by R G Ainslee
"I expected LeGrande," said John. "The big guy is a French Marine, not sure about the other."
"That guy's big enough to play pro football," said Amadeo, "He's gotta be six-five and at least 275. Looks like that guy, what's his name, Ben something, that used to play for the Raiders, don't ya think?"
"Yeah, Ben Davidson, he does look like an Oakland Raider type, now that you mention it."
John nodded. "You're not too far from the truth. Bayonne is the heart of French rugby country. Some of the Marines play on local teams."
"What about the other guy?" I asked.
"Doubtless some tech weenie," he looked at me with a smirk, "I recognize the type."
* * *
Commandant LeGrande, always the epitome of a professional soldier, handled the details of arrival, issuing curt instructions to the local officials. The immigration and customs authorities complied and waved the four past the waiting line with no formalities.
So much for not drawing any attention, I thought to myself, choosing to keep silent. Wilson and I exchanged glances, but he offered no sign of greeting. I had that feeling, the old sixth sense again, my day wasn't going to end well.
A team of baggage handlers arrived with the luggage, just as the four entered the main lobby. The big guy passed some coins to the men. They hesitated, expecting more, only to be dismissed with a scornful stare. I sensed he wasn't someone you wanted to mess with.
"Gentlemen," said Wilson with his customary greeting. "You remember Commandant LeGrande. The other gentlemen are Corporal Jean-Henri Bernad and Julien Rollet, who works with our friend the count."
Speak for yourself, I thought, the count ain't no friend of mine.
No one offered to shake hands or say anything more. We filed out of the terminal to the waiting vehicle, a French van driven by Sergeant LeClerc. Jack lingered behind on the lookout for suspicious activity. Wilson hung back with John. They spoke softly and halted a few yards away.
"Wonder what they're talking about?" I said to Amadeo as we slipped into the rear seat.
"We'll find out pretty soon. Got a feeling our careers are hanging in the balance."
"Yeah, we'll end up counting penguins in Antarctica before it's all over."
"If we're lucky."
The ride back to Camp Béal passed in silence, interrupted only by LeClerc's Gallic salutations to other drivers, pedestrians, and the occasional stray animal. Wilson and LeGrande rode up front, hardly acknowledging our presence. I didn't figure that would last long once we got back to the base. — It didn't.
* * *
The fan oscillated in a forlorn attempt to stir a cooling breeze and almost succeeded. The room was, with the window closed, stiflingly warm, not hot, just enough to be uncomfortable. Maybe it was because I was concluding my presentation, a half hour long recitation of our recent adventure.
"…and then we landed in Bangui and been here ever since."
Colonel Wilson shifted in his chair and gave me a noncommittal nod. He looked to Jack and Amadeo and asked, "Do you gentlemen have anything to add?"
They shook their heads and Amadeo shot me a quick glance. I shot him a cold look in return. Thanks for the support, guys.
Wilson slapped a hand on the tabletop. "Well that about wraps it up." He leaned back and turned to LeGrande. "Do you have any comments?"
LeGrande stiffened and sat up straight. "Oui, I have. S'il vous plaît I will comment en français." He then started a five-minute discourse I couldn't comprehend. Wilson nodded and smiled at a few points and frowned at others. Everyone else remained pokerfaced. I wasn't aware Wilson spoke or understood French.
"Did you understand what the commandant said?" said Wilson.
"No sir, he lost me on the second sentence."
"The commandant essentially agrees with me: you had a commendable success … albeit at a high cost. If your assumption of the signal's origin is correct, it will be a significant find, and provide the basis for further action. However, your unconventional travel arrangements caused problems. The authorities in Agadez issued an arrest order for persons unknown, who murdered a Phoenician Air Services International pilot and stole his aircraft—"
"Harry Dawson's dead?" I interjected.
"Yes, his body was found on a back street near the airport in Agadez the same day you left. You are the only suspects." I glanced at Jack and Amadeo. "In addition, our colleagues in London are disturbed by the disappearance of one of their top men."
I noticed he hadn't said anything regarding the French casualties. "What about the attack at the old fort. I believe we were set up." I looked LeGrande straight in the eyes. He didn't flinch. "What's the story on that episode?"
LeGrande took a deep breath, about to respond, but Wilson spoke first. "An unfortunate occurrence, I am sure the commandant will agree. It was necessary to deal with the potential security risks before we proceeded."
I was right — we had been played for stooges. "How about Roger, is he all right?" I also wondered about Alix, but reluctant to ask.
"Demers recover well," said LeGrande. He paused and imparted a knowing smirk. "Mademoiselle Moreaux sends you greetings."
Eager to change the subject, I asked, "Now what are our plans, now that the mission is complete."
LeGrande smiled — a big smile. I didn't like it. When guys like him smile it's usually not a good sign. I didn't need my sixth sense to smell a rat.
Wilson pursed his lips and scratched his chin. The rat smell got stronger. He looked straight at me. "The mission is not complete. Raven-One has unfinished business." He turned to the others. "Gentlemen, please let Brannan and me enjoy a moment alone."
I knew it. I knew it was coming — BOHICA.
* * *
Wilson stood at the window, gazing at a bird sitting on the barbed wire atop the wall surrounding the compound. At last, the bird took wing and the colonel turned and leaned against the sill. I wished I were the bird, free to just up and fly away. I wasn't sure what was coming but was sure the bird had the better deal.
The colonel took a deep breath, the way he always does to compose himself before issuing bad news. "The northern town of Faya Largeau is the key to holding the northern regions of Chad. The Libyan's occupied the place for a couple of years until June when it was recaptured by the French-backed forces of Defense Minister Hissein Habré from the forces of the President Goukouni Oueddei. In the last few days, Libyan troops attacked from the Aouzou Strip and recaptured the town and its important airfield."
"I don't get it. The defense minister is fighting the president. Where do the Libyans come in?"
"The Libyan's current involvement in Chad is in support of Oueddei, the president. We have solid reports of Libyan troops airlifted to the Aouzou airfield to support the offensive already underway. They reportedly are receiving technical assistance from certain eastern bloc countries."
"So, they like this guy … what's his name Goukouni something?"
"They don't care who's running the show, as long as they maintain ultimate control."
"And if I remember correctly, uranium is at the bottom of this."
"Correct. Gaddafi has ambitions to be a nuclear power and needs radioactive materials."
"He's got the people to do this?"
"Not yet, but a lot of countries are eager to help. The Iraqis, Pakistani's, the whole Islamic world wants a bomb. He can assemble the people after he obtains the material. All it takes is money and motivation and he has plenty of both."
"I thought the uranium is in northern Niger. Does Chad have deposits also?"
"There is still speculation about Chad's uranium resources, but if he can control the country, he anticipates he can get the upper hand in Niger."
"And the French in particular don't like that prospect."
"Too put it mildly. They don't want anyone else upsetting their de-facto control over their former colonies."
"Yeah, I noticed in town, there seems to be a Frenchman behind every cash register."
>
Wilson nodded. "Yes, I believe you comprehend the situation."
"So…"
"The presence of the Škorpion Brigade is a complicating factor and is the main reason for our involvement."
"I don't understand."
The colonel paused and took a seat at the table. "Their goal is to penetrate deep into Africa and set up a new revolutionary presence. They see themselves as successors to Che Guevara and want to succeed where he failed. Word is, they want to set up a base in Eastern Zaire and establish a New Congo Peoples Republic.
"We believe their aim is to exert influence over and perhaps control uranium production in Africa. They are using the Libyan involvement in Chad as a stepping-stone. Currently, their main base is at Al Wigh and we estimate they will try to set up a series of airstrips across the Sahara to independently ferry supplies to their people."
"What's their next move?"
"The French believe they may be aiming at Zouar south of the Tibesti Mountains and some abandoned airstrips south of Fada in the eastern part of the country."
"Okay, how is Penwell implicated in all this?"
"His group is primarily working for the Libyans. However, they have become more involved with the Škorpion Brigade in the last few months."
"Any reason why? That seems like a pretty big jump, helping terrorists and all."
Wilson paused again, deep in thought. He sat up straight and peered out the window, as if he were trying to make up his mind. After a few moments, he continued, his tone changed, almost apologetic. "Penwell is connected with the Mediterranean International Bank of Commerce. Based in Beirut, the bank is a shady source of financing and money laundering in the Middle East, and has ties to the Syrian, Libyan, and Iraqi governments. The KGB also uses it to transfer funds to assets in the region."
"I've heard about it. Didn't some guy writing in the Washington Post claim the CIA was mixed up with them too?"
Wilson's answer was curt and defensive. "That's what he claimed."
"It's getting even more tangled."
"Yes, so it seems." Wilson sighed. "The bank acts as a regional intelligence operation with a Mafia-like enforcement squad headed by Maxim Ivanov. He operates primarily out of the bank’s offices in Beirut and acts as the bank's contact for Phoenician Air Services International. He also acts as their point of contact for the Škorpion Brigade."
"A Russian?"
"No, he's a former Bulgarian security officer for the Committee for State Security, First Directorate for Foreign Intelligence. — You have heard of Dan Marcus?"
"Sounds familiar, isn't he another CIA guy who went off the reservation?" It occurred to me quite a few CIA guys had gone off the reservation lately. My sixth sense shifted into gear and dropped into four-wheel drive. I was about to negotiate a path through a lot of deep muck and BS and I didn't like it.
"Correct, he was a CIA specialist in technology procurement. Now, he's working with Penwell and Carl Walker to supply sophisticated technology and trained personnel to rogue regimes including Syria and Libya. Ivanov is their main financier and contracts with them to smuggle electronic and military equipment to anyone who has the money. It appears he was the one who arranged for Marsden to work with Penwell."
"Is this whole thing with Penwell, the Libyans, and the Škorpion Brigade some sort of giant conspiracy?" This was beginning to sound like some story you'd read in a magazine at the barbershop.
"It's hard to say. Let's just say, one man's conspiracy is another man's covert strategy. Each of them has their own separate objectives and it seems Ivanov managed to bring them together. I suppose you could say they are all playing into the hands of the KGB. If there's a grand conspiracy it would have to do with the Soviet's ultimate objectives."
"I still don't get the SkB's involvement. I understand the KGB and the Libyan's role, and Penwell's in for the money, but these guys, how do they fit in? Are they some sort of distraction? Can they play a big role on the world stage?"
"History has shown us that useful idiots can indeed be useful. You're right about them being a distraction, but one we can't afford to ignore. To the Soviets, they are a low-cost way to cause us to divert precious resources away from greater strategic interests."
"Just a way to nickel and dime us to death."
"In a manner of speaking." The colonel nodded his head in agreement. "That is the simplest and most obvious explanation."
"Where do we fit in?" As if, I didn't know.
"Marsden's radar is perceived by the French as a threat. They cannot afford to lose control of the air. At the present, the strategic balance is a dicey proposition. The Libyans have the edge in numbers, but not in quality."
"But the French have ECM capabilities. They should be able to deal with Marsden's radar."
"True. The problem is its potential. Marsden's modifications allow the Long Track's role as a mobile early warning radar to be expanded. It can serve as a tracking and guidance system."
"Sort of like the AK-47. Cheap, simple to operate, and can be produced in large numbers."
"As you know, Soviet air defense doctrine relies on density and a certain degree of mobility."
"Yeah, we spend a lot of resources on developing the highest quality and they spend theirs on quantity. Produce a system that's just good enough to get the job done." I never did understand how you could spend so much money when you're dealing with the lowest bidder, but then it's the government. Gotta keep your congressmen in Cadillac's somehow.
"Right. Marsden's system has the potential to produce a new dimension to Third-World conflicts. Up until now, AAA guns and shoulder-fired systems supplied localized air defense capabilities. The Long Track with Marsden's modifications could only be the first step."
"How did you get this approved? Surely the White House doesn't want to be too deeply involved." Now I was beginning to get a sense of where the rat smell was coming from.
"You're right, they don't. That's why the French are taking the lead."
"Okay, if it all goes to hell, they can take the blame." What are allies for anyway?
"That's about it. We just need full deniability."
Yeah, like in Ross Brannan who? Never heard of the guy. "Why are we doing the job for the French, can't they do it themselves?"
"They formally pulled out of the Chad conflict back in the spring, but still desire to influence events. As far as our mission is concerned, they will do all the heavy lifting. We supply specialized technical knowledge to take out Marsden's new system."
"And that involves me, I guess." Do I need to ask?
"They need you to fly on a mission to destroy the radar."
That's what I was afraid of. "Where will I fly out of?"
"The attack will originate from N'Djamena. Originally, we planned to use Faya Largeau, but its surrender makes that impossible. The mission needs to be accomplished ASAP, because the Libyans are ready to mount an offensive on N'Djamena. Time is of the essence, when they capture the capital, the government will collapse like a two-dollar lawn chair."
"We're going to initiate a raid from N'Djamena up across the Libyan border? That's almost 1,000 miles away."
"Yes, you will fly with the Chadian Air Force."
"They got an air force?" I hadn't noticed during my sojourn in N'Djamena.
"Douglas Skyraider's piloted by French mercenaries."
"Do they have the range?"
"That problem is being addressed. Surplus fuel pods like the ones we used in Southeast Asia have been flown in from the states and the Raven-One team at Kirtland is preparing a specialized intercept module. Everything should be ready to go in a few days."
"This'll be a joint French and American operation?"
Wilson paused and gave me that look, the one he uses when I ask too many questions. "Not officially, like I said the French pulled out and declared themselves neutral in the war. We are not taking sides either." He anticipated my next question. "You will be going as a private contractor to the Chadian Ai
r Force, not as a U.S. government employee. The same conditions apply to the French participants."
"We're sorta like advisors, or something?" And I knew what that something was — a big fat chump.
He stared at me awkwardly, as if he was uncomfortable with what he was about to divulge. "Not even that. You are on your own."
It took a moment for his words to soak in: YOYO as in, you're on your own. I could have guessed — should have seen it coming.
"So, if it goes to hell in a hand basket, I'm SOL?"
"Not entirely, a generous life insurance policy will be provided." He even said it with a straight face.
I was right, BOHICA, big time, I didn't even need to bend over. The stakes had been raised, I was about to become a pawn in the international chess game called the Cold War. Pawns are often sacrificed for bigger objectives. Being one of the low men on the totem pole, I had no doubt, where my fate lay. It all rolls downhill and I'm standing at the bottom.
27 ~ Return to N'Djamena
Sunday Morning, 19 October 1980, N'Djamena, Chad
The Douglas A-1 Skyraider, developed too late to see combat during World War II, a propeller-driven leftover in the jet age, should have been assigned to the scrap heap of history. It wasn't. The single-seat aircraft saw action in the Korean and Vietnam wars as an efficient and effective ground attack platform. Skyraiders also saw action in the service of allied countries, including France. Good planes never seem to die, and seven were transferred from the French to the Chadian Air Force in 1976.
Joe Hardy and I stood inside a war damaged military hangar at N'Djamena airport, admiring the imposing aircraft. I arrived an hour before on an early morning flight from Bangui. Joe was briefing me on his installation of a makeshift ELINT intercept receiver in the rear compartment of one of the Skyraiders.
I asked, "Where did you get the gear?"
"Built it myself. Had an old APR-9 but wasn't sure if I could match up with the power capabilities on the bird over here. Talked to Captain Barker and he flew us over to Davis-Monthan in Tucson. They got a bunch of mothballed Skyraiders just sitting out in the desert. I checked them out and decided it wasn't worth the effort. But I did pick up a few mounts and other fittings."