The Latakia Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 1)

by R G Ainslee

  The young airman, name tag said Davis, crushed his cigarette in a Cinzano ashtray. "Say lieutenant, maybe he belongs to that army crew that moved in the old hangar down at the end of the flight line."

  The lieutenant's demeanor changed. With renewed confidence, he told the duty sergeant, "Get Randall and tell him to drive this man over there." He handed my papers back.

  The duty sergeant snapped an order, "Grab your gear, and wait out front."

  Airman Randall drove to the far end of the flight line. The blue Ford pickup rolled to a grinding halt in front of a small structure behind a Quonset shaped hanger. The building, a wooden pre-fab, as well as the hangar, had seen better days. A light was on inside.

  "You sure this is it?"

  "Don't know, but this here's where they told me to bring you." The unconcerned airman sounded like a short-timer, had an attitude, one I could appreciate.

  Moments after he drove off, an Army spec-4 opened the door. He wore no name tag.

  "You Sergeant Brannan?"

  "Yeah. You expecting me?"

  "The security police called. Come on in, the captain wants to see you."

  Inside, the building was no better than the outside. The soldier ushered me through a small outer office to a large open room with a grey metal desk, a steel safe, a long table with a half-dozen chairs, and a stand with a coffee pot. Air Force motivational posters adorned the walls.

  The soldier shut the door and I approached a captain sitting behind the desk. The stone-faced officer wore Army Senior Aviator wings on his fatigues with no name tag or unit patch.

  "Sergeant First Class Ross Brannan reporting, sir." I passed him my orders.

  He inspected my attire with and incredulous stare. "Sergeant, do you customarily report in to a new assignment wearing civilian clothes?"

  "No sir. As you can see, my orders specified civilian dress and travel by civil transport. I just got here and didn't have a chance—"

  He cut me off before I could finish. "I didn't ask for excuses."

  I inhaled a nervous breath. The day had already turned into a goat-rope and I didn't need to make it worse by getting in to it with my new CO.

  The captain, a tall thin man with a pockmarked face and a bushy black mustache, told me to stand at ease. He examined the orders with obvious care, placed them on the desk, and opened a brown cardboard folder with a red border, marked Secret. After leafing through several pages, he gave me a puzzled glare.

  "Your MOS is ELINT signal analyst and you're also an intercept operator?"

  "Yes sir, at least for the next three months."

  "What does that mean?"

  I reacted with an emphatic, "I'm not re-enlisting."

  He started to respond but shoved the folder to the side without comment.

  "How long is this assignment for?" I didn't want to go back to Parker's outfit in Frankfurt, nothing there that interested me. All I wanted to do was get out of uniform and report to my new civilian job in Arizona.

  "No specific timeline, unit orders don't specify. Shouldn't last long, a month … two at the most."

  Since he wore pilot's wings, I asked, "Will we be flying?"

  "Affirmative. Any experience in a RU-8D?"

  Surprised and confused by the question, I paused. "Not much. Flew a couple of times in Nam, but that wasn't my MOS. Flown in Mohawks in Germany, most of my flight time has been TDY with Air Force and Navy units when I was assigned to Meade." Fort Meade is the headquarters of the National Security Agency.

  "Meade!" He let out a harrumph. "You're not one of those desk commandos, are you?"

  Half expected his snarky comment, couldn't blame him, he didn't know me. "No sir, I learned my stuff in the field. Sinop, Asmara, and—"

  "Okay, whatever." He canted his head towards the door. "Specialist Burns will get you situated in billets over at the Holiday Inn. We have a section assigned for our use. The cleaning staff is Turkish civilians, do not engage in any discussion with them beyond what's required for them to do their job."

  Holiday Inn, some joke, the Air Force nickname for old Quonset huts used for transient aircrew quarters. Knew from personal experience, they're hotter-n-hell in summer. Maybe they'd be tolerable this time of the year. Anyhow, for a short-timer, it would do. The air base was okay. The Air Force had it easy, good beds and decent chow. Three months should be no sweat, might even be warm enough for the beach.

  He leaned back in his chair. "Did you have any difficulties or unusual attention from the Turkish authorities during your trip?"

  "Yes sir, in Ankara and here at the airport. A man followed me all the way out here, some sort of secret police type, if you know what I mean." I started to recount my difficulties with the taxi but decided to hold-off for now.

  "I had a similar experience. So did some of the others. Not sure what it means."

  "Having ASA on my orders instead of TUSLOG could something to do with it. The Turks can be sensitive about our presence sometimes."

  "Could be. Have you been here before?"

  "Yes sir, a few times on TDY."

  "Report back here in the morning at 0800 hours for a briefing with the rest of the crew." On my way out, he said, "One other thing, we're low profile on this mission, remove your name tags and unit patches from your uniforms."

  Low profile, no name tag, RU-8D — had me puzzled. The military version of the Beechcraft Twin Bonanza was being phased out. Not a platform for ELINT collection, the aircraft had been deployed in Southeast Asia for COMINT, intercepting enemy communications. Didn't make sense, my specialties were Soviet radar and telemetry, not voice. Hopes of being able to do what I do best faded. The Army had one last opportunity to screw me over. True to form they did. When you're at the bottom, you understand one thing for sure: it all rolls downhill.

  At least the Middle East seemed quiet. Not too much going on, but because water's not boiling, don't mean it's not hot. I knew from reading the latest intelligence reports that tensions were building. On the other hand, no one expected a war anytime soon. Hell, tensions are always building in this part of the world.

  Chapter 2 ~ The Detachment

  Friday, 21 September 1973

  0755 hours, five minutes early and I was the last to arrive.

  The captain checked his big aviator's watch. "Now that we're all present and accounted for, I'll introduce myself. My name is Captain Ron Soldano, commanding officer of this detachment." He spoke with a crisp precise tone, sounded like he was accustomed to being in charge.

  He motioned towards a warrant officer standing to the right. "Mr. Morgan is our pilot and second in command." Morgan, a young guy with a seasoned appearance, also wore Army Aviator wings. "Sergeant Brannan will serve as ranking NCO, Sergeant Bolan as maintenance crew chief, and Specialist Collins is in charge of electronic maintenance."

  Ranking NCO, that was a surprise to me. We numbered a dozen people, spec fours and fives, and one other NCO, a hefty staff sergeant. I remembered him from an earlier assignment in Germany, Sergeant Mark Bolan, an aircraft mechanic. We both nodded in recognition at the same time.

  Soldano continued, "I'm sure you all are curious about your new duty." He paused for effect and eyed me in particular. "We're here to provide flight support for a classified operation. For the moment, I am not at liberty to divulge the nature of the mission, so don’t ask or speculate among yourselves."

  I wanted more information, but for once kept my mouth shut.

  "Let me repeat — this is a low-profile endeavor. You are not authorized to leave the base and do not, under any circumstances, fraternize with anyone outside this immediate unit, especially foreign nationals working on the base. Furthermore, do not talk to each other while the Turkish cleaning staff are present. Am I clear?"

  Bolan piped up, "Yes sir," and we all murmured in agreement.

  "Sergeant Bolan, when will the aircraft be ready?"

  "At least a week, sir."

  "Make it two days. Do what you gotta do to have it prepar
ed for a test flight Sunday afternoon."

  Bolan's face flushed. He inhaled and shifted in his seat.

  The captain declared with an air of finality, "Brannan and Bolan report to my office at 1300. You are dismissed."

  I headed for the hanger. The RU-8D was an odd-looking bird with wing-tip mounted dipole antennas. My previous flights had been as a passenger, not an operator.

  Low profile, no way — sticks out like a sore thumb. No name tags or unit patches, what better way to draw attention?

  Spec-5 Collins, along with a spec-4, was busy running through a series of power-ups and tests on electronic gear inside the cabin. I stuck my head through the hatch. "How's it going?"

  Collins, slight in build and tanned, spoke with a distinctive Midwest twang. "This here equipment's pathetic, spent too many years in Nam … hot humid conditions ain't good for electronics. The receiver's seen better days, but at least it powers up. Still need to test the antennas to see if they pick up signals." He tilted his head towards the spec-4. "Guess Saleh here will be the one operating the position."

  The young soldier nodded in agreement.

  "You flown before?" I asked.

  "Never in one this small." Saleh had a worried expression, I didn't blame him.

  Glad it wasn't me risking life and limb in something that belonged in the boneyard. The aircraft appeared the worse for wear: a few dings, evidence of hasty field repairs to the skin, and needed a paint job. If that was the outside, I shuddered to thing what the mechanicals were like.

  Sergeant Bolan, his ruddy complexion the product of many a night at the NCO Club, wandered over from his workbench and leaned against the wing. He wore older work fatigues with a vee-shaped gusset to accommodate his expanding beer-belly.

  I said, "Think you can keep this thing in the air?"

  With a straight face, he said, "You can swim, can't you?"

  "Real assuring to have a crew chief nicknamed The Executioner."

  The sergeant shot back, "Mark Bolan, not Mack Bolan." For some reason, he was sensitive about the similarity of his name to the fictional assassin.

  I grinned at a wide-eyed Saleh and shrugged. "Whatever."

  Bolan squinted and said, "Yeah you're still the wise-guy, ain't you."

  "Only for three more months and sayonara to this man's army."

  Bolan shook his head. "You make E-7 in less than ten years and now you're gonna throw it away."

  "Got a civilian job lined up down at Fort Huachuca, same stuff, better pay, and no Army BS."

  "Nah, you'll be back. Give you six weeks in civvies, seen it before."

  "Dream on."

  Bolan gave me a cutting grin and returned to his workbench.

  I said to Collins, "Enough of this, let's check this gear out."

  * * *

  After finding the snack bar and devouring a cheeseburger and fries, I headed for Soldano's 1300 meeting. This time, I arrived fifteen minutes early.

  Soldano sat listening to a host of problems and excuses from Bolan. He didn't seem impressed. "Like I told you yesterday, I want the aircraft ready for a test flight Sunday afternoon. Do you understand?"

  Bolan's neck muscles tightened. "Yes sir."

  "That's all, you may go."

  The sergeant shot me an exasperated glance as he hurried past.

  The captain motioned me forward. "I hope you have something better to report. What's the status on the electronics?"

  With an optimistic shrug, I said, "Guess it'll do."

  Soldano bowed up. "What's that supposed to mean." Seemed Bolan's report left him in a bad mood.

  "Sir, Collins says the electronics are in poor shape. The equipment is old and was in Nam for years. Hasn't been maintained too well lately. The receivers work with a test signal, but I can't guarantee any positive results."

  He stared at me for a full five seconds. "Make sure the problems are documented. We'll find out on our first flight, if…" he huffed, "if we get off the ground."

  "Sir, I'm not sure why I'm here, can you fill me in on what I'm supposed to do? The aircraft is set-up for COMINT. I've never been involved in that aspect."

  "I don't have all the details of our mission." He sat on the table edge. "You weren't briefed on this assignment?"

  "No sir, I received orders to report here two days ago, that's all I know about this operation."

  Soldano's lips pressed together. He hadn't smiled or shown any hint of enthusiasm since I arrived. Figured he was having as much fun as I was.

  "Guess we'll both find out come morning. A civilian coordinator is scheduled to arrive." He read my questioning expression. "Most likely from NSA."

  Not the first time they sent me on a mission ill prepared. I sensed a BOHICA moment bearing down at full speed. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again was a familiar fact of life lately.

  As a pawn in the international chess game called the Cold War, I knew very well, pawns are often sacrificed for bigger objectives. Being one of the low men on the totem pole, at the bottom of the intelligence collection food chain, I had no doubt, where my fate lay.

  The problem with the Cold War is no clear-cut victory was on the horizon. The specter of nuclear war removed that possibility. A triumph would entail the use of atomic weapons that would prove too costly. It's not a matter of nations fighting each other on a conventional battlefield. Instead, we fight the intelligence war.

  HUMINT, or human intelligence collected from agents in the field, is fodder for spy novels. I toiled in the less trendy world of SIGINT or signals intelligence. My battlefield was the electromagnetic spectrum.

  I specialized in ELINT or electronic intelligence derived from the collection, processing, and analysis of radar and guidance control systems. NSA relied on military resources for ELINT collection, in my case, the Army Security Agency. The results need to be analyzed and interpreted in context. The record must be built-up over time, with little opportunity for a spectacular result. Didn't bother me, I loved it. Only problem was the Army. My new job would solve that.

  * * *

  I returned to our quarters after a late meal at the Air Force mess hall. Something seemed wrong. My sixth sense, the funny little feeling you have before it happens, whispered: Something ain't right. My B-4 bag, full of clothes, was on its side. I was sure I left it standing. A further check revealed nothing missing, but I was convinced someone gave the place a once-over. I decided not to mention it to the captain, no need to rock the boat, most likely someone after smokes or booze. I had neither.

  Saturday, 22 September

  I strolled into the briefing room at 0800. An alluring aroma caught my attention. I headed straight to the coffee, poured out the last dregs from a near empty pot, and approached the captain at his desk.

  "Any word yet, what—" I broke off the question as Soldano peered past my shoulder.

  A voice answered from the corner. "Guess we can start the briefing now Captain." A tall man, with salt-and-pepper hair and dressed in civilian clothes, leaned against the wall nursing a cup of coffee. I knew him. Hadn't seen him in ten years, but Fredrick Wyndham wasn't the type of person you'd forget.

  Frederick — not Fred, he made sure you remembered. Not NSA, an Ivy League bred CIA hot shot, at least in his own mind. The man earned a cold-blooded reputation for doing things his way or else. My only contact with him, years ago, as a lowly PFC. Maybe he wouldn't recall our meeting.

  He adjusted his rimless glasses and spoke with an exaggerated inquisitive air, as if he knew the answer. "We've met before, haven't we?"

  Oh hell, just my luck. "Thailand, mid-sixties."

  "Takhli Air Base?"

  "Correct."

  "Now I recall. You're the one who wrangled his way on a recon sortie." His face deadpan, couldn't tell where he was headed.

  Back in the early sixties, only a few months out of training at Fort Devens, the Army sent me to Vietnam as an ELINT signal analyst. A month later, the opportunity came for a choice TDY assignment with an Air Force Tactical E
lectronic Warfare Squadron in Thailand. I seized the moment. They were more than satisfied with my work and I managed to talk my way on a flight over Laos aboard a RB-66 recon aircraft. We searched for a modified version of the Fan Song fire control radar used by the North Vietnamese. My first airborne mission proved successful. I caught the signal at the right moment as the system switched to missile guidance.

  Problem was, I never asked for my detachment commander's permission to make the flight. Captain Hansen found out when the flight commander recommended me for a citation. His response: ship my sorry butt back to Saigon. The incident almost ruined my career before it started. Never got the award but didn't get busted either.

  "That was me."

  Soldano eyed me with an inquisitive stare.

  Wyndham's gaze hardened, then he strode past Soldano with an air of confident authority. "Come on — let's get this show on the road."

  Morgan rushed in and conferred with Soldano in hushed tones. The captain frowned and said, "Tell Sergeant Bolan… no, I'll speak with him afterwards." He motioned towards Wyndham. "Come on, we're about to find out what we're here for."

  We gathered around the table as the CIA man unfolded an aeronautical chart covering the Eastern Mediterranean.

  Wyndham adjusted his glasses. "Our mission is to monitor the Soviet fleet operating from the Syrian port of Tartus. Currently, their Fifth Squadron has fifty-two vessels in the Med including cruisers, destroyers, submarines, minesweepers, frigates, and auxiliary ships."

  He eyed the captain. "You will fly at least two daily sorties back and forth to Royal Air Force Station Akrotiri on Cyprus — more if necessary." He ran a finger across the chart. "Here's the route to Cyprus — there's Tartus, south of the major Syrian naval base at Latakia. Your flight path runs south to Cape Andreas and then to Akrotiri on the southern shore, about 240 miles. A cruising speed between 150 and 175 knots should offer an ample window of opportunity to collect signals from the area around Tartus."

  Still puzzled, I said, "Are we're supposed to DF their communications?" DF was short for direction finding.

  Without looking up, he said, "No, we are concerned with radar emissions from Soviet naval vessels."