The Latakia Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 1)

by R G Ainslee

  "Don't you think the water might be too cold?"

  She inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. "Not for Russian."

  She glanced at the clock, crushed her cigarette on the plate, and stood. "I go. I hope see you soon. Come to club, yes?" At the door, she glanced over her shoulder with a cryptic smile that sparked a rush of anticipation.

  I gulped down my Coke and left. At the door, I paused. She was walking in the opposite direction.

  As I ambled back to the hangar, absorbed in my thoughts, something caught my attention. A green car parked across the street. The Turkish tough-guy, alone in the driver's seat, did not try to hide the fact he was staring straight at me. I almost gave-in to my natural inclination to charge over and ask what-the-hell was going on. Instead, I picked up the pace and didn't look back.

  * * *

  Later in the afternoon, we were checking out the newly arrived parachutes and flight helmets in anticipation of a test flight the next day.

  Soldano entered the hangar and pulled me aside. He didn't look happy.

  "Got a call from a major at base operations."

  I tensed. Had someone seen me with the Russian? I expected the worst.

  "Seems there was an incident at the pistol range…" He let his last words hang, waiting for an explanation.

  Relieved, I said, "I apologize, sir. It was all my fault. I tried a little off-hand shooting and the range master got bent out of shape — won't happen again."

  "Correct, it won't happen again. Our detachment is barred from the range permanently."

  Rather than dig myself in deeper, I changed the subject. "Any word on when Wyndham will be back?"

  "No." His eyes were on fire. "Listen here Brannan. We are supposed to keep a low profile on this base. What were you thinking, why did you all a sudden decide to go to the range and make like Yosemite Sam?"

  Specialist Marcos needed to maintain his firearms qualification—"

  "Stop right there. Take responsibility for your actions. Do not try to pass it off on one of your troops. Do you understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Your short-timer attitude will not be tolerated. You are the senior NCO and I expect you to set an example for the men, not to act as an instigator. Do not give me any more trouble. Do you understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  He picked up one of the helmets. "You inspect the new gear?"

  "Yes sir, looks like Wyndham raided a surplus store."

  Burns called from the hangar door, "Captain, you got a teletype from Ankara."

  Soldano gave me a stern look and followed Burns back to the office.

  I took a deep breath. He was right. Avoid the Russian woman and ignore the tough-guy. Concentrate on the job and don't screw-up needed to be my main priority, if I was to make through the next three months.

  Wednesday, 26 September

  Soldano called me in for an early meeting. He held a yellow teletype tear sheet in his hand. Morgan sat at the end of the table.

  "This came in a few minutes ago. Wyndham wants us to begin flying these co-called courier missions as soon as possible. Is your intercept equipment ready?" His expression showed he expected the worst.

  "Yes sir." I held back, no use looking for trouble.

  His eyes betrayed his doubts. He turned to Morgan. "When will the aircraft be ready?"

  "Bolan says he'll be ready sometime later today." He hesitated and continued, "But I want to make at least one test flight before we set out for Cyprus. Don't feel too comfortable with its condition."

  The captain nodded and said, "Tend to agree. We'll decide when Sergeant Bolan says he's finished."

  I said, "Wyndham didn't give any sign why he's in such a hurry?" I was concerned there had been a change in the situation on the ground, something we needed to know.

  Soldano's answer was sharp and direct. "No."

  A sinking feeling returned. It was obvious the captain was upset with Wyndham as well as me.

  * * *

  Later in the morning, Bolan said it was ready. Soldano and Morgan conducted a rigorous inspection and agreed we needed at least one test flight before heading out on a longer mission. The captain decided to fly westward along the Turkish coast. We took off at 1330.

  Crammed in sideways behind the pilots, the equipment configuration made for confined quarters. The flight promised to be uncomfortable. I switched on the receivers, started the tape, and signed on.

  An hour after leaving Incirlik, we sighted the medieval castle on the shoreline at Anamur. Soldano instructed Morgan to make a long sweeping turn to the south and vector back to base, flying about five miles off the Turkish coast. The sky was clear. The mountainous terrain of Northern Cyprus loomed to the right, the Syrian coast straight ahead.

  I switched to the E-band antenna tuner and found a signal right where I expected, the Royal Air Force Decca Type-80 on Mt. Olympus in Cyprus. The Type 200 height finder wasn't active.

  Minutes later, the port engine sputtered.

  The pucker factor maxed-out as I noted our position over the Mediterranean's blue waters. There was no place to land, except for the winding coastal road. I instinctively cinched up the loose straps on my chute. Never jumped before, always considered it a desperate measure of last resort.

  Morgan fiddled with the controls and thirty-seconds later — seemed like an hour — the engine smoothed out.

  "We gonna make it?"

  Morgan said, "Sure."

  "Can we fly with one engine?"

  "Yes, but it'll be more difficult to maintain altitude."

  "What happens if both of 'em quits?"

  "No problem, I'll nose her down and maintain enough airspeed to land on the water."

  "Lovely."

  "Lucky you found a new raft. You some sorta psychic?"

  "Nah, just my sixth sense, the bit of Irish in me."

  Soldano said, "Where did you get the raft and vests?"

  "Sorry sir, compartmentalized information." I traded four bottles of Jim Beam to an Air Force crew chief for a serviceable raft and vests. Morgan knew the story but didn't tell the captain. "You know, sources have to be protected."

  Soldano inhaled a deep irritated breath, started to speak, but refrained from further comment. It was easy to tell he was hot under the collar but knew better than to question a scrounger too far, especially when it involved essential safety gear.

  A vague uneasiness set in. "We ain't gonna need it, are we?"

  Soldano said, "Not this time, but I will have a word with Bolan."

  The engine sputtered three more times before we landed.

  * * *

  Back at the hangar, I listened to the day's signals on a compact Grundig recorder Collins had at his workbench. So far, no analytical equipment had materialized. Wanted to ask Wyndham about it, but he hadn't returned. Bolan and Rankin were removing the cowing on the port engine.

  Collins said, "You can decipher that noise?"

  "Yeah, no problem." A raaap sound emanated from the speaker. "The RAF Type-80 radar on Mt. Olympus. Judging by the sound, I estimate the pulse rep around 250. Scan rate right at four rpm. Not much else happening, at least along today's route, activity should increase once we fly closer to the Syrian coast."

  "Thought you'd pick-up a lot more."

  "Me too, I expected shipping and possibly a submarine. Might want to test the gain on those antenna tuners, got a feeling we're not picking-up everything out there." I was frustrated we didn't receive signals from Soviet ships, but that wasn't our objective on the flight.

  "Shame old Dave had to leave. He could've helped us."

  "We'll figure it out. If we run into any trouble we can ask Wyndham, he's a genius, you know."

  My sarcasm was lost on Collins. He pondered the notion and said, "Guess we'll have to wait till he gets back."

  A burst of profanity interrupted our conversation. Rankin had let the cowling slip and bang on the floor, barely missing Bolan's foot.

  Collins said, "Wow, bet that
would've hurt like hell."

  "He's got enough alcohol in his bloodstream to anesthetize a horse."

  He tilted his head back. "You comfortable flying in that thing?"

  "No, but I do trust the pilots, their lives are on the line too. If it ain't airworthy it'll stay on the ground."

  "Sure glad it's not me."

  I shared his sentiments. Regrettably, it was me.

  * * *

  That night I returned to the NCO Club. I needed some liquid reinforcement after the incident with the engine. Anya spied me first and motioned for me to sit at one of her tables.

  She seemed glad to see me. "Mr. Cowboy, you come back."

  I offered a weak grin, not sure what to say.

  "What you want? Eat, drink?"

  "Yeah, had a hard day, how 'bout a cold Hofbrau and a steak with fries, well done."

  Anya returned moments later with a cool bottle of München Hofbrau and a glass.

  "Keep the glass. I'm a drink from the bottle type of guy."

  She smiled, started to speak, but her response was cut short by a summons from two tables away.

  Left to my thoughts, I pondered the situation. The engine and intercept equipment worried me. Bolan's drinking didn't help. Took a long pull on the brew and decided to relax and put it out of my mind.

  Later, she brought the steak. "Food for cowboy, yes?"

  "Yeah." I held up the empty bottle and said, "One more, please."

  She took the bottle, pirouetted with the poise of a ballerina, and glided away with a relaxed grace. Anya wasn’t exactly a head-turner, but classy in an austere way. Had the impression she had seen better days, but given the chance, she could be an attractive woman again.

  Anya brought a second bottle of Hofbrau and a warm smile. She wavered for a moment, her eyes fixed on mine. The magnetic quality her eyes made me uneasy. "Is steak good, yes?"

  "It's okay." Didn't want to tell her it was a bit tough, even for me, and could have used some hot sauce. "You like steak?"

  "Shashlik is better. You like shashlik?"

  "Sure, had in…" Started to say Sinop, but decided not to reveal too much. "We call it shish kebab at home."

  Later, after another beer, she returned with the check. I paid and included a generous tip.

  "Bol'shoye spasibo — thank you … thank you from my heart." She seemed grateful for the extra couple of bucks.

  I smiled and pushed my chair back, starting to get up. She sat in the chair opposite. Her eyes offered an invitation.

  "You take me beach, yes?" Her deep accented voice had a sexy enticing quality.

  The way she said it, an inflection that suggested there's more to come, made me tingle. I imagined her in a bikini. Torn between expectation and sound judgment, I replied, "Sorry, I don't have any free time." Hesitated a moment when she didn't respond. "Gotta work … no time off."

  Her eyebrows rose. "You have important job, yes?"

  A warning bell went off. My sixth sense told me to be wary. Soldano's orders were to avoid foreign nationals and here I was chatting with a Russian about going to the beach, and whatever that would lead to. What better way to derail my plans? Gotta watch out, don't need to look for trouble.

  "No, I'm a technician, gotta be on call."

  She frowned. "What is … on call?"

  "Gotta be there, captain's orders."

  "You not want take me to beach?"

  "I can't."

  She eyed me with sadness, a look of deep disappointment, and left without a word.

  An Airforce NCO sitting at the next table eyed me with amusement.

  Were her questions innocent ramblings or an interrogation? I was no pro in these matters. Women are mysterious creatures. Either you know what they want, or you don’t. If, like me, you don’t, forget about trying to understand. I left with mixed feelings of relief and regret.

  Outside, a green car parked across the street, the Turkish tough-guy again.

  Chapter 5 ~ The Mission

  Thursday, 27 September

  Wyndham arrived on a morning flight from Ankara and headed straight to a closed meeting with Soldano and Morgan. Loud voices echoed off the walls. Wyndham wasn't pleased with our progress. Bolan and I stood outside, waiting to give Soldano the unwelcome news. Ten minutes later, Soldano emerged at the front door.

  He snarled, "What now?"

  Bolan didn't quibble with words. "The port engine's shot to hell. Needs a full-blown overhaul."

  "How long?"

  "Depends when we can get hold of parts, maybe a week or so … if we're lucky."

  "Luck has nothing to do with it. I want this thing airborne ASAP." Bolan didn't respond. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes sir." Bolan's face reddened. "You can fly it right now, if you don’t mind taking a swim."

  Soldano clinched his jaw and turned to me. "What's the status of the electronics?"

  "The intercept equipment is non-standard. It works, but I'm not sure the unit is up to the job."

  "What does that mean?"

  "So far, it's picked up very little. I expected a lot more sensitivity." I held back, Bolan already pushed it to the limits. I shrugged. "We'll have to wait and see when we get there."

  Soldano struggled to compose himself. "Very well, Sergeant Bolan, we're grounded until further notice. I'll see what I can do about obtaining the parts. You can remove the engine and begin stripping it down after you make a list of parts and supplies. "

  Bolan, still red-faced, replied, "Yes sir," and stormed off.

  I followed Soldano into the office. Wyndham stood at the table with Morgan, inspecting the navigation chart. Soldano informed them of Bolan's bad news.

  Morgan gave me a what-else-is-new look. Wyndham took it better than expected. He said with a calm tone, "I hope you have something better to report?"

  "Like I told the captain, the set-up works, but needs more field testing to determine if it's worthwhile. With such an unusual arrangement, I can't guarantee anything, not knowing what it will be used for."

  "You'll be informed at an appropriate time."

  For me the time was now. "The antenna set-up is a significant limiting factor. If you expect us to make it work, we must know the signal parameters. Even with that, we gotta tweak the system for all its worth. Guessing ain't gonna do the job."

  Soldano, to my amazement, backed me up. "He's right. Tell us now." His expression was stone cold. I could tell he was approaching the limits of his patience.

  Wyndham frowned. "Like I said—"

  "The appropriate time is now," reiterated Soldano with force.

  A long silence ensued. Wyndham stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Very well. This mission is a compartmentalized operation. What I am about to tell you will not be repeated to anyone outside this room. Do you understand?" He focused on each of us and received a nod in conformation.

  "First, let me give you some background on the situation. Recent developments indicate the Egyptians may seek a military solution to the Israeli occupation of the Sinai. Reliable sources reported the arrival of a large quantity of weapons and supplies from the Soviet Bloc over the past few months."

  That was news to me. "Didn't they kicked the Russians out last year."

  He seemed irritated by my interruption. "It is common knowledge the Egyptians and the Soviet Union were engaged in a major dispute over the non-delivery of military equipment. However, many of us inside the agency believe this was a deception designed to lull the West and Israel into a false sense of security. The gist of the rumors is the Egyptian air force and air defense capabilities have been degraded because the Soviets cut off resupply of spare parts and are therefore are incapable of initiating military action against Israel. My colleagues and I believe otherwise."

  "What's this got to do with our mission to monitor Soviet naval activity in Syria?"

  "We know Syrian President Assad is one of the driving forces in persuading Sadat to pursue a military solution. In addition, the Soviet
s, acting through the KGB, are involved with the decision-making process in Damascus."

  Soldano frowned. "Do you believe war is likely?"

  "More than a possibility. My colleagues and I believe hostilities will happen sooner than later." His eyes had an excited gleam. "That is why we initiated this operation."

  Something in the way he said it set off an alarm. My mind reeled with possibilities and questions. Who was this, we? It wouldn't be the first time some agency operative had gone off the reservation with a covert venture. Furthermore, Wyndham was the type. But why? I wanted to know.

  "Was this mission approved at the top level?" I had my doubts.

  Wyndham's expression froze. "Not your concern."

  Soldano jumped in. "Wait a minute. Answer his question. I'm in command and I say it is my concern."

  Wyndham's brusque demeanor returned. "This operation was vetted at the appropriate level and I have the full cooperation of the agency's Middle East Task Force. That is all you need to know."

  "But why the unusual equipment mix … and if this is so important why isn't it being handled by the Air Force or the Navy? They have multiple assets available in the region, even here at Incirlik — with the proper equipment to do the job." Truly puzzled, I was at a loss for words. Started to ask why the joint US-British site at Giorgos Georgiou on Cyprus wasn't handling the task. The base was the most valuable SIGINT operation in the Eastern Mediterranean, specializing in monitoring communications in the Middle East and North Africa. The cold hardness in Wyndham's eyes convinced me not to press the matter.

  "The clandestine nature of this operation has forced me to cobble together people and equipment in such a way as not to attract unwarranted attention on the ground or in the air. We can't afford for either side to become suspicious. I am counting on our simulated courier flights to cause them to let down their guard."

  "Why me? I still don't understand why I'm here."

  Wyndham popped his knuckles and spoke with a matter of fact tone, "Because you're the most qualified operator for the assignment. You came highly recommended. We required someone who could maximize the limited technical resources we are forced to rely on."

  Soldano gave me a questioning look.

  He was right about my qualifications. Trained as an analyst, I preferred the role of an intercept operator. Guess it harkened back to my teenage days hunting antelope on the plains of eastern New Mexico. I learned the art of patience, sitting quietly waiting for the prey to appear, an essential quality for an intercept operator.