by R G Ainslee
I tuned the receiver to a shortwave band, plugged in the cassette, and made a short recording of the BBC hourly time announcement for reference. Then placed the unit on top of the instrument panel and dialed to Joe's pre-tuned frequency. The antenna pointed straight ahead, all we had to do was get closer to the target and wait.
Alix broke my concentration. "About the night at the fort. Please forgive me. The stars and everything was so romantic, I gave in to—"
"Yeah, me too. Like I said, you're something else. If I wasn't married—" What the hell am I saying? Can't I just keep my mouth shut?
She touched my arm, releasing a jolt of testosterone. "Thank you."
I was about to go where no man dared to go when he's flying an unfamiliar airplane at night over dangerous territory. I had to change the subject. My sixth sense shifted into gear. "Tell me, who are you? It's clear to me you're not just window-dressing. Can you set me straight — what's going on?"
"No, I cannot." We sat through another long period of silence, dripping with tension as the cold grey desert passed below. "I can tell you I am not a professional spy."
"Is this merely an all-expense paid vacation?"
"You do not believe me?"
"Sorry, I'm just relying on instincts."
"And your instincts tell you, not to trust me."
"That's the way it is, can't help it."
She offered a weak smile. "Yes, it is what it is."
Yeah, it is what it is — trouble. How do I get myself into these fixes? My marriage on the rocks because of what I'm doing now. Always going off on some … mission, yeah, that's a great name for it. A mission, just another name for being played for a sucker. I've lost Lisette, my son, everything I—
"What are you doing — you are going down?" cried Alix.
I pulled back on the yoke and regained the thousand feet I had lost. "Sorry, my mind must have been wandering."
A subtle change in terrain loomed ahead, the hills around our quarry.
"That dark spot is near the base. I'm going to turn off the IFF for the approach."
"They will think we are hostile—"
"Or a normal civilian flight. It'll cause some confusion and hopefully make them switch to a tracking mode." I flicked the IFF switch. "Okay here we go. Going to pop up into their viewing range and see if we can get their attention."
I gained altitude to 5,000 feet and turned the controls over to Alix. I adjusted the antenna and — bingo — dead ahead, right on frequency. Less than five seconds later, the radar's antenna completed another scan, then another.
I didn't need sophisticated analysis equipment to make a positive identification. The high pitch audio told me the pulse repetition frequency was around 800 pulses per second. I counted the scan rate by the second hand on my watch, right at four point five. Yes, it was a P-40 Long Track tactical surveillance radar operating in the E-band.
Alix asked, "Success?"
"Yeah, the same type of radar. Can't tell for sure if it's the one we're looking for, but I'd bet the farm it is." Marsden — Machado or whatever you call yourself these days. I'm gonna put you out of business, you miserable bastard. I have half a mind to fly right in and shoot your—
"What do we do now?
"Keep on this heading for a few more minutes. Make sure I have a good recording. Just a few more revs."
"Do we fly over—" Her voice betrayed concern.
"No, we don't need to get too close. We don't know what they have, just a few more … miles." My blood ran cold as the rotation of the antenna halted. They switched from the surveillance mode to track us. Normal Long Tracks don't do that. Marsden's does. The audio buzzed away at a continuous high pitch. I visualized in my mind, the image of the signal on a panoramic display. It was so real. I couldn't believe it, Joe's contraption worked.
A radio transmission cut through the din of the engines. "Ground to air. Control to PASI 99." The voice had an American accent.
"It is them?"
"Yeah, what was that guy's name, the American Harry said was down there?"
"I believe he said Eddie … Oh what was—"
"Eddie Knight."
"Yes."
One more sorry SOB I'd like to put a bullet through. Hell, I'd like to waste the whole lot.
"Ground to air. Control to PASI 99.'
I took the mike, keyed, and rubbed it against my shirt.
"Ground to air. Control to PASI 99. Say again."
I repeated the trick, dragging the mike across a couple of buttons.
They called again, "Ground to air. Control to PASI 99. Are you in trouble?"
"They believe we are Harry?"
"Hope so, apparently, they're not sure with the IFF turned off."
The calls stopped. I waited, the recorder running, the high pitch audio buzzing away. Seconds passed — a minute — had they given up calling? Then, an almost indecipherable change in the pitch of the audio from the radar, a familiar change, one I heard before. I sensed they had engaged the third harmonic for a missile guidance system.
"Let me take the controls—" Alix released her hands and grabbed the radio and recorder. "Hold on we're out of here." I pushed the yoke forward in a dive, banked to the left, to the right, and back again.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to make them think we're in trouble. Maybe I can buy some time."
"Ground to air. Control to PASI 99. Acknowledge immediately."
At 500 feet, the signal faded. We were below their horizon. I banked into a full 180 turn and headed for home, 300 above the desert floor.
Alix, now concerned, asked, "Is this too low, can you see?"
"We need to stay on the deck for a few more miles, and then I'll take it up a little at a time. Don't want them to pick us up again. If they think Harry crashed, that'll keep 'em busy for a while. Tune the aircraft radio from the civilian VHF band up to the military band. He must have crystals installed for Libyan air force frequencies."
"Do you think they will try to follow us?"
"Don't know, can't take any chances. Just keep scanning, till you hear something."
* * *
Alix continued to scan through the band, first a burst of static, then the tense silence shattered by the sound of an excited voice jabbering away.
"Can you make out what he's saying?" I asked, knowing she spoke some Arabic.
"I hear only one side of the conversation, but it appears he is approaching Al Wigh … Now he has acknowledged a message. What, I do not know. I only hear the pilot's transmissions."
"Probably receiving instructions from base."
"Oh wait … now he says he will make a search pattern. What kind of aircraft … a jet?"
"Most likely from the airbase at Sabah, about a couple of hundred miles to the north." I made some quick time and distance calculations in my head. "Judging by the time it took him to get there, he's flying a Mig-21 or 23."
We flew on as the Libyan aircraft circled the area where we dived to the deck. Apparently, they believed Harry had gone down, so we hoped.
"He told them he completed his search and … and found nothing … now he asks for instructions.'
"Maybe he'll go home, we need some—"
"Now he acknowledges and repeats his instructions … he repeats … he will fly at bearing of … 270 degrees … at maximum speed."
"Hells bells, that'll be right on our path."
"Will he catch us?"
"It'll be close." Again, I calculated the distance. He had over 100 miles to go at 1,000 miles per hour. We were going 200. I had increased our speed when the radio traffic started. The border was now less than twenty miles away, by my estimation. "He'll catch up in five or six minutes, about the same time we hit the border."
"Will he respect the frontier?"
"Hell, if I know. Who's going to stop him?"
"What do—"
"Pray, we need to start praying and hope to hell he doesn't find us."
She edged over to the win
dow and looked back. "Do you think he can locate us? Can you turn away from our path?"
"No, we need to stay on course. We can't afford to get lost. We're on a heading of 255, maybe that'll send him to the north of our position."
Time counted down, every couple of minutes the Libyan pilot reported to base, with negative results. Ahead to our right, the faint outlines of the Tassili Mountains emerged on the horizon.
"He should've caught us by now, can—"
"There … up there, to the right above us … in the distance."
"Yeah, I see him." The yellowish red glow from a jet exhaust flickered in the sky high above, several miles to our left.
"Did he see us?"
"Guess not, we're still alive." So far.
The next minute passed by, at glacial speed. The glow from his single turbojet engine disappeared. I concentrated on maintaining a safe altitude over the dunes.
"He reports … he finds nothing and … and asks permission to return to base."
"Keep your fingers crossed."
We passed over a large ridge of dunes and I estimated we were over the border. I banked right and lost 500 feet in altitude, flying parallel to the ridge.
"He acknowledges … and reports … his fuel is critical for return." Alix shrieked. "He is returning to base."
"All right … Whew … that was cutting it a little close."
"Now we are safe?"
"Yeah, I guess so, at least until we try to land."
21 ~ The Intercept
Tuesday, 7 October 1980, Djanet Airfield, Algeria
The time was 0415. We had been airborne four hours. The flight from the border was uneventful, helped by dim light from the waning crescent moon that appeared after our final turn. We followed a course of 300 degrees for the last forty-five minutes.
I had time to think. What now? Get a flight out of here back to civilization, turn in the tape, and head to Lamu. What about Harry? What are we going to do with him? Harry — How did they find out where we would be? Tauzin — I still couldn't understand why. So much didn't add up. Penwell — who's he working for? What the hell — let Wilson and John Smith figure it out.
Alix interrupted my thoughts. "Ahead, you can make out a faint light. Somebody must be up late in Djanet."
"Or maybe, they're an early riser — hope Amadeo and Dylan are there." I took the mike and clicked twice, no answer. Clicked two more times, still no response. A couple of minutes later, I tried it again with the same result.
"They do not answer."
"Yeah, those guys better be on the job, we're going to need some light for reference."
"Do you think there is a problem?"
"Dunno." I tried the radio again, then again, no result. "Here, take the mike, double click every fifteen seconds or so, I need to concentrate on finding the airstrip."
I spotted the track that passed for a road in those parts and followed the line at an altitude of about 500 feet. Black lava hills protruded from the desert floor on either side guiding me straight in to town. We were on course; all I needed was to find the end of the runway.
"There it is, straight ahead. See that long grey mark—"
"Yes, yes." She clicked the mike, then again.
Click click — Click Click.
"It's them," she screamed.
I flashed the landing lights. Two sets of lights appeared, pointing down the runway, illuminating the faded asphalt pavement. I switched on the landing lights and eased back on the throttle. At the end of the runway, less than twenty feet off the ground, I cut back to let it settle in.
Moments later the wheels bounced hard like a basketball, then again, and again. We skipped down the runway until the tail wheel touched down. I began to veer left, applied a bit of rudder, hit the brakes, and corrected my drift towards the sand. Back on the centerline, we rolled almost to the end of the runway. I unlocked the tail wheel, revved the left engine, and spun the aircraft around to enter the parking apron.
"You came in too fast."
I took a deep breath as I tried to get my heart rate under control. "Yeah, but we made it, didn't we?"
I halted on the same spot Harry had parked and shut down the engines. As I was getting out of the seat, Alix placed her hand on my arm and squeezed.
"Wow — that was exciting." She was breathing hard too. Her eyes had that wild dreamy look, the one that spells trouble for a married man.
Not a moment too soon, two sets of vehicle lights raced down the asphalt in our direction. "Here they come, let's get out of here."
The vehicles halted beside the Beech, Amadeo and Dylan exited. I opened the cabin door and Alix hopped out to the tarmac. Amadeo approached, Dylan remained by his vehicle, they didn't seem happy to see us.
"What's up?"
Amadeo, with a pained expression on his face said, "Harry— The SOB tried to get away."
"He escaped?"
"Hell no, we got the bastard hog tied in back of Dylan's Rover."
Alix seemed genuinely surprised. "Why did he—"
"He got antsy and thought you weren't gonna make it back." Amadeo chuckled. "We were waiting at the end of the runway, and he took off like a scalded ape."
I asked, "Where'd he think he could go?"
"He took off into the sand. We chased him for a quarter mile in the Rovers. Dylan got stuck and I ran Harry down. Had a hell of a time getting Dylan's vehicle out of the sand."
"Guess that's why you didn't answer our clicks."
"Sorry 'bout that, but we didn't figure we needed him running to the authorities."
I strolled over to Dylan's Land Rover. "You okay?" I asked.
"Except for a case of wounded pride, thought we had that bloke under control."
We walked around to the back and Dylan swung the door open.
"Right mate, glad to see you made it back. Sorry, I just—"
"Save your breath, you're going to need it. — Hey Alix, he's all yours."
"No," Harry bellowed, "I just got nervous, afraid you wouldn't make it back." Alix approached. "Please mate, I'll do whatever you want, please don't let her—"
Alix kneeled inside the Rover and stroked his hair. "Oh, Harry. You have been a bad boy. Do you know what happens to bad boys?"
Harry answered with a whimper, his eyes scrunched up in anticipation, as he struggled against the rope. "Please, please don't."
Alix turned to me and asked, "What do you think we should do with him?"
"I'm all for putting him in the plane and dumping him in the desert." Which was a lie, I wasn't about to risk another night landing, but he didn't know.
"No, no, that wouldn't be fun." She stroked his hair again. "You do want to have some fun don't you."
Harry let out a scream. "Go ahead. Get it over with. Kill me. Dump me in the desert. Just don't let this bitch have a go at me again."
Alix slapped him and walked away in a huff.
Dylan leaned down and whispered in Harry's ear. "Wrong move mate, I think you pissed her off."
* * *
We sat around the table in Ali's main room, having just finished four large pizzas for lunch or breakfast, or whatever meal it was. We woke only a half hour before, everyone trying to catch a few winks after a busy night. Poor old Harry spent the morning hog-tied on the floor with a bag over his head.
'That wasn't bad pizza," I said. "Dylan, ask Ali, where did he find pizza."
"He told me they came from a restaurant run by a Libyan."
"Libyan's do pizza?"
"Yeah," responded Amadeo, "Remember the Italians used to run the place, up until the war."
"Makes sense. — Harry, two pieces left want some?"
Alix walked over and removed the bag, "Are you hungry? You need to keep up your energy for the fun."
"I'm starvin, please untie me, I promise—"
Alix pulled out her butcher knife. Harry's eyes bulged, and she leaned over to cut the ropes. "Harry will not give us more trouble." She glared at him and then smiled — a wic
ked smile even by my book. "Harry?"
"No, no, you ain't gonna have any— No … Hell no."
As Harry devoured a slice of pizza, I asked Dylan, "How's Roger?" I hadn't seen him since we got there."
"Not good. The doc says he needs to get to a hospital. One of Ali's guys is trying to get him on the afternoon flight to Algiers. From there he can go on to Paris direct. Make it there this evening if all goes well."
"Can he travel alone?"
"I think he needs somebody to go with him," said Amadeo.
I looked to Alix. "That would be you."
She responded with a frustrated look. "Why me? I—"
"You're French, speak the lingo, and would attract less … attention." I eyed her outfit, shorts and tee shirt. She noticed. I swallowed hard and continued, "Well, he don't need the authorities asking inconvenient questions."
With a hint of regret, she said, "I understand. I'll go check on Roger."
Harry downed the last slice of pizza and breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
The afternoon flight from Algiers was only an hour late, not bad by third world standards. Amadeo and I drove Ali, Roger, and Alix to the airport and waited in the Rover for the plane to taxi to a halt. Ali, using some of his influence, managed to obtain tickets and avoid the usual scrutiny by the authorities. Dylan remained behind to ensure Harry didn't make another escape attempt.
The Twin Beech was right where I parked it earlier in the morning. I thought about checking it out but decided not to draw any undue attention until Roger and Alix were gone. We discussed plans but weren't sure what our next move would be. Roger insisted on taking the tape with him, but I resisted. I wasn't going to let the recording out of my hands, especially to the French. Their duplicitous game rankled me and, well — I just didn't trust the bastards.
The airliner door opened, a twin-engine turboprop I didn't recognize, and a set of stairs folded out. The first passengers off, a group of western tourists, most likely French or Germans, then a couple of Arab families deplaned, followed by a trio of Algerian soldiers. The last person out was Jack Richards.
"What the heck's he doing here?" asked Amadeo.