by R G Ainslee
Wilson paused and assumed an even more serious demeanor. "Due to the need to maintain a high level of security and keep a low profile, no back-up crew has been assigned to this mission. Gentlemen, we must get it right on the first attempt. Any questions before we begin?"
The obvious question was, "What's Hansen's involvement?"
He cut me off. "The colonel is our liaison with NSA." He must have noticed my wrinkled brow and added, "He has no operational responsibilities or authority pertaining to this mission."
I glanced around the table. The others looked down, or across the room, Wilson stood stone-faced.
"Thank you … sir."
The colonel continued with the latest on-the-ground intelligence from Ethiopia and updates on the battles raging in the Ogaden. We went over known changes in the electronic order of battle for Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, and Somalia. Everything seemed satisfactory with nothing to cause concern.
A typical Blackbird mission, normally referred to as an operational sortie, begins at least two days before takeoff, and requires detailed navigational planning. Major Simmons, the Detachment 4 mission-planning officer, briefed us on the route, refueling, and weather.
Simmons, a pudgy air force officer, spoke with a muted southern drawl, easy going, but professional, "Plans call for the sortie to fly from RAF Mildenhall south to a refueling point west of Gibraltar and then vector east through the straits into the Mediterranean." The major pointed to a spot on the chart displayed on the wall. "The coordinates are noted in your briefing book."
A glance at the book, looked okay to me, but I had one question. "Why do we take the long way around? Wouldn’t it be shorter to fly over France?"
Wilson answered for him. "No overflight rights were sought. Our allies the French are not disposed to allow over flights without an explanation." He gave a conspiratorial nod. "You get the drift?"
"Yes sir." I understood. Either, he didn’t trust the French, or they hadn’t been cooperative in the past.
Simmons continued, "The next leg will take you across the Med to a point south of Crete for the next refueling. You will vector south at the point shown southwest of Cyprus and initiate a course over the Sinai, down the Red Sea, and inland over southern Sudan before crossing Ethiopia. Any questions so far?"
Uh, oh. The Sinai. Sounds like trouble. "Do you expect us to be challenged over Sinai?"
Sam Collier spoke up with a confident tone, "Detected yes, challenged not. The Blackbird’s operational altitude and speed far exceed anything the Egyptians have deployed. There's little likelihood of a challenge. Our flights occur regularly in the region and I anticipate no reaction over Egypt or the Sudan."
"Are the Israeli’s in on—" Wilson’s cold stare cut off my question. A tense silence filled the room. Not only were the Egyptians a hostile threat, it's dangerous to monitor the Israelis at close range when they’re fighting a war. Just ask the guys on the USS Liberty.
Major Simmons glanced at Wilson, received an affirmative nod, and continued, "After completing your mission over Ethiopia, you will pass over Somalia and refuel off the East African coast before heading to the British Diego Garcia Territory in the Indian Ocean Chagos Archipelago."
The chart showed our ride from the last refueling point to the isolated secret airbase in the center of the Indian Ocean was entirely over water, a thousand miles, or so. An uncomfortable feeling lingered in the back of my mind.
"Fuel calculations are critical because each mission normally involves at a minimum two refueling operations. This requires the KC-135Q/T tanker crews to launch and fly to rendezvous points well before the sortie aircraft takes off. Our schedule calls for the tankers to meet a precise schedule to position themselves along the flight path at the intended locations and altitude."
It sounded so easy, the optimism infectious: These guys are real pros. They got it figured out. I relaxed.
Colonel Wilson wrapped up the briefing with a pep talk. "We must be mindful when analyzing Soviet air defense capabilities that they are capable of changing their methods to compensate for our strengths. Their capabilities are not static, they will seek out new methods to defeat or lessen our advantages. That is why this mission is important. In the age of the strategic ballistic missile, many assume air defense can take a back seat because nuclear war has become unthinkable.
"The Arab-Israeli wars demonstrated the continued importance of theater air defense. The Egyptians gained an early advantage in the Yom Kippur war because they negated Israeli air superiority with surface to air missiles." Wilson glanced at me with a knowing nod. "The naval battle of Latakia between Israel and Syria also demonstrated the importance of ECM in modern warfare."
I was shocked. Wilson seemed aware of my involvement in a monumental fiasco. The battle was more than just history to me. On my last assignment in the Army, I monitored the encounter from a U.S. Army aircraft flying between Turkey and Cyprus. Lukas Penwell, a rogue CIA officer contrived a phony mission to observe Soviet naval activity out of the Syrian naval base at Latakia. His purpose was to give cover for a drug smuggling operation to Cyprus. His scheme unraveled after I made a legitimate intercept of the battle. My CRITIC message to NSA came as a surprise to them. They were unaware of the mission. Penwell is still a fugitive to this day.
Latakia had been an historic encounter fought with ECM (Electronic Countermeasures) and missiles, not unlike the Battle of the Coral Sea, the first sea battle involving opposing aircraft carriers. The Israeli navy relied exclusively on passive electronic surveillance of the Syrian's active systems for target acquisition. Once the Syrians were drawn into the trap, the Israelis defeated the attack using electronic means. A counter attack with Gabriel missiles finished off the Syrian gunboats.
The Royal Air Force first used electronic warfare in the Battle of Britain to distort Luftwaffe navigation beams and send bombers away from their targets. Winston Churchill called it the Wizard War.
Wilson’s reference to Latakia left me with a vague uncomfortable feeling. My sixth sense murmured in the background.
* * *
Mack and two technicians from our office, Mike O’Brien and Al Oldham, along with Bill Michaels, an engineer from Fort Meade, arrived late in the afternoon. They brought equipment prepared for our specific mission: black boxes with special receivers tuned to intercept the third harmonic of any known Soviet tracking signal.
The standard electro-magnetic reconnaissance package for the Blackbird records all signals on all bands, horizon to horizon, with no directional capabilities. Our specialized gear would supplement that capability.
We spent the evening at the hangar with signal generators and test gear. Michaels supervised installation of a set of new sensor configurations. We checked and re-checked the specialized intercept equipment until Mack was completely satisfied. Everyone was tired. We packed it in early.
Friday, 3 February: RAF Mildenhall, United Kingdom
The Friday morning briefing started on time as usual. Wilson was a stickler for punctuality. He briefed us on new developments from Ethiopia. It seemed the Ethiopians were preparing for something big and a flight from Moscow had brought in a couple of high ranking Soviet officers.
Wilson replied to a question from Mack, "We have no hard intelligence as these officers’ significance. They arrived in civilian garb and their service branch remains undetermined at this time." He asked Major Simmons to report before Mack could follow-up.
Simmons announced the weather outlook was optimal and outlined preparations for tanker deployment. He re-emphasized the importance of maintaining radio silence during the entire mission and instructed me to make sure I carried no ID or other personal items in case we were forced to eject over hostile territory.
The thought of ejecting from the high-flying and high-speed Blackbird wasn’t a pleasant thought. One would think that ejecting at 2,000 miles per hour would be fatal, but the instructors back at Beale assured me, in the thin air at 88,000 feet, the actual wind force would be l
ess than 500 miles per hour. That still seemed fast to me. Anyway, they said not to worry. It was just a routine flight.
Colonel Wilson thanked Simmons and asked Mack to bring us up-to-date on his efforts at Huachuca.
Mack leaned back in his chair. "A special team was assembled to review Cochise Project data and Bill Michaels flew in from Meade to assist. We reviewed every detail from different perspectives but couldn't find anything to point us in the right direction. The deeper we got into the data, the more obvious it became: Marsden carried essential material with him rendering it difficult to reconstruct the missing data."
"What is your best judgment on the issue?" asked Wilson.
"My best judgment is there is no way he could have made the system work. The concept is just too farfetched."
Wilson stiffened. "What about the reports from Ethiopia? Surely you don't believe they're bogus."
"I can't address that aspect. All I know is, and Michaels agrees, the technical elements don't jive. We won't know what they are up to until we have a valid intercept."
Wilson’s brow furrowed. "Do you support the mission's concept?"
"That's above my pay grade. I'll support whatever mission you propose." Mack paused and leaned forward. "I'll level with you. We may be on a wild goose chase."
Wilson's face reddened, obviously flustered by Mack's contrarian views. I wondered: What's going on?
Mack continued, "How are we so sure Marsden is involved anyway?"
"We have solid intelligence of his involvement," Wilson paused and licked his upper lip, "from a third-party source which cannot be named."
I quizzed Wilson about his source before he left Huachuca, but he declined to answer. My intuition prevailed. "The Israelis?"
Wilson's astonished expression was proof. They had the most to lose. If the Egyptians and Syrians gained access to an invulnerable tactical air defense system, it would be game over for the Israeli Air Force. The Arabs would be able to negate the Israeli advantage in the air. The peace process would collapse, and the world could face a nuclear confrontation in the Middle East.
Wilson, obviously annoyed, swallowed hard and ignored my question. Mack nudged my foot under the table and I got the message: Shut up.
A knock at the door broke the tension. Captain Breyer, the security officer for the Special Signals Research Project, entered and caught Wilson's attention. He wore a web belt with a leather holster holding a M1911 standard issue forty-five and seemed more serious than usual.
"Sorry to interrupt Colonel, need to speak with you in private." The captain, clean cut with a cop-like countenance, spoke with a distinct upper-Midwest accent, Minnesota perhaps. They huddled in a corner and it soon became obvious from the strained expression on Wilson's face, something was amiss.
Breyer left, and Wilson returned to the table grim-faced and sat down. "Gentlemen, we may have encountered a security issue." He turned to Mack. "Colonel Gibson," Wilson more formal, addressed Mack with his former rank. "One of your technicians went out on the town last night."
Mack cocked his head in my direction.
I imperceptibly raised my hands in an attempt to signal my innocence. Why do they always figure me for stuff like this?
Wilson noticed the gesture and continued, "Alfred Oldham was observed late last night leaving a local pub with a woman described by base CID as … an extreme leftist sympathizer."
Uh, oh — Don't like this one bit.
Mack's face reddened. "Where's he now?"
"He is being interrogated as we speak."
"By whom?" Mack was fuming.
"Base CID and Captain Breyer. We don't know yet if we have a bona fide security breach or just a coincidental barroom meeting. How long has this man been working for you?"
"Less than a year, he's a newly hired MIT graduate. He does like to drink, but we never had any major problems with him before." Mack shot a glance in my direction.
I said, "Worked with him in the lab. He likes to party. Dunno, can't come up with any reason to suspect him."
Wilson sighed. "Well… we will just have to continue with preparations and see what CID turns up. Colonel Gibson, I suggest you take steps to ensure this does not happen again." For some reason, he stole a quick glance in my direction.
The euphoria began to fade. The first doubt began to surface. My instincts, that bit of the Irish in me whispered: Something ain't right. I took a deep breath and tried to put it out of my mind.
We worked late into the night testing the highly classified black boxes. No one spoke about Al Oldham, the subject taboo.
Saturday, 4 February: RAF Mildenhall, United Kingdom
Major Simmons opened the morning briefing and reported an optimal weather outlook for the next few days. Sam Collier asked a few questions about tanker deployment. Mack reported the technical preparations and equipment testing encountered a few problems but remained confident they could be resolved. The mood around the table was more serious, the optimistic glow replaced by harsh reality.
Colonel Wilson strode over to the navigational cart. "New intelligence indicates Ethiopian and Cuban forces are poised to launch an operation here, toward the Somali town Jijiga in the Ogaden." He tapped the location with his pointer. "Our sources expect they will attempt to overrun Somali troops defending the Marda Pass. If the Soviets intended to utilize a new system, this offers a prime opportunity to observe it in action."
I asked, "Is there any sign they've deployed the system?"
"New intelligence suggests they may be ready to go operational at any time. We need to have our preparations completed and respond when they do. Major Santini will arrive from Nairobi late this evening with the latest developments." The colonel closed his folder. "If there are no questions—"
Mack intervened, "What's Oldham's status?"
The colonel's eyes bored in on Mack. "Mr. Oldham will not be involved in any further mission preparations."
"What about the woman he was supposed to have met?"
"Not supposed — did meet." Wilson was stone serious. "She dropped out of sight as soon as CID began asking questions around town."
"Any idea as to their involvement?"
"They spent several hours upstairs in a room at a local inn. Draw your own conclusions." The colonel sounded testy, as if he didn't want to discuss the subject.
"What did he say?" Mack wasn't about to give up. He liked to get straight to the point.
"He went into rather graphic detail about their assignation. You seem to have a rather spirited crew." Mack turned red and for some reason looked over at me.
Wilson continued, "I am not happy with the way base CID conducted the investigation. The mere act of seeming concerned may raise a red flag telegraphing the importance of our endeavors. In any case, it's all water under the bridge."
"How does all this affect the mission?" Mack asked the question a millisecond before I had a chance.
"If there are no new developments regarding the potential security breach, we will continue with preparations, and a decision will be made at the last moment."
Mack exhaled and furrowed his brow, a sign he wasn't satisfied. Wilson recognized his displeasure but said nothing. A few moments of silence seemed to stretch out forever. Wilson spoke first, "Colonel Gibson," still formal with Mack, "How are your technical arrangements coming along?"
"Everything is proceeding according to plan."
Wilson thanked him, walked to the door, turned, and asked me to speak with him in the hallway.
"Have you given my offer any consideration?" On the day of my arrival, the colonel extended an invitation to join his new venture full time as an analyst.
Wilson's proposition set off a stint of intense soul searching, and I apprehensively waited for him to approach me again. The offer sounded interesting, but I was an analyst by training and experience, not a spy. However, I wasn't sure and told him I’d think it over.
His plans included integrating CIA field operators and NSA analysts into a
direct-action team. The new organization specialized in clandestine electronic intelligence collection from unusual and difficult targets. That meant poking around some dangerous places overseas. Wilson believed the mission over Ethiopia would prove the concept.
"Yes sir. Thanks, but I'm satisfied at Fort Huachuca. The Blackbird flight is enticing, but my days traveling around the world are over." I had a dream job and wanted to keep it. Moreover, Hansen was involved. Wilson could find someone else.
"We need good men like you. I’ve examined your record. My sources at Fort Meade tell me you were one of the best. It’s too bad you didn’t stay in the military. You could have obtained a commission."
I gave him an indifferent stare and kept my mouth shut.
"Maybe you'll change your mind after the flight. The offer still stands."
Yeah, right, give me the hard sell Colonel. Too bad it won’t work.
* * *
That afternoon at the hanger, I pulled Mack aside. "What’s with you and Wilson? You don’t seem too comfortable with the mission. You really think it’s a waste of time?"
Mack gave me an irritated look. "We’re here on a support mission. This is Wilson’s show, so don’t try to second-guess his decisions. All we have to do is do our jobs."
"But it’s my butt on the line."
"No, don’t think so. It’s just a routine flight for them. No real danger involved. Do your job and enjoy the ride. You got a once in a lifetime experience ahead, one I’d jump at given the chance."
"But you got reservations — right?"
"Just not sure there’s anything to be found, that’s all."
"Wilson wants me to join his operation full time after the flight."
Mack narrowed his eyes. "You need to think that one over very carefully. You got a good safe job. Don’t give it up too easily."
"Don’t worry. I told him I’d give it a pass. The whole thing sounds too military for me, if you know what I mean."
Mack cracked a smile. "You’re probably right."
