by R G Ainslee
Jimmy returned a half-hour later. "You may well be right. Conditions were overcast each time, with dense cloud cover all the way back into Central Asia."
"Sounds like the conditions may be favorable for ducting." Ducting is a phenomenon where radio waves are bent by atmospheric refraction along layers of the earth's atmosphere and the signal can be received at longer distances than normal. Sometimes, weather conditions can produce the same effects.
"Yeah, but it's a rare phenomenon in these parts. The mountains tend to disrupt the signals. Normally, you need a large mass of warm air running over cold air to produce a suitable inversion layer."
"What about the cold front they predict to move in during the next few days? We may have freak conditions occurring at just the right time."
"Don't know. All we have to go on is the correlation of intercept and weather conditions. There are just too many variables to be sure."
"I'm getting nowhere fast on the present course and it looks like our time is running out. Let's concentrate our efforts when the front hits. Might get lucky."
Jimmy scratched his chin and looked back at the chart on the wall. "Okay … not sure you're right but guess it's worth a try. I'll get with the maintenance tech and see if we can squeeze a little more RF gain out of our antennas and receivers."
"Can you micro-adjust the antenna's vertical azimuth? Correct alignment will be critical."
"Can do. We'll fine-tune the antenna in line with the cloud cover, but it'll have to wait until we can gauge their altitude."
For the first time since we arrived in Iran, I began to feel optimistic. It might work. Jimmy obviously knew what he was doing. With a few more seconds of signal, we could wrap it up and go home.
* * *
I decided it was a futile exercise to sit at the position all day, listening for an elusive ghost. I spent the afternoon reviewing the signal fragments on the analyzer scope and trying to correlate them with the weather conditions at the time. At the end of the day, I was positive we were on the right track.
Jack returned in time for evening chow. "Find anything interesting?"
"Sure did. Procured a topo map and headed northeast up the ridgeline. It looks like there may be a way down to the village if we need to bail outta here."
"Wait a minute. What do you mean bail out — on skis?"
"Just a contingency plan, it's what I do every time I walk into a room. Look for an alternate way out. In Ranger school, we’re taught to react to situations in a different way than your average civilian. Some things you can't ignore, like what may happen if you're attacked or ambushed. You need to plan ahead and have an option available. If you stay in the kill zone the result is inevitable, you'll die. If you gotta bail out, bail out in a direction your attacker doesn't expect. Don't do the predictable, that's what he's counting on."
"Okay, sounds paranoid to me."
"Call me paranoid if you like, but you can't be too careful. Like they say: just because you're paranoid it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you."
I'd heard that phrase before, back in East Africa, where I learned being paranoid was a good way to stay alive. "Yeah, I get what you mean, but guess I have a lot to learn."
"You're doing okay. Amadeo told me about you looking back at that black van the other day, that's good thinking."
"Got a confession, did it just to pull the colonel's string. A little shock therapy introduction to Iran."
"Hell — Ross don't you realize Smitty could have shot up some innocent Iranian. He don't fool around in situations like that."
"Smitty?"
"Don't ever call him that to his face. John Smith is a bit sensitive about his name."
"Thanks, I'll remember." Smitty, that name just didn't fit him.
"One other thing. How do you get away with talking to Wilson like that?" He paused, and I gave him a puzzled look. "Calling him one manipulative bastard."
"Don't know. Maybe we just understand each other."
"Give me a break. What's the real story?"
"He's asked me to put my life on the line several times, and I did it voluntarily. I respect the man, he knows what he's doing, but he's still an officer. You know how I feel about them. I don't have to do this. I'm here because I believe in the mission. I've seen people die. I've killed… I've earned the right to call Wilson anything I want, and he knows it. — Understand."
Jack curled his lips in a crooked smile and peered hard into my eyes, "From what I know about Wilson, he must really respect you to allow you to get away with stuff like that."
"He needs my expertise, that's all. He wants SSRP to succeed and I'm his best chance to deliver the goods."
"No, it's more than that. You two are alike in a lot 'a ways." He read my perplexed expression. "John Smith told me about Wilson's exploits as a Wild Weasel pilot in Southeast Asia. He's a risk taker and always went the extra mile to get the job done. The risks he took to knock out North Vietnamese radar sites saved the lives of dozens of airmen. He's famous for his personal initiative and was often at odds with the brass, but he delivered, he always got the job done. His independent streak undoubtedly cost him a chance to retire with stars on his shoulders. — See my point?"
I thought it over. Maybe he was a little like me. We both seem to end up battling the self-serving bureaucracy that justifies its existence with an endless succession of plans and meetings. Maybe they do it that way because it's what they do best — talk. Wilson and I tend to walk the fine line between success and failure by actually trying to accomplish something.
"Okay, whatever." I didn't relish continuing with Jack's amateur psych evaluation, so I changed the subject. "Tell me about the route."
"Shouldn't be difficult on the upper reaches, but I'm not sure what it's like further down. We'd most likely have to negotiate a few ravines. Just need to pick the right one, but you can never tell. The maps don’t give much detail. At worst we might have to retrace our steps back up the ridge."
"Would we go back for Amadeo?"
"No, afraid he's on his own. If we have to bug out, he'll meet us at a pre-arranged coordinate. We worked this out in the aircraft on the way. He speaks the lingo and can pass for a southern Iranian in these parts. Let's just hope it don't come to that."
"Yeah, I'm with you on that." Jack's plans seemed like a good exercise and kept him busy, but there was no way we were going to need them. I tried to dismiss that prospect from my mind. "Let me tell you what Kelly and I have come up with."
Monday, 5 February: Site T-2
The weather looked good, a storm expected the next day. The situation on the ground unchanged. Except for the Iranian operations liaison officer, the locals were still edgy. Lieutenant Takiri, unfazed by it all, constantly bragged about his connections back in Tehran. He claimed his uncle, Vice Chief of Staff for Air Force Intelligence, would rise to the top in a new government. No one seemed to give his expectations much credence.
Mid-morning, I went with Jack on a practice ski run along the ridge. He said it would give me a chance to familiarize myself with the equipment. Luckily, the ski boots fit with an extra pair of socks.
"What were you talking with the guard about?" I asked after we left the perimeter.
"Yesterday, when the sergeant asked me where I was headed, I told them I was going wolf hunting. He thought I was crazy, but Atilla wanted to come along."
"Atilla? That's his real name?"
"Yeah, he's a local, and was disappointed when I told him he needed skis, tried to talk me in to it, but the Sergeant ordered him back to his post. That'll establish a cover story for our recon. Don't want to let anybody think we have something else in mind."
"Think that'll work for a cover story?"
"Yeah, Ralph's right. Wolf hunting’s a big deal up here. Sorta like Elk season back home. If we get a chance, we need to bag one for the boys."
The run down to the gap below was easy and without incident. Jack swooshed down like a pro and I followed, snowplowing mos
t the way. We herringboned our way up the next rise and took a breather.
Jack asked, "How you doing?"
"Okay. Made it down without falling, that’s pretty good for me."
"Let's see what's around the next rise and head back. Better not risk venturing too far with a front closing in."
I looked back, the site still visible, but clouds were building. "Yeah, don't relish getting caught out in a storm." I patted Lisette's little PPK in my pocket. The familiar feel gave me a comforting sense of reassurance.
* * *
Mid-afternoon, returning from the latrine, I passed by the commo room. Derrick Howell, the crypto operator and only remaining comm center operator called out, "Hey Ross, got an encrypted message for you."
At six-six, he was the tallest man at the site and the only Black guy. For some reason, the Iranians seemed to be afraid of him. He carried himself like a boxer and worked-out on weights several times a day. Maybe they were right. He wasn't one you'd want to mess with.
"Thanks, what'd it say?"
"I just print 'em, don't read 'em." Derrick didn't say a lot and it would have been easy to underestimate him. However, I knew better. An ex-ASA soldier, he scored in the top ten-percent just to qualify.
I took the yellow printout, returned to my console, read the message, and smiled. Found Jack in the day room and motioned for him to step outside.
"What's up?"
"Derrick just gave me a message from McKenna about Wilson."
"They get away okay?"
"Yeah, but not before some fun." He furrowed his brows. Guess he couldn't associate Wilson with fun. "When Wilson returned to Tehran, the Iranians tried to arrest him for taking the Caribou without authorization from air traffic control. McKenna intervened and told the Iranians that Wilson made an emergency flight to evacuate a sick technician from T-2. It sure was lucky the sixth guy was actually ill and needed hospitalization."
"So, it's all okay?"
"Yeah, Mack flew out this morning. He should be in Frankfurt this evening. Wilson and Smith will stay in case we need evacuation. He left word for us to continue with the mission and the other development has been confirmed."
"What does that mean?"
"I take it Marsden is on the job. It looks like we sit tight and hope for the best. Any word from Amadeo?"
"Spoke with him earlier and he says nothing has changed."
"Still talking to him in French?
"Yeah, but today he switched to Ethiopian at the end, sounded weird."
"What did you do?"
"Answered him back in Vietnamese. Not sure what he said, but I spun a good line about the hot ladies in our club up here."
"That'll keep the Russian SIGINT people occupied for a while. Hope they don't send somebody to investigate."
Jack laughed and returned a friendly wave from Attila, on duty at the gate. At least one Iranian was on our side.
22 ~ The Intercept
Tuesday, 6 February: Site T-2
The front materialized right on schedule. Heavy cloud-cover, the wind picked up, precipitation changed from ice to snow, the road covered with a dusting of fresh snow. Not a blizzard by any means, but all we needed was conditions necessary to produce radio propagation conditions comparable to earlier intercepts.
The Soviets were engaged in an intense test cycle and we hoped they would be eager to resume tests right after the storm passed. An intercept no sure thing, we needed to catch a lucky reflection, a long shot, but our only workable option.
Voice intercepts confirmed a new series of air-defense system tests involving the Sary-Shagan test facilities. Most likely, they involved the new S-300 or SA-10 Grumble air defense system.
We waited anxiously for the signal to appear. Would it be Marsden's third choice, a major breakthrough as Michaels speculated? On the other hand, it could be something entirely different, or just a fragment of an existing system.
The situation at the site remained unchanged, rumors and more rumors. Lieutenant Takiri and one of the two remaining Iranian technicians returned down to the lower base camp a few hours before the storm hit. The guards seemed even more restless.
Jimmy Kelly hurried over to my console. "The voice intercept operators are picking up signals consistent with an air defense test firing. Greg will work out a traffic analysis to see if they fit the pattern." Greg Hoffman was a Russian voice intercept operator experienced in radio traffic analysis. "Any signals?"
"Nothing yet. We don't have a wide window of opportunity. Keep your fingers crossed." The panoramic display showed a flat green line, interrupted only by normal background noise. Kelly made an all-out effort, with several consoles dedicated to support my endeavor. One operator concentrated on early warning radars, two on tracking radars. I sat alone waiting for the telltale rasping sound from a missile guidance system.
We monitored the frequency for another hour. P-18 Spoonrest early warning radars continued their slow revolution, seeking out a target. No signs of tracking radars.
A disappointed Jimmy Kelly lingered behind my position. "Looks like we may be outta luck. Best I can calculate the propagation window won't be open much longer."
"We might have something, get ready," shouted Greg, "looks like they're tracking a drone."
I redirected my attention back to the console. My heart rate increased in anticipation, a feeling not unlike a hunter who just heard a noise. Glanced up one more time to make sure the tape was running.
Jimmy called out from another console. "Tracking radar active."
Greg responded moments later, "Voice indicates a missile launch."
My headset came alive. Adrenalin shot through my body. A weak waveform poked its way out of the grass on the panoramic display. Just as I blurted, "Active." the signal faded.
A subtle tweak of the antenna control and the pulse appeared again, this time stronger, more defined. My body tingled with exhilaration, at last, a guidance signal — a sound I recognized — the signal from Ethiopia.
In an instant, the pulse disappeared. After several frantic attempts to re-acquire the signal, I leaned back and removed the headset.
Jimmy hurried over and asked, "Did you get enough?"
"Not sure, let me play back the recordings of the harmonics."
I rewound the tapes and played the third harmonic first. My skin tingled as I listened: embedded on the third harmonic, encoded missile guidance instructions. Marsden had done it. I couldn't believe it.
We replayed to the recording one more time, then moved the tape to an analyst position, and observed the waveforms on a Tektronix oscilloscope. The scope confirmed my initial identification. The signal changed from a perfect sine wave to a saw tooth pattern at short random intervals, the signature characteristic of a Cochise Project signal.
The intercept was short, but sweet. I asked Jimmy, "What do you think?"
"The signal behaved like a highly directional signal reflected off a target … appeared to be a high-powered microburst with a high pulse repetition frequency. Just about what you said it would be."
One of the techs handed Jimmy a DF log. He read the sheet and passed it to me. "You got lucky. Those freaky conditions came at just the right time. The direction finder puts the signal at Sary-Shagan, 1,000 miles away on Lake Balkhash in Kazakhstan … theoretically impossible to intercept in the clear at this distance."
"But we did it. You guys were great. The final antenna adjustments made all the difference."
Greg hustled over to congratulate me on my coup. I sat back and relaxed, Mission completed. I could go home, home to Lisette. I got up and walked outside for some cold fresh air. The main part of the storm had blown over. It had just about died out by the time it got to T-2, but it was enough. I went back inside.
I angled over to the coffee pot, poured a cup of black-unrelenting brew, and walked over to the large map. Jimmy joined me.
He said, "When we get back down the valley, we'll break out a few cold ones."
"I'm buying t
he first round," I responded. "Can't believe it. After all this time, I finally did it."
"Let's get the tape and upload it on the satellite to Meade."
"Yeah. Guess that'll make it official." I turned to walk back to my position.
Without warning, an explosion shook the building. Lights faded out, screens darkened, and seconds later, the battery powered emergency lights flashed on.
"What happened?"
Jimmy hesitated. "Listen … no generator noise. Powers off."
The operations center door burst open and Derrick Howell bolted in yelling, "The generator is on fire, everybody out, we need to get the fire out. — Come on"
Jimmy tapped my shoulder. "Ross, stay here and secure your intercept log and tape. We need to find out what's happening. If it's an intrusion, you'll need to destroy it."
Just as Jimmy tore through the door, Jack burst in. "You all right?"
"Yeah, what happened?"
"The generator and fuel tank exploded, sounded like a demolition charge. Too much thud for just a malfunction. Taking out the power may be a run-up to something. We need to—"
I punched my fist in the air. "I got it — made the intercept, the whole enchilada. It's here on tape."
Jack reflected for a moment, his face even more serious, as he processed the new information. "Did you get it uplinked to Meade?"
"No, the power cut out before we had a chance. Just have the tape and logs."
Jack's body tensed as he prepared for action. "Get your stuff together. If this is what I think it is, we may have to make a run for it."
"What do—"
"Not sure, could be in preparation for an attack."
I pulled the tape off the machine and stuffed it and the intercept logs into a cloth bag and wrapped it with duct tape. Screaming and yelling continued outside along with secondary explosions from stored fuel cans.
Jack and I stepped outside to survey the situation. The generator now full ablaze, people running back and forth, nothing done to douse the blaze. Then it dawned on me: no power, no pump for fire hoses. We were screwed.