The Latakia Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller

by R G Ainslee

  "Fine with me. But it looks like we're left holding the bag."

  "Looks like it. The message orders you to secure the tape. Too bad Penwell has it."

  Soldano was right about the trust issue. I didn't say anything about the original tape. I needed to have an ace-in-the-hole, now more than ever. I checked my Timex. It was almost noon.

  * * *

  1615 hours, Marcos called me to the office once more. He made a wisecrack about being my messenger boy.

  Morgan stood off to the side, arms folded. Soldano sat at the desk with a grim expression. He appeared to be even more agitated than before. "Have a seat. Wyndham wants to talk with us. He should be here shortly."

  I checked out the coffee. The pot was empty. Neither officer spoke. We didn't speak for a couple minutes until I asked the captain, "Did you tell Mr. Morgan about my message from Meade?"

  Morgan said, "Yes. Looks like we've been sold down the river, doesn't it?"

  Before I could respond, Wyndham strode through the door. He glared at us and surveyed the briefing room with an air of disdain.

  He got straight to the point. "We're finished. All reconnaissance activity has been shut down, and that includes us. The administration has decided to back off. They don't want to take a chance on a confrontation with any parties involved in the fighting. They are also concerned about a possible Soviet response. Even a planned joint military exercise with the Turks has been scrubbed."

  "What are we supposed to do?" A purely rhetorical question, I knew what I intended to do and kept quiet about my message from DIRNSA, unsure if Soldano kept his promise not to tell him.

  He ignored my question and eyed Soldano. "Captain, begin making preparations for closing down the operation. I assume everyone will return to their units.'

  Morgan said, "What about the aircraft?"

  Wyndham snapped back, "Let the Army decide."

  "What do you mean? Are we supposed to abandon it here?"

  "I don't care what you do Mr. Morgan. It's not my problem now."

  I could tell the good-natured pilot was on the edge, but he inhaled and held it in. Decided restraint was a prudent example to follow.

  After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Wyndham examined his watch, an expensive Rolex of course, and said, "I have a flight to catch."

  Soldano perked up. "You're leaving?"

  "Yes, you can handle all the details of shutting down." He gave the captain a cold stare. "You can manage that, can't you?"

  I could tell Soldano was about to pop, but Wyndham dialed up his arrogance one more level. "Captain, fetch me a ride to flight operations."

  Soldano rose to the occasion. "Hell no — you can walk to wherever you're going."

  Wyndham bowed up and moved towards the captain. "You can't speak to me like that."

  I stepped forward, in front of Soldano. "Sure he can." I reached to my back pocket, fingered the switchblade, but left it out of sight. We stood face to face, like two tomcats, eyes locked on each other. Seconds later, I sensed Morgan at my side.

  Wyndham blinked twice, swallowed hard, and shouted at Soldano, "Who do you think you are? I'm in charge of this operation and you will comply with my orders. Now get me a car, I have more important business than to stand here arguing with a bunch of has-beens."

  "Get out of my office," Soldano's voice, hard and biting, showed he was deadly serious.

  Wyndham stood his ground, eyes on fire.

  "You heard him." My voice reverberated off the walls as I gave him a hard shove. "Get the hell out of here and don't come back."

  Wyndham retreated a half-step, reached for his jacket pocket, hesitated, glanced at me, and back to Morgan. Out of the corner of my eye, I detected Morgan's hand inside his flight suit. Wyndham's shoulders twitched, and he took a short hesitant breath. I edged away and took a step to his left side.

  He removed his hand from the pocket and backed away. "Don't think I'm going to let this go. You are finished. Do you understand?" No one responded. He jerked the door open, stepped through, and slammed it shut on his way out.

  "Pretty bold, reaching for your knife, don't you think?" said Soldano. When I didn't answer, he continued, "You didn't pick up on the bulge in his jacket pocket?" He read my puzzled expression. "You didn't know he carries a Russian Makarov pistol?"

  "Wasn't sure if he was armed or not, but it wouldn't have made it out of his pocket." Soldano gave me a strange look. I couldn't tell if he was impressed or unconvinced. "I was too close for him to draw a pistol." I had practiced disarming an opponent many times, but never for real. I breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  "Guess he remembered you carried a switchblade," said Morgan. "Would you have used it?"

  "If he had made a move, we both would have found out." I had no sympathy for his type. Bolan was simply a drunk, but Wyndham betrayed us all. "Guess he remembered your little James Bond pistol too."

  Morgan remained poker faced and didn't respond.

  "I said, "Don't think we've heard the last from him."

  "How do you know?" said Morgan.

  "Cause that's the way he is. He's snuck off now, but his type will try again … usually in the back."

  Soldano said, "Surprised you didn't say anything about the tape, I expected you to make more of it."

  I pulled the original tape out of the side pocket of my field jacket. "This is the tape. Penwell made off with a copy."

  "I underestimated you. Why, did you have a premonition?"

  "I knew better than to trust the bastards, so I took out a little insurance."

  "You want to lock it in the safe?"

  "No, I'll play this one close to the chest."

  Soldano smiled. "Don't blame you."

  "He said we're finished. I don't care. What about you? Hope this don't cause any more problems."

  "Don't worry about it. I'm a short timer too. The Army is cutting back and Morgan and I are on the RIF list. Matter of fact, several of us in this detachment has less than six months to serve, looks like they chose us because we were expendable."

  Reduction in force. Wyndham and Penwell had used the RIF list to find their suckers. The bastards were now on a different list, one of my making. They were beyond reach for now, but if there were any justice in this world, their day would come. Meanwhile I would watch my back.

  * * *

  That evening, I headed over to the club, needed a beer to relax after a stressful few days. I hadn't seen Anya since that last night at the club. It bothered me that she might be telling the truth, a pathetic victim of circumstances, forced to make a terrible compromise to survive. I realized I would never find out for sure. In any case, I wanted to make sure she was okay.

  I carefully checked the area for the presence of Hakim. It dawned on me that he was always the one doing the surveillance. His absence only heightened the mystery. Thomas' warning resonated in my thoughts. Maybe it was best I didn't find him.

  I settled down at a table in Anya's area. The Turkish waiter took my order and ignored questions about her. Nursed the brew for twenty-minutes and waved the manager over at the first opportunity.

  He wandered over, didn't appear to be in a good mood. His round face was hard and cold.

  "Is Anya on duty tonight?" I tried to sound nonchalant.

  He gave me a curious stare. "She ain't shown up for work since Thursday night." His eyes bored in on me. "She split right after waiting on you." His tone turned menacing, "What'd you do?

  "I only spoke with her—"

  "What'd you say to her?"

  "I asked about her black eye."

  "Leave it alone. Not your affair."

  "Did Hakim hit her?"

  He leaned down, face to face. "You need to learn to mind your own business."

  "Makin' it my business."

  "Let me tell you, I've had enough trouble with you. Finish your beer and get out. I don't need any more trouble."

  "Trouble? What'd you mean?

  "What's up with you? I told you
to get out. You want me to call the security police?"

  "Go ahead, call 'em. Me and them are good buddies."

  He straightened up and shot me an exasperated look. "Give me a break. You don't understand. I don't need no more hassle with Hakim — neither do you. Got it?"

  He was right. I slapped a dollar on the table and left.

  Bolan was entering the club as I exited. He was already three sheets to the wind. He ignored me, stumbled on in, and headed to the bar. This wasn't going to a good night for the manager, served him right.

  Tuesday, 9 October

  Major Maxwell sat at Soldano's desk, impeccably attired in his Class-A dress greens. I took that as a bad sign. He arrived the day before with an entourage, including a first lieutenant and a squad of burly MP types. TUSLOG Detachment 120 sent him to conduct an investigation into the affair. The first thing they did was take custody of the tape.

  I knew the major. Maxwell had been the security officer at Kagnew Station at Asmara, Ethiopia back in the sixties. He listened stoically as I explained my side of the story, conveniently excluding my involvement with Anya and Hakim.

  "…and that's about it." I shifted nervously. Everyone else testified before me, and for some reason, they held me to the end. Maxwell asked no questions, nor made any comments during my discourse.

  I feared the worst. Wyndham had undoubtedly filed a non-too flattering report by now.

  The major tapped his fingers on the desk. "I don't understand why you were assigned to this boondoggle. You're one of NSA's best ELINT operators. How did you end up here?"

  "Dunno sir, bad luck I guess." Didn't want to get into my recent history, the fiasco with the Air Force wasn't well known due to its compartmentalized nature.

  Maxwell shook his head. "Don't know how you do it, but no matter how much trouble you manage to get into, you always land on your feet."

  Doubtless, he referred to an incident back in 1968. I was with two friends on a motorcycle trip in the mountains east of Asmara, when a gang of bandits, or shiftas, stopped us at a roadblock. They released us when an Ethiopian Army patrol came up the road. Didn't get hurt but they did take my Italian Moto Guzzi 750 Speciale. We were lucky, previously some guys had been held for ransom for several days. Maxwell investigated the incident. Even though we traveled in an area we should've avoided, he let us off easy. Guess he thought the loss of our bikes punishment enough.

  Land on my feet. Sounded encouraging. "We're in the clear?"

  "Yes, for you and the others, the assignment orders were authentic. Seems Penwell managed to work the system and pull this unit together without anyone at NSA knowing about it. Didn't you have any suspicions? You've been around a long time …not even a hint."

  "I was suspicious when he implied the unit had been set up outside normal channels. But the orders came through my unit and with three months to go, I had no desire to rock the boat."

  "Three months… You don't intend to reenlist. Why?"

  "No sir — got a civilian job at Huachuca lined up."

  The major nodded. "Perhaps that's for the best. This type of situation can wreck your career, even if you had no direct involvement with illegal activities." He caught the concern in my eyes. "And yes, you are in the clear."

  My shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. "What was Penwell's purpose? Did we actually have a mission?"

  "Not as far as NSA and the Army are concerned. Evidently, he had a drug stash he needed to move. Most likely left over from his days in Southeast Asia and devised a clever way to do it. The natural secrecy and compartmentalization surrounding SIGINT missions served as an almost perfect cover. Might've worked too, but for the sergeant on Cyprus getting caught. He was speeding, his vehicle rammed a taxi on a busy street, and a crowd prevented him leaving the scene until the police arrived."

  "Did the wreck happen last Friday?"

  "Yes … why?"

  "The last time I saw him, he took off like a scalded ape. Morgan and I pressured him to tell us what was in the bags, but he bolted instead."

  "You had an idea something was going on."

  "Yes sir. Didn't know what, but with Penwell's reputation, it had to be something shady."

  Maxwell leaned back in his seat. "Interesting. However, Penwell could've still salvaged the scheme if you hadn't made the intercept and sent the CRITIC message. A lower priority communication would have been lost in somebody's inbox, but a CRITIC always sets off alarms. I guess, when they tried to put together the details of the operation, they found nothing authorized, no units assigned to that type of a mission." He grinned. "Would have liked to have been a fly on the wall, just to see them scramble around trying to find out where this mysterious CRITIC originated. Bet a lot of people sweated bullets over this one."

  "You're telling me the ELINT mission was bogus?"

  "Correct. Even the CIA wouldn't own up to it, like they would anyway."

  "Guess that explains the strange equipment set-up. It was never designed to do the job. We were fortunate to make any intercepts. Wasn't anyone higher up aware or even suspicious? Didn't TUSLOG 120 have a clue?"

  Maxwell appeared uncomfortable. "No. We were aware of the operation, but no one raised any questions. Penwell cleverly disguised the operation and no one chose to view it as otherwise."

  True. A typical bureaucratic cluster, they saw what they expected to see, when it was actually something different. Same old song — the buck stops with somebody else.

  "What about the aircraft?" I asked. "How did it get here from Nam … via Iran apparently?"

  "We don't know."

  But I had a good guess. "Bet you'll find it disappeared mysteriously from some unit's TO&E right before they shipped home."

  "Wouldn't be surprised, seen it before, but never with something this large."

  "Maybe you've underestimated Penwell, he seems to think big."

  Maxwell sighed, but didn't respond.

  "What about Wyndham? What's his involvement?"

  "We're not sure. Far as we can tell, Wyndham was not involved in the drug smuggling scheme. Penwell may have misled him into doing the legwork for him. A source told me Wyndham helped train Cubans for the Bay of Pigs. Penwell was there too, but I'm not sure if they actually worked together."

  Didn't seem right, Wyndham must be involved. "Are you sure he wasn't in on it with Penwell? He told me he's the one who set up the outfit. What does he say?"

  Maxwell shifted in the chair and pursed his lips before speaking. "Wyndham was found dead in a hotel in Ankara."

  I sat up straight. "How? What happened?"

  "He was shot. Two rounds to the torso and one to the head. No one heard the gunshots, so it could have been a suppressed weapon. Turkish authorities are investigating. They believe it was a robbery gone bad."

  Or, there was a disagreement among thieves. "He didn't get off any shots?"

  "No, according to the police reports, he wasn't armed."

  "He carried a Makarov. Should've been able to defend himself if he encountered an intruder. Could be, he knew his killer. My money's on Penwell." I wasn't sorry about Wyndham's death. All I wanted was a chance at Penwell.

  Maxwell nodded his head. "We're working on that angle. Its pure speculation, but he might have confronted Penwell and paid the price. As you can imagine, the CIA wants this to remain low profile."

  Low profile didn't even begin to describe what was about to happen. I knew the Army, NSA, and the CIA would give lip service to an investigation, but in the end, they wouldn't follow through, too many embarrassing questions. The last thing they wanted was a congressional inquiry. When it goes that far, some committee would run a parade through the Acropolis of Confusion on Capitol Hill and all pretense of finding the truth would be lost.

  "I know, they'll cover up Penwell's activities for security reasons."

  Maxwell didn't respond.

  I wanted answers. "Rankin — what about him? He was the one placing the drugs on the plane. What did he have to say?" I
suspected Bolan as well but kept the suspicions to myself.

  Maxwell's brow furrowed. I could tell I was asking too many inconvenient questions. "Specialist Rankin left with Penwell." He read the shock on my face. "Somehow, Penwell produced an order releasing him into his custody and they boarded the flight to Ankara without any of your people noticing."

  "They're in Ankara?"

  "No. They both disappeared. As best we can tell, they boarded a flight to Tehran under assumed names with false passports. I suspect he has connections that will enable him to disappear into the wild."

  "What's the connection between Penwell and Rankin?"

  "Rankin served in Southeast Asia before this so-called assignment. Not sure, but he could have met up with Penwell there."

  "Penwell has a copy of the intercept tape."

  "True. From his perspective, the tape is a major asset. He'll undoubtedly try to sell or trade it wherever he ends up. The recording won't betray any of our capabilities, but the Israelis on the other hand, may take a dim view … if they find out about the intercept. In any case, I don't think we've heard the last of Lukas Penwell."

  "The Israelis aren't going to be told?"

  "Not up to me. That's for the policy-maker's way above my pay grade."

  The old sinking feeling returned. With the main players either gone or dead, who did that leave for the inevitable role of scapegoat? I tried not to reveal any emotion. "What about me?"

  The major gave a hint of a smile. "Brannan, I'm sorry to inform you … you won't be able to rejoin your unit in Germany." He waited to gauge my reaction. "NSA wants you to personally courier the original tape back to Fort Meade. Specialist Marcos will accompany you as additional security. Any problem with that?"

  "No sir." I had visions of spending the rest of my enlistment analyzing the tape.

  "I hope someone at NSA can convince you to stay on, would be a shame to lose someone with your capabilities."

  "Not a chance, my mind is made up."

  Maxwell stood. We shook hands. "Very well and good luck."

  For eleven years, I served the Army Security Agency as an ELINT analyst and intercept operator; travelling the world collecting data on enemy radar systems to aid in development of effective countermeasures. In a few weeks, I would be out of the military, beginning a new life as an employee of the Relint Corporation, a private contractor at the Electronic Proving Ground at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.