by R G Ainslee
Wyndham stayed silent for a few seconds. It was easy to tell I'd ticked him off. His head snapped up. "If you would give me the courtesy of letting me finish…" His eyes bored in on me. "The electronics package is being replaced as we speak. A special ELINT module has been developed for this mission by the agency." He meant CIA, not NSA.
"What about the wing antennas? The set-up was designed for HF direction finding. Are you going to remove them?"
"No. To the casual observer, the aircraft should seem to be on a semi-scheduled courier run to the Ninth Wing's Detachment-3. To any interested parties, it will appear to be on a voice intercept sortie. We don't want to advertise our mission's true nature."
My curiosity spiked. It didn't add up. "What particular signals are we searching for?"
With an air of finality, he intoned, "You'll be told when you need to know." He turned his chin to Soldano. "Now Captain, let's find out what's taking so long with this aircraft of yours."
Soldano's expression showed he was steamed, but held it in. It was his aircraft and his butt on the line. He'd been dealt a bad hand and would have to make the best of it. I shared his sentiments.
Wyndham eyed me without moving his head. "You may go now Sergeant. Be sure the module is operational by take-off tomorrow afternoon."
An uneasy feeling began to creep in. "If I'm going to be working an ELINT position, do we have an up to date EOB for the region?" The Electronic Order of Battle Handbook listed all known radars.
A moment of silence ensued before Wyndham raised his head with a disapproving glare. "The latest edition is in the safe. Check it out tomorrow — after the equipment is ready."
Not wanting to linger too long — might give in to an impulse and say what I really thought — I left. My sixth sense, fueled by a suspicious mind, told me there was more to the story than met the eye. It wasn't unusual, due to the compartmentalized nature of NSA operations, not to know the real nature of the mission, an unpleasant fact on the bottom of the intelligence collection food chain. But it was unprecedented in my experience, not to be told what kind of signals I was looking for.
The situation was evolving into a full-blown BOHICA moment. Southern Turkey, near the Mediterranean, north of Syria, tensions building. Three months left, and they stick me in the middle of a tinderbox. With only three months to go, I just needed to stick it out.
* * *
Collins lounged outside the hangar smoking a cigarette and chatting with Spec-4 Pete Marcos, a refrigerator-sized MP from the big island of Hawaii. The imposing but good-natured karate black belt provided security for the detachment. Collins appeared to be perturbed about something, didn't take a genius to guess what.
I asked, "You have a chance to check out the new gear?"
He dropped the half-smoked cigarette and snuffed the butt with his boot. "Yeah, some old dude is installing it now."
"What ya think … will it work?"
"You tell me. At least it's not worn out like the rest of this scrap-heap."
We approached the aircraft and I nodded to Bolan and a spec-4 working on the port side engine. I hopped up on the wing and peered into the cabin. An older man in civilian clothes, bent over trying to make a connection to the power bus. He sensed my presence, glanced up, and went back to work.
The equipment was familiar. A no-frills intercept position with a new type spectrum analyzer. There didn't appear to be any direction-finding capabilities.
"Where's the DF scope?"
"Don't bother me. If I need any help, I'll ask."
I got the message loud and clear and jumped to the concrete floor. Collins shrugged.
"Let's head to the snack bar, think I'm gonna need some more caffeine to make it through the morning." Collins grinned, and we left the man to sweat it out on his own.
On the way, I said, "Who is he? What'd he tell you about the new gear?"
Collins scrunched up his face. "Diddly-squat. He came in with some tall dude and headed straight for the plane. They paid me no attention. After the tall guy left, I asked what he needed, he said remove the old receivers and the main panel. Then he left and came back a half-hour later with some boxes in a pickup and told me to unload them. Later, I asked what I was supposed to do, and he said to stay outta his way."
"What'd you do?"
"Hell, I'm just a poor ole' boy from Oklahoma trying to make it through the day. If he wants to do all the work, who am I to argue."
* * *
Buck Collins leaned forward. "Say Sarge, you think the captain is serious about us not leaving the base? We sat in the snack bar, sipping on our second coffee.
"He don't seem like the type to joke."
"Shucks, I sure would like to head into town and hit a few clubs, check out the ladies, and find some action."
I grimaced. "You gotta remember this is Turkey, a Muslim country. You go messing with the ladies and you'll find some action for sure. Just not the kind you're looking for."
"That bad, huh?"
"Believe me. You're better off confined to base." I knew from personal experience, the so-called clubs in Adana were not the place to meet the ladies. They put on a good show, belly dancers, and such, but it was a strictly do-not-touch situation.
"You're saying Turkey is bad news?"
"No. The Turks are good people, but like anywhere else, if you hang around the joints that cater to GI's you're likely to find trouble."
He flashed a frustrated smile and changed the subject. "You really not gonna re-tread?"
"Right."
"Kinda unusual for an E-7 not to re-up, don't ya think?"
He was right, but I didn't want to go into the details of my demise. Earlier in the year, NSA selected me for an exceptional opportunity, training to be a crewmember on a super-secret Air Force SIGINT project. The instructors objected, as a rule the job called for a top-notch pilot's rating. They washed me out after a month. The brass at Fort Meade was not amused. No one stuck up for me. Assignment to a do-nothing posting in Germany was not a reward. I'd had enough of the Army and followed up on an earlier job offer.
"Yeah, but I got a good paying job in Arizona all lined up waiting for me."
"That where you're from?"
"No, I'm from New Mexico, a town called Alamogordo. Where's your home?"
"Oklahoma — grew up on a ranch, up near the Kansas line. Guess I'll head back when my enlistment is up in two months. Work cows till I start college. Gonna try engineering."
"Good move. I spent summers on my uncle's ranch. Had fun as a kid, but the cowboy life's too much work for me." Didn't want to discuss my life, too many bad memories, and changed the subject. "Speaking of work, you have any idea what he's installing?"
He glanced around and spoke with a hushed voice. "Not a clue, but something don't seem right to me. I worked on those aircraft for more than three years. This…" He shook his head. "Wish I knew. Appears I'm the one expected to maintain the stuff. Ya know what I mean?"
"Yeah." I checked my Timex. "This ain't the place to talk about it. Come on. Let's see if the cranky old buzzard is finished."
* * *
Caffeinated and ready for whatever, Collins and I strolled into the hanger. The captain paced beside the aircraft. Wyndham leaned against the fuselage, arms folded across his chest. He was dressed like an L.L. Bean version of a country gentleman: Barbour waxed jacket, tailored bush shirt, Chukka Boots, and tweed driver's cap.
I sensed at once what was about to happen. Soldano broke stride and headed towards us. "Where the hell have you been? I told you to have this equipment ready. Sergeant, I don't care if you are a short timer, you're going to give me one-hundred percent while you're here. — Do you understand?"
"Yes sir, but—"
"Don't give me any excuses. You two get your gear operational. Just because you have a civilian to help you, doesn't excuse you from your duties."
Arguing with the captain was useless. Already tried and convicted as malingers. No choice but to say, "Yes sir," and
go pretend we were doing something.
I peeked down at Wyndham as I climbed up on the wing. The SOB gave me the evil eye. Bolan, working on the other side of the aircraft, flashed me a wide smug self-satisfied grin.
"Looks like we're supposed to help you," I said to the man squatting on the rear deck with a cable in his hand.
"About time," he spoke with an exaggerated volume.
I glanced back at Collins. His face was flushed.
Wyndham spun around and Soldano followed him out of the hangar.
Bending down in front of the man's face, I spoke in a normal tone, "What'd you tell the captain?"
"Get over it Sonny. Why don't you boys—"
He didn't have a chance to finish. I grabbed his coveralls by the collar and hauled him up to his knees. "You pull one more stunt like that and I'll kick your butt so far down the flight line they’ll have to send a chopper for you. ¿Comprende?" I'm not vicious by nature, but this guy brought out the worst in me.
The fire and vinegar drained from his eyes. "Yeah, sure. You boys can't take a joke?"
I let go and he slumped back. He was one of those bullies who fold like a cheap lawn chair when confronted. No need to overdo it, so I responded with a conciliatory tone, "Okay, enough with the jokes, we got work to do. My name's Brannan and this here's Collins, why don't you tell us who the hell you are and fill us in on what you're doing."
He seemed eager to make peace. "Foster — Dave Foster. I'm with Relint and they sent me here to install this gear. Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot. I—"
"Relint Corporation? Where do you work out of?"
"Saint Louis… ah, the main shop. We built this component."
Didn't tell him I was slated to go to work for the Relint Corporation at Fort Huachuca in four months, decided to keep that little fact to myself. Sure as hell hoped he wasn't typical of their people.
"Okay, tell us what this device supposed to do and why it doesn't have a DF scope."
"They didn't specify any DF capabilities. We assembled the unit in a hurry, on a weeks' notice. It's only receive and record. We used components from warning sensors and added a new spectrum analyzer scope." He anticipated my next question. "Uses the wing tip antennas." He patted a black box on the floor. "This here is an antenna tuner to match the frequencies. Strictly omni-directional and hasn't been tested, but the engineers say it should work."
Sounded like a jury-rigged way to obtain a signal. The contraption would function, but not with precision, a tactical set-up that sacrificed sensitivity and directional gain for broad-spectrum coverage.
I asked, "What's the antenna's frequency range?" hoping to gain a clue as to our objective.
"You can flip the antenna tuner between the C and E bands for maximum gain. There's a position for the A-band, but don't expect too much. I installed a warning receiver in the I-band for airborne signals. It has its own antenna, mounted internally. Not much range, but better than nothing."
I was still puzzled. Why use a set-up like this? Didn't make sense, must be something else at play. At least Dave seemed to be more cooperative, but I didn't trust him, worked with his type before.
I said to Collins, "Okay, when he's finished, we'll power-up this baby and run some tests with your signal generator."
Chapter 3 ~ Complications
Sunday, 23 September
Sunday morning, while Collins and Foster hunted for a bad connection on the wing antennas, I checked out the emergency gear. The life raft and flotation vests were in bad shape. Taking into consideration the poor shape of the aircraft and the fact we were going to fly over water, I decided to rectify the situation and headed over to the nearest Air Force hangar.
After lunch, I returned from the snack bar and found Morgan in a heated conversation with Bolan. It sounded like he wasn't impressed with the mechanic's progress. Not wanting to become involved, I drifted over to the workbench.
A gruff voice from behind, "What you want?" It was Rankin, Bolan's helper. His attitude oozed don't-mess-with-me.
"Nothing, just waitin' for them to finish'" I tilted my head towards the argument.
Rankin scowled, gave me a venomous stare, and returned to the aircraft.
He was old for an E-4, late-thirties or older, with rough weathered features. His spec-4 insignia, sewn over a noticeable thread pattern, revealed he had once been a master sergeant. The obvious fact, he had been busted begged the question, but some people are best left alone. Rankin was one of those.
Bolan's ever-present coffee cup sat on the table. The contents a bit weak, but a surreptitious sniff proved the brew was indeed strong. Some things never change.
What a deal. Gonna be flying in a bird maintained by an alcoholic and a screw-up. Three months seemed like a long time.
* * *
Foster left on an early evening flight. Dave didn't leave happy though. He blamed Bolan for four bottles of Jim Beam missing from his not-so-secret private stash. They stayed up into the wee-hours the night before, sampling Kentucky's finest. Soldano stepped in and kept them from exchanging blows. Too bad, would have been a good show.
* * *
We went over in-flight procedures at the evening briefing. Soldano lit into the CIA man about the absence of flight helmets and parachutes.
"We're not taking off without them."
Wyndham let out an exasperated sigh. "No problem, I'll have some fresh gear flow down from Ankara."
Soldano glanced at Morgan and received a nod. "Very well, is that all?"
"One more thing," said Wyndham. "I want you to maintain absolute radio silence while in the air."
"We're going to have to contact the tower on take-off and landing," said Morgan.
"Very well, keep it silent over the water. We must maintain a low profile."
Morgan posed a question I was about to ask, "Are we going to be issued weapons?"
"You will not need any weapons on board, this is not Vietnam."
Soldano bristled. "Its standard procedure. We're always armed on a mission."
"Standard procedure is what I say it is, — do you understand?"
The captain's face reddened, Morgan's neck tensed, but neither reacted to Wyndham's unusual order.
I asked, "What about our cover story, the so-called courier run?"
"We will simulate a courier drop because a simple turn-around might cause suspicion. Cyprus is a hub of Middle Eastern intrigue and one can't rule out curious eyes. A package will be placed onboard for each flight. Arrangements have been made for someone to take charge of the item on the ground." He said to Soldano, "All you have to do Captain is land and wait for him to take possession. Do you understand?"
It was easy to tell Soldano was fuming. "Understood."
Outside, after the briefing, I said to Morgan, "You gonna fly without your little James Bond?" I knew he carried a chrome-plated .32 caliber Walther PPK in his flight suit.
He faked a surprise reaction. "Now why would you think I would do something like that?" He eyed me with amusement. "How 'bout you? What you got up your sleeve?"
Slipped my German switchblade, with a staghorn handle, out of my rear pocket and said, "Got this for close-up work."
"You know how to use that?"
With a flick of the wrist, the five-inch Solingen steel blade popped open. "No problem." To my surprise, the blade still had the taxi driver's dried blood on the tip.
"You cut yourself?"
"No, had an issue with the taxi driver on the way from the airport."
"An issue?"
I decided it was best to tell him about the attempted hijacking. "…and he drove off, leaving me at the front gate."
"Do you think this security type may be involved?"
"Most likely."
"You fancy yourself as a knife fighter?"
"No way, strictly a weapon of last resort. A knife fight is too much of a roll of the dice. Not gonna gamble my life, I'll run like hell if I have a chance."
A grin emerged, and he
said with a confident tone, "Looks like we got it covered."
For several summers, I worked on my uncle's ranch and learned the intricacies of self-defense from an old Apache ranch hand. He taught me the art of street fighting, self-defense, and many other things about life. He always claimed the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid it. Unfortunately, trouble always seems to find me.
I decided to head over to the quarters before joining the others for supper. Inside the door, I sensed someone was there. Not one of us, everyone else was on the way to mess hall and it was too late for the cleaners.
A rustling noise came from the far end of the building. I eased towards my cubical. The sound of a zipper prompted me to extract the knife from my rear pocket. A peek around the partition revealed a man going through my B-4 bag. The click of my switchblade caused him to look back over his shoulder.
The guy from the airport — he wheeled around.
His eyes focused on the blade as I said, "What the hell you think you're doing?"
A swift move of his hand produced a black semi-automatic pistol. He flicked the weapon, implying I should move aside. The business end of the Browning Hi-Power looked as big as a twelve-gauge from my perspective.
Five inches of Solingen steel versus 9mm … no contest, I backed away.
"What you lookin for?"
The man's eyes showed no fear. He edged towards the door, pistol trained on me, and slipped out without uttering a word.
I stayed frozen in place for a few seconds. The sound of a car starting and driving away prompted me to dart towards the door. I was unable to tell in the fading light if the car was the same on from a few days ago.
I checked my stuff and leaned back against the locker. The adrenalin rush from the encounter subsided as a flood of possibilities ran through my mind. The continued presence of the man put a different perspective on the situation. What do they say? — Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a trend. — The pistol convinced me a trend had developed. I decided to report the incident to the captain.
* * *
Soldano considered the state of affairs and decided we should file a report with the base security. Pete Marcos went with us.
