The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 2)

by R G Ainslee

  The chopper billowed up a dust and sand cloud. I waded through the mess, hopped in, took a seat by the open door, and strapped myself in. The pilot, best chopper driver on the post, lifted off for a low-level, bumpy trip back to the airfield.

  A mile later, the pilot spotted a coyote and executed a steep banking turn. We zipped along, doors open, less than a hundred feet above the rocks, sand, cactus, and brush. I held on to my harness and watched the coyote escape down a dry arroyo. The chopper increased altitude and headed southwest towards the rugged Huachuca Mountains.

  Fort Huachuca extends from the mountains eastward into the desert floor. Dark clouds cascade down the slopes during the summer monsoon accompanied by thunder and rain. Local Indians called it, Huachuca, a place of thunder. The post began its life as a frontier fort in the last century and offered settlers protection from the Chiricahua Apaches led by Geronimo. The isolated desert outpost developed over the years into the Army’s primary electronic warfare training and testing center.

  Things were finally going my way. After Marsden defected, the inquiry board should have found Hansen negligent in his management of the affair. He had failed to deal effectively with Marsden when it became obvious the engineer was emotionally upset over the project’s cancelation. True to form, Hansen put on a classic performance and the board punted. Somehow, someway, known only to God and the Devil, Hansen pulled a classic coup and now occupied a desk in the bowels of the puzzle palace, the big glass box at Fort Meade, otherwise known as the National Security Agency.

  Mack was cleared, praised for his handling of the incident, and appointed Director, Electronic Warfare Special Projects Office. I was lucky to get off unscathed. After the Cochise Project’s collapse, Mack had been the guiding force in developing the office into the most effective unit on the post.

  Now, I had a well-paying job, a dream job, and a small mountain cabin nestled in the pines on the eastern slope. I lived alone, didn't even own a cat, unless you counted the yellow stray.

  My life gradually evolved to an unchanging routine, spent at the office or out on the range, followed by a late evening drive back up to the cabin. It also included working weekends when problems arose. My schedule made it difficult to develop a meaningful social life.

  The past weekend was routine as well. Saturday morning spent bow-hunting practice with a neighbor. In the afternoon, I tinkered with my Triumph TR4. The vintage sports car needed constant maintenance but served as a stress reducer par excellence. When it cruised along at top speed — man, I loved that car.

  Sunday, slept late, rode my custom equipped Colnago Super ten-speed bicycle halfway to the border and back, and then watched the hated Dallas Cowboys defeat my Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl. I loved sports and played in the post volleyball league until the gunshot wound ended my career.

  Next weekend I planned to drive over to Bisbee and ride the hills on the bike bought on a trip to Aviano Air Base in Italy. The routine would finally end in two weeks with the start of a long-delayed vacation. A full three weeks many miles to the south, sailing on warm waters in the Sea of Cortez with friends Jake and Jennifer on their thirty-six-foot Columbia sloop. My dream was to sail the South Pacific on my own boat. Life was good.

  * * *

  The Huey took less than fifteen minutes to reach the main post. As usual, the pilot executed a standard landing at the airfield. He reserved his hot landings for the range, away from the brass. The reason why made for an interesting story.

  After we landed, I thanked the warrant officer and jogged over to Mike O’Brien, a long time Relint employee in my section. He stood waiting by the helipad. One of the new guys, Al Oldham, a recent MIT graduate, lingered listless by his side.

  "What’s going on?"

  "Don’t know." Judging by his expression, he was upset. "Mack told me to come out here, meet you and return with the Huey back out to the site. He instructed me to take your place for the tests." He jerked his thumb towards the other guy. "Mack wants Oldham to get some field experience."

  "Great, what am I supposed to do?"

  "Think you’re expected to go with him." Mike canted his head towards a soldier in Class-A's standing by an olive drab staff car. Specialist-Five Packard from the post commander’s office leaned idly on the Buick’s front fender.

  Al Oldham didn’t speak. He appeared to be suffering the effects of a weekend across the border. Mack chewed him out before I left earlier in the morning. Al was okay, asked good questions, but had a lot to learn.

  After briefing O'Brien on the situation at the range, I wandered over to Packard and the waiting vehicle.

  "Where we going?"

  "Op’s center."

  We interrupted our conversation as the Huey lifted off in a dust cloud and headed back out to the desert with a disappointed Mike O'Brien. The chopper ride would be a brutal experience for someone with a cheap tequila hangover.

  "What’s the deal? Must be important to ruin a whole day's work."

  "Not sure, the major told me to meet you and get you to the op's center ASAP. Some Pentagon types arrived an hour ago and went to the briefing room." The tall lanky Hoosier asked, "What kind ‘a trouble you in now?"

  I racked my brain. but couldn't come up with any reason to be in hot water. "Why would you think such a dastardly thought?"

  Packard chuckled and slid into the leather driver's seat. We drove straight to the operations center over neatly groomed streets lined with freshly painted white rocks. Three PFC's with paint buckets abruptly broke off their cigarette break as we rolled by in the post commander's Buick.

  I struggled to figure out what was going on, had to be important enough to interrupt a major test cycle. Couldn't think of anything, I hadn't been in any real trouble since Hansen left.

  * * *

  Army Spec-Four Cindy Fox dressed in her Class-A uniform, pranced down the op's center front steps. A clerk-typist in the adjutant's office, Cindy was good-looking and liked sports. We dated for a month late last year.

  "Hi Cindy, good to see you."

  She stared straight-ahead and strode by without acknowledging my existence. Apparently, she was still upset. The long tense ride back from the disco in Tucson burned in my memory: a weekend of high expectations ruined. Started to say something, but kept my mouth shut.

  My progress came to an abrupt halt — inside the front door stood the devil incarnate.

  "Brannan, get your butt in here, we're waiting for you."

  Hansen — it was him, the same old attitude, the same old whitewall haircut, always straight to the point, the essential Colonel Hansen, a true bastard. What's he doing here? I never wanted to run into the back-stabbing SOB again — but there he stood. What pried his paper-shuffling butt loose from his desk at Fort Meade?

  I snapped back, "What the hell's this about?"

  Hansen bristled. "You’ll find out inside — do you understand?"

  "Hell no — I don’t work for you, so you can…" I cut off my reply and walked away.

  "Your boss Gibson's waiting, you better get in there if you know what’s good for you."

  I halted in my tracks and thought it over. If Mack wanted me, I needed to comply. Moreover, I didn't need to let Hansen provoke me into doing or saying something I would regret later. Hansen hadn't changed — not one bit — proof positive you can't fix stupid.

  My curiosity in flames, I couldn't fathom how Hansen managed to get back into my life. Things had been going so well. I resolved not to let him get the best of me. I wheeled, brushed past without a word, and headed. down the long corridor to the operations center briefing room.

  An armed military policeman, six-foot four Sergeant Demetrius Jones, an ex-football player at Prairie View A&M, stood guard at the entrance. Jones and I were acquainted. He was often on duty at the front gate and played on the MP volleyball team.

  "May I see some identification sir?" His tone was unusually formal, must have been due to Hansen’s presence.

  The beefy MP preten
ded to inspect my ID card. Hansen opened the door and rushed in first. I glanced back and exchanged smiles with Jones. He also had a history with Hansen.

  Chapter 3 ~ The Operation

  Monday, 16 January: Operations Center, Fort Huachuca

  The briefing room was typical Army: institutional pale green walls with a long gray metal table and chairs. Pictures of Jimmy Carter and several generals adorned the walls, along with poster-sized photos of electronic gear and a large map covering the proving ground. The linoleum tile floor needed replacing. A lingering Lysol smell was the only evidence of some poor private’s recent attempt to clean the place.

  Around the table sat four Air Force officers and one civilian, Mack Gibson. The door clicked shut and Mack spoke up, "Colonel this is Ross Brannan."

  A tall Air Force officer with cropped silver-grey hair stood and introduced himself as Colonel Wilson but did not introduce the others. One man, a pilot, seemed familiar, but I couldn't recall why. His presence only added to my confusion and curiosity.

  "Come on in, take a seat," invited the colonel. He wore the wings of a combat pilot. The ribbons on his uniform symbolized a notable record in Vietnam. They usually don't hand out Silver Stars and Distinguished Flying Crosses for routine missions, unless you're a congressman's son.

  The only vacant spot, a gray metal chair patched with duct tape, lay directly across from Hansen. I avoided his stare and sat down.

  Wilson turned back towards me. "Mr. Brannan, I understand you're a Raven."

  "Brannan is a Celtic name for a black bird."

  "Any other reason?"

  "Raven is often used to describe my job in the military."

  Airborne ELINT intercept operators are nicknamed Ravens or Old Crows. ELINT is an acronym for electronic intelligence. I considered it a real honor to be a Raven. Years listening to, analyzing, and studying Soviet radars had given me a unique knowledge set.

  Wilson opened a folder and examined its contents. "Your military record is impressive."

  Hansen exhaled an audible sigh. I ignored the SOB.

  "A college drop-out, you enlisted in the Army at age nineteen and selected for training at Fort Devens as an ELINT signal analyst, followed by a nine-month tour in Southeast Asia, primarily in Vietnam."

  My time in Vietnam had been, as they say, in the rear echelon, relatively easy duty. I considered myself lucky when other people talked about their hardships.

  "I see you had temporary duty with the 41st Tactical Electronic Warfare Squadron at Takhli Air Base in Thailand." He glanced up. "I was there a few years later, flying F-105's with the 357th Tactical Fighter Squadron."

  "You were a Wild Weasel?"

  "Correct."

  Wild Weasel aircraft carried a sophisticated electronics array capable of detecting enemy radars. They also carried anti-radiation missiles, which homed in on the offending North Vietnamese air defense sites with devastating results.

  He asked, "Did you ever get to fly on any missions aboard the 41st's RB-66's?" The 41st was an Air Force electronic recon unit.

  Hansen sat with a smug smile waiting for me to respond. I started to reply but kept quiet. The SOB knew all about it, he had been my detachment commander in Thailand.

  Only a few months out of training at Fort Devens, the Army sent me to Vietnam as an ELINT signal analyst. A month later, the opportunity came for a choice TDY assignment in Thailand. I seized the moment. They were more than satisfied with my work and I managed to talk my way on a flight over Laos aboard a RB-66 recon aircraft. We searched for a modified version of the Fan Song fire control radar used by the North Vietnamese. My first airborne mission proved successful. I caught the signal at the right moment as the system switched to missile guidance.

  Problem was — I never asked for Captain Hansen's permission to make the flight. He found out when the Air Force flight commander recommended me for a citation. Hansen's response: ship my sorry butt back to Saigon. The incident almost ruined my career before it started. Never got the award but didn't get busted either.

  Wilson waited a moment and continued, "A year at Sinop in Turkey, six months with NSA at Fort Meade..." Sinop was a listening post on the Black Sea and Fort Meade, Maryland, headquarters of the super-secret National Security Agency. "...and re-enlisted for a two-year assignment to Asmara in Ethiopia." He paused and glanced up from the sheet. "So, you are familiar with Ethiopia. Did you travel around much?"

  "Yes sir, I managed to see quite a bit of Ethiopia and traveled some in Kenya." Kagnew Station, my best assignment ever, was located in Eritrea, near the Red Sea coast, a long way from prying brass. Something's fishy. I shot a quick glance at Hansen. Why’s that SOB here?

  "Very interesting … another assignment at Fort Meade … then six months at Cal Tech attending an advanced electronic warfare course … later you flew with the Army on the East German border as an airborne intercept operator … followed by four months flying with the Air Force off eastern Siberia."

  Wilson continued, "You were also employed field testing Quick Look. Then you—"

  Curiosity got the better of me and I interrupted the colonel mid-sentence, "I know I've led an interesting life, but what's this got to do with the here and now?"

  Hansen let out an audible mutter.

  A peeved Colonel Wilson paused and closed the folder. "As you may have read in the news, a war is raging in Africa, the Ogaden War between Ethiopia and Somalia."

  One of the Air Force officers strode over to a tripod and uncovered a map of North-East Africa and the Middle East. The CIA cartographic style was easily recognizable.

  "Yes sir, all I know is what’s been on the news." Now I was really suspicious.

  "Let me fill in some details. Ethiopia and Somalia have been engaged in an off-and-on war for three years. In July of last year, Somali forces invaded the Ogaden region of eastern Ethiopia and captured a few important towns. As you can see from the map, the Horn of Africa occupies a strategic location as it thrusts out into the Indian Ocean. The whole region is a choke point potentially threatening the free flow of oil to the West.

  "Initially, the Ethiopians maintained a marginal superiority on the ground. However, their air force was inadequate, only a few American built F-5 fighters. Facing them was a Somali air force consisting of a couple dozen Soviet MiG-21 fighters.

  "The Soviets were Somalia's primary arms supplier and considered them an important ally. However, in the last year, the Soviets switched sides, choosing the potentially more powerful Ethiopians. Ethiopia is now in the process of becoming a Soviet military client. Somalia has retained its Soviet supplied equipment and there are reports some East Bloc advisors have remained."

  Wilson stood and stepped over to the map. "The Ethiopians are now equipped with newly arrived Soviet armor and heavy artillery. The recent arrival of almost 10,000 Cuban troops from Angola bolstered their forces and the Ethiopians have taken the offensive under the direction of Soviet advisors."

  Wilson tapped the map with his finger. "Both forces are engaged in a fierce conflict here in the sparsely populated Ogaden desert region. Last week, after a series of air strikes against Somali positions, an Ethiopian division bolstered by Cuban armor and led by Soviet General Petrov moved toward Somali positions around Harer. Following heavy artillery and air-barrages, they attacked with T-54 and T-62 tanks. According to unconfirmed reports, one Somali brigade was destroyed with the loss of 3,000 men killed in action. The Somalis retreated to Jijiga and Dible, the last important crossroads in the area.

  "Local intelligence sources revealed the Soviets recently moved in additional advanced aircraft to bolster the Ethiopian offensive. The Soviets are also beginning to use our old facilities at Asmara airport for reconnaissance flights to patrol the Indian Ocean." He paused and took a breath. "There are also reports of Cuban and East German pilots arriving regularly in Addis Abba."

  Wilson tapped the map with more emphasis. "Let me be clear, a decisive victory by the Ethiopians will result in a major shift
in the balance of power in the Horn of Africa. Our government is concerned and even the French have deployed their aircraft-carrier Clemenceau to the coast of Djibouti."

  Wilson sat down. "Do you have any questions?"

  I still couldn’t figure out how I was involved. "Okay, they're beefing up the Ethiopians… So?"

  Wilson leaned back in his chair. "Four days ago, our assistant defense attaché in Nairobi interviewed a Cuban defector who had crossed into northern Kenya." He nodded towards a burly Air Force officer sitting at the table. "This is the officer, Major Albert Santini from our Nairobi embassy." Santini also wore pilots' wings and his ribbons showed he had also served in Vietnam.

  The major took up where Wilson left off, "The Cuban defector told us a story about a new group of Soviet advisors from an elite air defense regiment. They set up shop in a remote location at the main airfield and have been working around the clock under heavy security."

  "How reliable is this defector? Could this just be a story he made up?" I smelled a rat. With Hansen involved, there had to be one somewhere.

  "We suspected his account at first. Sources on the ground in Ethiopia checked out his basic information. The air defense unit in question often tests the newest and most sophisticated systems. Their appearance coincided with the arrival of a Soviet freighter, which was unloaded under tight security ten days ago."

  Wilson noticed my skeptical look and interjected, "The CIA suspects the Soviet's intend to field test a new air defense system. As you all know, the stress and unpredictability of actual battle conditions are the true test for the performance of any weapon's system. I have been tasked to find out what they have."

  "This guy is credible?"

  Santini replied, defensively, "We have no reason to believe he is a plant or feeding us a fairy tale."

  A fairy tale, that's probably a good analogy for this whole thing. "What was his reason for defecting?"