The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Sam answered, "I may be open to trying a new dish in the future. Perhaps next time, I will be open to suggestions."

  Azad unsure of the meaning looked puzzled and said, "If you give me an idea, we may have a specialty ready for you."

  "Fish … perhaps something from the Caspian. You do have a fresh catch from the Caspian?"

  Azad nodded, stifling a smile, his hopes renewed, "Yes we do." He bowed and spoke softly, "The tape is from the sixth day of February."

  "If it is genuine, I will look forward to it." He gazed at Azad with an intent glare, "However, I do not want any stale fish. Do you understand?"

  Azad nodded, his heart skipped a beat, "Yes, yes, I can assure you, we have only the best."

  3 ~ SSRP

  Mid-October 1979: Washington, D.C.

  John Smith read the report for the second time. Something about the date of the intercept caught his attention — 6 February 1979 — almost eight months ago. The Raven-One team had been in Iran at that time on a special mission for the Special Signals Research Project, a joint enterprise of the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency. The new deep secret organization focused on clandestine ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) collection involving Soviet radar and telemetry signals. Its primary mission was to deal with situations where conventional methods proved neither effective nor practical.

  The CIA man had an unmistakable ex-military look: burr haircut, super-fit for his age, fifty-three, and generally sported an attitude that reeked of first sergeant. A former Army Ranger, and longtime CIA operative, he was operational director of SSRP. John took the report and walked down the hall to the office of Mack Gibson, the project's technical director.

  Formation of SSRP was an effort to bridge the gap between Human Intelligence and Electronic Intelligence. The CIA had always considered ELINT a stepchild and dismissed most raw ELINT as unconfirmed data. They believed only agents in the field could be relied on for worthwhile intelligence. In the past, NSA relied primarily on military resources for ELINT collection. Now, SSRP combined NSA analytical capabilities with CIA and military special operations assets in a single unit. It hadn't been easy, hampered by roadblocks and backstabbing from both agencies, but the concept gained traction, and now they were fully operational.

  He knocked once and walked in without waiting for an answer, "Say Mack do you remember the date of Ross's intercept at T-2?"

  Mack, a big man at six-two and two seventy-five, wore his typical long sleeved guayabera shirt. The retired Air Force lieutenant colonel hesitated and flipped through his desk calendar. "Best I can recall it was around the sixth of February. Why do you want to know?"

  "This report from one of my contacts at Langley just came in, seems the embassy in Tehran has a contact who claims to have a tape of a Soviet rocket test on that date."

  That caught Mack Gibson's attention. "Where did the tape originate?"

  "The contact claims to have worked at T-1."

  "Sounds suspicious to me."

  "Why?"

  "T-1 was abandoned at the end of January and communications cut a few days later. As far as I recall, the place wasn't operational on that date."

  "Yeah, I remember, but this individual claims the equipment was still running on automatic and recorded the intercept."

  "Guess that's possible. How did he obtain the tape?"

  "Don't know, what we have is still sketchy. Think we need to ask Tehran station to do a follow up?"

  "Wouldn't hurt, but I doubt if it has anything to do with our lost signal. I'll run it by the colonel when he gets back from Meade this afternoon."

  Mack leaned back in his chair and considered the possibilities. It seemed too good to be true. He made a note to call the colonel.

  * * *

  Colonel Wayne Wilson, director of SSRP, was not one of your narcissistic Pentagon Princes, the ticket-punching bureaucrats consumed with furthering their own careers, the ones with fancy offices. The Special Signals Research Project, located at Bolling Air Force Base across the Potomac River from the Pentagon, occupied a nondescript wooden building, something no one would ever mistake for anything important. Wilson's office was furnished with unremarkable Korean War surplus: gray metal desks and chairs. Photos of Air Force jets adorned institutional pale blue walls.

  Earlier in the year SSRP's operational team, Raven-One, made an intercept of a test of new Soviet air defense system from Site T-2 in Iran. An over eager Lieutenant Colonel Hansen, temporarily in charge at the time, had accidentally erased the tape leaving the team with no useful product.

  Wilson leaned back and read the one-page report from Langley. After a few moments of reflection, he passed it back to John Smith, and turned to Mack Gibson. "What's your perspective on this development?"

  Gibson, an old hand in the field of electronic warfare, shook his head. "Can't say really. At first glance, it seems like we may have something. The date is right and that was the only test we know of on that day. But it seems too pat."

  "It's eight months old." Smith said as he turned to Gibson, "Would the data be out of date? We've already concluded they aren't going to pursue that guidance system. What's to be gained?"

  Mack answered, "But we don't know for sure. Marsden's work keeps popping up. It never hurts to know too much."

  J. Andrew Marsden, a defector to the Soviet Union, had taken secrets from the Cochise Project at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Mack Gibson had been involved with the project intended to develop an air-defense system guidance radar invulnerable to current countermeasures.

  Wilson said, "I concur. John, go ahead and pursue the matter. Contact your people in Tehran. If it looks promising, we can proceed." The colonel glanced at Mack, "Send a copy of the report to Raven-One, maybe Brannan has some ideas."

  Two days later: Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Kirtland Air Force Base, in Albuquerque, was home to SSRP Detachment R-1, or Raven-One. Its location a matter of hiding in plain sight, camouflaged as a routine and dull Air Force unit doing mundane research on radio propagation and antenna testing: The Radio Propagation Research Office. The unit served as both a cover and a resource provider for SSRP's clandestine intelligence collection program. Kirtland was far away from prying brass: the mutual admiration societies at Fort Meade, Langley, and worst of all, the Pentagon.

  Former Army Security Agency sergeant Ross Brannan served as operational head of Raven-One. There wasn't anything unusual about his office: standard Air Force issue grey metal desk, a well-used conference table, and a heavy-duty secure filing cabinet. A series of aeronautical charts featuring most on New Mexico covered one wall.

  Ross finished reading the report and reached for the phone. "Alice, get me Mack Gibson on the line."

  Sergeant Alice Swift, Raven-One's unit clerk replied, "Yes sir."

  "And get hold of Barker, Ruiz, and Richards. I want them in my office ASAP."

  Ross leaned back and exhaled. The contents of the report had triggered volatile memories boiling beneath the surface. He reached up to his shoulder, rubbed the scar from Marsden's bullet, and replayed in his mind all the reasons to hate the bastard. The defector had shot Ross after he chased him over the Mexican border almost four years ago. Marsden also killed a Mexican federal police officer, fled to Cuba, and ended up in the Soviet Union working on an advanced air defense system. Ross had unfinished business with J. Andrew Marsden.

  The phone rang. Ross answered in a flash before Gibson had a chance to speak. "Mack, I just read the report. Why didn't you call me? This has to be genuine. I can't believe it's just a coincidence."

  "Don't get too excited. We don't have the tape yet — if it even exists. You know how things are over there. It may just be a desperate Iranian trying to play us for a visa."

  "Yeah, I understand." Ross really did understand. He had made the original intercept from Site T-2 in Iran. The tape delivered only after a daring escape following a Soviet commando raid on the mountain top listening station.

  "This
thing is still very preliminary. I was just giving you a heads up. Could be a test we don't know about or perhaps an intercept of Marsden's signal. We don't have any parameters or even an azimuth to go on. All we have is this guy's word that something was recorded on that date."

  "So, what do we do?"

  "Wait and see if the people in Tehran can obtain the tape. That is, if it really exists."

  "Yeah, guess you're right. But if it is true, it might give some fresh insight to Marsden's activities."

  "Affirmative. … Say, how's things on the home front? Lisette and the baby doing okay?" Ross was a new father, his wife Lisette giving birth to a baby boy late last month. Life had become more complicated for Ross since he met Lisette twenty months ago in Kenya. Now Ross was a new father with even more responsibilities, his happy-go-lucky lifestyle a distant memory. Ross' life had changed in other ways, his old job replaced by the uncertainly of traveling to dangerous places for Colonel Wilson.

  "No, she's having a bad time. She's depressed and irritable. I don't know what to do. This is all new territory for me."

  Mack had worked with Ross at the Army's electronic proving ground at Fort Huachuca on the Cochise Project. Ross trusted him better than most officers.

  "Look, we've all been through this. I have three kids and sometimes it takes a little while for the wife to adjust to a new situation. It'll be all right, trust me."

  "Okay. Guess I got a lot to learn about. — Here's Barker and the crew. — I'll brief them and get back to you." He hung up the phone and motioned for the others to sit at the conference table.

  Mack sighed and leaned back in his chair. Poor Ross, looks like he may be headed for Iran again. — Just what he needs.

  Amadeo Ruiz, Jack Richards, and Captain Jim Barker took their seats at the table. Ross handed the report to the captain. Barker, a career Air Force officer, was chief pilot of Raven One. He read the two pages and gave it to Richards, without comment.

  Jack skimmed the document, re-read the first page, and passed it on to Amadeo. He asked Ross, "This come in today?"

  "Yeah, I just got off the secure line with Mack. One of John's contacts at the Agency sent him a copy."

  Jack and Amadeo were professional intelligence officers assigned from the CIA to SSRP as operations specialists. Their job was to provide on the ground field security and operational capabilities for Raven-One. Both men had undergone specialized training and had a basic competency as intercept operators.

  Amadeo Ruiz's average stature at five-seven, one-hundred fifty pounds, enhanced with subtle Latin features allowed him to fit in anywhere. A master of stealth, he had an exceptional record fueled by his resourcefulness and ingenuity in the field. Fluent in Spanish, Ethiopian, and Arabic, Ruiz spoke some French and his Farsi much improved since his last mission to Iran earlier in the year. An ex Air Force Air Commando, his responsibility included mission-planning involving activities in foreign countries. His family was originally from Cuba. His father killed at the Bay of Pigs.

  Jack Richards at five-eleven was endowed with a slender muscle tone that enabled him to move with a feline alertness. His chiseled jaw line and outgoing behavior betrayed a complex, strong-willed, somewhat private, and not easy to know individual with a fierce determination. Richards, also CIA and an ex Green Beret Vietnam vet was in charge of on-the-ground field training. Fluent in French, Vietnamese and Russian, and spoke some Arabic and Farsi. In addition to his duties as a weapons specialist, he was highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat.

  Amadeo flicked the report back to Ross and shook his head.

  Ross said, "You think it's legit?"

  Amadeo replied, "You're the tech guy. Is it possible?"

  "Yes. Like I told Mack, it must be the real thing. An intercept on the same day can't be a coincidence."

  "You don't think it might be a Soviet attempt at disinformation," said Barker. "That seems to be their game related to Marsden and his concepts."

  "I agree," said Amadeo. "This is too convenient. They think we have the original and are trying to confuse the issue."

  "But we don't have the original tape," said Jack. He was right, Hansen had decided to analyze the tape and accidentally erased it. All they have left was the notes made by Ross during the intercept.

  "I believe it," said Ross.

  Amadeo responded, "Because you want to, not because of the facts."

  Ross bowed up. "The only important fact is that we have one more chance and I'm going to do everything in my power to follow-up. You understand."

  "Don't worry, whatever you decide, we're with you." Amadeo glanced at Jack.

  Ross slumped in the chair. "Unfortunately, it's not up to me. We'll just have to wait for Wilson and the suits upstairs to decide. I'll let you know when…" After a few moments of strained silence, he said, "That's all. And thanks."

  Barker stayed behind as the others left the room. "You need to pull yourself together. Don't let this eat at your guts, you got enough on your plate. Remember, you're a father now. Your first responsibility is to your family. — Got it."

  Ross nodded. "You're right … and thanks. You and Sarah have been super, I don't know what we would do without you two." Sarah was Barker's wife.

  "Come on, let's go have a beer at the club. You look like you need it."

  Ross stood. "Just one, gotta stop off and get some Pampers on the way home."

  4 ~ Decision

  Late October 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Sam Brooks approached the restaurant with caution. A man, obviously not an expert, had followed him for the last fifteen minutes. The CIA man entered the restaurant and took his usual place, a table near the front window. Normally, his training would have dictated a more secure spot near the rear of the cafe. However, he decided not to vary his routine, besides, the location offered a good view of the street. The man crossed the street and halted beside a shop window.

  Sam viewed the man out of the corner of his eye. The guy, with a multi-day growth of beard, was dressed in black pants and a dark blue sport coat with an open collar shirt, typical of young urban Iranian men. The man pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Apparently, he was going nowhere.

  Azad approached with a menu. Sam said quietly, "I have been followed, act normal." Azad flinched, and his eyes darted out the front window. "I said act normal, be calm." Azad left the menu and hurried to the back. Sam worried the man might be too spooked to talk.

  Only that morning Sam's supervisor had called him in and told him to proceed with arrangements to obtain the tape. Luckily, it coincided with his normal day to eat at the restaurant. It seemed like a simple task until he spotted the man following him.

  A few minutes later Azad returned. Sam flashed a smile and asked, "I think I'll have something different today. Do you have any fish from the Caspian?"

  Azad stiffened and stammered, "I… I am not…" He glanced out the window again. "Not today."

  Sam disgusted, said, "Okay, bring the usual." Azad quickly beat a path back to the kitchen. Sam viewed the man out of the corner of his eye and thought to himself — Why today, of all days, why today?

  Azad returned with a bowl of lamb stew. Sam asked, "When will the fish be available?" Azad wheeled around and left without answering. Looks like another waste of time, a wild goose chase, thought Sam.

  The man in the blue sport coat was on his third cigarette when Azad returned with the bill and a six-inch length of magnetic tape. Sam paid, pocketed the bill and tape, and spoke to Azad as he was getting up. "Thank you, I will see you next time." Azad nodded and returned to the kitchen.

  On the way out, obscured from view, Sam slipped the tape into his pants pocket. If stopped, he didn't want the tape to be associated with the bill. Out on the street, the man flicked his cigarette away and ambled along behind at a discrete distance.

  The CIA man followed his everyday route back to the embassy, careful not to vary his normal routine. He halted in front of a bookstore, one he frequented on a regular basis. Sam entered the
shop, checked out a few English language tiles, and bought a paperback book, a new Desmond Bagley novel, Flyaway. He inserted the tape as a bookmark and resumed his journey back to the embassy. The man followed.

  * * *

  The CIA field officer inspected the short length of tape and shrugged. "We don't have any resources to analyze this. Send it to Langley with the courier, just missed today's flight. No big deal, probably blank."

  Sam nodded in agreement, but didn't agree, he had seen the look in Azad's eyes. A look of fear, one not easily faked. "What do you think about the man following me? That's a new development."

  "They've stepped up their surveillance in the last few days. Get used to it. I've had reports from several people who haven't experienced a tail before."

  "How about the crowds outside, they get bigger every day?" Have you noticed the students, or whatever they are, on the rooftops overlooking the embassy? Think they'll try again?" In February, so-called students had occupied the embassy and the staff held hostage for a short time. As a precaution, Washington reduced the staff to sixty persons and ordered the windows replaced with bulletproof glass.

  "Like I said, get used to it. Your cover may be intact, but that doesn't do any good when those guys think everyone in the embassy is a damn spy."

  Late October 1979: Washington, D.C.

  Bill Michaels flipped the switch activating the rotating drum recorder. The apparatus resembled a can on a phonograph turntable, not the latest technology, but effective. The six-inch length of tape from Iran secured to the rotating drum, which passed the tape over the playback head at variable speeds. The drum began to rotate, producing an audio tone and an output to the Tektronix signal analyzer oscilloscope.

  Michaels was chief analyst for SSRP, a Cal Tech graduate with a PhD in electrical engineering. Everyone considered him one of the best.

  He adjusted the playback head to the top of the tape, finding the reference signal band and fine-tuning the drum rotation to match the original recording speed. He then moved the playback head down the tape, three more channels appeared, each with a different signature on the scope.