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

by R G Ainslee

  The prospect of sailing for any length of time with Mary Ann was not entirely pleasant. I met her before. Married three times, the last to a third-rate actor whose biggest role was playing a corpse on Perry Mason. She was about my age, and I'll have to say, an exceptionally beautiful woman. Regrettably, she was also highly opinionated, unreasonably proud of herself, and on the prowl for husband number four.

  I read between the lines and knew exactly what she was setting up, just one of the hazards of being a single man around Jennifer. She viewed me as halfway presentable, thus eligible. Her gaze in my direction told the whole story.

  Well maybe it won't be too bad. She is good-looking. We'll see. Just gotta stay sober enough to avoid the quickie marriage place.

  Jake brought the sloop into the anchorage. Jennifer and I furled the sails. I hurried forward, released the anchor, and we swung around until the flukes made purchase on the sandy bottom. A stolen glance towards the dock, no one was there. Could I be so lucky?

  Jennifer hopped into the dinghy and stared the motor. She urged us to hurry. Jake and I grabbed our papers, ready to go ashore.

  We approached the dock. Jennifer, at the stern handling the small Seagull outboard motor, eagerly scanned the marina for signs of Mary Ann. Jake and I sat across from her with our backs to the dock. I couldn't stand to look.

  Jennifer quivered with excitement. "Someone is on the pier. Is that her?"

  Jake glanced back and shrugged. He was as excited as I was.

  "Yes … there she is … no, it's not her … oh my, who can it be?"

  I twisted around. A petite figure wearing a colorful embroidered Mexican peasant dress and a large straw hat was running down the dock.

  She called my name.

  Glossary

  AK-47 — Avto Kalashnikov model 47, A Soviet-produced military weapon automatic rifle capable of single shot or automatic fire. Fires a 7.62 mm round.

  ASA — U.S. Army Security Agency. The Army’s signal intelligence branch was composed of soldiers with the highest scores on Army intelligence tests. The ASA, directly subordinate to the National Security Agency, monitored military Soviet Bloc communications around the world. In 1976, the ASA was merged with the Army’s military intelligence branch to form the Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM).

  ASAP — As soon as possible; pronounced "A-Sap."

  BOHICA — Bend over here it comes again

  CIA — Central Intelligence Agency

  CID — Criminal Investigation Division

  COMINT — intelligence derived from the collection of spoken or written communications.

  DIA — Defense Intelligence Agency

  ELINT — Electronics Intelligence, intelligence derived from collection, processing and analysis of radar and various guidance control systems.

  FUBAR — Fowled up beyond all recognition

  Huey — UH-1 helicopter (Utility Helicopter-model 1)

  IBEX — Project IBEX was a joint US and Iranian airborne ELINT collection program.

  MP — Military Police, or Military Policeman

  NSA — National Security Agency

  SIGINT — Signals Intelligence. Intelligence derived from the collection, processing and analysis of either of, or a combination of, COMINT and ELINT.

  STOL — Short take-off and landing aircraft.

  Author's Notes

  Behind the Story

  Lamu Island, Kenya, January 1978. Following a four-month overland journey across the Sahara and through Central Africa, I settled down in dollar a night hotel in the old town in search of a quiet restful haven. Once again, I found myself next door to a war zone. The Ogaden War between Somalia and Ethiopia was raging up the coast. In a moment of inspiration, I decided to write an action-adventure story of the Secret Cold War. That story became The Ethiopian Intercept.

  Separating Facts and Fiction

  The Ethiopian Intercept is a work of fiction interwoven into a timeline of real events. The following events actually occurred:

  1. The Ogaden War

  2. The Ethiopian military did interrupt civilian flights to ferry troops to the front line.

  The flight of the SR-71 is fictional. No Blackbird aircraft were ever shot down by enemy fire.

  Certain actual locations in Kenya and Ethiopia are used fictitiously. The Mombasa-Nairobi train schedule was modified to fit the story.

  The Cochise Project, the Special Signals Research Project, and the description of the operation of the US embassy in Nairobi are products of the author's imagination. Certain institutions and intelligence agencies are mentioned, but the characters involved, depiction of the agencies' operations or sources/methods of collection/analysis presented should not be construed as factual. Descriptions of Soviet radar signals are based on current open source materials.

  Acknowledgements

  To my wife, Susan: this book wouldn't exist without your support and encouragement; and to her mother Dee who proofread the final copy. Thanks.

  The Secret Cold War Series

  The Cold War lasted forty plus years, a time of tensions between two super-powers with the capacity to destroy each other and the world. If war is hell, the Cold War was Purgatory. Not peace, not war, something in-between. The best of times, the worst of times.

  Proxy wars were fought on many fronts. One front was invisible, a secret war: the signal intelligence war. Reliable and timely gathering of electronic intelligence (ELINT) was vital, a first line of defense. The Secret Cold War series reveals the silent conflict waged in the shadows.

  The Secret Cold War series follows the adventures of ELINT analyst Ross Brannan and the Raven-One team of the Special Signals Research Project, a joint venture combining NSA analytical capabilities with CIA and military assets. The unit's mission deals with situations where conventional ELINT collection methods are neither effective nor practical.

  The Latakia Intercept, the prequel to the series, takes place during the 1973 Yom Kippur War.

  The Ethiopian Intercept follows the exploits of Ross Brannan in East Africa during the Ogaden War between Somalia and Ethiopia.

  The Iranian Intercept ranges from the shadow of Mount Everest to the wilds of revolutionary Iran and Afghanistan.

  The Caspian Intercept is a follow-up to the Iranian Intercept that takes place during the Iranian Revolution.

  The Sahara Intercept covers the team's adventures in Italy, France, the Sahara, Central Africa, and Israel.

  About the Author

  The author served as a soldier on the front line of the Cold War. Trained as an ELINT specialist, he worked at sites on the East German border for the Army Security Agency during the years following the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  In 1973, he traveled overland from Europe to Kathmandu, passing through pre-revolutionary Iran and Afghanistan. His time in Turkey coincided with the Yom Kippur War.

  Four years later, he crossed the Sahara and rainforests of Central Africa on the way to Kenya. Along the way, he visited soon-to-be hot spots, such as Algeria, Niger, the Central African Republic, eastern Zaire (Now the Democratic Republic of the Congo), and Rwanda.

  Following the four-month overland journey, he settled down in dollar a night hotel on Lamu Island, Kenya in search of a quiet restful haven. The Ogaden War between Somalia and Ethiopia was raging up the coast. In a moment of inspiration, he decided to write an action-adventure story of the Secret Cold War. That story became The Ethiopian Intercept.

  He writes about the invisible war, often fought by proxy, long hidden behind a curtain of secrecy. The Secret Cold War series novels are set in Africa and Southern Asia, areas the author has traveled extensively. Some of the locations are included in his novels.

  Excerpt from The Iranian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller

  THe IRANIAN Intercept takes you to the secret front line of the Cold War.

  Rogue scientist J. Andrew Marsden escapes from prison in Mexico. Ross Brannan is sent to Nepal to interview a woman who may have worked with Marsden. It
was sold to him as a routine mission, in and out. But Ross knows he's Yoyo, like in you're-on-your-own. What could go wrong?

  She reveals the Russian's will start a new series of air defense rocket tests involving the Sary-Shagan test facilities. Operators at Site T-2, in the mountains of northern Iran, intercepted a signal from the facility last year. It was suspiciously similar to Marsden's work. Is he working for them again? One way to find out — send Ross and the Raven-1 team to Iran. One problem: Iran is on the brink of revolution.

  Join Ross and his team in their quest that takes them from the chaos of revolutionary Iran to the wilds of Afghanistan. If you like intrigue, suspense, exotic locations, and page turning thrills, you’ll love this fast-paced adventure that reveals the silent conflict waged in the shadows.

  The Cold War lasted forty plus years, a time of tensions between two super-powers with the capacity to destroy each other and the world. Proxy wars were fought on many fronts. One front was invisible, a Secret Cold War: the signal intelligence war. Reliable and timely gathering of electronic intelligence (ELINT) was vital, a first line of defense.

  Behind the story: November 1973, I arrived in Afghanistan a few weeks after the end of the Yom Kippur War. The country had been at peace for several decades, an unusually quiet period in its long history. Nomads carried a variety of vintage weapons, but it was possible to camp safely in the countryside. Fortified mud walls in isolated villages and farms with were in disrepair. Word of the war had recently penetrated the public consciousness, yet people wanted to go fight. Someone was at war with Muslims, and they wanted in on it. Six years later, in Mexico City, I watched the news of the Soviet invasion on TV. My first thought: the Russians are going to have trouble big-time, these guys like to fight. The rest is history.

  Please enjoy a selection from a chapter of the next full-length novel in the Secret Cold War series, featuring Ross Brannan.

  Sunday, 17 December: Kathmandu, Nepal

  An exotic circus of hippies, snake charmers, and sacred cows wandered the streets amongst a maze of temples and ancient buildings adorned with ornate carvings. Kathmandu, the iconic city of the Age of Aquarius, the final stop on the fabled Hippie Trail from London through Istanbul and on to India, bustled with activity.

  A somewhat bedraggled, but still attractive, hippie girl dressed in ragged jeans and a worn sweater flashed a seductive smile as she paused to enter a shop. No choice but to resist temptation — duty called.

  Past Durbar Square, I hung a right and ambled along with a casual air down Pie Alley, a narrow dirty little street. Unfamiliar sights and smells confronted my senses and redefined the ordinary. Kathmandu wasn't famous for cleanliness.

  A menu posted in front of the Camp Hotel offered an excuse to pause and glance back up the street to see if anyone had a tail on me. No dead giveaways, no one seemed to be lurking about, moving when I moved, avoiding eye contact, making sudden turns, or halting when I did. No one seemed suspicious, but I couldn't afford to relax.

  Counter surveillance, that's what Jack called it, to me it's just watching your back. Situational awareness and attention to details isn't obsessively paranoid, it's just a good way to stay alive. The events of the past few months proved that. I'm still alive.

  Paused at the corner, waited a few seconds, moved on, swung a U-turn, and retraced my steps. Strolled back through the square, headed north towards the market, checked out the wares, made one purchase, and surveyed the area once more.

  At the appointed time, I hurried down Kanti Path to meet my local contact. I had arrived only an hour before after a series of long flights from Washington, London, and New Delhi. My orders, report to the American embassy, ASAP. For my own reasons, I didn't share Colonel Wilson's sense of urgency about the mission.

  * * *

  The CIA station chief’s tired face betrayed the frustrations of a backwater posting. His breath revealed the fact I almost certainly interrupted his Sunday afternoon happy hour, my presence an unwelcome intrusion into his weekend routine. Al Harris, in his mid-fifties with short graying hair, was more bourbon and branch water than shaken not stirred.

  He examined the first page of my Canadian passport. "Five ten, one seventy-five, brown hair," he squinted at my eyes, "blue-green eyes, everything appears fine except you have sandy hair." He examined the picture and snorted. "This photo makes you look almost like Steve McQueen."

  "Yeah, that's what the ladies tell me." The slight resemblance had proved socially useful a few times before I met Lisette.

  He ignored my comeback. "You're travelling under the name Dan McDonald, so make sure you don't have anything on you that can connect you with your real identity."

  "No problem, we made sure of that back in Washington." Nothing in my possession identified me as Ross Brannan, a contract employee of the National Security Agency assigned to the Special Signals Research Project.

  He pitched the passport back across the desk and mumbled something under his breath. Couldn't tell from his sardonic expression, if Harris believed me or just didn't care. It made no difference either way.

  Enough of this BS. — "When do I leave?"

  "Day after tomorrow: late Tuesday morning. You’re set up to fly out of Kathmandu to the airstrip at Syangboche. That's up past Namche Bazaar. It's a regular flight, taking passengers to the Everest View Hotel." He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. "You’re booked in at the hotel. It's expensive as hell, but at least it don't come out of my budget." He tapped the pack, pulled out an unfiltered cigarette, and lit up with a battered Zippo.

  Harris took a long drag, paused, blew out a stream of pungent smoke from the side of his mouth, and shoved a large envelope and a small sheet of paper across the desk. "There's the tickets and 350 dollars in Rupees. Just sign the receipt. Expect you'll return the change if… before you leave." His voice delivered a rough gravel quality, most likely the product of a near lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes and cheap booze.

  I signed the receipt, wondering if his slip of the tongue was inadvertent, or just a jab. It was difficult to tell if he was smiling or scowling.

  He placed the receipt in a folder, took another drag on the Camel, and asked, "You got any gear? Gets colder n' blazes up there. At least you got some boots for it. It ain't exactly no walk in the park."

  "Trekked in Nepal several years ago, brought a pack and sleeping bag along. You think of anything else?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Good, so you at least know the ropes." His attitude seemed to change. "Better pick up some decent food to take along. It's pretty basic up there, unless you like chapattis and gritty rice. You do know what chapattis are, don't you?"

  "Yeah, Indian tortillas." Born in New Mexico, I happened to like tortillas, but wasn't about to tell him.

  "Be a good idea to stop at the pharmacy down the street and buy some codeine tabs." He blew a smoke ring and flicked an ash to the floor. "Most all the locals have some sort of respiratory problem. Sleeping in smoky rooms will get to you. You don't need no prescription. A pile of Rupees will get you just about anything."

  "No problem. Sounds like nothing's changed." So far, he hadn't told me anything I didn't know. "How 'bout my contact up there?"

  "I arranged for a local mountain guide, an experienced Sherpa who speaks good English. He's worked for me off and on for the last eighteen months and will meet you at the hotel after you land. You'll be in good hands."

  "Any other assets for back-up?"

  "Nope, you are pretty much on your own."

  I ignored his smug expression. "How about weapons?"

  He answered with pretend surprise, "You came unarmed?"

  "That's right. Flew commercial and was hoping you could supply something." I wanted to bring my little Walther PPK, but the civilian travel arrangements ruled that out. "How about a forty-five and a couple extra magazines?"

  The request caught him by surprise and he almost choked on a deep drag on the Camel. "No way. A firearm will get you in deep kimchi if you
have to use it." He coughed. "Remember, you don't have diplomatic immunity, and travelling on a Canadian passport to boot."

  I wanted to tell him it's easier to get out of jail than to get out of dead but held my tongue. He had a point, but it wasn't his butt on the line.

  Harris drew in and expelled another puff. "My suggestion is to hightail it over to the bazaar and get yourself a kukri. Know what that is?"

  "Sure, one of those wicked knives the Gurkhas carry."

  "Yeah, you'll have to bargain. Don't pay more than thirty rupees."

  "Will this do?" I pulled out a curved knife in a leather sheath and exposed the blade. "Only paid twenty rupees in the market, the poor kid seemed desperate for a sale."

  Harris shook his head and snuffed out the cigarette. "They warned me you're sort of a wise-ass."

  Now who would have said that? Had my suspicions.

  He pointed at the knife. "If you plan on using that thing, get it sharpened up, everyone carries one here."

  "Actually, I prefer a good switchblade for close-up work." I started to tell him I had killed five men this year, but let it go. Wasn’t proud of it and didn't want to seem to brag.

  He leaned back in his chair and scrunched up his brow. "Thought you're just a technician."

  "Learned to use a knife, working on my uncle's ranch back in New Mexico, a ranch hand taught me how to use a knife in a tight situation."

  The CIA man winced as if in pain. "Oh brother, they sent me a real cowboy."

  I let the comment slide. My mentor, an older Mescalero Apache named Joe, taught me over the course of five summers the art of street fighting, self-defense, and many other things about life. He always claimed the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid it. It took me a long time to figure out the real meaning of those words — too long in fact.