by R G Ainslee
Chapter 7 ~ Penwell
Monday, 1 October
The morning briefing didn't happen. A civilian arrived on an early flight from Ankara. The lean, wiry, gray-haired man, with a well-weathered face, appeared to be in his fifties. Without any introductions, Wyndham escorted him to the office and shut the door.
Out on the tarmac, I asked Soldano if he knew who the guy was. He didn't, but Morgan did.
"Recognized him right away." The pilot's jaw muscles tensed as he took a quick look back over his shoulder. "For a while, he was a constant fixture around our base in Can Tho. Best I could tell, he was CIA, but no one would ever confirm it. He claimed to be with Air America. There was lotta speculation, and a month after he left, Army CID showed up and questioned a bunch of people, but I don't think anything ever came of it."
"What kind of questions?"
"Mostly about misappropriation of weapons and equipment, seems lotta lethal stuff disappeared while he was there."
"Remember his name?"
"He went by Penwell."
The name rang a bell. One hears things through the grapevine. "Wouldn't be Lukas Penwell, would it?"
"Yeah, sounds about right. You know him?"
"Only by reputation, I never met the man."
"Good or bad?"
"Never heard nothin good, but it's all been rumors in any case. Wonder what he's doing here?"
A true shadow warrior and entrepreneur, Lukas Penwell maneuvered ghost-like on the fringes of the intelligence world. Connected with the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, he also was involved in the CIA's Air America covert airline in Southeast Asia back in the sixties. Some claimed his Laos operation was mixed up in drug running, but nothing was ever substantiated.
I couldn't fathom why he was at Incirlik. Must be bad news, whatever it is.
* * *
We took-off soon afterwards on our morning sortie. I started the recorder and signed on. Routine Tall King and Spoon Rest early warning radars populated the A band. I made a special effort to find signals in the E band from the SA-6 Gainful air defense system: the mobile Long Track target acquisition radar. Again, they were silent, the only signals, Barlock radars emanating from the Syrian coast.
On the ground in Cyprus, I stood on the wing and watched the Air Force sergeant. His nervous demeanor continued. He gave me a furtive glance after removing the full bag and replacing it with an empty. I resolved to challenge Wyndham on return.
The CIA man was unavailable for the post-flight briefing. Seemed he was holed up somewhere with Penwell. Didn't bother me, some people are best avoided. Penwell fit the category.
* * *
Before the afternoon flight, I waited for Rankin to load the cargo into the rear compartment. This time he carried two canvas bags. They appeared to be heavy. After he left, I opened the hatch. Both bags had padlocks. A squeeze revealed they held something bulky.
We took-off mid-afternoon on our second scheduled sortie of the day. Again, the flight to Cyprus was routine, Tall Kings, Barlocks, and Spoon Rests.
On the ground, I met the sergeant as he approached. "How's it goin'?" I asked in a casual manner.
He rushed to the hatch without answering, pulled out a bag, sat it on the tarmac, and reached for the second bag.
"You need a hand? Looks like you got a big load today."
Startled by my question, he glanced around. "No."
"Must be heavy, let me—"
"I said no." He stammered, hunting for words. "I got it, no problem."
I picked up the bag anyway. "Come on, I'll—"
He grabbed the bag out of my hand, rushed to the sedan, threw the bags into the trunk, and sped off.
Morgan, returning from the tower, said, "What's his problem?"
"Dunno. He seems like the nervous type to me."
We watched the car pass through the tarmac gate. Morgan shook his head. "These Air Force types don't realize how easy they have it. What's he got to be nervous about?"
To me, that was the sixty-four-dollar question.
On the return flight, it was difficult to focus on the same familiar signals. I only went through the motions, couldn't keep my mind off the rapidly deteriorating situation. My sixth sense was in overdrive, telling me something was fishy.
I couldn't shake the notion that Penwell was bad news. Penwell and Wyndham, what a combination, seemed like a sure-fire recipe for trouble. And what was Hakim up to? My hatred for him intensified, but any further attempt to confront him could only result in disaster, he held all the cards.
* * *
Wyndham seemed reserved at the briefing, not his usual arrogant self. Penwell left on a late afternoon flight to Ankara after spending the day in closed consultation with Wyndham. We still had no clue as to his role in our so-called mission. His sudden and unexpected appearance only heightened my anxieties.
After reading the latest messages, Wyndham said, "If there are no questions, next briefing at 0800." He glanced around and headed for the exit.
I intercepted him at the door. Morgan was right behind me. "Any word on Captain Hakim?"
Wyndham reacted with an irritated scowl. "You're correct about him being MIT. I'm not sure what he's up to, might be a normal surveillance of a new activity. In any case, we don’t need to pique his interest any further. Steer clear of him." He sensed my hesitation to agree. "That is an order — do you understand?' He glared at Morgan. "Both of you."
I understood loud and clear, but I wasn't finished. "What was Penwell doing here?"
The CIA man glared at us for a long moment and rushed out of the building. I didn't have a chance to ask about the bags.
Morgan asked, "Do you feel uncomfortable about the way things are unfolding? This Penwell character has me worried. Wyndham was bad enough, but I got a bad feeling."
"Like it has BOHICA written all over it?"
He didn't smile. "Afraid so."
"What does the captain think?"
"Can't tell. He plays his cards close to the vest."
"Looks like we're on our own." I said.
"You're right. These guys are up to no good. Wyndham's silence answered the question loud and clear. What little trust I had in him evaporated."
"Same here. I wonder what game they're playing: the agencies' or their own. Also, I wonder what's in the so-called courier pouches we're delivering."
"Good question. Hadn't thought about the bags. You think somethings going on with them?"
I nodded. "That Air Force sergeant seems awfully nervous and evasive when I questioned him." Morgan didn't respond. "What do you plan to do?"
"Not much we can do. Guess we do our jobs and hope for the best."
Morgan walked away. He didn't know what to do, but I did. Everything had changed. Earlier, my goal had been to finish my enlistment, make it through three more months. Now, Murphy had re-emerged from the shadows, my future job could be in jeopardy. Once more, everything I worked for was on the line. A wave of anger welled up from deep inside. I had no answers, only questions, but one reality emerged. Hakim, Penwell and Wyndham were pros, knew all the tricks of the trade. I was out of my league. They held the advantage, but I would not to let them take me down.
* * *
I ambled over to the NCO club. I had decided not to let Hakim and Anya get to me. No reason to hide, go about my business as if nothing had happened. Besides, I wanted to see what her reaction would be.
The joint was more than half-empty, a slow night after the weekend. I took a table away from Anya's area and ordered a Hofbrau from the Turkish waiter. A few minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen with a tray of food.
I took a long swig from the bottle and waited for her to notice me. After serving the food and exchanging a few words with a pair of Air Force master sergeants, she turned to check her tables. Her eyes locked on me, her expression cold and dispassionate. She had a black eye. Without acknowledging my presence, she retreated to the kitchen.
The black eye shocked me. Had Hakim hi
t her? Did he do it because I asked about her? A trace of doubt crept in. I shuddered to think her story might be true. Even though she had spied on me and lied about her kid, I felt like a first-class heel.
Quivering with rage, I chugged half the remaining beer, slapped some money on the table, and left. Outside the club, eager to find Hakim, I stalked up and down the street, a hundred yards in each direction. There are some things you don't do — hitting a woman is one of them. Hakim's green car wasn't there. Passing the club again, I hesitated, wanting to go in and find out what happened, but decided to leave it alone for the time being. The Good Book says forgive your enemies, but in my book, there are exceptions. We had unfinished business.
Tuesday, 2 October
At the morning briefing, Wyndham prepared to present his daily update. His mood hadn't changed for the better. His clever eyes shifted to me and back to a yellow teletype message sheet.
"A large concentration of Egyptian forces is now observable." A nervous urgency pervaded his words. "Israeli intelligence detected large troop movements towards the canal. This coincides with an announcement by the Egyptian high command of a weeklong exercise adjacent to the Suez."
Soldano interrupted, "Are the Israelis going to respond?"
Wyndham spoke with obvious irritation, "Appears not. The Israelis dismissed these deployments as ordinary training exercises." He shifted his attention back to the yellow sheet. "Yesterday, Israeli missile boats put to sea in apparent maneuvers, but returned to port because of the upcoming holiday. Both the Israelis and Arabs have religious seasons that coincide: Yom Kippur and Ramadan. One may conclude this is either an impediment to an attack … or an opportunity to deal a decisive blow."
I asked, "Which is it?" The way things were unfolding made me uncomfortable.
"I don't anticipate the Israelis to wait for the balloon to go up. I expect them to deliver the first strike. Even if the Arabs struck first, the IDF would be on them in a heartbeat. Neither the Egyptians or Syrians possess the organizational capability to pull-off a true surprise attack."
I didn't enquire further about Penwell or the bags. Decided it would be fruitless.
Hakim still bothered me. I had decided not to mention the near confrontation. No one was interested in rocking the boat. It was something I would have to deal with on my own. My anger with Anya had cooled. It bothered me that she might be telling the truth. I realized I would probably never find out for sure.
* * *
We took-off mid-morning on our first scheduled sortie of the day. Wyndham's news about increasing tensions stimulated me to sharpen my focus. However, the flight was routine: Tall Kings, Barlocks, and Spoon Rests, no signals associated with the SA-6 system.
On the ground, I stood on the wing with arms crossed and made no effort to hide my interest in the Air Force sergeant and his messenger bags. He exited his vehicle and approached with a nervous gait, his eyes avoiding my stare.
"Hey, I still want to know what we're carrying." I tried to sound resolute.
He ignored my challenge and removed two full bags and replacing them with an empty.
I hopped to the tarmac. "Need some help? Looks like you got an extra one today."
He took off at a brisk pace towards the car. I thought about chasing him down, but Soldano and Morgan were already on their way back to the plane.
Morgan glanced back at the speeding car. "Looks like he's running late."
"I wonder why?"
Soldano said, "Never mind him, let's mind our own business."
"You still not curious about what we're carrying?"
"Brannan. Give it up. If you're so obsessed, ask Wyndham."
A few minutes after reaching cruising altitude, Soldano said to Morgan, "I'm unhappy with our results. I want you to deviate from our normal course and veer further out into the strait between Cyprus and the Syrian coastline. Maybe it will increase Brannan's chances of finding something important."
He hadn't bothered to ask me. What he proposed was a ferret probe intended to provoke a response. I knew it wouldn't help. We were too far out to sea to evoke any real interest from land-based units. I hadn't detected any ship-borne radars and settled back in anticipation another routine run.
Morgan banked right, and we continued towards the Syrian coast. I logged the Tall King, Barlocks, and Spoonrests. Directly east of Cape Andreas, he vectored north.
Minutes after the turn, the warning receiver blasted a distinctive whine through my headphones, producing an instantaneous adrenalin burst. The unmistakable warbling sound from a RP-5 Izumrud Scan Odd radar carried by Soviet built MiG-19 interceptors.
"Got a Farmer on our tail … lit us up with his radar." Farmer was the NATO designator for the MiG-19.
Morgan reacted, "We'll take evasive action."
I barked out a sharp, "Negative," and took a deep breath. "He's in search mode, well aft us. If you react, he'll realize we're reading his signal. Keep on course and don't do anything out of the ordinary. He's about five miles behind and closing fast."
Morgan said, "You sure sound confident."
"This ain't my first rodeo. We don't have to start worrying until he starts tracking us."
"Then what?"
"Line up an approach pattern for the Pearly Gates."
Twin Beech versus MiG-19 — no contest — he was armed with three 30-mm cannons, no need to waste a rocket. The incident lasted only three minutes, but seemed to stretch on for an hour. Morgan and Soldano didn't speak, but I could feel the tension in the air. Without warning, the signal disappeared.
"He's gone," I said with an inner sense of relief.
Soldano said, "You sure seem calm. You had this happen before?"
"Yes." My heart rate remained high. This wasn't my first time to be illuminated by an airborne radar and face the imminent prospect of a fiery death. Too many good people have died flying similar missions. The margin for error had been narrow. You never know what the mindset of the intercepting pilot will be.
Morgan said, "We best stick to our original course next time."
A thunderous roar drowned out his words. The aircraft shook. A tan and olive drab MiG-19 cruised by fifty-yards away on our starboard side, banked right, and accelerated towards the Syrian coast.
Morgan exploded with a torrent of blasphemous expletives and a colorful critique of the MiG pilot's ethnicity, parentage, and flying abilities.
Soldano shifted in his seat. "Enough of this, let's go home."
The presence of the MiG alarmed me. Our plan to appear low profile wasn't working out too well.
* * *
At the post-flight briefing, Soldano reported our brush with the MiG-19.
Wyndham dismissed the incident as a routine encounter. "They interrogated your IFF and identified you as an American courier flight. Nothing to worry about."
I knew better. Couldn't remember the details, but aerial combat occurred in the area not too long ago. Read a brief account in a weekly intelligence summary.
"Say, wasn’t there a dogfight last month?"
Wyndham remarked offhandedly, "Back in mid-September a flight of Syrian MiG-21 jets intercepted an Israeli photo sortie off northern Syria. The Israelis shot down twelve fighters."
Soldano stiffened. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"
"Not relevant at the time."
"You expect us to get shot down? Is that what you're after, you want a confrontation."
"Don't worry about it." Wyndham bristled in defiance. "As you said, he didn't lock on."
Soldano lit the afterburners on his temper. "You're outta your freakin mind. You send us on some half-baked mission to find who the hell knows what and you expect us to not worry." Wyndham tried to speak, but the captain wouldn't let up. "I've flown combat missions before, but this is something entirely different."
Morgan joined in, "I'm with the captain one-hundred percent. Keep us up to date or we stay on the ground." Morgan had Wyndham by the Ying-Yang. Since this mission had an unorth
odox genesis, Wyndham had limited options. If he tried to make trouble for the pilots, he knew the blowback would catch him too.
The CIA man popped his knuckles and spoke as if nothing happened. "Very well, you will be informed on all developments."
I recalled past incidents. Back in 1958, a RC-130 from İncirlik went down over Soviet Armenia with the loss of the entire crew. The aircraft, on a routine SIGINT mission over eastern Turkey, strayed across the border and was shot-down by Soviet fighters. Closer to home, the fate of the USS Liberty loomed in the back of my mind. During the 1967 war, the Israelis attacked the American signal intelligence ship off the Sinai coast, killing 34. They claimed a case of mistaken identity. I was unconvinced and feared a repeat. Sometimes lightning does strike twice. What do they say? 'Murphy is always right.'
* * *
True to his word, later in the morning, Wyndham reported the Syrian Army cancelled leaves for all units and initiated troop movements towards the Golan.
We flew our prescribed course, with no deviations on the afternoon flight. I carefully monitored the airborne warning receiver for an encore performance by the MiG. Although tense, the flight was uneventful, no new signals. I was still concerned about the lack of naval activity and decided to go over the gear one more time with Collins.
On the ground in Cyprus, Soldano ordered me to stay in the cabin. Once more, the Air Force sergeant replaced the full bag with an empty.
At the post-flight briefing Wyndham said, "Earlier, the Syrian Army called-up reserves and Israel responded by sending reinforcements to the Golan Heights. Egyptian forces received instructions to approve requests for leaves and permission for pilgrimages. Communications traffic between the Egyptian higher commands is strangely silent."
Soldano wondered, "Are hostilities about to break out?"
"COMINT sources do not indicate an attack is imminent."
I didn't like the trajectory of events. Morgan glanced my way. It appeared he shared my concern.
* * *
Later, I cornered Collins in the hangar and told him about our encounter with the MiG.
"Did the warning receiver work okay?" said Collins.
"Yeah, it was okay. Can you move the interior antenna to the outside of the fuselage? Don't like the way Dave set this one up."
