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

by R G Ainslee

  Wilson’s smile faded, and he fixed me with an icy stare as if contemplating a harsh rejoinder. I wondered if I had popped off one too many times.

  Mack asked, "Who approved the operation to grab Marsden?"

  The colonel hesitated before responding to Mack’s question. "Approval to take Marsden came from the White House." Wilson continued with a less confident tone, "The rescue mission into Sudan was my personal initiative, without higher approval. Sometimes it’s necessary to risk having to beg for forgiveness than to jump through the hoops and ask permission. The incident scared the White House but had the positive effect of alarming the Soviets and causing them to exercise more caution. In the end, we got away with it."

  "Will there be any follow-up?" asked Michaels.

  Wilson continued, "No. The White House and Pentagon are reluctant to deal with the matter any further and just want it to go away." He looked around with an obvious expectation of finality. "Any other questions before we begin?"

  One thing still intrigued me. "What about the signals from Iran?"

  Michaels spoke after a nod from the colonel, "They collected only a few fragments. The intercept may be a coincidence, but the T-2 signal parameters were similar to the signals you described. Just adds to the mystery. If the Ethiopian signal was a diversion, what's this one about?"

  I shook my head. "Dunno, but I’d like to find out."

  Wilson said, "Fortunately, I have been given the go-ahead to develop the Special Signals Research Project, subject to NSA and CIA joint supervision. The signal profile will be added to site T-2's mission priorities. This signal may be a one-off incident. If it re-appears, I will see to it we are involved."

  * * *

  After lunch, Captain Breyer briefed us on the progress of his investigation. He saved the best for last.

  "This morning, I was forwarded an interesting bit of information from the CIA station in Mexico City. A Major Raul Gurrero is reported to have arrived in Mexico City five days ago." He hesitated with a satisfied expression on his face.

  Wilson seemed irritated by the dramatic pause and flicked his hand in Breyer’s direction. "Continue."

  "Gurrero is a member of the Cuban DGI or Dirección General de Inteligencia. He has an almost legendary reputation as a troubleshooter, with service in the Congo and Angola."

  Wilson paused and canted his head. "What’s the significance?"

  Breyer smiled. "His description matches the man driving the Bronco."

  My interest aroused, I said, "You got a picture of this guy?"

  "No, he has never been photographed. He seems to always maintain a low profile. I don’t give a lot of credence to this report. They wouldn’t risk someone of this man’s caliber on a stake-out mission in a hostile country."

  "You’re probably right," said Wilson. "How about the other man?"

  "We believe Martinez is a pistolero, a hired gun from Nogales on the Mexican side."

  "You plan to pick them up?" I asked.

  "No," Wilson answered with authority. "We will allow the men sit and wait for you to show up. However, you will not show up. If we dig too deep, it may only serve to let them know we're on to their game. We need to maintain our counter-deception. We'll just let it go."

  I didn't like it, but the colonel had a point, don't go looking for trouble. "How did they trace me here?"

  "The leak must have come from Kenya. Perhaps they traced your calls. Most likely, we'll never find out. In any case, they will not get their hands on you."

  I started to ask about Al Oldham but kept quiet. Breyer's silence said it all. Yeah sure, the leak came from Kenya. Al's involved, just not sure how.

  The phone rang, Demetrius Jones from the MPs. "Hey Ross, sorry to bother you. Got a call on hold from Julio, you know, the icehouse guy. He's looking for you and called us."

  "Thanks, put him through." The receiver clicked. "Cheech, what's up?"

  "Thought you might like to know, there's a new dude been sitting down at the corner all day."

  "What's he look like?"

  "A short thin white dude. Looks like a cop or private detective."

  "Is he driving a white Dodge?"

  "Yeah. Think he might be looking for you? Are you in some sort of trouble? You ain't been foolin' around with married women, have you?"

  "Can't say. Did you talk to him?"

  "Yeah, he came in once to get a Pepsi. Hey man, but I played it cool. No questions, just like you said."

  "Thanks. The other guy still around?"

  "Yeah, he came in early this morning, bought an Orange Crush, and drove up the canyon."

  "Continue to play it the same with this new guy. You haven't seen me and know nothing." He agreed. "Thanks again."

  I hung up the phone and glanced at Breyer. "Ritter's been spotted down by the ice house. He'd better back off or they might call the cops."

  Breyer's face flushed. "I'll handle it right away."

  Wilson said, "Thank you captain, please report any new developments ASAP."

  * * *

  Later in the afternoon, Wilson pulled me aside and repeated his offer to work with him on his new project. "The Raven-One mission proves the need for an unconventional approach to deal with high priority signals. Raven-One was a limited success. We uncovered a Soviet effort utilizing new technology. I want you to work with me as a field officer with SSRP."

  "Would I be an agency employee?"

  "No. We will contract for your services with the Relint Corporation. I am sure they can be persuaded to keep you on. Attempting to process you through the federal hiring system would be … I'll be honest with you, a daunting task at this time. You can understand why."

  "Sure, but I'm not sure I want to get back into that type of life. Do you understand?"

  "Certainly, but—"

  "Feel like I'm a pawn in a big chess game."

  "No. With chess, all the pieces are in front of you, the facts are perfect, and nothing is hidden. It's all about identifying and managing risk. What we do is similar to poker. Like chess, you must identify risks, but critical information you need may not be available. You are required to make a bet based on inadequate facts. A good poker player wins with a strategy of bluffing and gamesmanship."

  "Yeah, but not everyone is a good poker player. You're playing with other people's money and too often their lives."

  "That's true."

  "Another thing I don't like. There’re too many turf battles over who is responsible for what. Those office bound bureaucrats let inconvenient news get buried and ignore data from the field because someone else might receive the credit. Am I right?"

  Wilson frowned. "Can’t disagree, but I can tell you SSRP will not work within the same set of restrictions as other agencies. SSRP will address threats with minimum interference from the bureaucracy. I have a shortened chain of command, a lesson learned in Vietnam. Too often, the target was gone by the time we obtain permission to proceed.

  "Over the years, I found working within large organizations often has the unfortunate effect of dulling people's creative capacity. You don't accomplish anything by hanging about drinking coffee with people of a like mind. I can assure you SSRP will be more limited in focus and scope of operations and prejudiced towards action."

  "Okay, I like what you're saying. But why me?"

  "We need people who can visualize imminent threats others fail to notice. Men who grew up hunting in the wilderness are better at threat detection. They develop a system of 360-degree awareness. In contrast, the average person has little cognizance of their surroundings. They tend to focus on what’s directly in front. Few men can do that well, but some, like you, can. These are the ones I want in my organization."

  "Sir, I'm not the James Bond type."

  "None of us are, we’re just people doing a job."

  "I appreciate your confidence, but I'm sure there are plenty experienced operatives in NSA or the CIA—"

  "I rejected advice to staff SSRP with personnel assigned by t
he agencies. I need individuals frustrated by the normal way of doing things, who are self-reliant, able to quickly assess a fluid high-risk situation, and do what needs to be done. The trip from Kenya demonstrated your ability to do just that." He gave me a serious look. "Someday I would like to hear how you managed to give them the slip. Off the record of course."

  He paused and opened a folder. "By the way, Colonel Gibson agreed to join me as technical director for the project."

  I wanted to say, at least there will be someone I can trust, but refrained my predisposition for speaking my mind. Instead, I put forward another possible ally.

  "Captain Barker would be a good choice, too. Remember, he's the one who steered us in the right direction, and he’ll probably need a new assignment after what's happened. The ambassador in Nairobi will be after a scalp and he’d be an obvious target."

  "A good suggestion. I plan to station my operational elements out in the open, preferably on Air Force installations. That's the best way to hide a covert activity. Masquerade a nondescript unit as something else. Create a form of deception." He nodded his head in approval, "I'll check with his superiors at DIA."

  "If you're looking for someone with street smarts, Amadeo wouldn’t be a bad choice. I was impressed with his handling the situation in Addis."

  "Please elaborate."

  "Amadeo and Rasta Man took on the Ethiopian security apparatus and were able to get Marsden out of the country. The situation was, as you say, high-risk and fluid, extremely fluid. I can't believe they got away with it. Just bad luck the pilot miscalculated the fuel consumption over the mountains."

  "Wilson closed the folder. "Mr. Amadeo Ruiz and Mr. John Smith have already been assigned to me, per my request. They are agency types but fit my desired profile. Ruiz is an ex-Air Force air commando and Smith has an outstanding record in special operations. In addition, Mr. Michaels may be inclined to continue his service with us. He has a brilliant mind and is a top-notch analyst. What do you think?"

  The offer was beginning to appeal to me. Moreover, there was one other positive aspect. "At least I won't be dealing with Hansen."

  Wilson's expression darkened. "I'm afraid we have been forced to accept his role as liaison officer with NSA." He noticed my surprised reaction. "Don't worry, I'll deal with him. What’s your answer?"

  I hesitated for a moment and let it sink in. In only a few weeks, my life changed from the safe impersonal world of an analyst/technician to something completely different — danger and death. I also realized I was a pawn in a much larger game.

  A tingle of excitement coursed through my being. I tried to appear reluctant, but in reality, I needed to get back on my feet and get on with life. Unfortunately, I had to make a choice with only one viable option.

  "It does seem interesting."

  "I can guarantee it will be more than interesting. Think it over. If you decide to work with me, you can take a month off and get away from the office, preferably someplace where certain people back east and the man up the road can't find you."

  Hmm… that's a good idea. Head on down to the Sea of Cortez. Jake and Jennifer will be sailing for another couple of months, at least. Don’t think the Cubans or even Hansen can find me on the ocean.

  As I was about to speak, the phone rang, Wilson answered, listened, a furrow on his brow, thanked the caller, and hung up. "That was Captain Breyer. The Border Patrol discovered Al Oldham's body in the desert north of Nogales this morning. A witness recalls seeing a white Chevy Nova in the area. Sergeant Ritter is on his way south right now."

  "How does this affect—"

  "Nothing’s changed." He slid a black and white glossy across the table. "By the way, here’s a picture Ritter took of the man watching your cabin."

  I examined the photograph and flipped it back to him. "Let you know later, need to think it over." Actually, I had something to do. The situation had changed, and I was determined to fix it.

  After Midnight, Monday, 6 March: Southern Arizona

  The driver’s-side door of the grey Bronco opened. The faint moon, the only source of light, revealed a dark figure. The man swung out of the driver’s seat, stretched, and took a final swig from the bottle in his right hand. He tossed the empty into the trees, landing about five yards away from my position.

  The past hour and a half played out slowly as I crouched well hidden in the darkness beside a tree, ten yards behind the vehicle. A calm resolve tempered the wait. I applied the axiom preached by my neighbor, Jim Rogers: The bow hunter’s greatest virtue is patience.

  The man stepped out of the trees, peered down the road for a few seconds, and nonchalantly walked to the back of the Bronco. He leaned against the tailgate, hiked a boot up on the bumper, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  A clear shot presented itself, perhaps my only chance. My heartbeat raced with anticipation. I held my breath and took aim with care.

  A flash of light illuminated the night as the man struck a match and raised the flame to the cigarette hanging on his lower lip. The image on Ritter’s photograph confirmed — the Cuban, El Jefe, Major Raul Gurrero, the one who kidnapped Lisette, the one at Lara’s apartment — he was here. He killed Al, and laid waiting, an ambush, waiting to kill me. Where would he stop? With me? Mack? Who else? No, I couldn't take a chance. It had to end here and now.

  Righteousness and justice? Moral absolutes? Right or wrong? No. When one faces moral ambiguity, it is still necessary to act. A cold calm enveloped my mind — the calm every hunter feels at the critical moment — I didn’t hesitate. I chose to act.

  The flame burned long enough for me to see the arrow penetrate his neck. The match and lit cigarette fell to the ground. The man grasped the wooden shaft, staggered away from the Bronco, collided with the nearest tree, collapsed, and thrashed about on the pine needles, gurgling cries of agony.

  I didn’t hang around to watch him die. Didn’t need to, he was on an express train to the Seventh Level of Hell with a one-way ticket. The men I killed in Africa had been in self-defense, the most basic law of survival: Kill-or-be-Killed. This time, I killed in cold blood, an act of vengeance. Some may call it murder. I didn’t care. Far as I was concerned, the only law that applied was the ancient concept of Lex Talionis — An Eye for an Eye.

  I rushed out to the road, glanced back at flames flickering from the dry ground cover, and sprinted the quarter mile up to Jim Roger's place. After replacing Jim’s bow and quiver of hunting arrows in his storeroom, I jumped into my pickup and sped away.

  The fire, in full bloom as I passed the Bronco, offered enough light to recognize the body lying beside the driver’s side door. Flames crept under the rear of the truck.

  I pulled over at the highway intersection and looked back up the road. A burst of light lit up the canyon walls. The fire had reached the fuel tank. The conflagration would consume my place as well. It didn’t matter. All I had in the cabin was just stuff. My life at Huachuca finished, now I would start over, a fresh start. That’s what I needed.

  Epilogue

  Friday, 30 March: Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  The Sea of Cortez flowed beneath the keel of the graceful sailing craft. Playful dolphins rode the small bow wake, diving and leaping above waves rippling off the port side. For centuries, sailors viewed the creatures as a good luck sign and a sign land is near.

  Luck had been with me and now land was near. It began when I met Jake and Jennifer in Guymas. For two weeks, we sailed and explored the islands and coastlines along both shores of the sea. This day like all the rest: clear blue sky, crystal-clear water, and a comfortable warm temperature. Gulls, pelicans, and other birds sailed past, completing the tranquil scene.

  The days after the fire had been tense. Firefighters discovered the Cuban’s body beside the burned-out vehicle. Newspaper reports indicated the corpse was too far gone to identify or reveal how he died. Wilson and his crew said nothing, but from the way they looked at me, they suspected I was involved. Too bad. They would never kno
w, it was my secret, one I had to live with.

  The day before I left, Captain Breyer hit us with a bombshell. Al Oldham had attended MIT on scholarship funded by a foundation with ties to Simion Georgescu. Senator Bradbury was on the board of directors. Problem was, no direct connection could be established. Wilson said it might be a coincidence. I had a bad feeling but knew deep down that nothing would be done. Some people are bulletproof.

  A ham operator at the post MARS station made contact with Jake by shortwave radio and arranged a rendezvous in Guyamas. Mack drove me to Nogales where I boarded a bus for the trip down the Mexican coast.

  Nightmares plagued me for the first ten days. The agony of surprise on the Cuban’s face haunted my dreams as the events played out in slow motion, night after night. Inside, some part of me died, my life would never be the same.

  The pain of losing Lisette lingered. Up until the day before I left, I still held out hope of word from Lara. There was none: no calls, no letters, nothing. I came to the realization it was essential to find a way to go on with my life. Fortunately, as we journeyed down the coast, the peace, beauty, and isolation of the setting produced a healing effect.

  The Columbia 36, a fiberglass sloop rigged sailboat, cut through the waves with ease. Jake and Jennifer bought her from an older man who recently completed a trans-oceanic cruise to the South Pacific. They hoped to take her there sometime in the next few years.

  The craft boasted a long comfortable cockpit and a solid feel, due in part to her wide ten-foot beam. When the wind died, we puttered along with her inboard Atomic 4 gasoline engine, perfect for the Sea of Cortez.

  We spent ten days working our way down Baja California’s east coast, exploring the rocky coast and desert islands. The daylight hours spent sailing, fishing, snorkeling, or just taking it easy. Late afternoons revealed isolated anchorages for spectacular sunsets and quiet evenings away from the cares of the world.

  At last, we approached La Paz, Jake and Jennifer's home base. A VHF radio call from the marina informed Jake someone was waiting for them.

  Jennifer had invited her niece Mary Ann, from Los Angeles, to join them, but she declined. Now, she was sure Mary Ann had reconsidered. Jennifer's eyes sparkled as she flashed a calculating smile in my direction.