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

by R G Ainslee

  We packed our gear and prepared to move out. The park ranger approached and asked for our permit. We registered and inquired about the embassy youth group.

  "The Americans left late yesterday morning for Mackinder's Camp. Today they should be well up the mountain and tonight are booked for the Glacier Hut."

  "We'll catch up with them at the glacier."

  "You are very ambitious. We recommend people stay at Mackinder's Camp for a night before climbing to the glacier. You are aware of altitude sickness are you not? It can kill you, if you go too fast."

  "Yes, we’re aware and plan to take it easy."

  We thanked the ranger, shouldered our packs, stuffed excess gear in the Peugeot, and started up the mountain. Twenty yards along the trail, King asked, "What he said about altitude sickness, can it really kill you?"

  "Yeah, we'll need to pace ourselves. Just be sure to drink plenty water. If you get a bad headache and can't continue, stop, rest a while, and go back down if necessary."

  "You done this before?"

  "Lots of times." Didn't tell him, the last time happened to be six years ago, in the Himalayas, or I was susceptible to altitude sickness if I pushed too hard.

  Mount Kenya, the second highest peak in Africa had several environmental zones, including forest and alpine. The Met Station trailhead, our starting point, was located 10,000 feet in altitude and zero degrees' latitude on the Equator. The glacier lay more than a mile higher at almost 16,000.

  * * *

  A half hour later, at our first rest stop, we paused and took a drink. Several climbers trudged ahead on the well-worn track. One couple shuffled by, moving downhill, suffering, returning to the Met Station.

  At the top of a rise, the view back down the trail presented a spectacular vista. A party of three climbers overtook us. In the distance, a vehicle drove up to the Met Station and parked. Curiosity got the best of me. The lens in King's 7 X 50 M15 field glasses came into focus and revealed a black Land Rover. Three men exited the vehicle.

  A silent alarm went off. Handed the binoculars back to the sergeant, and said, "Take a gander at the black vehicle."

  He viewed the scene for a few seconds. "Bet it's a rental."

  "Think so?"

  "You got reason to worry? Think they're some of your boys?"

  "Not sure. Maybe I’m just being paranoid."

  King stuffed the binos back in his pack. "Like they say, just ‘cause you’re paranoid, don’t mean they ain’t out to get you."

  The wider track turned into a path. A few hundred yards later, the forest ended. An open area known as the vertical bog spread before us. In the wet season, a series of muddy hummocks and scattered patches of tussock grass. Luckily, February was dry.

  We kept a slow and steady pace through the dry bog. At each rest break, I scanned the trail below, but couldn't detect anyone suspicious.

  Past the end of the bog, King guzzled a big swig. "Canteen’s getting low."

  "The ranger said they have water at the camp. Should be about another hour."

  * * *

  After four hours on the trail, we dragged into Mackinder's Camp at almost 14,000 feet. A spectacular vista lay ahead: the Teleki Valley, glaciers, and high peaks. The trail zigzagged to the right, and up the rocky slope to the glacier.

  The sergeant didn't show any ill effects from the climb. I asked, "How ya doin’?"

  "Okay, but it's getting difficult. You know, Marines are supposed to operate at sea level. How ‘bout you?"

  "Same here." But didn't tell him about the pain building in my head. "Let's take ten, fill our canteens, and push on." The hard part was yet to come.

  The Mackinder's Camp ranger approached and asked, "Do you have a tent booked?"

  "No, we’ll just get some water and head on up to the glacier."

  "I recommend you rest one night before continuing." He gestured towards the glacier trail. "The climb is very difficult."

  "No, we'll keep going, need to meet some people on the glacier."

  "What the hell." King pointed towards the rocks. "A freakin beaver." Ten yards away perched on a rock, a medium sized animal that indeed looked like a beaver.

  "Didn't know they had beavers in Kenya." I was about to ask the ranger, but he left to meet a group of climbers trudging up the trail. The creature scurried off into the rocks.

  We ambled down to the swift flowing glacial stream and refilled our canteens. The water was probably okay, but we dropped purification pills in just to make sure.

  * * *

  About half way up, we paused and sat down for a long rest. We had trudged for more than an hour up the rock-strewn track. Every few steps we slid back down a bit, forcing us to repeat the step. The steep incline was tougher than the trail. My head pounded and breathing became difficult. The Marine handed the altitude better than expected.

  Once more, I focused the binoculars down the valley. Two men, past Mackinder's Camp, stood out like specks.

  King asked, "Ya still think those guys are following us?

  "Can't tell, but I'd bet the farm they are."

  We shouldered our packs and continued the slip slide journey up slope. Slip and slide. Stop and drink water. Two steps forward, slide back one. Stop, inhale, and drink. Small stones tumbled past, dislodged by climbers ahead.

  The crest — seemed only yards further on — mocked our progress. At last, we topped the ridge, the hut stood a hundred yards away across a rock and ice strewn field. My head felt like it was about to split open. Exhausted, I collapsed on a large rock pile, mouth parched, stomach queasy, and on the verge of throwing up.

  Several people sat in front of the hut, savoring warm rays from the sun. King didn't recognize anyone. Too tired to go search for Barker and his group, I settled back on the pack and surveyed the spectacular view. Kilimanjaro rose from the plains one hundred miles to the south, we were on top of the world.

  A parka-clad ranger strolled over and asked for our permit. "You purchased this today? You made very good time. Are you staying at the hut?"

  "Not sure. Is the party from the American embassy here?"

  "Yes, they are inside. One young girl is ill."

  "I'll check on them," volunteered King. I didn't argue because I couldn't remember what Barker looked like. He dropped his pack beside mine and went with the ranger.

  Sprawled out on the rocks, dreading whatever was to come next, I pulled out the field glasses, leaned forward, and peered down-the rock-strewn slope.

  The two men inched closer, about a third of the way up. One man paused, shielded his eyes from the bright sun, and gazed up-slope. He seemed vaguely familiar, had to be one of the Cubans, maybe not one I had seen before, but fit the type. The other man sat on a rock facing down slope. They didn't give the impression of being regular climbers.

  Glanced back, checked on King's whereabouts, nowhere in sight. I wondered what to do when the men arrived. Barker probably wasn't armed. At least King and I were. The odds even, two on two. Dug the Walther PPK from the pack, checked the magazine, racked the slide, chambered a round, engaged the safety, and stuck it in my jacket pocket.

  A faint movement caught the corner of my eye. I raised the binoculars, refocused. They were moving — moving down slope — back down towards Mackinder's Camp, apparently unable to continue. A confrontation avoided. However, they could be waiting for us somewhere along the trail.

  King returned with Barker. I recognized him from Mildenhall. A big guy dressed in a fancy blue parka and shod with heavy mountain boots. A few more details came into focus.

  "You okay?" asked Barker. "We thought you were dead."

  "Right now, I'm more dead than alive."

  "Sergeant King says we may have a problem. What's up?"

  After I filled him in on the situation, he responded with a few questions, and said, "We’ll start back down first thing in the morning. I’ll try to find you a couple spots in the hut."

  "What about your group?"

  "There are three oth
er adults, no problem."

  "We need to get on our way back down soon as possible."

  He canted his head towards the sun. "Too late in the day for a full decent, we best wait ‘till morning."

  "Need to go ASAP." My head was killing me, and the only sure cure was to descend to lower altitude. "Santini wants you back in Nairobi tomorrow."

  He glanced at King and took one more look down the valley. "Whatever you say. I'll tell the others and get my gear."

  "We've have another problem. Some goons seem to be following us."

  He wrinkled up his eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "Spotted a couple of guys coming up the trail, probably Cuban. I keep running into these guys. Don't know how they know where to find me. Right now, they’re headed back down to Mackinder's Camp."

  "You think they're armed?"

  "They always have been … usually Russian pistols with silencers."

  Barker viewed the men with the field glasses. "What these fellows look like?"

  I described the Cubans best I could: tough guys wearing semi-military brown jackets and pants. So far, all of them had fit the same pattern.

  Barker scrambled across the rocks to the hut and spoke with the hut ranger in Swahili. He pointed to us and then back down the slope towards Mackinder's Camp. The ranger appeared agitated, pulled out a portable radio, stepped over to the edge, and spoke into the mike.

  Barker sauntered back with a broad smile on his face.

  "What did you tell him?"

  "Told him you spotted two guys shooting at hyraxes down past Mackinder's Camp."

  "What's a hyrax?"

  "Didn't you notice those furry little animals running around on the rocks, when you were coming up?"

  "You mean the ones that look like beavers?"

  "Yes. They're all over the place."

  Sergeant King laughed, "Forgot to tell you Captain Barker is probably the best BS artist in the embassy." Barker gave him a mock frown.

  "Were you talking Swahili to him?"

  "Yes. I completed a course before this assignment. Get to practice every day, comes in handy."

  The ranger returned with an Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder. "My assistant at Mackinder's Camp has apprehended two men with guns. He needs assistance to move them down to the Met Station. Duty calls." He saluted and headed down the rocky slope.

  "Let's go, my head's killing me, gotta to get off this mountain ASAP."

  "Sure you don't need some rest," asked Barker.

  "Yeah, but the only thing that’ll help this headache is to go down the mountain. Let's saddle up and get outta here."

  * * *

  The sun dipped low, about to disappear over the ridge as we entered Mackinder's Camp. First, we stopped at the stream to refill our canteens. The ranger from the glacier hut proudly marched over and thanked us for spotting the poachers. He asked us to identify the men. The Cubans lay hog-tied on the cold ground between two tents.

  "Yes, these are the men," I pronounced with solemnity.

  The ranger bragged with an air of pride, "They offered little resistance."

  One of the Cubans breathing hard, seemed almost passed out, and didn’t look up. I recognized the SOB, the shorter one last seen at the Mombasa consulate. The other, a taller man with a thin mustache, glared straight at me with fire in his eyes. Thought about asking him a few questions but decided to leave well enough alone.

  "I removed these guns from the men." The camp ranger held two Makarov PB-6P9 semi-auto pistols.

  "What odd guns," said the hut ranger.

  "Those long things on the end. Are they silencers?" asked Barker.

  The hut ranger’s face showed a flash of recognition and he spoke to the camp ranger. "That is why you did not hear shots."

  Barker took it to the next level. "Looks like you may have apprehended some spies. Only spies carry guns like those."

  Their eyes revealed they took the bait. "Spies — what kind of spies?"

  Not to be outdone, I came back with, "There's a war going on, maybe they’re Somali."

  A moment of triumph. "Yes, of course. We have captured Somali marauders."

  Barker weighed in with a conspiratorial tone, "Listen, we don't need to be involved in this, you two can take all the credit."

  The hut ranger paused, stared at the camp ranger, and agreed. "Yes, that will be for the best."

  The camp ranger seemed pleased and exclaimed, "We will be promoted for sure."

  Glanced over to Barker and cocked my head towards the downslope trail.

  Barker noticed my gesture and told the ranger, "We gotta go."

  "No, the hour is much too late. You may stay here. We have tents available. There will be no charge and we will prepare a meal for you."

  "Thanks, but I have a bad case of altitude sickness, must get down right away."

  "It will be dark soon. Do you not have a torch?"

  I glanced over at my companions. King held up an olive drab MX-99 angle head flashlight.

  The camp ranger insisted, "Do you need medical attention? We will call headquarters."

  "No, I'll be all right once we get down from the mountain. It’s happened before. I know what to do."

  Disappointed, the hut ranger said, "Very well, thank you and good luck."

  We shoved-off single file down the track towards the Met station. A half hour later darkness descended with a vengeance. King switched on his flashlight. We blindly followed the yellow spot down the dimly illuminated trail.

  The batteries died less than an hour later, somewhere in the vertical bog. We stumbled, fell, stumbled, and fell again, countless times before we decided we had gone astray in the dark.

  King blared, "Were lost — what now?"

  My solution. "The one thing we do know is the Met Hut is downhill. I suggest we continue on…"

  "Brilliant."

  "...downhill."

  Sergeant King was exasperated. Couldn't blame him, if we missed the hut, we might spend the night wandering around or even end up in the forest below, dodging lions, elephants, and whatever.

  Barker shouted, "Trees ahead. We need to go north a bit. Maybe we'll hit the trail."

  "Thanks Captain," said King, "glad somebody in this outfit can navigate."

  We turned north, trudged across the slope, stopped several more times to get our bearings and after ten minutes, found the track. Thirty minutes later, we caught sight of a light at the Met Station. Five minutes later we were home free, exhausted, dead tired, hungry, and thirsty.

  "We should check in with the ranger," said Barker. "Do we stay here for the night?"

  "Hey, let's don't take any chances. Skip it. The Peugeot's over there. One other guy got out of the vehicle. He's probably inside the hut. Better let sleeping dogs lie, let's just get outta here."

  Barker reluctantly agreed. King was already loading our gear.

  I crept over to check out the black Land Rover and slash the tires. I didn't want the third man to have a way to follow us. The passenger door was unlocked, and I slipped into the front seat. No key in the ignition — appeared they learned their lesson. A quick check in the glove compartment and the back seat turned up nothing of interest.

  Satisfied, I reached for the handle, pushed on the door to exit, and met resistance with a metallic clunk. A startled glance through the closed window revealed a silencer with a pistol attached to the other end —pointed at my head.

  The man with the pistol spoke in Swahili. He was Kenyan not Cuban, the one walking by the consulate in Mombasa. He placed his free hand on the outside handle and started to open the door. This left a momentary vulnerability, his attention focused on the door.

  Despite being dead tired, my senses accelerated to the max. I visualized in slow motion what was about to happen. My reaction pure instinct, without thinking, a hard shove on the door struck the pistol. The barrel deflected to his right. The pistol fired, produced a muffled pop, and a zing as the bullet glanced off the rear door.

&nb
sp; I pounced out, thrust hard, and smashed the door against his shoulder. Unbalanced, he stumbled backwards, but didn't fall. He regained his balance and fired a shot that hit the front door. A sense of déjà vu: I stood exposed. He raised the pistol to finish me.

  "Hey, Ross — You okay?" King yelled from the direction of our car.

  The man looked away. His eyes searched the night, preoccupied with the voice. I charged past the door and dived straight at his legs. A muffled crack, another shot whistled over my head and clanged against the Land Rover. The knee-high tackle drove him backwards.

  The pistol tumbled to the ground. I scrambled to gain traction. He rolled to his right and escaped my grip. I slipped, scurried, and tried to grab him. In a moment, he was on his feet. A click from his switchblade knife ignited an explosion of adrenalin. I rolled away from him. He crouched, knife in hand.

  The hot pistol barrel brushed my arm. The Kenyan saw it too. I grabbed the weapon and twisted over on my back. He lunged forward with blade extended and dived straight at me. I squeezed off a shot and spun left. Momentum carried him past me to the ground. He rolled once and ended face up in the dirt, blood streamed from his right eye.

  "What the hell?" yelled King. He had rushed over to check on the noise.

  The man’s body twitched a few times and went rigid.

  Adrenalin pumped at full bore. The man had caught me unaware, almost a fatal mistake. He was waiting outside for the Cubans. I assumed he would be inside the hut. My sixth sense failed, I almost died … almost.

  Half out of breath, I uttered a desperate plea, "Let's get outta here."

  King kneeled and examined the man. "What about him?"

  King's question jerked me back to reality. I inhaled a deep breath. "He's dead. Bring the car over and we'll dump him down the road. Can't leave him here."

  King hustled back to get Barker and I checked the man for car keys. His pockets held only a single pack of cheap Russian Belomorkanal cigarettes and a yellow box of Estonian matches. I found a blanket behind the rear seat.

  Barker pulled up with the Peugeot and asked, "Is he dead?"