by R G Ainslee
We hustled over to a flustered Ralph Ritter and I asked, "What happened?"
"The Iranian guards blew the generator and it's going to be a total loss. The back-up generator is torn-up too."
"The guards did it?
"Yes, they and Ahmed, the maintenance tech, skipped out with the jeep right after the explosion. They left one guy dead, looks like he wasn't in on it."
"Attila?" asked Jack.
Ralph appeared surprised. "How did you know?"
"He didn't fit in with the others, always friendly."
"You're right, he was a good guy. Can you call down to the base camp on the hand-held? Need to let them know."
Jack held up the radio. "R-1 — Alfa." No answer, he waited a few seconds and tried again with the same results.
Ralph said, "They must have problems."
"Not necessarily, we do a radio check at 17 after the hour." He examined his watch, "42 minutes till the next check, but I'll keep trying."
"Incoming — Incoming — two o'clock, just above the horizon," yelled Jimmy Kelly from the door of the ops building. He pointed at an object just below the cloud cover, approaching from the direction of the Soviet border.
The speck continued to grow larger, not moving fast enough to be a jet fighter or bomber. We watched in fascination while the generator fire blazed away unabated. The aircraft was on course to fly over the site.
A large single engine biplane painted white, with civil markings, made a low pass to the west, circled around to the southeast for a low pass, banked once, and swung back north.
"What is it … Soviet?" asked an obviously worried Ralph Ritter.
Jack answered with an edge to his voice. "It's a Colt … a Russian Antonov An-2 Colt."
"You sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure." He shot me a glance with fire in his eyes. "We were at a site in Laos, when three North Vietnamese Colts attacked us. NVA fired machine guns, dropped one-twenty mortar rounds, and threw hand grenades from the doors. That sucker's a Colt alright."
The aircraft passed over the ridge and dipped down on a course towards the base camp. Less than a minute later, parachutes began to appear.
Jack stiffened. "They're inserting troops … Spetsnaz."
"What's that?" asked Ralph.
"Russian special forces trained to destroy communications facilities. They're tough well-trained troops. We're in big trouble. They'll have us seriously out gunned."
Ralph responded with a squeal, "No — there's not going to be any fighting."
Jack glowered at him. "What do you mean?"
"We have standing orders to destroy all classified materials and equipment and evacuate if possible."
Jack let out a derisive huff. "I think they mean business … count six chutes. This ain’t no peaceful takeover."
Ritter, visibly shaken, replied, "I have my orders, we will follow protocol. I'll try to negotiate surrender."
Jack was right. I suspected Suslov's involvement and had no desire for a reunion. "You do what the hell you want. We're not gonna let 'em take us."
Ritter ignored my comment, spun away, and yelled to someone, "Destroy the equipment and all classified materials." Flames rose high over the generator. Two technicians tried to stem the blaze with small fire extinguishers.
The biplane re-appeared, passed over the site, and circled back towards the airstrip in the valley. Moments later, the Colt disappeared below the ridge.
"Looks like they're landing at the airstrip."
"Yeah, we better check with Amadeo." Jack called on the handheld radio. "R-1 Alfa — report situation." There was no answer. After a second attempt, he said to me, "Okay, your call, what do we do?"
I inhaled a nervous breath and surveyed the chaotic scene. "We get outta here pronto. My tape and logs are wrapped up in this bag — let's get the skis and scram."
"We'll use the route I scouted. They most likely will have the road junction covered, expecting any escape attempt to come that way. Figure they think they have us bottled up and will proceed cautiously. That should give us a little extra time margin."
"Why didn't they just land on top of the mountain?"
"If you're attacking with a smaller force, it's essential to have a sure exit route. They're no fools. Their plan makes sense. Let's hope they didn't expect anyone to use the back door. Judging by the number of chutes they inserted, they must expect a soft target."
Jimmy Kelly met us as we approached the operations building. His face flushed with anger. "Ralph intends to surrender … we have no way to leave, the guards stole the jeep, and the spare truck’s been sabotaged. — We're stuck."
The first demolition charge exploded with a dull bang. Derrick, stuffing crypto documents in the flaming burn barrel, ducked when a chunk of window frame flew past. Jimmy swallowed hard and scurried back towards the building.
The handheld came alive. "Alfa Romeo — Zebra Three — Zebra Three — Zebra Three," the code for, we are under attack.
"Romeo Alfa — Push two." He told Amadeo to go frequency two.
"Roger."
Jack changed channels. "Romeo Alfa – Sit-rep."
"Alfa Romeo — Zebra Three this twenty." He said his location is under attack.
"Romeo Alfa — Plan Kilo, Plan Kilo." Plan K was a pre-arranged evacuation plan.
"Wilco." The transmission interrupted by a rasping sound — jamming.
Jack switched to frequency three. "Romeo Alfa, Romeo Alfa."
"Roger."
"Romeo Alfa. Identify Zebra Three — Repeat — Identify Zebra Three."
"Alfa Romeo — Zebra Three — Red shooter."
"Roger." Jack cocked his head to me, "Suslov?"
"Yeah, has to be." Suslov, the Soviet scorpion, was at base camp.
"Alfa Romeo. It's him. He’s here with Lima Mike's…" The jammer drowned out the transmission once more.
Jack switched to frequency four. "Romeo Alfa — Plan Kilo, Plan Kilo. Go now." More jamming.
I asked, "Lima Mike?"
"Local Militias, looks like he has some help
"How’s Amadeo going to get away?"
"He'll be okay, speaks like a local, and can play the part. What do you want to do now?"
"Let's find those skis and hightail it."
Greg met us at the door to the shed where the skis were stored. "You guy's intend to ski down?"
I didn't answer; afraid he might want to join us.
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not," Jack said firmly. "We're trained for this and you're not."
"I know how to ski."
"Are you armed, are you prepared to kill any SOB that gets in your way?" Jack's eyes burned with a fiery intensity.
Greg gawked in disbelief. "What are you Special Forces or something?"
"Or something — look, you have a better chance staying here with Ritter. We may not get out of this alive." That caught my attention, big time.
Greg noticed too and cried, "That’s crazy. It'll be dark soon. You're crazy." His eyes widened in disbelief. "Where'll you go?"
Jack, in no mood to argue, barked back at him, "Let us worry about that, we can take care of ourselves." He glanced towards the chaos and back to Greg. "Don't tell them we were here. All you have to do is keep silent."
I asked Greg, "Do you know anything about the locals? It appears the Russians are operating with local militia."
"Yeah, the tribal leader up north has opposed both the Shah and the Khomeini extremists. He's been accused of working with Soviets agents."
"It appears they may be right. Sorry Greg and good luck. Make sure you don't tell them anything about us."
Greg, obviously disappointed, said, "Okay … don't worry." He lingered for a moment and then shuffled off towards the operations building.
I asked Jack, "We leaving now?"
"It'll be dark in less than an hour. We should have enough moonlight to make our way."
"What about Amadeo?"
"We'll try to meet hi
m down by the airstrip. That’s our emergency rendezvous point." He paused and looked back down the road. "If they take the vehicles from the base camp, they should be up here in about an hour. Don't you think?"
"If they start now… What do you have in mind?"
"Picked up a couple Claymores they had on hand for emergency demolition." He revealed two olive drab U.S. Army M-18 Claymore mines, with the warning label embossed on the body — front toward enemy. "Think I'll scoot down the road a ways and plant one on the last hairpin."
"Won't that place these guy's in danger, if you kill some Russians?"
"Don't worry. I'll just set-off an avalanche to cover the road. A chunk of snow should hold them up for a while."
Jack pushed off, skied down the road, and disappeared around the bend. Ralph Ritter sped over and shouted, "Where the hell is he going?"
I debated whether to tell him the truth. Instead I lied, "He's just going down to take a look." A sharp bang emanated from the building as another charge detonated. Derrick backed away from the burn barrel, now in full blaze. Ralph whirled and sprinted back towards the still burning generator.
Jack reappeared at the gate and seconds later, an explosion thundered through the mountaintops. The Claymore performed its job. The echoes hardly died down before Ralph, screaming like a madman, darted my way again.
"What the hell? — What the hell?" He got right in my face and shrieked, "You fools are going to get us all killed."
"Relax Ralph, He knows what he's doing, no Ruskies will get hurt, they'll just have to do a little digging."
"I'm going to file a report on this, you're—"
I grabbed his parka and jerked him towards me. "You ain't gonna do nothing. Listen up and listen good, we were never here. Don't you or any of your people say one word about us. If you do, I will personally track you down and neuter you. Do you understand?"
Ralph's face winced. "Let go of me." I released my grip. He squealed, "I want you two out of here," and wheeled around and stormed off.
I raised my voice and calmly told him, "Remember what I told you. You have more to fear from me than the Russians or even the Iranians." He didn't answer.
I shouldered my daypack holding the intercept, clicked into my skis, and shuffled down to meet Jack, skating across the icy ridge.
"You ready?" I asked.
"One more thing, I need to have a word with Ritter. Need to make sure he understands not to give us away."
"Never mind, I had a little word with him. He got the message. Let's go."
23 ~ Escape
Wednesday AM, 7 February: West of Site T-2
The half-strong moonlight imparted an ominous air to the valley below. Darkness had descended, and we were still making our way along the ridgeline. We wanted to place as much distance between us and the Russians as possible.
Leaving the site, we followed Jack's original route down into the gap. It was impossible to hide our tracks. The Russians would know someone skied away, unless they deduced from the herringbones coming back up the ridge, that the tracks were old.
Jack schussed effortlessly down the grade. I followed tentatively and managed to make it all the way down without falling. We topped the next ridge and stopped to look back across to the site. The generator fire glowed in the darkness. We saw no sign of the Russians.
Our route carried us out of sight of the main building and we made our way around the north side of the ridge. We then searched for a way over the top and down into the valley on the south side.
Jack pulled up beside a large boulder. "You need a rest?"
"Yeah, let's take two." Already tired and sore, I had crashed several times on icy stretches. "Say, don’t you think it's strange the generator blew up and they attacked right after I made the intercept?"
"Yeah, wondered 'bout that myself."
"Could have been a setup, maybe somebody tipped them off?"
"Dunno. The air insertion required some planning, but the Colt had civilian markings. Perhaps they mounted a spur of the moment operation."
"They must have known in advance. Warned by somebody who knew why we were there."
"Looks like it."
"But who? The maintenance tech and the guards were the only ones left."
"And they hightailed it just in time." Jack gazed back down the trail. "My money’s on Takiri."
"He’s the one with connections. Why him?"
"Takiri is one of those special SOB’s, the ones that always land on their feet, the ones that would sell their mother for the right price. He's no dummy, knows which way the wind's blowing. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if he sold us out to save his own skin."
"Amadeo … do you think—"
"Not sure if Takiri knew about him. Anyway, when the chutes started coming down, he would know something was up and lay low. They know someone is free because of our radio traffic."
I said, "Try him again." We tried to raise Amadeo several times along the way without success. The jamming persisted.
Jack pulled the unit out of his parka and switched on. "No jamming." The radio hissed normal white noise. "Romeo Alfa." No answer. "Romeo Alfa." The jamming returned.
"Do you think they have him?" I asked.
"Not if they're still jamming. He must be out there somewhere, just doesn't have it switched on." He raised his arm and inspected the luminous dial of his Tag Heuer Carrera. "We'll check again in ten."
We took a break at the top of the next ridge, an opening spread below us, offering a possible way to the valley floor. "This looks like the side valley on the map." He checked his watch again and switched on the radio. "Romeo Alfa." No answer. "Romeo Alfa."
"Alfa … Romeo … Kilo." The jamming resumed.
"At least he's still alive. Have to assume he's making his way to the rendezvous point."
"Yeah, but what if the plane is still at the field?"
Jack responded without hesitation, "Think you can fly a Colt?"
The cold grew colder as a chill shot down my spine. "You trust me to…" My lips fell silent. He was right. It might be our only chance. The mere thought of piloting the Colt gave me the willies.
"Look at it this way, I trust you more than I trust the Russians."
"You think they might be following?"
"Perhaps. Russians tend to be pretty good on skis."
"Were there any more skis back at the site?"
"Yeah, two more pair. — I broke them in half, including the poles."
I scanned the darkness back up the ridgeline, just in case. A flash of movement caught my eye. "Think I saw something by a big rock, about 200 yards back."
Jack hoisted his binoculars and held still for almost a minute. "Can't see anything. Maybe it was an animal or more likely you’re your nerves."
We remained motionless for a minute. Nothing moved down the track. Jack was right again. Satisfied, we resumed our journey, heading down a narrow gorge we hoped led to the valley below.
An accomplished skier, Jack's expertise allowed him to wend a way down the gorge, around rocks, drop-offs and the occasional bush. The snow fresh from the storm made for a fast run. I found it difficult to keep up. Our speed increased, the frigid air began to bite into my exposed face, and I struggled to follow Jack's ski tracks through the goggles.
Half way down the valley, we came to a severe drop-off. A jumble of large rocks protruded out of the snow, blocking the way down. Jack wheeled to a halt and considered the problem.
He sidestepped up the near rise for about ten yards and called to me, "We'll have to remove the skis and carry them around that big boulder on the left, and then pick our way down, looks to be clear after that." He skied back down beside me and pulled out his water bottle. "Let's rest for a minute."
"Fine with me. Can't you ski down that, it don't seem too steep?"
"I can, but we don't need to take any chances. The only ski patrol up here is the Russians."
He was right, again. It would be foolish to take any chances. Thought abou
t it for a moment and said, "If we're not going to take any chances, what are we doing here?"
"Good point, but we're hiking down anyway."
* * *
Jack pulled up and we almost collided. "What's up?" He didn't answer and held up his hand. A dog barked somewhere ahead.
He spoke quietly, "Must be a house or farm ahead. Rest for a minute and listen closely, we don't need for someone to let the dogs out on us."
We made good progress. I fell only three times, once requiring Jack's assistance to get out of a hole. He continued to ski like a pro. A half-hour before, we passed the tree line. The scrub-like bush would have slowed us down, except for the faint presence of a trail. Fortunately, the snow was deep enough to support skis.
The barking subsided, and Jack motioned for us to continue. We slowly made our way down the path. Sure enough, a rough stone building appeared ahead. The dogs remained silent. We halted again.
"They must be further ahead. Don't see any dogs. Do you?"
I didn't and remained silent. He motioned to continue, and we shuffled our way across a flat open area by the stone hut. The dogs began to bark again, from further down the gorge.
Past the hut, we halted in a grove of small trees. "The main house must be further on down, maybe a couple hundred yards or so."
"What are we gonna do, go back and try another way?"
"No, there's most likely a farm at the bottom of every gorge around here." He scanned the ridges above. "Let's go back up a way and traverse up the ridge above the gorge. That way we can remain hidden from any dwellings. The dogs will still hear us, but hopefully, the people will think they're barking at wolves."
"Okay, whatever you say." I didn't relish back tracking but didn't want a shoot-out with an angry dog owner either.
* * *
More than an hour later, we sighted the airstrip. The AN-2 Colt sat parked at the west end by the road. Faint moonlight offered just enough light enough to make out the aircraft.
"There it is. You ready?" asked Jack.
"Guess so."
The prospect of having to pilot the thing played on my mind ever since Jack made the suggestion. I still hoped for a better solution. Maybe we could steal a car or take a bus. Anything seemed better than dying in a fiery crash.