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

by R G Ainslee

  Now, self-conscious about my Great White Hunter outfit, I said, "You have a ride for me? Name’s Ross Brannan."

  "Yes sir." He motioned me towards the suburban. "Gunnery Sergeant King from the defense attaché's office."

  The sergeant, my height, but weighed at least twenty pounds more. His short-sleeved shirt revealed the difference, all muscle. With his close-cropped haircut, he was indeed a Marine. He opened the passenger door and I slid in.

  He keyed the ignition and nodded, not too subtly. "The embassy is only up the street sir, walking distance."

  I detected the jab. "Did they brief you on my security situation?"

  "No sir. Is there a problem?"

  "Yeah, someone tried to kill me yesterday. That's why I need a ride … and don't call me sir, I work for a living."

  He reached under the seat, pulled out a Marine issue M1911 semi-automatic pistol, placed it beside him, and glared at me as if he was still unsure. "You armed?"

  Not to be outdone, I produced the switchblade. "Only for up close and personal."

  "You know how to use that thing?"

  With a flick of the wrist, the blade popped open and revealed an obvious bloodstain, missed after killing the Arab. I looked him in the eyes. "Yeah, think so."

  He gave me a roguish grin. "Looks like we got it covered."

  * * *

  Sergeant King drove directly to the embassy down City Hall Way and entered a back-alley portal. I followed him through the rear door, bypassed security, and upstairs to the defense attaché section.

  The secretary briskly escorted me into an office with a secure telephone. She didn't introduce herself but left the impression she might have been military. The phone rang, Major Santini from Frankfurt.

  "We thought you were dead. What happened? Where’ve you been?"

  "No, still alive, but just barely. Had a head injury and can’t remember how I got here. Everything’s a blank—"

  "You don't remember the flight?"

  "Flight… in an airplane?" I recalled the flight suit and the shark. "No, not a thing."

  "You can’t recall the Raven-One mission?"

  Raven-One — the name resonated through my brain but couldn't make a connection. "No, vaguely familiar, but—"

  "You don't know what happened to Sam Collier?"

  A chill spread through my body. Sam Collier. "I don't…"

  "He flew the Blackbird. You mean you don't remember Colonel Wilson and Mildenhall?"

  A flicker of recognition, but the context was obscure. The Blackbird … Raven-One … Wilson … Mildenhall "Sam Collier, he was the pilot? Where is he?"

  "He's dead. The Navy recovered his body the next day."

  A ripple of anxiety radiated from deep inside. "What happened?"

  "He suffered wounds from a large caliber weapon."

  Santini’s words triggered a faint recollection: a mission, its reason and details still lost in an unfathomable mist.

  "Think I saw them. Aircraft… a Blinder and… what’s it called… a May, Il-38."

  "That's what we figured. The Navy tracked them on radar, but unable to intercept until too late. How did you get away?"

  The dense fog began to lift. Briefed him on what I remembered about the dhow and the basics of my escape and pursuit by the Cubans but left out all the details about Lisette. I wanted to keep her out of my troubles as much as possible.

  Santini said, "I won't be able to leave here for a day or so. Frankfurt's snowed in and not many flights are leaving Rhein-Main. Do you remember Captain Barker? He was with me at Mildenhall. Get with him and make a full report."

  Couldn’t recall Barker but didn't tell Santini. I needed some time to piece the new pieces of the puzzle together. "Okay, but I need to call Mack Gibson."

  "Call from the secure embassy phone and you can go over the technical details with him. I’ll contact Colonel Wilson and get back to you ASAP."

  I didn't understand what technical details he was talking about and didn't want to talk anymore. "Okay, I'll call Mack again, see you later."

  Alone in my thoughts, I leaned back and tried to grasp the situation. Fragments of the mission and the preceding events surfaced — the flight, engine failure, delayed ejection sequence, couldn't recall the decent or rescue. I closed my eyes; confident at last, the ordeal was almost over.

  * * *

  The phone jarred me awake. The secretary stood at the door. "For you, Mr. Gibson from Arizona." She closed the door and I picked up the receiver.

  "Santini tells me you have some sort of memory problem. You can’t remember the flight. What’s going on?"

  "No, I'm starting to recall certain things, but everything’s still pretty hazy. Fill me in on what I’m supposed to remember. Maybe it'll jog my memory."

  "Did you find the signal?"

  "Signal?"

  "Yes. The signal from the Cochise Project? Marsden's…"

  His question faded in a blur as my mind reeled. J. Andrew Marsden, the SOB that shot me and defected to the Russians. Marsden, the cause of it all, I wanted to get my hands on him. He turned traitor, tried to kill me, and who knows what else.

  "Ross, you still there?"

  "Yeah. What's this about a signal?" The mission … intercept a signal … The Cochise Project. But I had intercepted thousands of signals. The context lost in the mist.

  Mack patiently recounted our first meeting with Colonel Wilson, the Ogaden War, the Cuban defector, the Soviet special air defense regiment, my training in the Blackbird, and events at Mildenhall. Everything started to fall into place, except, the details of the flight were still elusive.

  "Sorry Mack. Just too much to process right now. Give me time to dwell on it and maybe it'll all come back." I tried to sound optimistic, but deep down inside doubts remained.

  "Okay, get some rest. We need you. Remember, you are our only data source. The black boxes we installed in the Blackbird are at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. It is imperative we find out what the Soviets have. If they perfected the Cochise Project, it means a disruption in our air defense capabilities for months or even years.

  "In the meantime, they could use the advantage to gain control over the Horn of Africa. From the news reports we're getting, that is a distinct possibility. They seem to have the Somali's on the run." He paused, "We're counting on you Ross. You're all we have."

  I hung up and slumped back in the chair, exhausted mentally and physically. The Raven-One mission was a failure. The Blackbird lost and Sam Collier dead. I was sick of the whole thing and wished it would just go away. At least I successfully evaded the Cubans.

  The Cubans. Why are they so keen to get me? The signal. Must've intercepted something important. Maybe it'll all come back in time.

  A simple life with no complications, that’s all I wanted. I closed my eyes and conjured up a vision: relaxing at the pool with Kara and a case of cold Tusker beer. Too bad, she's gone. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Perhaps I can make friendly with Lara after Lisette splits for Lamu. — Why am I hanging around here?

  Just as I was leaving, Santini's instruction to call Barker came to mind. I told the secretary, "Need to speak with Captain Barker, Major Santini's orders."

  "I'm sorry. He's not here. He's on Mount Kenya with a youth group from the embassy." She noticed my grimace. "Should return in a couple days."

  I wrote down Lara's phone number. "I'll be at this number. Call if you need me." I was almost out the door when the secretary's phone rang.

  "Mr. Brannan, one moment please. You have another call — the Major." She directed me back to the office with the secure line.

  Santini seemed excited. "We have important new information. Get with Captain Barker and call me back right away."

  "Barker's not here, he's on Mount Kenya with some group from the embassy. Not expected back for a few days."

  "Damn, with everything else going on, forgot all about the trip."

  "What's the new information?"

 
"Just got off the line with Colonel Wilson in Washington and briefed him regarding your situation. He filled me in on the technical aspects of the Raven-One mission and temporarily placed me in charge on this end. The colonel will arrive ASAP. There are new developments."

  "What kind of developments. Just spoke with Mack Gibson and he didn't—"

  "Can't go into that over the phone, need to know right now. What's your physical condition? Are you able to take on some strenuous activities?"

  "Okay, I guess. Still have occasional headaches, but… what kinda strenuous?"

  "You need to get out of the embassy and find Barker. I'll be back in Nairobi day after tomorrow, latest."

  "Hold on — don't understand why you need me. I plan to hang around here for a few more days and go home. Far as I’m concerned, my part in this fiasco is finished."

  Santini’s irritation was clear, even over the phone. "I can't order you to stay, but listen, we need you. Colonel Wilson will explain the situation. We may be able to salvage the operation. Can you at least wait until he arrives?"

  A few more days in Nairobi at government expense would give me time to figure out what to do with Lisette and get on with my life — might even run into Kara. Anyway, I wasn’t going anywhere without their permission. Had no passport, almost no money, and travelling to Lamu would be too dangerous.

  "Okay, just a couple of days, that's all."

  "Tell Karen, the secretary, to get back on the line and I'll have her arrange some transportation for you to Mount Kenya."

  "Wait a minute, can't you call up there? Do I really need to go?"

  "No, we can't just call, might attract too much attention. The park rangers would have to contact him on their radio, in the clear."

  "Okay, I get it. But, why can't I stay here?"

  "I don't want you hanging around the embassy. Too many prying eyes. This way we kill two birds with one stone."

  "Not sure I like your analogy."

  "No pun intended. This is important. I can't order you to go, but we need Barker."

  "And you don't need me at the embassy." I thought it over: What am I gonna do? Got no choice. Well, maybe Lara can get Lisette back to Lamu while I'm away, then… "Okay, I'll go."

  "Let me speak to Karen."

  After she hung up the phone, Karen told me to wait. Someone would be right up.

  I reentered the empty office and tried to phone Lisette at Lara's apartment, no answer. A call to the French embassy connected me with Lara.

  "Lara, this is Ross, can't get Lisette to answer at your apartment."

  "She has gone out to shop for new clothes and to the market to buy food. You will see her this evening." The inflection in her voice changed to a conspiratorial tone, "She wants to prepare you a special meal."

  Holy Cow — Maybe I do need to get outta town. "Something’s come up, won't be able to make it tonight. Have to go north for a couple days." Then it hit me. "You say she's shopping. She’s alone. Is that a good idea?"

  "Lisette has your pistol, she will be safe. And yes, she is alone." Her tone changed, more of a hard edge, "What is the purpose of your trip up north, if I may ask?"

  "Have to go meet someone, all I can say." Then it registered. "What if she's stopped by the police? How’ll she explain a Russian made pistol, with a silencer?"

  "Ross, do not fear. I must go my chief is calling me. Good-by, inform me when you return."

  Things seemed to be spinning out of control. Now, I had to worry about Lisette running around Nairobi with a pistol, a Russian pistol at that, and with a silencer. I regretted giving her the Makarov. She didn't even know how to use it. Moreover, I couldn't understand why Lara let her go out alone.

  The Cubans, what if they spot her on the street? El Jefe would not give up, one thing I knew for sure. Too much had happened, they would still be on the lookout, and they had to know we were in Nairobi. I thought about staying but decided it would be best to distance myself from her. She should be safe with Lara.

  A tap on the door jarred me back to reality. Sergeant King said, "Ready, sir?"

  "Yeah and my name’s Ross. Told you before, I work for a living, so don't give me none of that sir stuff."

  As we walked down the hall, he asked cautiously, "You military?"

  "No, I'm a full time civilian. Spent eleven years in the Army, for what it's worth."

  "Nam?"

  "Yeah, and Thailand, Germany, Turkey and Ethiopia among other places. How about you?

  Two tours, Khe Sanh, Danang and … you know across…"

  "Read you loud and clear, better left unsaid." He meant Laos, Cambodia, and other places in Southeast Asia. I had heard the stories about cross border operations.

  He asked, "You were in Special Forces?"

  "Hell no — do I look like a snake eater?"

  He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. "Okay, let’s go down to the supply room and draw some gear. You ever been up a mountain before?"

  "Yeah, let's see what you got."

  * * *

  The car slowed as we pulled up behind a truck. Sergeant King glanced at his watch. "Thirty more minutes we'll be at Moru Lodge. Bet it's been a long day for you."

  "Yeah, sure be good to sleep in a comfortable bed for a change." Lamu, at the hotel, seemed ages ago. My back ached, stiff from successive nights in the Land Rover and on Lara's couch. So much had happened in such a short time.

  The afternoon turned into a hectic non-stop scramble. We collected gear from the embassy supply room, including JanSport D2 backpacks and North Face sleeping bags. Suitable cool weather clothing borrowed from a like-sized Marine, the filthy Great White Hunter outfit deemed too lightweight for Mount Kenya.

  Considering my security problems, the sergeant decided a local vehicle would be more low-profile and hired a Peugeot station wagon. He also suggested we travel armed. I agreed. He recommended a lighter weapon than the standard issue M1911 .45 pistols. Thus, we each carried a 9x17mm Walther PPK semi-auto from his private collection. Although King wasn't a member of the security detachment, he seemed to have full access to their gear. Marines stick together.

  Santini had been right. I needed to leave the embassy. Before we left, I spotted the jerk Palmer Bradbury in the snack bar when we went down for a burger. For some reason, his name evoked a negative but undefined connotation. Fortunately, he didn't notice me. In the end, the most effective way to keep a low profile and avoid dimwits was to — Get out of Dodge.

  "Where you from Sergeant?"

  "Pittsburgh originally, ain't been back in years though. Guess the Corps my home now. How 'bout you?"

  "Born in Carrizozo, New Mexico, live in southern Arizona now. You married?

  "No, tried it three times, but it never took. You?"

  "Nope … came close one time." Thought back and wondered what life would have been with Lydia, my sweetheart killed in the wreck. Like Lisette, she was religious, a plain girl, not a member of the in-crowd, but we had something special, until that fateful day.

  My thoughts turned to Lisette: we met only a few days before and formed a bond based on our common tragedies. She was fixated on me, seemed dependent, and saw me as her protector. I cared about her, wanted her to be safe, but that was all. She wasn’t my type, not by a long shot, and I didn’t need any more grief. Neither did she.

  * * *

  We reached the Moru Lodge late in the afternoon, two hours after leaving Nairobi. The hotel, a low-slung one-story building set in a tropical garden along the riverbank, offered a peaceful setting. King parked the Peugeot and we ambled in to book a room.

  The overly pretentious clerk behind the reception desk curtly informed me, "No rooms are available."

  "Nothing?"

  "You have two options. You and your … companion," he gave the sergeant a leering sideways glance, "may stay in a hut down by the river or you may drive up to the climber's hut at the Meteorological Station."

  I suggested to King, "It'll be better to sleep at the Met Station. The
higher altitude will help us acclimatize for the climb."

  "Whatever you say. You're the expert."

  So much for a comfortable bed, knew from personal experience climber's huts beds aren’t any better than sleeping on the floor. Disappointed, we trudged back to the car as lengthening shadows poured across the valley.

  * * *

  An hour later, after driving through the forest and almost running over a monkey, we arrived at the Meteorological Station. The sun had long disappeared behind mountains to the west.

  The Met Station bunkhouse had an open common sleeping area, about half-full, mostly Europeans and Japanese. People gathered in small groups, engaged in quiet discussions, or busily preparing for the night in anticipation of the traditional early start. We settled in next to a group of Japanese climbers.

  "We can sleep in and leave later. These people will leave real early, like five a.m."

  King said, "Sounds good. You hungry?" He pulled out several familiar olive drab packages from his pack.

  "Oh boy, lurp, lurp, gonna make me burp."

  After a hearty laugh, he said, "You take first dibs: beef hash, chili con carne, or 'scalloped potatoes 'n ham. This’s all they had left in the supply room."

  "You’re right, not much of a choice." There was only one choice for a guy from New Mexico. "I’ll try the chili."

  LRP's or Long-Range Patrol rations: designed by the Army, supplied by the lowest bidder, dehydrated, long lasting, and unappetizing, unless you were stuck in some jungle hellhole. Everybody called them lurps. At least they were filling, the deserts always the best part.

  King exploded, "Damn, that SOB stole the desert packets." He rummaged through the pack. "Wait 'till I get back, Johnson’s gonna to pay for this. Him and his sweet tooth, for some reason, he loves them John Wayne bars."

  Chapter 17 ~ The Mountain

  Thursday, 16 February: Meteorological Station - Mount Kenya

  Plans for a late start crashed as boisterous early risers rattled, scraped, thumped, and cursed in their haste to get ready. The smell of coffee brewing was the last straw. We gave up and joined them. A friendly German climber offered a couple of cups to go with our lurp breakfast of escalloped potatoes and yucky ham.