The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Yeah, they have tons of interesting stuff. Visited a couple of times when I was at Huachuca."

  "Ortiz flew up from White Sands and we put together a small self-contained system out of spare parts from the shop. The box is an E-band job, optimized for Long Track freqs. Mack Gibson told me that weight might prove to be a problem, so we kept it simple. We got lucky too, one of the small stub antennas we've been testing worked fine, so I included it."

  "When did you start on it?"

  "Oh … about a week after I got back from Europe."

  I calculated the timeline in my head. "That would be about the end of September."

  "Right, when I met Gibson in DC, he ordered me to build a receiver that could be used on an A-1 Skyraider."

  "I hadn't even made the intercept yet."

  "Guess they got a lot of confidence in you."

  "Yeah, seems like a lot's going on I don't know about. Thought these things were single-seat. How'd you rig the second seat?"

  "Already had one. Arno, the head mechanic, said these were originally three-seat night-attack aircraft, but the French converted them back to single seat. When they got them down here, they put a second one down in the lower compartment to carry a passenger. Works like a charm for our purposes. Installed a small scope from our inventory and presto, you're in business."

  "Looks like you did a good job … by the way, that radio you fixed up worked really well. Sorry it got blown up when the Blinder took out the Beech."

  "Thanks. Did you notice the AGM-45?"

  "Yeah, where'd the Shrike come from?"

  The AGM-45 Shrike was an air-launched missile designed to take out radar sites. The guidance system homed in on the radar signal and blasted the antenna on impact. The effect wasn't particularly deadly, but the warhead could put an air defense site out of business. Surface-to-air missiles were blind without radar guidance.

  "It was on the same aircraft I flew in from Dakar. That civilian over there came in with me." An older man with close-cropped grey hair stood under the wing of a Skyraider on the other side of the hangar, busy assisting a technician. "He's in charge of installing the missile and instructing the French pilot."

  "Yeah, looks like the whole Chad Air Force is outsourced. French mercenary pilots and ground crew."

  "And now us."

  "But you're active duty."

  "Not really, I'm on leave as far as Air Force records show. Captain Barker cut me an authorization. Officially, I'm working a private job for the Relint Corporation, your old employer. Can't complain, the pay's good, should have just about enough for a down payment on a new pick-up when I get home."

  "What's the guy's name?"

  "Jamison. He's not real friendly, kept to himself on the flight over. Told me he worked out of Fort Bliss in El Paso. Think he works for Relint. You know him?"

  "No. Let him do his thing. They don't like to mix too much on assignment, company policy. Is the Shrike programmed for the Long Track?"

  "Right, I did find that out, they're Mark 24 models with a seeker optimized for the E-band. Don't you think the colonel wishes he was here?"

  "Yeah, this would be right up his alley." Wilson had been a Wild Weasel pilot in Southeast Asia, using Shrike variants against North Vietnamese air defense radars. "Bet they ordered him not to get within a country mile of the place. If this works, it'll all hit the fan and the big-boys back in DC don't want any American officers involved."

  "Yeah, they know how to cover their butts. Just leave us to be the fall guys if things go wrong. — Say, why'd you come by yourself? Thought Jack and Amadeo would be included."

  "John wanted to come, but Wilson said it'd be too high profile if too many Americans were on the ground. They want this to be a French operation, with our help naturally. I'm not alone, LeGrande and one of his boys came along for the ride … well he's in charge actually."

  "How's this thing gonna work, or am I allowed to ask?"

  "Well, the way it was explained to me, we'll use the extra fuel tanks to extend the Skyraiders range. That's supposed to allow us to fly to Libya and back."

  "You gonna just boogie up to Gaddafi land, fire the AGM, poof, and come home?"

  "Yeah, sounds easy."

  Joe cast a wary glance towards the missile and gave me a nervous grin. "A little too easy if you ask me. How many aircraft?"

  "Dunno, I suppose they'll use multiple—"

  "Bonjour! Comment ça va?" The greeting came from a tanned, trim, medium sized man in his early forties, dressed in khaki shirt and shorts, wearing dark aviator shades and a blue baseball cap.

  "'You the pilot of this thing?" I asked as he approached.

  "Oui, je suis le pilote … of this thing. You do not l'approuver?" His grin and tone imparted a hint of cheerful confidence.

  "Au contraire, I think it's great. I've never flown in one of these before."

  He held out his hand and we shook. "Serge — You are my passager?

  "That's right. My name's Ross. We 'bout ready to go?"

  He ducked under the fuselage and checked the stub antenna installation. "Oui, Joe did a good job. Nous sommes disposés, ah … we are ready."

  I gazed up at the long black streaks coming out of the engine cowling and caked on the side of the fuselage, in addition, oil dripped from the tail. "Does this thing have a leak?"

  He smiled at my worried expression. "Oil leak are good sign. You have the oil remain. The time for worry when oil not leak."

  I was unconvinced. "These planes are pretty old…"

  "Oui, the aircraft ancien. The mécaniciens ready à réparer that break."

  "How many aircraft will be on the mission?"

  "Three, this one with électronique," he motioned towards the aircraft Jamison was working on, "one with missile anti-radiations, and one with rockets for ground and air."

  "Are you familiar with the Shrike?"

  "Non, is new for me. I am informé by Jamison for operation. Are you farmiliar with missile?

  "All I know is that you need to get in close. Too close for my comfort."

  He smiled. "We will fly en bas, ah … low, fire missile and retourner to base."

  "Sounds simple." I had my doubts and he saw it in my face.

  "Do not worry. We have beaucoup d'expérience and do not wish to die."

  "You carry plenty of fuel for the mission?"

  "Oui, the tanks carry trois mille litres of fuel. We have not the heavy load. We carry a load minimale to économiser fuel.'

  "Sounds like you got it well planned. When do we leave?"

  "We join them today." He glanced at his watch, an expensive Breguet Type XX. "Be ready deux heures, ah … two hours." Serge left and walked over to the other aircraft.

  Joe asked, "You know, one thing I don't understand."

  "What's that?"

  "Who's the good guys here and who's the bad guys? Nobody's been able to explain. Know what I mean?"

  "Beats the hell out of me. Politics aside, all I know is Marsden and the Škorpion goons are on the other side, and I'm gonna do all I can to kill the bastards. For me it's personal. I don't give a flip who runs this place … or what the French do or don't do."

  Joe shrugged. "Sounds good to me. Just do our jobs and go home. I hear you guys stirred up a hornet's nest the last time you were here."

  "Yeah, somebody forgot to tell 'em we were coming."

  "Any problems today?"

  "Nope, seems they now have a new greeting committee. Everything went real smooth." Anxious to change the subject, I asked, "Now, how are we going to test this thing?"

  "Got a signal generator in the jeep, I'll drive over to the other side of the runway and you see if you can pick up my transmission."

  "Okay, you just watch out for low flying Libyans."

  * * *

  After a few adjustments to the pod and scope, we were ready, at least equipment wise. Jamison stood outside the hangar smoking a cigarette and we walked over to check on his progress.

  "Jami
son, this is Ross. He's flying the mission."

  The man blew out a puff of smoke. "You don't say."

  I asked, "Everything ready with the Shrike?"

  He took a last drag, dropped the butt, and snuffed it out with his shoe. "Ready as it can be."

  I didn't like his attitude. "Any problems, I should know about?"

  "These birds weren't meant to be installed on," he motioned back to the Skyraider, "one of those. I had to use an adapter to mount the rail launcher." He saw my puzzled look. "The set-up is jury-rigged to provide an electrical and mechanical interface between the AGM and the aircraft."

  "Is it going to work?"

  "It'll launch, whether those Frogs can hit anything is another story."

  "I thought it was a fire and forget."

  "Give me a break. You need to come in at the right angle to be effective. They got to be launched 30 degrees above the horizon, no more than plus or minus three from the target. That's not much tolerance for error and they tell me they plan to come in low and fire."

  "You don't think—"

  "I just install them, what they do with them ain't my concern."

  "But once the missiles fired it'll take out the radar."

  "Its effectiveness is limited because the bird has to be pointed at the target and will lose its lock if the radar shuts down. This model has about a twenty-five percent success rate. You only have one, so go figure." He spat on the tarmac, turned, and left without another word.

  "Sounds real optimistic," said Joe.

  "A bundle of laughs."

  "Say how are the boys doing back in Bangui?"

  "Well, I'll bet Jack and Amadeo are sitting at the pool putting away a few beers about now."

  "Lots of women?"

  "You wouldn't believe."

  "They're getting paid to do that? Man, maybe I need to put in for a transfer."

  "Think of it as R & R, they deserve it. — Say, how's things back home?"

  "Captain Barker was fit to be tied because he couldn't come along. He wants some action real bad."

  "I'll trade, he can have my place."

  I turned to walk back to the aircraft and noticed LeGrande speaking to Serge next to the Skyraider. Both men busily engaged in a flurry of Gallic gestures and Serge didn't appear to be happy.

  "Looks like trouble," said Joe.

  "Yeah, what else is new? Let's see what's up." We approached the men slowly, trying to figure out what they were saying. The only words I could understand came from Serge, things like merde and non.

  Serge stormed off in the direction of the other aircraft. I had a flicker of hope: Maybe this thing's been called off.

  It was not to be, as LeGrande explained. "The mission has the changé. One Skyraider only will fly for the mission. The distance too far for the fuel and arms."

  "I don't understand."

  He appeared exasperated and continued. "A ravitaillement … ah refuel will be nécessaire to make the distance." He noted my surprised look. "A Dakota place the fuel at a sabkha in the désert."

  "Sabkha, it has an airfield?"

  "Non, sabkha, a place désert de sel.""

  "A salt flat, you mean we're going to land in the middle of nowhere?"

  "Oui, the Dakota take fuel, the Skyraider land, take fuel, fly to Libye."

  "Sounds like this thing's turning into a goat rodeo."

  "Je ne comprends pas."

  I ignored his response. "When's all this supposed to happen?"

  The commandant hesitated, his brow furrowed. "Ce soir. You sleep. The mission be long."

  "Tonight, you mean we're going to fly in the dark?"

  He glared with keen eyes. "Oui." Then turned and strode away.

  An open jeep pulled up. The driver, a Chadian soldier in dark green fatigues and wearing mirrored shades, beckoned us to get in.

  The jeep halted in front of a simple pre-fab metal building at the eastern edge of the airfield. We hopped out and the driver sped away towards town. The structure appeared almost new, untouched by recent bombing. A truck occupied by three Chadian soldiers armed with rifles, stood guard.

  "They must be expecting trouble?" said Joe.

  "We've already got trouble."

  We entered the pilot's quarters filled with a half-dozen army cots and a couple of tables with chairs. Serge lay on a bed and motioned for me to take a cot.

  "We rest until briefing à quinze heures."

  "Sixteen hundred hours. When do we leave?"

  "When sky is dark … à six heures du soir."

  I pulled off my boots, hit the sack, and pondered my situation. My immediate problem: we're operating outside the normal rules of war. I'm a civilian not in uniform, engaged in hostilities in a civil war, or invasion, or whatever. If I'm captured, I'm SOL, that's just the way it is. To the Libyans or the Chad rebels, I'm no more than a pirate. No Geneva Convention, just an AK round to the head. Wilson wanted deniability — he's got it.

  The only good thing was the same applied to Marsden and his buddies. I guess you could call it a private war — no rules apply — better this way, let the bastards reap the fruits of their own folly. Like the bayonet instructor said during basic training — kill or be killed — that's the only rule I need. In the end, we're all dead. Unfortunately, vengeance exerts its own toll on the avenger, you become a different person, not the one you wish to be. I'm living proof.

  I knew from experience to catch forty winks when you can. On a mission, sleep could too often be a rare luxury. I had a hunch, tonight would be a long one. Pre-mission naps tend to be fitful, leaving me wearier than before, but I closed my eyes and slipped off into a satisfying world of slumber.

  * * *

  Quinze heures came much too early. Serge, outfitted in a blue flight suit with a red neck scarf, shook my shoulder. I examined my new watch, a cheap East German model bought in Bangui: only a couple hours' sleep.

  "About time you woke up," said Joe, sitting at a table with Jamison and two French pilots. LeGrande and the big guy Corporal Jean-Henri Bernad sat at the other. I made note of the absence of Chad military officers. The French were playing the operation close to the vest. I didn't blame them. We were heading on a dangerous mission deep in enemy territory and the fewer people involved the better.

  Jamison looked disgusted, as if he wanted to be elsewhere. The two pilots, dressed in blue flight suits and red scarves like Serge, eyed me with mild amusement. LeGrande and his crew attired in cammo fatigues with no rank insignia sat drinking from steaming mugs. Serge motioned to a pot of coffee and some French pastries on a sideboard.

  "Where did these come from?" I asked.

  "Napoleon say the armée travel on the stomach," said one of the pilots. "Even in remote regions, we must have our essentials." He nodded to the others, "Is it not so?" They agreed, and I grabbed a cup and a large roll.

  Le Grande stood and walked over to an aeronautical chart taped to the wall. Everyone shifted their chairs and attention in his direction. The commandant studied me with a haughty air of condescension. "The briefing will be en français, for the aviateurs." He began speaking en français, at a rapid rate, too fast for my meager understanding.

  I took a sip of strong French coffee, just how I like it. The roll wasn't bad either. LeGrande droned on, pointing at the chart, tapping at a few points along the way. Jamison's eyes seemed glazed over and a not too subtle sneer of disgust on his lips. Joe took it all in stride, glancing over to me occasionally with a cant to his head.

  Finally — the commandant's discourse ended, and he asked if there were questions. His tone suggested he expected none. I raised my hand, much to his dismay.

  "Does your latest intelligence still place the radar at Al Wigh?"

  He appeared uncomfortable and straightened his posture. "Your intercept is the … ah, latest intelligence."

  "Nothing for almost two weeks?"

  “Oui.”

  'What if it's not there?"

  LeGrande raised his shoulders and held up
his hands in the classic Gallic shrug. "We look to the base militaire de Aouzou."

  That made sense. The Libyans had built an airfield at Aouzou a couple of hundred miles east of Al Wigh. "We fly another mission if necessary."

  "C'est exact. — Etes-vous satisfait de l'équipement?"

  "The equipment works fine. I think it'll be okay." I shot a look over at Joe. He nodded and smiled back.

  LeGrande winced as I asked another question, "Am I to understand we will have three aircraft—"

  "Non, one Skyraider and one Dakota with fuel."

  "Let me get this right. The C-47 … ah, Dakota will fly ahead with the fuel to the salt flat, we land, transfer fuel, and then fly on."

  "Oui, you return to the … ah, salt flat and take fuel for return."

  Then it occurred to me: "That means a landing in the dark."

  Le Grande inhaled, even more exasperated. "Oui, you have the problème?"

  Before I could answer, Serge stood and exclaimed with a flourish, "Messieurs, nous sommes prêts, laissez-nous voler." He eyed me with a grin. "Let's boogie."

  * * *

  Serge showed up at the aircraft wearing a holster with pistol and carrying a couple of AK-47's with folding stocks, my first hint the flight would be more than routine.

  I asked, "What's the AK's for?"

  "We take weapons for the emergency landing. You are familiar with?'

  "Yeah." — I examined the Yugoslav made 7.62×39mm Zastava M70A, popped the release, confirmed the thirty-round magazine was loaded, racked the slide loading a round, and snapped the safety. — "What are we supposed to do with these, shoot each other if we crash?"

  He shrugged and said, "C'est temps," it's time, and climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

  "What's the weather report?"

  Serge halted and cast a glance northward, "Forecast of the weather is not difficult for Sahara, no chance of bad weather, no storms this time of year. We have ten to twenty knot headwinds, less as we near Tibesti. Expect winds over Libya from the east at five to ten knots. Fortunate we fly with wind behind on return."

  I entered the small rear compartment down behind the pilot's cockpit. It held a cramped seat that previously accommodated the electronic countermeasures operator. There was a small round window on the right-side hatch and a window on the left. I had the distinct impression it would be difficult to get out of the aircraft in a rush.