by R G Ainslee
He produced a paper hard copy of a cable. "Here's a summary of the situation from Langley." He began to read, "Fighting broke out at about 1400 after a coordinated Egyptian-Syrian attack. Fighting has been concentrated along the Suez and Golan fronts. The Israelis have not struck deep into either country but seem to have gained air superiority. The Egyptians acknowledge the loss of ten aircraft. On the ground, the Egyptians made a limited crossing of the Canal at several points. The Syrians advanced, but have not passed the Israeli anti-tank defenses. The prospect is for continued fighting through the night as the Israelis try to oust the Egyptians from Sinai. If this is not successful, and if diplomatic efforts fail in restoring the cease-fire, Israel will most likely consider a large-scale air strike against Egyptian positions tomorrow morning."
Wyndham folded the paper and flashed a satisfied smile. "The good news is, we have been ordered to resume sorties at an accelerated pace." He turned to Soldano. "Captain, recommence your flights. I want hard intelligence ASAP."
Soldano didn't seem happy about the prospect of flying into a war zone. After a long pause, he said, "Didn't the base commander ground us?"
"His order has been countermanded."
I wondered by whom but decided not to push it.
Morgan said, "One problem though … under the present circumstances we can't return to the British base. They made it clear we weren't welcome back."
Wyndham gave Penwell a nervous glance and spoke sharply, "Fly the sortie without landing. Any problem with that?"
Soldano said, "Mr. Morgan, what do you think?"
Morgan nodded. "We have the range and the bird is performing satisfactorily, should be no problem."
Soldano said, "Consider it done."
No one asked my opinion.
* * *
We took off at 2000 for a 600-mile loop around Cyprus. The plan was to fly west to monitor possible Soviet naval activity, swing east, hug the southern coast, and return along our normal route. Wyndham approved the flight plan, expected to last about three hours, after a closed consultation with Penwell.
Penwell's involvement still bothered me. The guy avoided contact with anyone except Wyndham, not that anybody complained. He had a sleazy aura around him, reminded me of a crooked lawyer representing a used-car lot. All blame fell on Rankin. Soldano said the mechanic was being held incommunicado in the Air Force guardhouse. Bolan was back on the job, but not speaking.
Our flight plan took us west along the Turkish coast. By my request, Morgan kept a moderate cruising speed, 140 knots. I wanted to maximize our opportunities.
At a point near Anamur, Morgan veered south to Cape Arnauti on the northwest tip of Cyprus. I was beginning to worry, so far, no signals, except for the RAF radar on Mt. Olympus.
The Egyptian early warning radar net became visible on my scope at 2130. Soldano asked, "What would be the best path for your purposes?"
"The one that doesn't get us shot down."
"Seriously, do we need to veer further out closer to the war zone?"
"No. Not gonna make much difference. Besides, I don't trust either side when it comes to risking my life. Why don’t we hug the southern coast of Cyprus at 5,000 feet altitude?"
"Agreed, let's not take any chances. We're too far away for the Egyptians or the Israelis to take notice. The main threat should come from the Syrians."
Morgan concurred, and we passed Cape Gata and the British base at Akrotiri at 2155.
Cape Greco loomed in the starlight off to our left. We had flown 400 miles with little results, too far for our jury-rigged antenna system to pick up any interesting signals. Flying next to an active war zone, I feared an interesting signal would be the one that shot us down.
At 2225, concerned about a Syrian MiG, I switched the spectrum analyzer to the I-band warning receiver.
Three minutes later, a green luminous blip appeared on the cathode ray tube, an observable representation of invisible electrons radiating from an antenna in circular scan search mode. A Square Tie, the NATO designator for the Soviet MR-331 Rangout search and fire control system, a predator seeking prey. A three-centimeter I-Band radar associated with Syrian Osa or Komar class fast attack missile boats. I had never encountered one live, but did listen to a signal on tape at Ft. Meade.
I checked to make sure the recorder was on. The VU meter showed a steady signal level. The tape had been running since the first early warning radar came on line.
The lone Square Tie scanned the horizon presumably searching for Israeli naval targets. I listened, waiting for the signal to change to a steady scan, indicating a switch to tracking mode. No other signals came into view, Israeli or otherwise.
The navigation chart placed our location west of Latakia, the Syrian naval base located between the Turkish and Lebanese borders, well to the north of Israel. The Syrians appeared to be on a normal defensive patrol.
A change in audio made the hair on the back of my neck stand-up. A bright green pulse quivered on the console's panoramic display. In a split second, the Square Tie switched to a steady scan, transitioning from a low PRF (Pulse Repetition Frequency) search mode to a high PRF tracking mode. Something was about to happen, the radar locked on a target. I anxiously awaited the appearance of a missile-tracking signal.
Tension tightened my grip on the console knobs. Still, no sign of a target, the only active signal emanated from a single Syrian boat. A minute later, multiple signals popped up on the scope, all Square Tie's in search mode. Ten seconds later, the radars switched to tracking mode. The predator detected prey and closed in for the kill.
An unmistakable sound resonated through my headphones: a conical scan, the active radar of a Styx missile in flight. The attack boats routinely carried four Soviet supplied Styx P-15M anti-ship missiles that become electronically active six nautical miles from impact. The Syrians pounced, missiles on the way, but the target kept a negative electronic profile. I still had no sign of their final objective.
Without warning, the guidance signals distorted. The panoramic display flooded with multiple pulses, a sign the target fired chaff rockets and activated electronic countermeasures Seconds later, well past the time when impact should have occurred, the signals vanished. The Styx guidance systems were overwhelmed, unable to lock on a target.
Undeterred, the Syrians started a second sequence. Missiles fired, Styx guidance systems activated, followed by chaff and countermeasures from the target. The missiles fell into the sea with the same results. The radars returned to search mode; the attack boats failed to destroy their targets. Now, with the Syrians out of missiles, the hunter had no claws.
A new set of unfamiliar signals became active, had to be emanating from Israeli Reshef class missile boats. The Israelis had relied exclusively on passive ESM (Electronic Surveillance Measures) for target acquisition and drawn the Syrians into a trap. The hunters were about to pay the price.
A few minutes later, the Israeli's fired a salvo. I monitored the missile's semi-active radar seekers until the signals stopped. The Israeli boats went quiet. No Syrian signals, the silence of the dead.
Soldano called back to me, "Any activity?"
I minimized the truth. "Only a naval target." The intercept was a big deal and I didn't want to show my hand too early. This could be my ace-in-the-hole if, or more likely when, it hit the fan.
"No airborne hits?" asked Morgan.
"Not this time."
"Let's go home," said Soldano.
The captain may have been relieved, but I spent the rest of the flight watching the scope for the presence of a tracking signal from a fighter. The Syrians were sure to have taken notice of our proximity to the action.
I let out an audible sigh of relief as we landed in Adana.
Morgan said, "You okay back there?"
"No problem."
Wyndham stood in front of the hangar as we taxied up to the door. He seemed anxious. I did not intend to tell him about the intercept.
Soldano said, "Let's wrap
this up. I'll deal with Wyndham. You two can turn in, it's been a long day."
Chapter 11 ~ The Tape
Sunday, 7 October
0130 hours, the first thing I did upon landing was to wake-up Miller, the crypto operator, and tell him I needed to send a CRITIC message.
He reacted with a wary squint. "You sure you want to do this?"
"Yeah, right away." I wanted to send the basic details of my intercept to NSA before telling anyone else.
A CRITIC message, by definition, contains critical intelligence communicated from the field to the highest authorities by the most rapid communications means available. I had never sent one before. If they didn't like it, what were they going to do, kick me out of the Army?
I typed out a report, briefly detailing my findings. It would wake up more than a few people back at Meade and Langley. If the Top-Secret dispatch made it as far as the White House, maybe it would take the president's mind off the burgeoning scandal over the vice president's tax evasion imbroglio.
After Miller confirmed transmission, I wandered back to the office. No one was there. I headed back to the hangar.
I hooked the Grundig up to the tape deck inside the RU-8 and made a copy of the intercept recording. My sixth sense told me it might prove useful. Wyndham and Penwell might appropriate the tape and take credit for the important finding. Wouldn't be the first time someone in authority tried to screw over the guys at the bottom. I was living proof.
The tape completed and the original stashed away behind Collins' workbench, I heard someone behind me.
Bolan stood not ten feet away. His voice slurred, "What the hell you think you're doing here?"
"Mind your own business, nothing for you to worry about."
"I'm making it my business." His breath tainted the air with a strong odor of booze.
"Yeah, like your business with Rankin."
Bolan's cheeks burned red and he lurched at me. I sidestepped, and his belly banged against the workbench. He steadied himself and came at me again. This time he connected with a punch to the gut and followed up with a kick that sailed wide.
I gasped for breath, shifted to his left, and gave him a shove to the shoulder.
Bolan staggered backwards and grabbed a screwdriver from the workbench. "I'm gonna teach you a lesson, wise ass." He rocked from side to side, brandishing the business end of the screwdriver in my direction. "You gonna die, you…" His words muddled as he launched into a perverse estimate of my pedigree.
I reached to my back pocket, whipped out the switchblade, and held it beside my leg. The telltale clibagck, as the blade snapped into place, caught his attention. Didn't say a word, didn't have too. Five inches of cold Solingen steel said it all.
Bolan froze in place, eyes glued to the knife as he processed his options. Conflicted eyes darted side to side, he wavered for a moment, and his face went slack. Defeated, he released the tool to the floor, lowered his eyes, and shuffled out of the hangar. He didn't live up to his nickname, simply another bully who folds when confronted.
I had experience dealing an alcoholic from an early age and didn't know if I could have used the knife on a pitiful drunk like Bolan. I understand the devils inside that drive one to drink. Fortunately, my bluff worked.
I followed from a safe distance and watched the tipsy sergeant weave down the tarmac until he disappeared into the dark. I closed the hangar doors and sacked out on a cot.
* * *
Marcos woke me from a deep sleep. "Hey Sarge, Captain wants you."
Took a moment to catch my bearings, it was daylight. "What time is it?"
"0730 — he acted like it was urgent, told me to get you over there ASAP."
I rummaged around under the cot for my boots. Still dressed in flight coveralls, I was ready to go in a few seconds.
I swung the office door open and made a beeline for the coffee. Soldano was alone.
"Sorry sir, need a jump start after last night."
He motioned for me to sit. "When I checked for messages this morning, I found out you sent a CRITIC last night."
"Yes sir."
His eyes betrayed his irritation as he spoke with an edge to his voice, "Care to tell me what this is about?"
"Made an intercept. Appears the Israelis and Syrians fought a naval battle last night, to the west of Latakia."
"Continue … there has to be more."
"The engagement was fought with radar guided missiles. The Israelis employed passive detection measures and responded to the attack with chaff to defeat the Syrian guidance systems. The Syrians depleted their ordinance and the Israelis attacked. Then, the Syrian boats went silent. They must have been sunk."
"And you think that warranted a CRITIC?"
"My call — the battle was a major and unprecedented event. We were present when history was made. I had the authority to make the judgment call … and did."
"Why didn't you tell me last night?"
"To be frank with you sir, I didn't want any second guessing or interference." I hesitated a moment. "Not from you, but from the civilian component."
Soldano stared at me in silence. He stood and said, "Very well. You realize I'll need to inform Wyndham?"
"Yes sir." I didn't care. I did what I needed to do, if they didn't like it, too bad.
* * *
Collins and I had barely returned from a late breakfast at the snack bar when Wyndham stormed into the hangar. He didn't appear to be a happy camper.
"Where's the tape?" he yelled.
"What tape?"
His eyes flashed with rage. "You know very well what I'm talking about. Don't make us take it away from you."
Penwell stood in the door of the hangar with a hand in his jacket pocket. Most likely he was carrying. All I had was my switchblade. No use arguing, he had the drop on me. I produced the copy and handed it to Wyndham.
He snatched the package out of my hand. "Why didn't you report this to me? If this was worth sending a CRITIC, the authorization should've come through me."
"You weren't around. Besides, I had authority to send the message. What's the problem?"
The CIA man glared at me with an intensity that startled me. "You are the problem … Sergeant." He wheeled and rushed out.
Penwell delayed for a moment and followed. I wondered how close I had been from a serious physical confrontation. Wasn't sure about Wyndham's proclivities for violence but was reasonably sure Penwell would have shot me in a New York minute.
Collins had been taking it all in. "You sure know how to T-off those folks."
"Yeah, I'm a short timer, comes with the territory."
* * *
Morgan sauntered into the hangar with a wry grin in his face. He motioned for Collins to get-lost and leaned back with his elbows on the workbench.
"You stirred up a good one." When I didn't respond, he continued, "Wyndham and Penwell are fuming over this. The captain told me what you found … sounds interesting."
"More than interesting, the battle was between boats equipped with surface-to-surface missiles. Looks like the Israelis employed passive target acquisition and defeated the attack using electronic means. Not every day you make an intercept of Soviet made radars in actual combat. It’s a piece of history."
"It's a big deal?"
"The countermeasures employed by the Israelis are the icing on the cake. We have a complete electronic record of the incident. The tape is worth its weight in gold."
Morgan seemed impressed. "Now I understand why Penwell was keen to spirit the tape to Ankara."
"Penwell has the tape?" An electric like shock ran through my system. "He sent it to Ankara?"
"No, the captain said he left for the flight line not thirty minutes ago, seemed real eager to leave."
"We gotta stop him."
"Too late, the flight just took off."
"Wyndham … did he approve this?"
"Not sure. When they started arguing, the captain pulled me outside. We stayed out of there until Penw
ell left for flight operations."
"Come on, I gotta find out what's going on."
Morgan followed as I raced around back to the office and burst through the door. Soldano and Wyndham had gone.
"Where'd they go?"
"Don't know. They were here a when I left."
I pondered the situation. Penwell had the tape, but it was only a copy. I kept the original. His motive was a mystery. The only explanation was he wanted the credit. Didn't matter, I had already sent a CRITIC. NSA would be aware of the intercept by now. I headed to the coffee pot. It was empty.
* * *
"Cap'n wants to see you." It was Marcos. This time I was awake, waiting for the next shoe to drop. As much as I tried, a late morning nap eluded me. The effects of a long night were beginning to catch up with me.
"The office?"
"Right on, he sure do look agitated. You in some sorta trouble?"
"Nah, just another day in paradise."
Soldano sat perched on the corner of his desk with one foot on the floor. He was alone.
"You want to see me, sir?"
He held a yellow tear sheet in his hand. "We received an 'O' message marked Top Secret/NOFORN … involves you." An 'O' message is a communication requiring immediate delivery. Top Secret/NOFORN means no dissemination to foreign nationals.
I took the sheet, read the contents, and handed it back without comment. My stomach sank into a deep pit.
The message was from the director of NSA. The first paragraph specifically ordered me to secure the tape. The unit commander was instructed to cease all operations upon receipt of the message, secure all materials, and await arrival of personnel from TUSLOG Detachment 120, the unit in Ankara that ran NSA operations in Turkey. The second paragraph revealed the intercept mission was flown without authorization from DIRNSA. The third paragraph ordered all personnel involved in the operation confined to the area, and furthermore, not to communicate with anyone until the arrival of the team from TUSLOG 120.
"Think we've been sandbagged," said Soldano.
I nodded in agreement. "Where's Wyndham? I want to find out—"
"Not sure."