by R G Ainslee
For eleven years, I served the Army Security Agency as an ELINT analyst and intercept operator; travelling the world collecting data on enemy radar systems to aid in development of effective countermeasures. In a few weeks, I would be out of the military, beginning a new life as an employee of the Relint Corporation, a private contractor at the Electronic Proving Ground at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.
I was ready for a change. I loved my job, but tired of the Army's bureaucratic runarounds and broken promises. I would still face those problems as a civilian, but at four times the pay, I could live with it.
Best of all, the job gave me a chance to settle down, safely employed in the lab, no longer flying as an aircrew member along the edges of the Soviet empire performing dangerous tasks collecting data for NSA. Almost two hundred American's sacrificed their lives on these missions. Sometimes they died in equipment related incidents, but hostile fire killed far too many.
At last, I was looking forward to living a normal life, but I had one more thing to do.
I felt bad about my role in Anya's troubles, not that it was my fault, but deep down I couldn't escape a sense of responsibility for her current plight. I had some cash left over from the sale of my motorcycle and planned to give her a few bucks to help take her and her family out of the country.
"Sir, I'd like to have permission to go off base for a couple hours, gotta see somebody."
"Sorry, all American personnel are confined to base." He glanced down at a sheet of paper. "Seems a Turkish intelligence officer was murdered last night. Everything is locked down until further notice."
My body went numb. "What's his name?"
"Says here…" He scrutinized the paper. "A Captain Hakim, looks like his live-in Russian girlfriend shot him with his own pistol and then she killed herself…"
He continued with the lurid details, but I wasn't listening. Enveloped by a wave of revulsion and guilt, I wandered zombie-like outside and headed for the NCO Club.
Epilogue
Later, I learned the Israeli Navy won the Battle of Latakia, the first battle between boats equipped with surface-to-surface missiles. The Israelis employed the concept of passive target acquisition using the enemy's active systems and defeated the attack using electronic means. The Royal Air Force first used electronic warfare in the Battle of Britain to distort Luftwaffe navigation beams, sending bombers away from their targets. Winston Churchill called it the Wizard War. I witnessed a momentous battle, as historic as the Battle of the Coral Sea, the first sea battle involving opposing aircraft carriers.
The conflict threatened to draw to a stalemate within a few days. Short on supplies and unable to dominate the combined Arab forces, the Israelis ordered nuclear weapons readied for use. The United States started an airlift of weapons and supplies. The Soviets countered with an airlift of weapons to Egypt. The Israelis sank a Soviet merchant ship during a battle off the Syrian coast. Once the Israelis regained the initiative, they were in place to destroy the Egyptian Army. The Soviets threatened to intervene with troops. The U.S. and Soviet navies faced off in the Mediterranean. The U.S. went on alert to DEFCON-3. The Soviets, surprised by the response, blinked. World War III was averted, followed by an eventual peace treaty between Egypt and Israel.
* * *
Major Maxwell, the base chaplain, the Red Cross, and my six hundred dollars made it possible for Anya's eleven-year old son and her mother to leave for Athens two days later. The Turkish authorities, anxious to make the problem disappear, cooperated. Three weeks after hostilities ended, they landed in Israel.
As for the tape, it was taken into custody once I arrived at Fort Meade. Rather than being commended for my accomplishment, I was ignored. The next day, the Army granted my early out and I was a civilian. I never found out what happened to my Latakia intercept.
Glossary
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.
ELINT — Electronic Intelligence; intelligence derived from collection, processing, and analysis of radar and various guidance control systems.
FUBAR — Fowled up beyond all recognition.
MOS — Military Occupational Specialty
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.
TO&E — Table of Organization and Equipment. A document that prescribes the organizational structure, personnel, and equipment for Army units.
TUSLOG — The US Logistics Group commanded Air Force units and supported other US military organizations in Turkey.
Author's Notes
Behind the Story
In the James Bond movie, From Russia With Love, Tatiana Romanova enters the Hagia Sophia museum in Istanbul. A tour guide mentions the ancient columns taken from Aswan.
6 October 1973, I listened from afar to the same tour guide. He mentioned the columns and added, "That's where the Israelis…" I didn't catch the rest, but knew Aswan wasn't in Israel. Before long, I learned Egypt and Syria had attacked Israel. Ten days later, on the southern Turkish coast, the only sign of war was a submarine on the surface. In the following weeks, in Iran, I learned more about the Yom Kippur War that almost led to World War III.
A few years ago, I read about of the Battle of Latakia and began to wonder: What if?
Separating Facts and Fiction
The Latakia Intercept is a work of fiction interwoven into a timeline of real events. The following events actually occurred:
1. The Yom Kippur War
2. The Battle of Latakia
Incirlik Airbase is real and continues to be in the news as a major facility in the War Against Terror.
References to the attack on the USS Liberty and aircraft downed on Soviet territory are based on real events.
In the story, Wyndham's hard copy of a cable from Langley on October 6, 1973 is directly based on CIA Director William Colby's report of the situation to the National Security Council. The report was declassified on 20 August 2003.
The Army Security Agency unit described is a product 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.
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 m
ilitary 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.
Excerpt from The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller
The Ethiopian Intercept transports you to the secret front line of the Cold War.
1975: J. Andrew Marsden disappears with plans to a game changing air-defense concept.
1978: Somali forces invade the Ogaden region of eastern Ethiopia. The Soviets support the Ethiopians as their principal ally in the Horn of Africa. A Cuban defector reveals the arrival of new air defense system.
Is Marsden involved? One man has the qualifications to find out, civilian ELINT analyst Ross Brannan. He reluctantly volunteers to fly a covert mission in the SR-71 spy plane over Ethiopia. "I remembered the old axiom: bad decisions make good stories. I sensed I was about to find out."
Following a ditching into the Indian Ocean, Ross finds himself the target of an intensive manhunt by Cuban operatives. He must rely on his instincts and training as he struggles to reach safety with critical data from his Ethiopian Intercept.
Behind the story: Lamu Island, Kenya, January 1978. Once again, I found myself next door to a war zone. The Ogaden War between Somalia and Ethiopia was raging up the coast. 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. In a moment of inspiration, I decided to write an action-adventure story of the Secret Cold War. That story became The Ethiopian Intercept.
Please enjoy a selection from the first chapter of the initial full-length novel in the Secret Cold War series, featuring Ross Brannan.
Chapter 1 ~ The Border
Thursday, 19 June 1975: Sierra Vista, Southern Arizona
"What you peckerwoods doin' over there?"
Jolted, I drew an abrupt breath and glanced back over the stucco cinderblock fence.
"You — I’m talkin’ to you." A lean gray-haired senior citizen had just caught me sneaking-a-peek into J. Andrew Marsden's dining room.
Who's this old geezer? Undaunted, I strode over to the fence. "You seen Mr. Marsden?"
"Asked you first." His wrinkled scowl puckered up even more. "What you think you're doin'?"
Just my luck, an argumentative old buzzard. "Sir, we work with Marsden over at the Army Proving Ground. He didn't show up this morning and we need to check and see if he's okay."
The man's body quivered, spittle oozed from the corner of his mouth. "You boys better get your butts outta here pronto or I'm callin’ the cops."
I straightened up, pulled out my wallet, and tried to sound assertive. "Sir, here's my Army ID, name's Ross Brannan."
The elderly neighbor wiped his jaw on his sleeve and scrunched up his eyes as he strained to read the card. After a few tense moments, he gave me a funny look and responded with an incoherent mumble.
"We need to speak with Marsden, it's a security matter." What I meant, but couldn't tell him: a serious national defense issue was involved.
Mack called out from behind, "No vehicle in here," he stood at the garage back door, forehead against the window, "it's empty."
Mack Gibson, my boss, and I were civilian employees of the Relint Corporation. A private contractor operating the Cochise Project for the Department of Defense at the Army Electronic Proving Ground at nearby Fort Huachuca. Marsden was the brains behind the enterprise.
Mack ambled over to the old man. He was more a people person than me, and closer to the man's age by twenty years. Mack rested an elbow on top the fence and asked with a persuasive tone, "Did you talk to him or notice anything unusual?"
The man cast a suspicious eye. "He never says nothin’." Mack started to speak, but the man continued, "You boys missed him by… fifteen minutes. He just backed out and drove off." The man scratched his head. "You know what? He did have lot ’a stuff piled in the back seat."
My jaw tightened. Has Marsden flown the coop? A little voice deep inside screamed: Something’s not right.
Mack raised his left palm and spoke with a calm but firm tone, "Sir, we need to check inside the house. I'm sorry — don't have time to explain."
Unbelievable. I wheeled and jogged towards the back door.
The man hollered, "You boys better skedaddle, el pronto."
I glanced back. Veins protruded from his temples, the old coot appeared on the verge of a stroke.
Jiggled the doorknob — locked.
"I warned you SOB's." He shook a gnarled finger at Mack. "I'm calling the cops."
Mack ignored his protestations and shouted, "Go ahead, kick it in."
The old cuss shrieked rude comments about our pedigrees and shuffled back into his faux adobe house. I wondered if he was going for his gun. This was southern Arizona after all, only a few miles from Tombstone and the OK Corral, Wyatt Earp territory. There I stood, unarmed, didn't even have my switchblade.
Three steps back, sprung forward, and struck at the door with my boot’s thick Vibram sole. The lock broke on the third wallop and I pushed on inside, not sure what I'd find.
Everything in the kitchen appeared normal for a single man: dirty dishes in the sink, breakfast leftovers on the table, half-eaten bag of Cheetos on the counter, overflowing ashtray, and a box of empty beer bottles on the floor.
"Marsden. — Anybody home?" No one answered.
A hollow sinking sensation gnawed at the pit of my stomach. A vague uneasiness set in. My mind reeled with possibilities and questions. In some way, I knew from the start, a sixth sense, the funny little feeling you get before it happens, something was wrong. Sometimes instincts are right. That morning, the inevitable journey that awaits the unlucky had interrupted my third cup of coffee.
In retrospect, I should have stayed back at the office. By all rights, the MP's, CID, or both should have taken the lead. Seemed like a straightforward errand at the time: drive out there, see if he was home, check the place out. Perhaps a simple explanation was in order.
The trouble started earlier when the electrical engineer failed to show up for work, an unusual occurrence, even for Marsden. When he didn't report by ten o'clock, Mack, the assistant director, called his house — no answer. A quick glance into Marsden's office found it in disarray with a near empty bookshelf.
We searched the project lab and discovered technical data missing from the secure filing cabinets, including classified files d
etailing the project’s inner workings. We suspected he was up to no good and rushed to his house to confront him.
Mack joined me in the dining room. He said, "I'll take his home office and you check out his bedroom."
The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke. A California style king sized bed, with a plush Corinthian leather headboard, sprawled unmade. Scattered clothes littered the green shag carpet. Dresser drawers pulled out and half emptied.
My eyes lingered for a moment on a large velvet painting over the bed: Dogs Playing Poker. Appeared Marsden had a discerning eye for art. I reckoned he picked up the masterpiece at one of those tourist traps in Nogales.
A flat box, discarded on the floor beside the bed, held the remnant of a large pizza: a partially eaten slice laden with extra pepperoni. An empty Tres Mujeres tequila bottle and a lifeless Negra Modelo beer six-pack stood as monuments to the pizza's demise.
On the nightstand beside his bed sat a pile of raunchy magazines, not just girlie pics, real hard core: S&M, teenyboppers, and the like. —They don't even sell this stuff at the bus station. — I picked up an issue and thumbed through the first few pages. —Whoa — I'm no prude, but the pictures were downright depraved.
I wasn't familiar with all the particulars of Marsden's habits, but did know the well-paid engineer lived a high-roller lifestyle outside of work. Everyone knew he liked expensive booze and cheap women. Our boss Lieutenant Colonel Hansen had been on his case about wild weekends across the border. Several months ago, the colonel discreetly bailed Marsden out of the Nogales jail the morning after an ugly fight with a pimp. I later found out the lurid details over a Coke with Margie, Hansen's secretary.
"Looks like he’s gone." Mack peered in from the hallway. "His office is cleaned out, nothing—"
"Check this out." One of the more graphic magazine covers featured an obviously agitated redhead clad only in thigh-high boots with a long bullwhip trailing from her hand.
