The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 2)

by R G Ainslee

  "Remember a normal signal from a Long Track in the E-band. A few minutes later, a rasping whipsaw buzzing sound came on-line. Switched to manual control because I couldn't get a readout on my scope. The buzz changed to a solid tone and went silent. Then I detected a flash out of the corner of my eye."

  "The missile, you think the signal was associated with the missile?"

  "Yeah, after the missile passed, the whipsaw sound started again. Switched to the black box in the I-band and bingo."

  "What?"

  "The signal. I found the encoding imbedded on the third harmonic. Same as the Cochise Project."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "Worked on the project for three years, I know that sound. There's nothing else like it."

  A still skeptical Michaels continued, "The ECM systems should have taken over and—"

  "They failed to respond.

  "You said three missiles."

  "Yeah, on the second one, the signal changed to a solid tone, went silent, and a missile cruised by. On the third one, all I saw the vapor trail, then an explosion. Sam said the warhead exploded in front of the aircraft."

  "Was it the same—"

  "No, didn't hear or see anything on the scope. My receiver and scopes went off line. We lost power and that was it."

  Mack leaned back. "The Krug is the only system associated with the Long Track that comes close to reaching that altitude. Sounds like the Soviets may have retrofitted the SA-4 system with new electronics related to the Cochise Project."

  Michaels said, "The SA-4 receives commands from the ground until the missile reaches its terminal phase and the onboard semi-active homing system guides it to the target. You should have picked up guidance signals from the Pat Hand."

  "Searched for Thin Skin and Pat Hand signals, didn't find either one."

  Michaels twisted his lips. "Problem is you don't have a recording. The black boxes went down with the Blackbird."

  "But, I—"

  "You know well as I do, NSA wants hard data, preferably backed up by COMINT intercepts. I'm afraid what you remember won't translate into a set of parameters they will accept without question."

  "Guess you're right." Even I had doubts, not fully confident in my recall of events. Perhaps I had the signal mixed up with a previous intercept, or maybe it was just a figment of my imagination. "Do you think they’ve come up with a different approach?"

  Mack said, "I'm not sure what to believe, we just don't have enough hard data. The Soviets may have accomplished a real breakthrough. If they did, it would be a significant development because they can use an existing system rather than develop and manufacture a new one." He sighed. "Let's listen what Marsden had to say."

  Michaels placed the tape into the player. We sat back and listened to Marsden spill his guts out. He revealed details about the Soviet version of the Cochise project and the set-up in Ethiopia. The performance included my not too subtle motivational prompts and Marsden's pathetic reactions.

  Mack cringed at the point where I cut off Marsden's earlobe. Michaels concentrated intently with a pinched expression on his face.

  An hour later, Mack glared at me with disdain. "Ross, I had no idea you were such a sadistic SOB. All these years, I thought you were just a happy-go-lucky guy. Has this been simmering inside you all this time?" Michaels' eyes focused on the wall and tried to appear detached from the conversation.

  Didn’t know what to say, thought of a few snappy rejoinders, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

  Mack rewound the tape and replayed it one more time. He paused several times to discuss certain aspects of Marsden's technical discourse. My part didn’t sound any better the second time around.

  A call came in for Michaels half way through the second run. I halted the tape.

  Michaels seemed puzzled. "They have an encrypted message for me in the communications center. Back in a minute."

  Michaels left, Mack fixed his eyes on me, but didn't speak. I ambled over to the coffee pot and emptied the last dregs into my cup.

  I asked, "You heard anything useful?"

  "Yes. I think he gave up enough basic information to get us headed in the right direction, but I'm not sure he’s told us the full story."

  "Think we need to interrogate him again?"

  "For sure. Some of what he told you doesn't jive with the existing Cochise Project data. We need to get him pinned down on the parameters and signal processing algorithms. Before I left Huachuca, we ran a conceptual performance prediction model based on a linear shift invariant system that—"

  The door opened, and a disgusted Michaels strode back into the room. "They sent a message for a one-time pad. I'll get my pad out and decrypt it. Hold on for a few more minutes."

  I said, "That's odd." Couldn't remember the last time I used one.

  "The message is NSA code-word specific, the embassy isn't cleared to decrypt this category." He dug into his briefcase and began the tedious task of decoding the message from a one-time pad.

  Mack finished telling about the model he ran back at Huachuca. I began to get the impression my interrogation hadn't been as effective as I thought.

  Michaels interrupted, "This is interesting. Early this morning, our monitoring station T-2 in the mountains west of Mashhad, Iran intercepted an unusual signal. They believe it emanated from the Soviet missile test facility at Sary-Shagan on Lake Baikal in Kazakhstan. The parameters are comparable to what you described from your encounter over Ethiopia."

  "Okay, we’re home free." I leaned in, hoping for a positive answer.

  "No, unfortunately, they were only able to record a fragment. We don't have enough data to make a definitive call, but it does tend to give credence to what you've been saying."

  Mack leaned back into his chair. "What now?"

  "NSA will request the signal be given a high priority on IBEX missions over the next few days. They'll attempt to make additional intercepts." Project IBEX was a joint US and Iranian airborne ELINT collection program.

  Mack said, "The Soviets utilize Sary-Shagan for pre-deployment testing new systems. They may be further along than we thought."

  "Right, this is serious." Michaels stared at me with a deliberately raised eyebrow. "Hope they can get Marsden here. You need to extract more details."

  "Ready?" They nodded, and I punched the play button. Marsden didn't sound so pitiful this time around. It promised to be only a preview of things to come.

  Chapter 23 ~ The Plan

  Monday, 20 February: U.S. Embassy, Nairobi

  At two o'clock, we broke for lunch. I hurried down to Barker's office and checked with Karen.

  "Sorry. Captain Barker’s had no calls from his wife. I'm sure your friend will be all right."

  "When did he last call?"

  "He called home ten minutes ago." She shook her head and frowned. "No answer."

  "Where's he now?"

  "He left with Major Santini to go downstairs."

  Found Mack and Santini at a table in a corner of the embassy snack bar. Barker was in line and I joined him. We each ordered a hamburger, fries, and large Coke.

  Santini asked, "Any word about Lisette?"

  Told him no. Mack appeared puzzled and Barker filled him in on who Lisette was and why I was worried.

  Mack paused and said, "Ross, sorry ‘bout what I said up there. Now I realize you did what you had to do." He fixed me with an intent stare. "Would you've actually done that to him?"

  I thought of Lisette. "Yeah, in a flash."

  "Do what, to whom?" asked Barker.

  Mack responded grim-faced, "I'll tell you guys later… upstairs."

  Thirty minutes later, back in the conference room, Mack was completing his version of the interrogation when the phone rang. I looked over apprehensively, hoping Sarah was calling with word about Lisette’s condition.

  The call was for John Smith. He listened while everyone else avoided making eye contact with me. Obviously, their opinion of me had changed. Didn’t care,
I was getting used to being the bad guy.

  Smith's posture stiffened, forced a deep breath, and hung up the phone. "They failed to arrive in Pibor. My Sudanese asset has reason to believe they may be down in the bush somewhere between Pibor and the Ethiopian border. His local military contact informed him a shifta gang is holding an Ethiopian plane on the ground. The army plans to send a detachment out to investigate."

  "What's a shifta?" asked Wilson.

  Smith started to answer but I interrupted. "Shifta is an East African term for gangs or militias."

  "Are they political?"

  "They can be local gangs, bandits, revolutionaries, or anything in between. From my experience, they're just in it for easy money or in some cases that’s the only job option available."

  "How come you're so knowledgeable?" asked John Smith.

  "We dealt with them a few times when I was in Asmara. I was detained for an hour one time and we had other guys held for several days. Never had anyone hurt, but lost my motorcycle, a really nice Italian Moto Guzzi 750 Speciale."

  "Sorry about your loss," said Wilson with a dry tone, "Any suggestions?"

  "Money talks, most of the time you can just buy them off."

  Wilson paused, pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and seemed to be in deep thought. Moments later, he spoke, "This is an unwelcome complication, to say the least. Mr. Michaels has informed me about a development that has raised the stakes to a new level. I am not at liberty to discuss the details because everyone here is not cleared for this category of information, but I can say we need Marsden more than ever."

  Smith said, "What about my men?"

  "We will get them out — all of them. We don't have much time, so we can't bother with the formalities involved with obtaining permission from stateside." Wilson paused and exhaled, "You realize what will happen if we went that route."

  Everyone understood: the pencil-neck bureaucrats would shuffle paper around until it was too late, they always do. No one in Washington wanted to risk their career by making a decision. Had to go with the colonel on this one, the situation called for action. Hope is not a strategy.

  Smith, tension obvious in his features, interjected, "We need to get to the site before the Sudanese arrive."

  Wilson bobbed his head in agreement and folded his arms across his chest. "Gentlemen, we must engage in some extreme risk-taking in order to rescue those men. I will not think less of you if you choose not to participate in this endeavor. Remember this, if we fail, there will be consequences. Anyone want out?"

  John Smith leaned back in his chair and said, "Like my first CO told me, all actions have consequences." He paused and stared at Wilson. "If there are no consequences then there was no action. I say we act and act now."

  Wilson nodded without emotion.

  I had a question. "Colonel."

  He gave me a pained glare.

  "What about operational security? They always seem to anticipate our moves. Marsden knew about the flight from England to Egypt and on to Ethiopia, and they’ve followed me all over Kenya. Can’t help but speculate if the downed aircraft in the Sudan is more of the same. A trap."

  Wilson’s face darkened. "Obviously, I’m concerned, and I’ve had similar thoughts—"

  John Smith broke in, "With reference to local security, I had a conversation with the agency station chief, this morning. I laid out the situation and he assured me there’s no problem."

  "What about the hotel clerks?" I asked. It still seemed strange the CIA station chief wasn’t in on our operation.

  "Claims they work for him."

  "What? — You mean they report back to him?"

  "He maintains they never mentioned you or your French lady friend."

  Unconvinced, I looked at Wilson and raised my palms.

  Wilson shook his head, "What can I tell you? … Are you in or out?"

  No one spoke-up or made a move. John Smith gazed around the room and gave an easy nod. The others did the same. Wilson fixed his gaze on me, the final holdout.

  I wanted to leave, go find Lisette, and take her back to Lamu. However, I had unfinished business with Marsden. Besides, Amadeo and the Rasta Man were in danger, I had to go, couldn’t live with myself if I stayed. — My sixth sense failed once more. — "I'm in"

  "Major Santini and Captain Barker, see if you can locate a light aircraft. Prefer STOL with six to eight passenger capabilities." Wilson glanced at the clock. "Need it now."

  "Sir, sounds like you want a Porter. I know where to get one right here in Nairobi."

  Barker was talking about a Pilatus Porter, a Swiss built aircraft used for glacier rescue. I had flown in one in the Himalayas a few years before.

  "Brilliant." Wilson beamed a broad smile. "Haven't seen one of those since Nam, get on it right now." Barker made for the door and exited the room. "Major Santini, go down to your office and find us some detailed maps of Southern Sudan."

  Mack Gibson said he and Michaels needed to make a call to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade.

  * * *

  We spent the next two hours planning a rescue mission to an unknown place in the Sudan. Wilson knew just what to do. He had been involved in several rescues of downed pilots in Vietnam, including himself.

  Barker returned and confirmed the Pilatus Porter was available but cost 5,000 dollars to rent without a pilot.

  Wilson asked, "Who will pilot the aircraft?"

  "I will sir," said Barker. "I checked out on the Porter last year when I took the wife on an air safari. The owner is okay with me flying the plane."

  An incredulous Wilson asked, "How can you afford 5,000 dollars a day air safari on captain's pay?"

  "Sir, I had to explain where we're headed. This is a special rate because he's assumed a big risk. If something goes wrong, he loses his plane and may even wind up in a Kenyan prison."

  Wilson nodded, Barker’s explanation seemed to satisfy, and he continued, "Anybody speak the local language?"

  "I speak passable Swahili," said Barker.

  "Looks like you're the indispensable man. Anyone else?"

  I said, "Still remember a few words of Ethiopian lingo and I dealt with this kind of situation in Asmara."

  "Okay, that makes two. Who else?"

  John Smith sat up straight. "I'm going, they're my men."

  "Me too," replied Santini.

  "No, I require both of you here for coordination." They each offered a protest. The colonel waived them off.

  I was about to suggest Sergeant King when Barker spoke up. "I could use a back-up pilot, sir. Major Santini is a qualified pilot."

  Wilson paused, rubbed his brow, and let it sink in. "Affirmative, the major goes. What else?"

  I popped off, "We’ll need lots of cash."

  His expression resembled a suppressed grimace of pain. "How much?"

  "Like all you can get. Who knows what the going rate is in that part of the bush."

  "I'll meet with the ambassador on the money angle." The colonel glanced around the table. "Any questions or comments?" No one spoke. Wilson stood and examined his watch. "Right, everybody back here in one hour."

  Barker and I retreated to the secretary's desk to find out if we had any calls. Karen announced, "Your wife called a few minutes ago — they're home."

  He slapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go, we gotta hustle."

  * * *

  Monday evening traffic was light, and fortunately, Barker's bungalow was a short distance from the embassy. We had only a few minutes. I was tempted to chuck it all and stay in Nairobi, but knew I had to go. Lives were at risk.

  Sarah met us at the door. "Where's Lisette?" I asked. "Is she, all right?"

  "In the bedroom."

  I rushed in and my heart fell to the floor. Lisette's frail form lay motionless on the bed, soaked in sweat. Her hair wet and wilted. Her light honey tan replaced with an uncharacteristic pallor. In an instant, my feelings crystalized, Lisette’s well-being returned to the forefront.
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  "She just now passed out. She had another spell of high fever, chills, and unbearable pain right after we returned from the doctor."

  A wave of gloom washed over me. I sat on the bed and wiped sweat from her brow.

  "Lisette took some pills at the doctor's office. She should be better tomorrow, but she will be weak for a while." Sarah left the room.

  Drained of all emotion, my balloon burst leaving an empty vessel wallowing in despair. The malaria wasn't my fault, but people had died, Lisette might have died, and now this.

  I recalled the first time we met in Lamu: a petite young woman carrying a tray of bread and fruit, the simple white cotton dress that left everything to the imagination, her tanned slender legs, her delicate hands, and her soft appealing accent. Her poem came to mind: Two hearts in love have no need for words. I had no words, only regret.

  Sarah returned, kissed my forehead, and whispered, "He told me where you are going. Promise me you will look out for him. He will do the same for you. Jim's a good man and I love him so much. You are a good man too and she needs you now more than ever."

  I gazed down at Lisette. Engulfed by a deep sense of guilt, I muttered, "Not sure if I can go now."

  She placed a hand on my shoulder with a firm grip. "You have a duty. I understand. I have seen him off many times before. I will explain it to her. Her time in the convent gave her a strong inner strength and an understanding of one's obligation to a larger ideal. She loves you, she will understand. If you don't go, it will come between you. Don't let that happen — not now."

  I didn’t have an answer or know what to say.

  "You do love her, don’t you?"

  "I… I dunno."

  "Don’t be a fool. — Why?"

  "I care about her and feel responsible for everything’s that happened, but that’s all."

  She drew in her lips, a tense sign of frustration.

  "I… I just can’t get close to anyone. Don’t want any more pain and grief."

  Sarah placed her hand on my arm and spoke with compassion, "Grief is a consequence of love. To grieve, you must first love. Don’t lose this. Don’t throw away a chance to have someone love you for what you are. Don’t throw away a chance for happiness for both of you."