The Iranian Intercept
Page 1
THE
IRANIAN
INTERCEPT
A ROSS BRANNAN THRILLER
THE SECRET COLD WAR SERIES - BOOK 3
A Novel by
RG AINSLEE
The Iranian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller
The Secret Cold War Series - Book 3
Published by RG Ainslee
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 by RG Ainslee
Cover Image: By Author & CCo Public Domain
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The Iranian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and events are products of the author's imagination. It draws from the historical record, but any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Certain institutions and 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.
This is the third book in the Secret Cold War Series.
For any inquiries about this book, please contact the author at rgainslee.com
The first Electronic version: September 2018
The Iranian Intercept is a story of Cold War Electronic Intelligence (ELINT) long hidden behind a curtain of secrecy. ELINT is intelligence derived from collecting, processing, and analyzing radar and guidance control systems.
Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen of the security services manned the front line of the Cold War. Assigned to isolated foreign outposts, naval vessels, or flying along the Iron Curtain, they collected signals intelligence and gave an extra layer of early warning. All too many died by accident or enemy action. The first American combat death in Vietnam was a soldier of the Army Security Agency. The Secret Cold War series is dedicated to their memory.
Thomas Jefferson: "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."
Table of Contents
1 ~ New Mexico
2 ~ Kirtland AFB
3 ~ Bolling AFB
4 ~ Kathmandu
5 ~ The Approach
6 ~ Everest View
7 ~ The Trail
8~ Graveyard of Crows
9~ The Chase
10~ The Bridge
11 ~ The Mission
12 ~ 1979
13 ~ Iran
14 ~ Tehran
15 ~ IBEX
16 ~ Lisette
17 ~ Crisis
18 ~ Aftermath
19 ~ Decision
20 ~ T-2
21 ~ The Storm
22 ~ The Intercept
23 ~ Escape
24 ~ On the Run
25 ~ Afghanistan
26 ~ Herat
27 ~ Revolt
28 ~ Kandahar
29 ~ Road to Kabul
30 ~ Kabul
31 ~ The Embassy
32 ~ Suslov
33 ~ Salang Pass
34 ~ Charikar
35 ~ Kabul
36 ~ Kabul
37 ~ Suslov
Epilogue
Glossary
Author’s Note
The Secret Cold War Series
Excerpt from The Caspian Intercept: A Raven-One Team Thriller
About the Author
A word from RG Ainslee
1 ~ New Mexico
Sunday, 10 December 1978: Sandia Peak, New Mexico
Out of the corner of my eye — something in the woods. My head jerked left, concentration lost. The metal edge caught, right ski carved left, the laws of physics prevailed. Out-of-control, my body plunged downhill, slammed hard to the frozen slush, rolled two or three times, and face-planted to a halt.
After a few seconds, I gathered my thoughts and scanned back towards the woods. It was only a dried-up stump, not a man kneeling. An uneasy sigh of relief. I untangled from a heap of cold nylon and twisted limbs and crouched on the icy snow.
A rasping sound. I flinched. A colorful parka swooshed past, a youthful skier blasting down the trail. Patted my pocket, a reflex action — a flash of alarm. It's gone.
Lisette skidded to a stop and peppered me with slush. She taunted, her sexy French accent at its best, "Oh Ross, you have difficulté … you okay?"
"Yeah, bring me the ski." My left ski lay down-slope. Patted both pockets again and examined the furrowed snow behind me. Where’s it at? Can’t afford to lose it.
She pointed with her pole. "Do not forget pistolet."
There it is. The chrome barrel of my Walther PPK poked out of the snow beside me. "Yeah, you still have yours?"
Lisette squeezed her parka. "Oui." Her serious expression gave way to a smug devilish smirk as she tried to stifle a smile. "I not tomber ... fall down." Her petite size deceptive: a graceful, powerful skier. She glided along the trails with little effort or hesitation.
My hand covered the weapon. Two skiers whooshed past. No sense alarming anyone, all we needed was the ski patrol hunting for a gunman. Had no desire to spend the rest of the day trying to explain. I glanced up-slope and pocketed the little three-eighty. My skittish reaction, a primitive instinct hard to control, was not without reason.
Earlier in the year, in East Africa, four Cuban agents tried to kill me and paid with their lives. Lisette shot one dead, right between the eyes. Killing violated her religious beliefs. Back in France, she trained to be a nun. I operate under a more basic code: Kill-or-be-Killed.
She returned with the errant ski. "You have the long run today."
Couldn’t tell if her comment was a compliment or subtle mockery, at that point, late in the day, I didn't care. Not having skied since high school, the weekend outing was a quest to reacquire rusty skills. My form improved as the afternoon drug on and I managed to stay upright for the last fifteen minutes. The longest uninterrupted run so far.
I pleaded with a tone of desperate authority, "Okay, let's make this the final one."
She responded with a suggestion of disappointment in her voice. "Très bien." Without looking back, she shot ahead, zipped across the slope, hit the brakes, and motioned for me to hurry.
I brushed wet clumps off my parka, fought to maintain balance, and clipped in. A scene of wintry beauty spread before me. The trail, covered by new snow, wound through towering pines bathed by a winter sun. Far ahead, Lisette slalomed down the incline like a pro. I pushed-off and followed in tentative pursuit, snowplowing the steeper sections and sharper turns.
Earlier in the day, we rode the tramway up from Albuquerque for a day at Sandia Peak, the ski area open for the first weekend of the season. We spent the day on the easiest runs and were on our way down to the lodge at the lower parking lot. She preferred the expert trails, but out of pity, accommodated me on the easy trails. Didn't bother to complain, I was outclassed and knew it.
Near the foot of the run, water dripped from branches, the snow soft and shallow. I twisted sideways to halt beside Lisette. Her descent, like all the rest, uneventful except for the times she paused to wait. We removed our skis and shuffled the final fifty yards.
All that remained was to ride the lift back to the top and a trip down on the tram. We planned to celebrate with a hamburger and milkshake at the Owl Cafe. Lisette was enjoying the day, excited to ski for the first time since she left her home in the French Alps two years ago. The recent events and dangers that led up to our marriage
lay behind us. Life was good, except every muscle ached. I relished the thought of a hot shower followed by a massage. — Yes.
Lisette nudged my arm. "Oh, is Dzhim."
Jim Barker, dressed in an Ohio State football letter jacket, sat at a table on the deck. She shouted and waved her ski pole. He returned the greeting with a tentative gesture. He skied, but I couldn't imagine him out today. His wife Sarah was four months pregnant. He was alone.
I called out as we climbed the steps, "Didn't expect to see you up here?" His presence unexpected, not a surprise, nothing surprised me these days. In some way, I knew, a vague uneasiness, a sixth sense if you please, something was up.
He motioned for us to follow and moved away from the tables to the far railing. "The Man called and wants you on the horn ASAP." ASAP for as soon as possible: Barker, an Air Force captain, talked like that. The Man, referred to our boss, Colonel Wilson.
"How is Sarah?" interrupted Lisette.
"She's fine. — Lisette can you let Ross and me talk for a minute?"
"Please go inside and get something hot for us to drink." I appealed, "Duty calls."
Lisette gave me the evil eye, her stubborn streak about to surface again. She spun around and clattered towards the lodge, dragging her ski boots in a purposeful manner. At the last moment, she cast me a petulant glance before slipping through the door.
"What's he want now?"
"Didn't say. He sounded anxious, must have a new operation in the works. He seemed irritated you weren't available."
"Excuse me — think I've earned a day off. Anyway, I'm a civilian."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger." He tilted his head to the parking lot. "Didn't see the Toyota, thought I missed you."
"We came up on the tram. You know what he wants?"
"He didn't explain. It was more like an order."
"Tell him you couldn't find me. I'll call him tomorrow. We're gonna eat and go home for a long hot shower."
Barker paused with an incredulous expression frozen on his face. He should have expected my answer, he's an officer accustomed to getting his way.
"Okay, that's fine, but I can't picture Ross Brannan in line at the unemployment bureau. That's where you'll be, and you know it."
He was right. I was putting him on. Being newly married with responsibilities was a completely new world for me. I needed the job. Besides, it would be impossible to tell the unemployment office who I really worked for.
"Don't worry, consider the message delivered. I'll call him soon as we get down the mountain.'
"You can ride with me."
"Tram's faster. Anyway, my pickup's parked down there. We need to eat first, and then I'll drop Lisette off at the apartment and call him from the office. Go back home. Brief you in the morning."
Sunday PM, 11 December: Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico
There wasn't anything unusual about my office: standard Air Force issue grey metal desk, uncomfortable chair, and a heavy-duty secure filing cabinet. Aeronautical charts covering most of New Mexico plastered the wall behind my desk. An unused Smith-Corona typewriter on a rolling stand sat off to the left. I hate to type. The smell of correction fluid nauseates me.
I dialed Colonel Wilson's number on the secure line, someone answered and told me to wait. Wilson was director of the Special Signals Research Project, a covert joint enterprise of the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency. His office, buried in an obscure building at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington D.C., was the hub of our operation.
SSRP focused on clandestine ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) collection involving Soviet radar and telemetry signals. The CIA had always considered ELINT a stepchild and dismissed most raw ELINT as unconfirmed data. They believed only agents in the field could be relied on for worthwhile intelligence.
Formation of SSRP was an effort to bridge the gap between Human Intelligence and Electronic Intelligence. Its mission was to deal with special situations where conventional collection methods were neither effective nor practical. In the past, NSA relied primarily on military resources for ELINT collection. Now, SSRP would combine NSA analytical capabilities with CIA and military special operations assets in a single unit. It hadn't been easy, hampered by roadblocks and backstabbing from both agencies. Wilson's concept gained traction and now we were fully operational.
Kirtland Air Force Base was the home of my section, a clandestine intelligence collection program designated SSRP Detachment R-1, or as we called it, Raven-One. Our location in Albuquerque was a matter of hiding in plain sight as the Radio Propagation Research Office, a routine and dull Air Force unit performing mundane research on radio propagation and antenna testing. A subject that causes most people's eyes to glaze over just talking about it.
Kirtland was far away from prying brass: the mutual admiration societies at Fort Meade, Langley, and worst of all, the Pentagon. Being at the bottom of the food chain and isolated from the main action suited me fine.
"Brannan, you there?" There was an uneasy edge to his voice.
"Yes sir, right here." Where would I've gone?
He didn't bother with pleasantries and dropped the hammer right away. "Have some news that might interest you." He paused.
I wondered: due for a raise … six months on the job, so—
"Marsden escaped from prison in Mexico."
The words didn't seem real, my mind trapped in a strange limbo as my instant replay button switched to rewind.
J. Andrew Marsden, a traitor who previously worked on the top-secret Cochise Project in Arizona, shot me after I chased him over the Mexican border three years ago. He also killed a Mexican federal police officer. Marsden fled to Cuba and ended up in the Soviet Union working on a similar air defense system. We kidnapped him from the Russians during combat field-testing in Ethiopia and he told us everything.
Unfortunately, the knuckleheads at the Department of Justice declined to bring him to trial because of an intervention by Senator Palmer Bradbury. The dim whittled ignoramus acted on behalf of Simion Georgescu, a shadowy industrialist with long standing ties to the Soviets as a trade facilitator. Notwithstanding his reputation, Georgescu was influential in certain Washington circles. The feds claimed I abused Marsden's rights during my so-called brutal interrogation in Addis Ababa. The SOB deserved worse.
However, he didn't escape justice. I surreptitiously helped his extradition to Mexico to stand trial for murder. The thought of him rotting in a Mexican hellhole for the rest of his life gave me a warm feeling.
"Brannan — you still there?"
"Yes sir … What'd you say?"
"John Smith informed me this afternoon — Marsden escaped from detention in Mexico City."
"How?"
"We don't have the details yet. Smith is working on it as we speak—"
"I'll be ready to leave in an hour. Barker can fly me down there and—"
"Hold it, you're not going anywhere. Get that out of—"
"He's gonna get away. I'll catch him, no matter what it takes."
"You're not going to find him in Mexico. He broke out two weeks ago."
"Two weeks—"
"Let me finish and don't interrupt again." The curt tone used when he wanted you to shut up. "Do you understand?"
"Yes sir. What do you want me to do?"
A deep sigh echoed over the line, followed by a long pause. "The information crossed Smith's desk just this weekend. One of his former colleagues at Langley remembered his involvement with Marsden in East Africa and forwarded him a copy of the report. Smith came in after lunch to check his messages and found it in his in-box."
"Any idea why it took so long to find out?"
"FBI agents in the embassy didn't learn about his escape for a week and it took another week to work its way through the system. You know how that works."
"Yes sir." Knew only too well. "So, there's nothing we can do?"
"It would be my guess he's already back in Russia by now or at least in Cuba."
"You're probably right. What do you want me to do?"
"We’re sure they have plans for him, just don't know what. Need you to consider possible scenarios involving his area of expertise. A meeting will take place later this week to discuss the matter. You'll be notified tomorrow of the time and date. Start preparations now. Any questions?
A ton of questions, none he wanted to hear. "No sir, I'll wait for your call."
The events of the spring raced through my mind. The SR-71 flight over Ethiopia, ditching in the Indian Ocean, pursuit by Soviet agents, kidnapping Marsden in Addis Ababa, and the rescue mission to the Sudan.
The affair had been a near disaster. Only Marsden’s capture and his information saved the situation. Since I was low man on the operational totem pole, naturally blame drifted down the food chain, mainly because of my so-called brutal interrogation methods.
Along the way, Lisette shot and killed an attacker in Nairobi and I took out four more in self-defense. The group’s leader, Major Raul Gurrero, tracked me back to Fort Huachuca from Africa. Now, he’s takin’ a one-way cruise dodging centaur’s arrows on the River Phlegethon down in the Seventh Level of Hell. I executed the sorry SOB in an act of cold-blooded vengeance — Lex Talionis — An Eye for an Eye. Simple justice, in other words, God helps those who help themselves.
They never were able to pin me with his death. A fire destroyed all evidence of my involvement. No trace of Soviet agents had surfaced since our move to Albuquerque.
Had to give it to Wilson though, he didn't give up and turned the fiasco into something positive. His brainchild, the SSRP earned a second chance and now I was on board and had a second chance too. That's why I worked with Wilson, needed a second, or was it a third chance to get my career back on track. Wilson meant well, but I realized, in the end, I was playing a sucker's game.
The last few months passed without incident. Just to be safe, Lisette and me both carried Walther PPK semi-auto pistols and did our best to keep a low profile. Now everything had changed. Decided to wait to tell her, nothing was going to spoil our perfect day.
2 ~ Kirtland AFB