The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "May have seen him somewhere … never worked with him."

  "Any idea why Wilson pulled the plug on the operation?"

  "He got word about Jamison yesterday morning and decided it was too risky. He sent us on the first available flight to grab the guy but looks like we were a little late."

  "Why didn't he radio LeGrande to snatch the bastard?"

  "Dunno, guess he don't trust the French. Got me … you can ask him yourself when we get back."

  Less than an hour later, I was airborne on my way to Bangui. My fellow passengers included, Commandant Le Grande, Corporal Bernad, Bobby Le Beau, Joe Hardy, Jack Richards, and John Smith.

  31 ~ Change of Plans

  Tuesday, 21 October 1980, Camp Beal, Bangui, CAR

  The training room, or whatever the French call it, at Camp Béal was a basic, utilitarian space, unadorned except for a couple of posters displaying proper weapons disassembly, a large map of the region, several photographs of dour high-ranking officers, and a window offering a now darkened view of a concrete block wall.

  I squirmed in a hard-wooden chair, sitting across from Colonel Wilson. He was winding down, after running on full afterburners on a Class-A butt chewing and holding nothing back. "…and when I give you a direct order … I expect that order to be obeyed."

  It was one of those occasions, a rare moment, I chose to keep my mouth shut.

  He turned to the window and stared out into the darkness. Someone laughed down the hall. I took a deep breath, fidgeted, and waited. He spun around, pulled back a chair, sat down, and bent forward.

  "Brannan…" he hesitated, raised his chin, and squinted, "I realize you're an innovative individual, but telling your superior, 'the message is garbled please re-send', is one of the oldest ploys on the books."

  I gulped, it was an old trick, and Wilson read me like an open book. It was all there in large print — he had me.

  The colonel exhaled and leaned back. His tight eyebrows dissolved, and a hint of a smile emerged. "I've even used it a number of times."

  I couldn't help myself. "Did it work?"

  He let my words hang. "I had good reasons … did you?"

  He didn't know about the raid. I sensed an opening and rolled the dice. "Yes sir, you haven't heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  Lucky me, he don't know. I shifted in the chair, sat up straight, and restrained the urge to smile. "I made an intercept last night."

  He gave me a skeptical stare. "Okay, I'll bite, where?"

  "Oum-Chalouba, north of Abeche."

  Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

  "El Comandante received a message from Paris. A Long Track showed up on satellite imagery the day before."

  The colonel's face reddened as he glanced towards the door and then back to me. Wilson was irate, cut out of the loop. Someone was going to pay, but not me.

  "Go on, what did you find?"

  "It's not what we found," I grinned and bobbed my head, "It's what we left behind." I paused for effect, holding the grin, waiting for a reaction.

  Wilson now fuming, barked, "Get to the point."

  "We destroyed the radar and shot up the joint — well Serge, the French pilot did. We left the place in a shamble."

  Wilson appeared surprised. "The AGM-45 worked? I was afraid it might—"

  "No. The missile hit the ground in front of the aircraft and almost exploded under us. We … uh, Serge blasted the camp with his air-to-ground rockets and finished the deal with 20-mil cannon fire. We even had enough ammo left over to spray a Libyan convoy on the way back."

  "The AGM failed?"

  "The Shrike was undoubtedly sabotaged. The guy claiming to be Jamison went missing right after we left on our first mission and ain't been seen since. Joe… ah, Sergeant Hardy told me he came in as a last-minute replacement."

  "That's why I recalled you. We realized security had been breached."

  "Yeah, breached from the start, might as well published our schedule in the newspaper for all the good it's done."

  "I recognize we've had some issues."

  "Issues? It's been my butt on the line and several people been killed. — We've had some issues all right. — At least it's over, the radar destroyed, and if there's any justice in this world, Marsden was sitting at the controls and the SOB's shoveling coal in hell 'bout now."

  Wilson's expression changed, he frowned, took a deep breath, stood, and walked to the window.

  I smelled a rat. "What's wrong?"

  After a few seconds, Wilson said, "Marsden wasn't at the site. He was observed in Tripoli three days ago, boarding a flight for Beirut."

  My body went numb. I couldn't breathe. Marsden escaped. The feeling of accomplishment displaced by despair. The whole thing was a waste of time. I gasped for air and gritted my teeth.

  "What do we do now?"

  Wilson shrugged. "We go home. This matter is no longer our concern." He took note of my surprise. "Now that the radar has been destroyed, the Škorpion Brigade will be frustrated in their attempts to expand their network. The French can complete the job and hopefully the Israeli's neutralize Marsden."

  Couldn't believe what I was hearing. "How about Penwell?"

  The colonel shook his head in disgust. "The CIA can clean up their own mess. We're finished here."

  I stared to speak, but he read my mind as I weighed my options.

  "Don't get any ideas about going after Marsden or anybody else on your own. You understand?"

  I understood but didn't like it. "Yes sir."

  He paused on the way to the door. "Brannan, you smell like hell. Go clean up and we'll continue this conversation later."

  He was right, I smelled like the back-end of a camel. "Yes sir. When can we leave? — Ah, if possible, I want to take some time off and fly to Kenya … family reasons."

  "Yes, I understand. I'll take your request under advisement and arrange travel documents for you, Richards, and Ruiz. We'll go to the embassy in the morning."

  * * *

  A hot shower and a change of clothes work wonders for one's outlook on life. A sandwich and beer at the base club didn't hurt either. I just finished my second bottle of Mocaf with Jack and Amadeo when John Smith appeared at the door and motioned to me. I nodded, and he approached the table.

  "What's up?"

  "Colonel wants to see you."

  Amadeo grinned. "What'd you do now?"

  "Maybe he's decided on my leave."

  "Don't know about that," John responded, "but Bobby Le Beau and a CIA officer from the embassy are with the colonel in the training room."

  "You have the right to remain silent," quipped Amadeo.

  Jack raised his bottle in salute. "Been nice working with you."

  "Already had my butt chewed, so this gotta be something good."

  We crossed the compound and entered without knocking. Wilson motioned for us to sit down. "Brannan, you're acquainted with Captain Le Beau. This gentleman is Mr. Chambers from the embassy. We've been discussing our mutual interest in the activities of the Škorpion Brigade."

  I exchanged nods with the two and took a chair across the table from Wilson. The atmosphere seemed cold, no one smiled, and my sixth sense told me to exercise caution. John locked the door and sat next to me.

  Le Beau spoke first, "I've been telling the colonel about how we met and filled him in on what I know concerning the brigade." He motioned to his left. "Chambers here is the agency's lead man on the subject."

  A non-descript looking guy in his late forties, shaggy grey hair, bushy mustache, dressed in jeans and a plaid cotton shirt, the CIA man could fit in almost anywhere. A good trait for an undercover man, except for the fact a white dude sticks out like a sore thumb in this part of Africa.

  Chambers acknowledged Le Beau and spoke, "I've just briefed the colonel on what we know about the Škorpion Brigade's plans to gain effective control of the uranium mines in Zaire. They view themselves as heirs to that Che bastard's revolutionary scheme. I was down here back i
n the sixties running operations with our own Cuban pilots and I don't relish the thought of having to repeat that experience. It was a bloody mess then and has the potential to bubble over again.

  "These German SOB's are attempting to develop a series of airfields leading down into the Congo basin to support their scheme. The Soviets, of course, are offering them all the covert help they can muster. This radar and associated missiles give them a credible air defense capability to protect the supply line. We're concerned how this may impact the stability of the region."

  I nodded. "Agree with your assessment, but the radar's no longer a problem."

  His eyes narrowed. "Are you absolutely sure the installation was destroyed?"

  "The pilot hit the radar with rockets and there were secondary explosions when he sprayed the area with 20-mil. I didn't see missiles, but one can only assume the best."

  "Fine. Imagery should be available in a few days. You're confident the signal was the same as earlier intercepts?"

  "The signal was from a Long Track. My analytical capabilities were limited, but it sounded like—"

  "Sounded like? You relied on an unverified audio—"

  Wilson broke in, "Brannan is the best. He is capable of confirming a target based on audio alone."

  Chambers nodded imperceptibly, pulled out a rumpled pack of Lucky Strikes, a battered Zippo, and lit up.

  It's strange how a simple compliment can lift your spirits. I straightened up. "The intercept was from the same radar that was at Al Wigh."

  Chambers took a deep drag and sighed as he blew out a pale grey cloud. "How can you be so positive?"

  His dismissive tone was about to get to me. Wilson nodded with a faint smile. I let it hang for a few precious seconds, "I made an airborne intercept over Libya."

  Chambers keen eyes darted to Wilson and back to me. "I wasn't aware aircraft assets were available."

  "I borrowed a Twin Beech from Lukas Penwell."

  Judging by his expression, a mixture of shock and disbelief, he couldn't have been more surprised if I told him I was the Ayatollah Khomeini. "Lukas Penwell … I don't understand." He shot a hard glance at Wilson. "How's he involved?" The guy, obviously flustered, took another puff. "He supplied you with an aircraft, to …" He shifted in his seat and spoke to Wilson, "Is this some sort of a joke?"

  Undoubtedly, I struck a raw nerve. I snapped, "Hell no, it ain't no joke. Penwell sent guys to Algeria to eliminate us, even planted a spy in our team. They managed to kill one member and we killed three of them." I was about to blow a gasket and paused to catch my breath. "You might say I took the plane as booty. We captured the pilot and I flew the mission myself."

  "The pilot, you have him?" Chambers incredulous, his mouth agape, the Lucky Strike struggled to keep a tenuous hold on his lip.

  "Nah, he's dead. The Škorpion goons killed him in Agadez."

  Chambers brow furrowed as he flicked an ash to the floor. "That, was you? We received a report of someone killing a PAI pilot and stealing an airplane."

  "Your report is wrong. Harry Dawson wounded one of our guys."

  "Harry Dawson?"

  "Yeah, good old Harry. Like I said, he clobbered our man and then escaped. An SkB team was in Agadez looking for us and they must've got to him first. If they hadn't eliminated him, I'd be on my way back there now to hunt him down."

  Chambers, visibly bewildered, muttered, "Harry Dawson was the pilot?"

  "Yeah, was he one of your… assets?

  Chambers, even more flustered, snuffed out his cigarette, and replied, "I can't discuss that."

  I glared at Wilson with disgust. "Colonel, if you'll excuse me, I seem to be having some trouble telling who the good guys and the bad guys are these days."

  Chambers bowed up. "I take exception to that insinuation."

  "And I take exception to some rat-bastard SOB trying to kill me. Especially when I've lost good men, and when the bastards that killed them may be working for your outfit."

  "The agency isn't involved—"

  "Gentlemen," barked Wilson. "Enough!"

  Chambers and I glared at each other like tomcats on a fence. A quick glance to Wilson, he shot a stern look. I recognized I had gone too far.

  "Sorry, didn't mean it that way."

  Chambers, his lips pressed together, nodded. Bobby Le Beau tried to stifle a smile. John Smith remained stoic, his eyes bored in on me. I wondered what he really thought but wasn't about to ask.

  "There is one thing that is clear," said Wilson. "We undeniably have a security problem. Even though the mission is completed, I feel it necessary to move out of the French base."

  "Do you think they're the source of the leaks?" I asked.

  "I discussed the matter with Commandant LeGrande and he denies malfeasance on his part but does concur with my decision to relocate to other quarters."

  Wilson asked Chambers, "Any suggestions for temporary accommodations?"

  "The embassy keeps a few rooms leased at the hotel down by the river. I'll check to see if they're free." He got up and left without looking back.

  Le Beau asked Wilson, "Sir, if it's not too much to ask: Who are you people? Do you actually work for the White House?"

  The colonel regarded me out of the corner of his eye and answered with a straight face. "We all work for the White House. Don't we?"

  Le Beau nodded and turned to me. "John was a Ranger and Richards was Special Forces, how about you?"

  "Nah, never had an appetite for snakes, I was ASA."

  His face contorted into a smirk and asked with an air of presumption, "So you were a chair-borne ranger?"

  I declined to take his bait and grinned. "Yeah, you might say that. I'm just a tech guy at heart."

  John spoke up, "Don't let looks fool you, this is one brutal SOB. I'd advise you not to get on his bad side."

  My chest swelled with pride. It was my day for compliments.

  Wednesday, 22 October 1980, Bangui, CAR

  The hotel, nothing special, a notch or two better than a hot-sheet motel back home, but in Bangui, passed for luxury, even came with a stable of ladies-of-the-evening camped in the lobby.

  Wilson and John Smith occupied the only available embassy suite, one cleaned up and outfitted for American tastes. Jack, Amadeo, Joe, and I shared a regular room down the hall. I didn't care, having slept in far worse for the past few weeks.

  Our rooms, on the top floor, offered good views of the river and Zaire on the opposite shore. However, only one elevator worked, and sporadically at that. The contraption didn't always stop on the level you picked, and as we soon discovered, the dirty stairwell was quicker and more reliable.

  The room smelled to high-heaven, a musty odor, most likely from mold and, of course, the air conditioner didn't work. The bathroom too, a disaster: the bathtub had more rings than a zebra, no hot water, no towels, and no soap. You needn't worry about a dirty toilet seat — no seat, just an icky porcelain rim. Luckily, I had bathed back at the base. Jack and Amadeo weren't so lucky. At least the beds had sheets and no rats or cockroaches had shown themselves — so far.

  John Smith pounded on the door at 0800 and told us to get ready. Wilson wanted us at the embassy. A taxi would pick us up in a few minutes. It didn't, we cooled our heels for more than a half hour.

  The embassy, located downtown and up from the main circle, fit right in with the other drab buildings on the street. A young man met us at the front door and ushered us in and up to Chamber's small office on the second floor.

  We spent an hour on photographs and filling in the inevitable forms. The passports would be ready later in the afternoon. Wilson, Smith, and Chambers sequestered themselves in a conference room, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves.

  The four of us wandered around town taking in the sights. On the way back to the embassy, we stopped at a yogurt shop. The only other customers were three locals and a couple of white guys speaking German. They looked like your run-of-the-mill hippie travelers: scruffy clothes, hair,
and beards.

  Jack motioned his head towards the man at the counter. "The owner must be Libyan."

  "Why, what makes you think that?"

  "Behind you … the picture on the wall."

  I twisted around. "Yeah, believe you're right." A photo of a stern Colonel Gaddafi hung next to the door. I stole a glance at the guy behind the counter. He did look sort of Arab. Anyway, the yogurt was good and fresh.

  "What next?" asked Joe.

  "Dunno, the guy at the embassy said they had a library around the corner. I might drop in and catch up on the news. They should have some papers at least. What you guy's gonna do?"

  Amadeo shrugged. "I need a drink, let's go find a bar." Jack and Joe agreed, and we split up a near the main circle.

  The USIS reading room held a reasonable choice of American newspapers and magazines. I selected a month-old Newsweek and settled into a comfortable chair.

  * * *

  I must have dozed off. Joe startled me awake as he shook my shoulder. "Hey Ross, The Man wants us back at the embassy." Certain members of Raven-One referred to Wilson as The Man.

  "What's the rush?"

  "Who knows? Maybe he's going to buy us lunch."

  "Yeah, that'll be the day." Then it occurred to me, Wilson would have to pay, I was almost broke with less than three dollars to my name. "Where's the others?"

  "They're already there. I remembered you said you'd be here."

  "Okay, let's find out what he wants."

  As we exited the front door, I spotted one of the young Germans from the yogurt shop, standing across the street. My sixth-sense situational awareness thing jumped into gear. Like Goldfinger said in the James Bond movie: 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.' I made a mental note to keep my eyes open.

  * * *

  The colonel gave me an irritated look as Joe and I entered the small conference room. Amadeo, Jack, and John Smith were the only other occupants. I took a seat and offered no explanation.

  Wilson exhaled and spoke, "As I have told the others, there is a change in plans." I could tell from the tone of his voice that the change wasn't good and braced for the worst. "I am afraid our departure is delayed until further notice."