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

by R G Ainslee

  I sensed danger. The audio returned, the pitch changed, the buzz became a solid tone, and went silent. Seconds later, a glimmer caught the corner of my eye.

  "What the hell was that?" Sam yelled. Occupied with the new signal, I neglected to warn him about the new danger.

  "Something's tracking us."

  "Tracking hell, he just fired on us. What is it?"

  "What we came here to find."

  I switched to the newly installed black box to check for harmonics produced by the Long Track. The whipsaw sound resumed. At 6759 megahertz: encoding imbedded on the third harmonic, just what the Cochise project was trying to do. The signal disappeared.

  "They’re on us, let’s go."

  "Full emergency power, we're out of here."

  The signal re-appeared, changed to a solid tone, then silence. A missile cruised by in the distance. We had found something new and dangerous. The ECM systems did not respond. They should have taken over automatically and dealt with the problem.

  We flew on in silence. The only audible sounds emanated from the Long Track in the E-band, with no sign of tracking radar.

  There was no doubt. The intercept presented all the characteristics of the Cochise Project signals, almost an exact replica. But they missed. Perhaps the instability problem hadn't been resolved. Random microbursts may not be able to make course corrections fast enough for our speed and altitude. The missile, we should have been well above any known system's maximum altitude. Was it something new or an improved model of an existing system?

  A white flash caught my eye, another missile on the starboard side. A thud shook the aircraft. I yelled, "What was that?"

  "Explosion in front of us at two o'clock … a missile went up in front of us and arced over about a thousand meters away. He missed."

  "Could you tell what it was?"

  "Negative. Too far away."

  Now I was confused and worried. No signal appeared on the scope from the third missile. There should have been.

  Then I realized my earphones were silent. The green panoramic display showed a flat line. Either the Ethiopians had shut down all systems or my receiver was dead. I flipped a series of switches, re-powered the receiver, nothing worked.

  Sam announced we had left Ethiopian airspace and were over Somalia. He tried to raise the tankers for our next refueling, received no answer, and tried a minute later with no success.

  Sam’s voice crackled over the intercom, "Radio communications may be out. Compass too. Might have some damage."

  "Have the same problem, my equipment’s dead."

  "Must be some sort of electrical failure."

  "Intercom still works."

  "At least it's not total. We're still flying, that's what counts."

  "How’re you going to contact the tankers?"

  "I’ll keep trying."

  "If that don’t work, then what?"

  "Have to make visual contact, done it before, don’t believe it’ll be a problem. The tanker crews are always where they’re supposed to be. I'll signal with my flashlight for the approach. They know the drill, there's nothing to worry about."

  "How we gonna land without communications?"

  "The tanker crew will notify Diego Garcia. They’ll track us in and make sure we have a clear approach. No problem."

  We flew on for a tense few minutes. Without warning, an obvious instability shook the aircraft. The side of the seat slammed into my helmet and the Blackbird began to yaw, pitch, vibrate and then — silence — the powerful jet engines no longer roaring.

  "What happened?"

  "We’ve had an un-start. Don’t worry." Un-start was Blackbird talk for when your engine quits.

  After a few long moments, Sam announced, "The RPM dropped too low for a restart, we're out of luck."

  "What you mean out of luck?"

  "Gonna have to eject."

  The pucker factor increased big time. "Are we still over Somalia, can you keep us airborne until we clear the coast?

  "We cleared the Somali coast a while ago. We’ll descend to 10,000 feet and eject over water." He tried the radio. "Can’t raise anyone, not to worry, they should be tracking us, I’ll tell you when to eject. You ever ejected before?"

  "Hell no, I've never even jumped before."

  "Just ride it down. It'll do the work for you."

  I had gone through ejection seat training in the Army and we didn't have time to practice a real-time ejection drill at Beale. I thought about giving skydiving a try a couple of times. Now, I was in for an epic first jump.

  "We're clear of the Somali coast, should have Kenya coming up soon. I’ve got enough airspeed to fly this bird a bit farther."

  Minutes later, the Blackbird shuddered on the edge of stall. Sam nosed down, regained speed, and leveled off. His voice calm, "Can't keep this brick in the air much longer."

  A glance out the little side window, the black expanse of the Indian Ocean on a near moonless night loomed lonely and foreboding. Numbness radiated through my core, nothing to do but wait.

  The Blackbird shuddered. "Time to go," said Sam. "You go first. I’ll follow in a couple of seconds. You don't have to do anything after you eject. Just ride her down."

  Easy for you to say. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Not overly religious, but I said a silent prayer. One more glance out the side window.

  Sam still calm and professional, "Okay, here goes — Eject."

  The ejection D-ring positioned between my knees, in front of the seat. Fumbled for the ejection D-ring, took a solid grasp and with both hands and tugged upward. After a sharp tug, the canopy is supposed to unlock and shoot free. Nothing happened.

  "Eject — pull the ring — go now."

  A frantic tug at the lever with both hands — nothing happened. Time stood still. Paused a few seconds and re-tried with the same results.

  A sharp bang rocked the aircraft. Sam ejected and soared over my head, a quick peek out the window — black water, no horizon.

  A jerk on the D-ring, it didn't move. Death stared me in the face. The aircraft began to vibrate. Time was running out. I repeated a prayer, half expecting my next prayer to be in person.

  The secondary ejection T-handle lay on the left side of the seat. I reached and pulled the secondary canopy jettison T-handle with no result. I grasped the secondary ejection T-handle and recalled — the seat fires at once, without regard to the canopy.

  I jerked up on the secondary ejection T-handle. The last desperate movement produced an explosion, the seat fired, my head whipped back, the seat blasted through the canopy, and a flash of white sent me into a black unconscious world.

  Chapter 6 ~ Adrift

  Monday, 6 February: Indian Ocean

  Heat… intense burning heat… hard rough surface… strange sounds… a shadowy visage spoke … an unintelligible tongue, "Jina lakonani?"

  Unable to understand, powerless to form words, I failed to respond, lost in the dimness of a murky world. Bleary eyes struggled to focus. A nebulous existence wandered aimlessly, a slow motion confused carrousel, dominated by omnipresent agony.

  Images evolved, more faces black and brown, inquisitive, and apprehensive. "Unatoka wapi?"

  Pain my only connection with reality. A strange realm: light and heat danced a mysterious chaotic ballet. I floated on a bright shimmering surface, a mirage, a world with no form or meaning.

  A face appeared and spoke. My head spun, reeled, a fog drifted in. The dark edge of the conscious world closed in… a mist… the world faded…

  * * *

  How long I drifted, I don't know. At last, the mist lifted, I struggled to a sitting position, made it to my elbows. An iridescent silver-grey world spread endlessly. Water … surrounded by a flat plane … shallow waves … no land in sight … drifting on an endless sea.

  Throbbing … nonstop dull heavy blows reverberated inside my head. Faint images: flying, falling and floating tiptoed through my fragile consciousness. I existed in a confused dream world
, verging on a strange powerful nightmare, unable to remember why, how, or where. Panic crept in … fear of drowning…

  First inklings of clarity emerged. Rough wooden boards thrust into my back. Formless illusions: an exotic land mixed with an ancient sailing vessel floating on a tropical sea. A large white canvas evoked storm cloud images.

  A face appeared, weathered brown skin, grey hair, and a mouth filled with rotten teeth. A dirty wrapping covered its head. An old man dressed in a well-worn once white robe offered a drink. I grasped the battered metal bowl, mouth dry, desperate for moisture. An eager gulp, a foul taste, the disgusting liquid wouldn't go down and drooled off parched lips. After a few more tries, I threw up. My mind began to fade. The world rocked back and forth … pitiless rays reflected on the shimmering water…

  * * *

  Caught in the embrace of a sweltering sun, all desire to move smothered by overwhelming heat. A faint memory: a cool place, unable to place where, or how long ago, the answer buried deep. A gasp for breath — struggle to escape suffocation inside a heavy wet envelope — one last twist and broke free.

  Seized by panic — a realization — I'm on a boat.

  My eyes swept around the small world of my fragile existence. Figures moved about. A single sail billowed with the wind. A long wooden hull carved a path through the sea. The scene spun through my mind, beyond comprehension. A throbbing sensation reverberated inside my head, accompanied by pain, unrelenting pain.

  Someone approached with a piece of bread. Hungry and thirsty, consumed by a need for nourishment. I reached out and seized the offering. Hard and tasteless, the bread was satisfying in a strange way.

  A frenzied shout followed by screams ripped the air. Feet scurried across the deck. Oblivious to the commotion, my focus lingered on the food. The small chunk, a precious possession, a feast of heroic proportions.

  A panicked cry followed by a thunderous boom — the craft trembled, cries, terror echoed across the water. The half-eaten crust fell to the deck. The dream world shattered: my head swam in a sea of confusion, ears rang from the explosion, heart thumped out of control, my brain shut down, I cowered in fear and braced for another blast.

  The boat sailed on. The faces now, whole men, black and brown, young, and old, some dressed in robes and others in diaper like pants. I searched for the precious bread, found it, and resumed my desperate repast.

  A man pointed at the sky and yelled in a strange language. A tiny silver splinter soared into the clouds and sped away from us at great speed. The men scurried around in panic. The silver splinter climbed higher, about to disappear into a cloud. Frozen in place, I focused on the unreal image, a familiar yet unidentifiable form curving to the left in a slow arching turn.

  Abruptly, the boat lurched, the single large sail flapped about, and the hull began to go around. In the confusion, a man had fallen overboard. He shouted, waved, desperate to stay afloat. Blood stained his forehead. The sails luffed into the wind and the craft came to a halt beside the floundering man.

  Men rushed to the rail, the hull heeled over, a shadow appeared, a fin cut through the waves — shark. Hands reached down and hauled the man aboard. The beast emerged yards away, broke the surface in a defiant act, dived, and vanished under the keel.

  The injured man collapsed to the deck and cried in pain. A crewmember tended his wound and dabbed his cut with a dirty wet rag. He wasn't badly hurt, but his traumatic expression bore witness to his brush with death.

  Another cry went up. All eyes fixed on the sea. The shark cruised menacingly and began to circle. The dull grey creature flicked its powerful tail. Its sleek skin and yellow eyes shimmered in the sunlight as it continued its circuit around the boat.

  I directed my eyes skyward, unable to move, transfixed by the silver splinter. It curved gracefully past the clouds, dipped to the horizon, and almost disappeared except for an occasional glimmer. Flashes became more frequent, grew larger, transformed into a familiar shape heading straight for me. The gleaming object raced closer and closer until it roared past directly behind the boat.

  A concussion produced by the powerful roar of jet engines overwhelmed my senses and drove away the pain. A plane sailed past, so near I reached out and tried to touch the wing. It pulled up and shot away like an arrow climbing in a graceful arc.

  A flash of comprehension, accompanied by an unexplainable chill, somehow, I understood, it searched for me. The veil of passive stupor lifted, replaced by a rising tide of intense fear.

  A flash in the water caught my attention. A small yellow inflatable boat trailed in the wake. On the deck, a helmet sat on top an orange pack. A glance down at my legs, my arms, my body, revealed a strange green suit.

  The aircraft, with sweptback wings and two jet engines at the base of the tailfin, departed into a cloudbank. I sensed something dangerous had discovered me. The yellow boat and the green suit represented peril. Immediate action was needed before it returned.

  In frantic haste, I stripped off both outer and inner layers, leaving only light green long johns. Soaked in sweat from the struggle, a breeze brought welcome relief.

  I heaved the green suit, helmet, and orange bag into the yellow boat. A long knife lay on the wooden deck. I grabbed the handle, leaned over the stern, and stabbed at the fabric. A whoosh, air poured from a large gash. I slashed at the line separating me from the objects that stood for danger. The rope severed, the raft and contents drifted and began to sink.

  The shadow reappeared, smashed against the life raft. The creature lifted its head out of the water, the green suit wedged in its gaping jaws. The shark slid under the waters and vanished.

  The remains floated a while longer and sank into the depths, only the sea and the ancient sailing vessel remained. A strange sense of relief and loneliness washed over me. My grip relaxed, and the knife dropped to the deck.

  The men talked excitedly and shot quick questioning glances in my direction, their eyes bright with fear and distrust. Their chatter unintelligible, but without a doubt, they spoke about me. Hope faded, isolated, confused, afraid, surrounded by hostile faces, and alone except for my constant companion —incredible pain.

  * * *

  We sailed on, heat and humidity unrelenting in its torpid embrace. The sea calm, a whispering wind carried us along at an unhurried pace.

  The men went about their business and left me to my thoughts. I tried to piece together what had happened. Nothing made sense. Questions with no answers rumbled through my mind. I had no past, only the mystery of the present.

  Little-by-little, my thoughts came together. The green suit and helmet implied I had been in an aircraft. Vague images from a past life in the desert began to arise. Names and faces flickered in my memory: someone called Mack, a tall silver haired figure in a blue uniform, a man with a burr haircut elicited a strange undefined feeling. Who are they? I had no answers.

  The man in charge approached me. He seemed to be about fifty years old, thin, not tall, with taut weathered brown skin. He spoke, asking a question.

  I shook my head and asked, "Do you speak English?" The expression on his face and his manner made it clear he did not understand.

  "What is your destination?" I waved my hand towards the bow.

  "Sielewi." He seemed puzzled, no sign of comprehension.

  "Where are you sailing to?" I tried to simulate a boat on the waves with my hands.

  His eyes brightened and waved an arm in a wide arc and spoke softly, "Sisi kwenda, Zanzibar," the only comprehensible word, Zanzibar. He held up both hands and counted four fingers.

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  The old man pointed at the sun and continued his discourse in an unfathomable language. Apparently, Zanzibar was four days away.

  Zanzibar — the word, exotic and, for some unknown reason, menacing. Africa … the ocean … the Indian Ocean … off the coast of Africa … How did I get here?

  * * *

  The craft sailed on as the sun began its retreat towards
the west. Despite the heat and dripping with sweat, my skin felt cold and clammy. Dizziness accompanied a dreamy floating sensation. An attempt to walk about the deck produced another bout of puking.

  Later, a flash off the stern, a bright surface caught the sun, a form evolved into a recognizable shape on course for the boat.

  Hope lifted my spirits. Are they coming to rescue? I looked to the men. They scurried about, shouted, and pointed towards the object with fear — unbridled infectious fear. I sensed it searched for me. Why? What have I done?

  Unwilling to take a chance, I hid among wicker baskets under the small white canvas canopy. An aircraft approached. Closer and closer, only a few hundred feet off the water. A short nose with a bulge under the cockpit, a long aft-fuselage with a sharp tail protrusion, and four turboprop engines — my worst fears realized.

  A large bomber soared past at low level. The flight crew visible, white faces examined the boat and a man with a camera took pictures. They must have seen me, not a much room to hide on a seventy-foot wooden boat.

  The intruder climbed, made a long slow graceful turn, and soared by on the opposite side. Wash from the giant turboprop engines filled the sails. The craft made a sudden uncontrolled roll to port. The captain expertly regained control and resumed his heading.

  The second arrival excited the crew more than ever. Obviously, a close encounter with low flying airplane was not an everyday occurrence, at least not this close and not twice in one day. My eyes followed the track as it circled around in a wide curve, descended, and completed another low-level pass behind the boat. Finally, it turned north, climbed, regained cruising altitude, and disappeared into the clouds. Stillness fell over the now darkening warm blue sea.

  From the recesses of my mind: pictures from a book and technical data came to mind, the context unclear. A recollection formed: the first had been a supersonic bomber, the second a long-range maritime patrol bomber.

  Blinder … May … Wet Eye … words reverberated through my mind, an elusive familiarity, something from my past. Soviet. My gut tightened. How did I know that?