by R G Ainslee
"Great, and while we're at it let's see what we can do to squeeze some more gain out of the wing tip antennas. Where's Saleh?"
"Back in a minute, he's been listening all day. Don't think he found nothin' though."
We worked late into the night in an attempt to tweak the intercept equipment. We pulled the antenna tuner and ran it through a series of tests on the bench. We reinstalled the box and turned in.
Chapter 8 ~ Winds of War
Wednesday, 3 October
The morning sortie proved to be a complete bust, no signals of any sort. On the ground in Cyprus, I checked out the visible cable connections and found no obvious problems. My headphones stayed silent on the return flight.
Back at Incirlik, Collins and I pulled the gear and discovered an unplugged antenna connection.
He gave me a sheepish smile. "So much for working late, don't see how we missed it."
"Yeah, but we did. Don't worry about it, we'll…"
The sound of someone climbing up on the wing interrupted my words. It was Morgan returning from the post-flight briefing. The one I missed.
"Find out what's wrong?"
"Yes sir, a cable malfunction. Anything new to report?"
"No, but Wyndham wants a fast turnaround. We'll take-off in thirty minutes. You be ready?"
I glanced at Collins. He nodded. "No problem."
Morgan pulled me away. "Heads up, Penwell's returned, came in on the early morning courier flight from Ankara."
"You still don't know what his role is in the operation?"
"Not a clue. But I still got an uncomfortable feeling."
"BOHICA?"
"Yeah. If you find out anything, let me know right away."
* * *
Morgan taxied the RU-8D out to the run-up area, pointed the nose into the wind, and began the pre-takeoff engine check. He revved the motors to the proper power setting, then switched the magnetos from the both position to the right and left positions. A noticeable drop in RPM occurred in the right position.
Too great a drop-in rpm is a sign you got a problem. I knew from experience to expect a slight reduction in power, but even I detected the difference. Soldano eyed Morgan and shook his head. Morgan called the tower and scrubbed the flight.
Back at the hangar, Morgan shut down the engines and turned to me. "Not gonna fly this bird over water with only one good mag on the starboard engine. The mechanics will check it out, could be a fouled plug, bad ignition, or improper timing."
Bolan sauntered over with a quizzical expression on his face.
Soldano shouted from the open hatch, "Magneto problem, fix it ASAP, we need to be airborne pronto."
The sergeant barked an order to Rankin. We all hopped down to the concrete and gathered in front of the starboard wing.
Soldano said, "How long?"
Bolan seemed disinterested. "Probably a plug, we'll pull the cowling after the engine cools down." He started back towards the workbench.
The captain persisted with an irritated tone, "Sergeant, I asked you — how long?"
Without looking back, Bolan said, "Give me an hour, two at the most."
Soldano shot a glance at Morgan and stormed out.
Morgan said to me, "Give him a hand," and followed the captain back to the office.
Bolan leaned back on the workbench and took a sip out of his cup. Rankin gave me a wicked stare. I kept quiet. The last thing an aircrew wants to do is tick-off the mechanics. Especially, one nicknamed The Executioner.
* * *
An hour later, the officers returned to the hangar. The cowling sat of the concrete floor. Morgan ducked under the wing and peered up at the engine. Soldano approached the sergeant.
Bolan gave him bad news. "The mag's shot. Gotta order a new one, if we can find one." He shook his head with a contemptuous grin. "Sure as hell ain't none around here."
Soldano, obviously irritated, spoke calmly, "Find the part number and I'll see if we can have one here by morning."
"Hey Rankin, find the part number for the captain," said Bolan over his shoulder.
The mechanic leafed through a parts manual, wrote down some numbers, and brought it over.
Without comment, Soldano snatched the paper out of Rankin's hand and told Bolan, "While you're waiting, I want you to go over this crate with a fine-tooth comb. I don't want any more problems. Do I make myself clear — Sergeant?"
"Yes sir."
The officers left. Bolan returned to the workbench and took another long sip from the coffee cup. It wasn't a brew from Brazil, more like Kentucky's finest.
With nothing else to do, I found Collins and we decided to retire to the snack bar. As we turned the corner, Penwell passed by without acknowledging our presence and entered the hangar. He spoke only to Wyndham and paid little attention to anyone else. The rest of us did our best to avoid him.
"Hold on a sec," I said to Collins.
I hurried back to the edge on the hangar entrance and peeked around the corner. Penwell was talking to Rankin. Bolan wasn't in sight. I pulled back when Rankin glanced my way, wasn't sure if he had seen me.
Caught up with Collins and he asked, "What was it?"
"Penwell talking with Rankin."
"This Penwell dude gives off some bad vibes. Pete said he was CIA or something. Any truth to that?"
"Think you need to watch your step with him … and Rankin."
* * *
We returned from the snack bar a half hour later. I followed Collins into the hangar. Penwell was gone. Bolan and Rankin were busy checking the port side engine. Rankin gave me a hard-deliberate stare. I ignored him and joined Collins at his workbench.
"Looks like we don't got much to do until they get the engine fixed." said Collins.
"Let's find something. I don't want to go back to the office."
"Penwell?"
"Something like that. Let's see if we can hook the warning receiver up to the spectrum analyzer. I'd like to have more capabilities if we encounter another MiG."
"Here comes Mr. Morgan."
The pilot nodded to us and continued over to Bolan and Rankin. They spoke for a few minutes and Morgan climbed up to the cockpit and retrieved a navigation chart. He shook his head as he passed by on the way out of the hangar.
"Wonder what that's about?" asked Collins.
"Beats the hell out of me. I only work here."
* * *
I approached Morgan outside, moments before the evening briefing. "Anything new?"
He said, "Penwell left a few minutes ago on his way back to Ankara."
"What was with the chart?"
"He wanted me to mark our route and not to deviate in the future. Said our job was to follow procedure and… his words — keep to your damn schedule." Got bent out of shape big time. Thought the captain was going to pop his cork, but he kept it under control somehow."
"What did Wyndham say?"
"Nothing. Penwell let him have it too and he stood there and took it." He headed for the steps. "Come on, this should be interesting."
Inside, Morgan reported on the status of the repairs. Soldano said the new magneto would arrive tomorrow on a morning flight and we should be ready for a late evening sortie.
Uncharacteristically, Wyndham didn't seem perturbed. He asked me, "Do you have the intercept position back on line?" I hadn't spoken with him since we landed.
"Found the problem, should be okay." I tried to sound noncommittal.
"What's the situation on the ground?" said Soldano. "Are we any closer to a shooting war?"
Wyndham opened a folder and skimmed over the contents. "COMINT sources report a large Syrian troop and armor build-up near the Golan. It would seem preparations for an attack are underway. We also have an intercept of an order from the Egyptian high command to break the Ramadan fast. I take this as a sign something is about to happen." He closed the folder. "Unfortunately, neither Washington nor Tel Aviv agrees."
Unfortunately? What's that supposed to mean. I to
ok a deep breath. A war about to break out, Penwell and Wyndham up to no good, and flying around on an accident about to happen. What more could I ask for?
* * *
Decided I needed a relaxing drink and headed for the NCO Club, hadn't been there since Sunday. Watched out for Hakim's car on the way.
First thing I noticed was Bolan at the bar having a good time, too good of a time in my estimation. Fortunately, copious amounts of booze didn't seem to affect his mechanic's abilities. Nevertheless, I was concerned.
I took a table in Anya's section. Moments later, she emerged from the back and strode over.
"Hofbrau, yes?" she asked with a flat impersonal tone. Her shiner was almost gone.
"Are you okay?"
"Is not your problem. You want Hofbrau?"
"Yeah, I want a beer, but I also want to know if you're okay. Did he hit you?"
She didn't answer and left for the bar.
Bolan let out a big laugh and turned around. He sighted me and lifted his tumbler full of booze. I nodded.
Anya returned with a bottle. "You not eat?"
"No, a beer, that's all."
She started to leave, but halted when I said, "You didn't answer my question."
"Why you ask. I lie to you. Do you hate me?"
"No, I don't hate you. You betrayed my trust, that hurt, but I don't hate you."
Her eyes pleaded. "Is not safe to talk with you."
"He threatened you?"
She stood motionless, a disturbingly sad expression frozen on her face. After a moment, she turned and drifted back to the kitchen.
Despite the fact she had been battered, my sentiments were nebulous. It was obvious a poignant story was locked behind her cold eyes. Could she be telling the truth? I didn't know what to believe. She could even be an exceedingly clever Soviet spy.
Thursday, 4 October
Soldano strode into the morning briefing holding a yellow tear sheet. "Ankara assures me the magneto is on its way, should be here this morning."
Wyndham lit his Meerschaum pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. Without looking up, he questioned no one in particular, "Will we be ready for a sortie today?"
Soldano said, "I've already told Sergeant Bolan and instructed him to have the aircraft ready ASAP."
Wyndham retorted, "Does ASAP mean today?"
The captain's face reddened. "Sergeant Bolan assures me, once the part arrives, he'll have us airborne within two hours."
He accepted Soldano's statement without comment. I cocked my head towards Morgan. His disgusted expression said it all.
After a long tense pause, Soldano asked, "What's the latest from your sources?"
Wyndham inhaled and discharged an acrid fog of expensive Turkish tobacco. "We received a report that Israeli photo reconnaissance detected a significant increase in Egyptian artillery strength on the Suez west bank. The forward deployment of bridging equipment behind the Egyptian's berm works on the canal tends to indicate something is about to give. In any case, I want you to concentrate your efforts on finding naval targets. Remember, this is our main priority"
One thing still bothered me. "Do you believe the Syrians are aware of our operation? And, what about the MiG-19, they should've identified us?"
Wyndham took a long, deep draw on the pipe.
It appeared he was going to ignore my question until Soldano spoke up, "I'd like an answer."
He blew out an exaggerated stream of smoke. "Monitoring of Syrian frequencies over the last few days indicates radar tracking of flights from Incirlik. However, the Syrian air defense network reports no unusual flight activity. They acquire targets about twenty miles south of the Turkish coast and pass along reports every two minutes until they leave the range of the radar. To your point — intercepts from two days ago indicate the Syrians identified the RU-8D as hostile and scrambled a fighter to investigate. No further hostile identifications have occurred. We are confident they now view our sorties as routine."
I wanted to ask where he got the information but knew better. All COMINT is compartmentalized and not subject to release outside special channels. The source is usually not revealed. Reckoned it must have come from the British SIGINT site at Giorgos Georgiou on Cyprus.
* * *
The magneto arrived as promised and Bolan had the RU-8 back on line within two hours. Morgan subjected the aircraft to a brutal pre-flight inspection and made a brief test run before declaring the craft ready for an over-the-water sortie.
For once, everything fell in place. The Beechcraft purred along without a hitch. Even the exacting Morgan was satisfied.
The intercept gear performed okay, considering its inherent limitations. The usual array of early warning radars buzzed in my earphones, complemented with activity from a Soviet made height-finding radar.
On the ground, the Air Force sergeant unloaded two bags. He did his best to avoid looking my way.
Morgan, returning to the plane, glanced back at the sedan as it sped away. "You still think there's something in those bags?"
"Now more than ever. Why don't we check 'em out before the next flight?"
He paused for a second. "Not a good idea. Could be some CIA spook stuff, if you know what I mean. Don’t you think we got enough trouble as it is?"
I didn't agree, but said, "You're probably right."
During the return leg, I tweaked the antenna tuner settings and picked up short burst on the E-band.
"Got a Fan Song in tracking mode."
Soldano perked up and said, "He on to us?"
"No. We're too far away, must be someone else."
Morgan said, "Or an Israeli recon."
"Who knows? With no DF capability, I can't pinpoint the location, but I do know they got five SA-2 sites and about a dozen SA-3 sites along the coast."
"SA-3. What's their range?" asked Morgan.
"About 35 miles, not as much as the SA-2." I checked the chart. "We're right on the edge of the SA-2's range. Too far for the SA-3."
Soldano said, "From now on, we'll hug the Cyprus coast a bit closer, no use pushing our luck. You got any problem with that?"
"No sir."
* * *
On the ground, Wyndham met us at the hangar. "Did you find any naval radar signals?"
I shook my head. "No, they must be beyond the antenna's capabilities. The signals we're receiving are either powerful or near the coast. The ship radars are probably too far away."
"You mean there's nothing more you can do?"
"Aside from bringing in some real intercept gear … no, this is as good as it gets with this CIA set-up." He gave me a quizzical look. "CIA as in Can't-Intercept-Anything."
Wyndham's cutting glare was unsettling. I wondered if I had pushed the wrong button but didn't care. We stood eye-to-eye for about five seconds, hell if I was going to blink first. He spun around and rushed out.
Morgan said, "That was a good one."
Soldano said, "One of these days your wisecracks are going to get you in deep water."
"No problem, I can swim."
One other thing bothered me. Wyndham never asked for a written report on any of the flights. When I turned over the tapes, he seemed uninterested. Decided to let well enough alone and not inquire any further.
I wanted to ask about Captain Hakim. He hadn't shown himself in the last few days. Wasn't quite sure what it meant. Had he lost interest? Had he found out what he wanted? Or, did it have something to do with Anya? Not knowing bothered me more than having him following me.
* * *
An hour later, back at our quarters, Morgan rousted me out of a nap. "Come on, Wyndham wants us to fly a night sortie."
I knew better than to ask why in an unsecure environment and waited until we arrived at the hangar. Didn't have to ask, Wyndham was waiting for us.
He pulled me over to the side. "Soldano and Morgan have been briefed. The latest word is, Soviet advisers and their families are leaving Egypt and Syria." His eyes sparkled with excitement. "Appears
to be an expedited departure, something is about to happen. Soviet transports, believed to be loaded with military equipment, landed in Cairo and Damascus today." He pumped a clinched fist for emphasis. "This is significant because we believe the IDF will launch a pre-emptive strike on Egyptian and possibly Syrian forces when their intelligence indicates an attack is imminent. I want you airborne right away."
"What you expect us to find?"
"Not sure, but it is an opportunity. They may let their guard down during such a sudden flurry of activity."
Wyndham called Soldano over. "Captain, I want Saleh to take your place in the cockpit. I have a portable receiver and want him to monitor Syrian air-to-air voice communications.
Soldano countered with an incredulous scowl. "Negative. We need two pilots on missions over water."
I couldn't resist the opportunity. "Sir, I earned a glider pilot's license during a tour in Germany. I'm pretty good at making dead stick landings."
"Sergeant, if you don't watch out you're going to swim this mission."
* * *
The first leg of the flight was uneventful, the normal collection of Tall Kings, Barlocks, and Spoonrests.
On the ground in Cyprus, we waited for the Air Force courier to show up. This was the first time he failed to appear. Morgan and I stood on the tarmac beside the wing.
After a twenty-minute wait, I said, "Guess he's not gonna show."
"Maybe you scared him off."
"Could be, let's look in the compartment." It was empty.
Morgan shouted to Soldano, "Captain, it's empty, he's not coming."
He stuck his head out of the cockpit door and scanned the area. "Okay, let's go home."
The return leg was normal, the results the same, no new signals. I was even more convinced the intercept missions were a waste of time. There must be something else at play.
* * *
After a late debriefing, I hurried over to the club. Anya's despondent mood concerned me. An unconscious force tempered my feelings. My sense of betrayal had mellowed.
She tried to avoid me and sent the Turkish waiter over to take my order. I drank a beer, paid, and cornered her on my way out.
"Can I do anything to help you?"
