisticated electronics in remote locations is always a crapshoot as far as access to repairs is concerned. This would be no different. I hoped.
Saturday, 27 September 1980, Bayonne, France
Hardy left on the early morning train, crestfallen, Roger refused to allow anyone to go out on the town, citing security concerns. Even the Frenchmen were disappointed. Dylan didn't seem to care. The evening spent going over operational details and familiarizing ourselves with topographic maps of the Sahara. The mood was tense.
Saturday morning, the team assembled in the wooded area west of the citadel walls. Roger announced that Dylan would lead us through a series of hand-to-hand combat drills as a confidence building exercise to overcome the language barrier and harmonize our different tactical styles. He said he wanted to resolve any differences before we get to the desert.
Roger held up a large knife and stroked the blade. "Bayonette. There is a legend that the peasants of Bayonne in an ancient war, having exhausted their ammunition, forced their long-blade knives into the muskets to make spears. Therefore, today we have the bayonet."
Roger sheaved the weapon and pitched it to Dylan who caught the handle in mid-air and charged at me. The lightening attack happened so fast I didn't have time to think, only react. I slipped to the side as he thrust the knife towards my gut, grabbed his wrist, and tripped him as he went past. Kirby stumbled, but stayed on his feet. He showed no sign of surprise as I crouched with the sheathed knife in my hand. He had been overconfident and taken for granted I was an easy mark. However, he was a pro and in seconds, I lay flat on my stomach with the blade at my neck.
"Hey Ross, you found someone faster than you." Amadeo was right. I didn't have a clue as to what happened. All I remembered was Dylan charging at me as I stood thinking I had won.
"Want to try again," said Roger.
"No. I'll leave the hand-to-hand to you guys. You're the pros. I'm just a tech guy." I hated to admit it, but I'd been put in my place. I caught Dylan off-guard, he underestimated me. I knew for sure he wouldn't do it again. My skills adequate against unsuspecting amateurs, but they were real pros.
Dylan gave me a haughty you-know-what-I-mean kind of grin. It was clear he understood combat with a knife. Attack right away — don't give your adversary time to collect his thoughts — kill'em before they have a chance to defend themselves.
In a flash, Dylan spun around and lunged at Amadeo, who dodged to his left and delivered a sidekick to Dylan's ribcage. The ex-SAS man recovered, tried again, anticipating Amadeo's move, which struck in the opposite direction. On the third try, Dylan succeeded and took Amadeo to the ground.
Dylan turned to give me a smug smile. Tauzin sprung forward, driving a folded switchblade into Dylan's ribs from behind. I had been right about Tauzin. He did carry a switchblade in his boot. I tried to remain pokerfaced but couldn't resist a comment. "Ya need to learn to watch your back." If eyes could kill, I would have been a dead man. "You never know who to trust these days."
Kirby stood speechless for a few seconds and began to laugh. "You're right mate," — Tauzin stepped back and clicked open the switchblade. — "especially when you travel in bad company."
Tauzin shot Roger a puzzled look and received a rough translation. He folded his blade and leaned down to stick it in the top of his boot. Dylan took advantage of the moment and charged head down, intent on making a tackle. However, Tauzin, with the reflexes of a cat, slipped to his right. Dylan flew past and ended up on the grass. Goulon joined in. In an instant he was on top, straddling Dylan's back, an unsheathed bayonet at his throat.
Roger yelled at Goulon to cease and desist. The big man eased up and flashed a big smile, his first display of emotion. Dylan rolled over and jumped to his feet. Both men stood, face to face, four feet apart. Their wordless exchange conveyed all that needed to be said. T
hey now had an awareness of the other's limits and capabilities. Their angry glares dissolved into wide smiles. Out of the faux combat, they forged a new sense of professional respect.
At last, we quit for lunch. The exercise had been a humbling experience, but during the morning, I acquired some new skills and improved to the point where I could at least make it interesting. Roger accomplished his goal: esprit de corps. We were learning about each other and beginning to emerge as a cohesive team.
* * *
Early in the afternoon, we drove out to a firing range in an isolated training area at the base of the Pyrenees. The sound of gunfire echoed through the hills as Roger pulled a 9-millimeter semi-auto out of his bag. At first, I thought the pistol was a Browning Hi-Power. It looked familiar.
I asked, "Is that a PA-15?"
He smiled. "Ah, you recognize the weapon. It was made in Bayonne at the Manufacture d'armes de Bayonne."
"Yeah, a lady friend has one; she let me borrow it once." Jack and I borrowed Lara Dumont's pistol without her knowledge last year in Kabul. I knew where she kept it — but that's another story. Roger's expression told me he knew. I wasn't going to let him know for sure. Keep him guessing.
"Since you are familiar with the weapon, you may go first." He passed the pistol to me butt first and pulled a magazine out of his pocket. "The target at twenty-five meters … Vitesse … rapid fire."
I grabbed the pistol, slammed the magazine in, racked the slide Israeli style, snap fired the first three rounds on the way up, aimed, and took the remaining twelve shots in rapid succession.
Dylan lowered the binoculars. "All in the black, a tight group, except the first two rounds." He shot a quizzical gaze in my direction. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"Working summers on my uncle's ranch back in New Mexico. I got a lot of practice with a twenty-two, shooting rattlers from the saddle." The Frenchmen didn't seem to understand. "A snake—"
Roger understood and interpreted. ""Un serpent à sonnette américaine." Goulon remained impassive. Tauzin's smirk returned.
Amadeo chimed in, "Told you he was a cowboy. Believe me now?"
Roger eyed me warily. "Do you think such a small caliber is adequate, will you, as you Americans like to say, be outgunned?"
"You're only outgunned if you miss."
Amadeo agreed, "My partner, Jack Richards told us, when he trained with the British SAS, a veteran sergeant said, if you're not a competent shooter carry a larger caliber. They consider 9-millimeter an expert's gun."
As Roger walked down-range to retrieve the target. Dylan said to Amadeo, "He's right about that." He turned to me and squinted. "You ever shoot anyone?"
I hesitated, not proud of having killed several men in the last two years. Amadeo answered for me, "Yeah, he can do it under pressure. But you should see him firing at a helicopter with an elephant gun." Dylan looked puzzled. "I was next to him when he shot out the window of a Mi-8 from the cockpit of a Pilatus Porter." I squeezed his arm and shook my head. He got the message, "Let's just say he can shoot, don't worry about it."
Roger returning with the target said, "He's right, I am familiar with the story." He told me, "Give the pistol to Ruiz … let us see what he is capable of."
13 ~ Alix
Sunday, 28 September 1980, Bayonne, France
Sunday morning, much to my surprise, Tauzin invited me to attend early mass in the chapel. The service performed in French, so I only understood the familiar parts, a moving experience, nevertheless. I prayed for Lisette, the baby, and a quick reunion. I wanted to call her, but Roger citing security concerns, banned all outside contact.
On the way back to our rooms, Tauzin offered me a Marlborough cigarette. I declined, and he lit up. I asked, "What did the priest do with your knife?" I had been puzzled when he pulled out the knife in front of the chaplain.
"He give la bénédiction."
"He blessed your switchblade. That's unusual, don't you think?"
"No, the prêtre, he is from Marseille, he understand such things."
"Are you from Marseille?"
With his devilish smile, he said, "Bien sûr."
"So, you knew how to handle the blade before you became a Marine?"
"Oui."
"You did okay against Dylan yesterday. Don't think he ever got the best of you."
Tauzin smiled, "He is compétent, but is not from Marseille."
* * *
After a palatable Sunday lunch in the Mess, Roger announced he was leaving within the hour. He would travel ahead to Tamanrasset and make sure our contact had everything in order.
"Everyone must keep in mind, when we are in L’Algérie, my nom de guerre is Atif Mansour. I will be your local guide and when in public, you must treat me as such. Do not speak to me in English. Remember, the party is a photographic expedition."
"Where's the cameras?" I asked, "Don't we need some gear?"
"That problem will be addressed tomorrow. You will meet a new team member, a professional photographer. Your role is to provide support to the effort."
"I thought the signal was the effort."
Roger gave me a look. He didn't like being questioned. "It is, but we must maintain a satisfactory legend story." He dismissed me with a wave of the hand. "Your concerns will be answered before you leave."
I wondered what was going on. The mission should have been a simple operation, only two or three people needed. Now with one more added, my sixth sense told me something else was happening.
"Kirby will be in charge in my absence," said Roger as he shot me a tentative glance. "What is planned for this afternoon, Dylan?"
"Well mates, we return to the woods. More hand-to-hand combat." Amadeo and I groaned, Tauzin smiled, and Goulon remained deadpanned. "This time we will run through a drill, disarming an armed opponent."
Most people don't understand how easy it is to take a gun away from someone. Let them get close, within reach, then a quick move can turn the weapon into a liability — if you're good enough. It does take repetition though, a skill, one that must be maintained to stay alive. I realized from the get-go, I was rusty and needed a lot more practice.
We finished a couple of hours later. The results, much the same, Dylan, Tauzin, and Amadeo proved to be the best. Goulon made up in power what he lacked in quickness. I did okay, only got killed a few times. Didn't expect to use the skills, but with my past experiences as a lesson, anything could happen.
At the end of the day, I had a new sense of respect for Dylan Kirby. He had an intense devotion to the task-at-hand and an incredible drive to get it done and do it right.
On the way back to the main fort, Dylan asked, "What do you think so far, have we missed anything?"
"Guess we don't know what we don't know. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll come back and bite us in the butt. These types of operations always seem to end up FUBAR once you get into the field."
He transferred his gaze forward, looking at nothing in particular and observed morosely, "Sounds like you do have some experience."
Tauzin asked, "What is fubeer?"
Dylan tried to translate the acronym into French, "Merdé méconnaissable."
Tauzin's jaw twitched. "Oui, je comprends."
Goulon stood with an expression of profound resignation on his face.
Monday, 29 September 1980, Bayonne, France
Rappelling down a cliff or a wall is a dangerous move used in an emergency and only if no other method is available. The morning's exercise on the cut-stone walls of the citadel was designed to sharpen our technique and expose weaknesses. Roger explained early on, we needed to test and assess our capabilities. Our lives might depend on it.
The other members of the team performed skillfully, they were actual Special Forces types. I concluded the exercise was solely to size up my qualifications. I had experience climbing and rappelling, but my technique needed improvement.
"One more time," shouted Dylan, standing beside me on the top of the rampart. "You'r
e doing fine. Don't try to go too fast. The object is to get to the bottom in one piece."
I leaned back, walked off the stone precipice, flexed my knees, and pushed away. We practiced rappelling without a harness, wrapping the rope around the body, and trusting only on a carabineer to regulate the decent. After a tentative step, I started to take modest jumps backward, allowing gravity to do its job. Dylan insisted we use the traditional method, relying only on the simplest equipment. We didn't expect to use it, but one must be prepared in the desert, especially in the inhospitable environment of the Sahara.
I glanced down. The ground was near, pushed off hard, and made a perfect landing on the balls of my feet.
"Looking good, we'll make a Ranger out of you yet." The voice instantly recognizable — Jack Richards. He stood on the pavement at the base of the wall dressed casually in jeans and a long sleeve shirt.
"What are you doin' here?" His presence unexpected, I assumed he had returned to the states. I asked hopefully, "You joining up?" It would be good to have an additional friendly face.
"No, just hitched a ride." He noticed my questioning look. "Came down with the count."
"The count?" It took a few moments to register. He meant Count Alexandre, head of the SDECE. What's he doing here? The rear door to a dark blue Citroën DS opened and out stepped a full-bodied man with a thin mustache and graying hair.
The man smiled and examined me with a practiced eye. "Mr. Brannan, I am pleased to meet you at last. Jacque told me all about your exploits in Iran and Afghanistan."
I saw Jack out of the corner of my eye. He wasn't smiling. Something didn't seem quite right. What's going on? I asked, "Is the mission still on?"
"Yes, the plan is proceeding as scheduled." The count spoke English with only a slight hint of an accent. "I journeyed today to check on your progress and, I am afraid, I have some news."
News, that could only mean one thing — trouble. My mind raced, I noticed the concern in Jack's eyes. Something happened to Lisette — the baby. "Lisette."
The count pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, and said, "Lisette and the baby are fine. The problem is resolved."