by R G Ainslee
Monday AM, 11 December: Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico
I wheeled my bicycle, a Colnago Super ten-speed brought home from a trip to Aviano Air Base in Italy, through the door on the way to my office. Sergeant Alice Swift, our unit clerk, a cute college dropout from California, gave me a pained look. "Good morning sir."
"Told you not to call me sir, I'm not an officer. I work for a living. — Got it?"
"Yes sir, I'll try to remember." After three years in the Air Force Security Service, she had her own ways of doing things.
Jim arrived thirty minutes later from the flight line. We first worked together in Kenya where he served as an assistant defense attaché. He flew us into the southern Sudan on a rescue mission and we only survived because of his piloting skills. He was also a good and loyal friend and I was grateful to Wilson for indulging my request to include him in our unit.
"What did The Man have to say … or am I allowed to ask?"
"Marsden busted out of jail in Mexico."
Jim stared at the map behind my desk, an impassive expression on his face. "How's this going to affect us?" Could tell he was thinking, trying to get ahead of the curve. He was good at sensing things other people missed, one reason why I requested him for our unit.
"Not sure. Wilson wants me at Bolling later in the week. You gonna to be able to fly me to Andrews?"
"No problem, the Aero Commander’s ready, just checked on the weather forecast for tomorrow's flight down to Holloman." He glanced at the charts behind me. "Guess that's scrubbed."
"Yeah, this takes priority over a training mission."
"Okay, weather for the next few days looked fine. I'll have Sergeant George prep the aircraft for a longer flight." Master Sergeant George was our flight operations chief. "Anything else?"
I filled Jim in on the essential details. "…and that's about it."
"So, there's no chance of catching up with Marsden. That's good news for you."
"What d'ya mean?"
"It'll deny you one more chance to get in trouble."
I restrained my instincts to offer a snappy reply. He was right. Another run-in with Marsden might finish off my career — or what's left of it — for good. Barker knew the story of my so-called brutal interrogation methods used on Marsden in Ethiopia. It was only a switchblade and he didn't even bleed that much. They might have a point on his missing ear lobe, but then they didn't get shot by the SOB.
Barker paused at the door. "Some friendly advice. Don't let this thing eat at you. He's gone, give it up."
He was right, of course, I couldn't let it go. Deep down, I wanted to find a way to frustrate Marsden's efforts. I told myself: Patience is a virtue. All good things come to those who wait.
* * *
Patience may be a virtue, but like all virtues, easier said than done. I spent the morning engrossed in thought, replaying in my mind all the reasons to hate Marsden. The bad thing about hate, it eats at your insides, and if you're not careful, it can take over your life.
The clock read 1030 hours, the day was young, and I needed to burn off some frustration. Told Alice as I wheeled the bike out the door, "Be back later." A ride around base, up and down the flight line, maybe that’ll do the job, couldn't just sit around waiting. Even Lisette understood something was bothering me, despite my efforts to act normal, or as normal as I can.
An hour later, after riding up and down the flight line, twice around the veteran's hospital, and almost being run-over on Gibson Avenue, I returned to the office, tired, sweaty, and chilled. Alice was leaving for lunch, early again.
"Colonel Wilson called."
"What’d he want?"
"Didn't say but seemed irritated you weren’t here … on duty."
"Suppose you told him I was out riding my bike."
She tried unsuccessfully to suppress her amusement. "Sir, I would never do that."
"Before you leave, get him on the line."
"It's lunch time in Washington."
"Don’t care what time it is, call him now." As I closed the door behind me, I regretted my outburst. A few moments later, the phone rang.
"Colonel Wilson on the line, sir."
"Thank you and please excuse what I said."
"What did you say?" said Wilson, already on the line. Alice tittered in the background followed by a click as she hung up her phone.
"Sorry sir, just—"
"Never mind, Smith's with me. John, tell him about the new development."
John Smith, a CIA officer, was the project's operations director. "Last week, our embassy in Kathmandu got word from a woman who claims to have vital information and may be interested in defecting."
A sense of foreboding crept in, a vague uneasiness. The last time Wilson asked me to go on a mission involving a defector almost cost me my life and contributed to the loss of my job at the Army's electronic proving ground at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.
"Defector … did you say her?"
"She's Hungarian, a telemetry instrumentation specialist. She's on her way to the Mount Everest base camp on a scientific expedition. They'll be there throughout the winter conducting high-altitude experiments. She's in charge of the satellite telemetry system. When the group was gearing up in Kathmandu, she managed to get word to our embassy, but couldn't get away. Their security was extremely tight. Our people told her someone will contact her at base camp."
And that someone would be me. "Why are we involved?"
Wilson broke in, "This woman worked on the Russian version of the Cochise Project. She claims to have knowledge of a new and more advanced system."
An omen, flashing like a neon sign. Didn't have to ask but did anyway. "Where are you going with this?"
"This Hungarian woman claims to have worked with Marsden. We need to talk to her—"
Mention of Marsden's name turned me on a dime. A second before, I wanted no part of Wilson's scheme. Now, I couldn't wait to do anything or go anywhere to frustrate his plans.
"You want me to go to Nepal and interrogate her?"
"No. Ruiz and Richards will handle that task. Your job will be to fill them in on what questions to ask."
"Hell no — if it involves Marsden I'm going too."
"Brannan, listen here, you work for me now. Don’t care if you are a civilian. This is a military organization. Don't give me any of your headstrong bull." Even over the telephone, it was obvious his dander was up to a stratospheric level. "If you're going to have any problems, I need to know now."
His words hit like a shot of cold water. "Yes sir. I can assure you I'm on-board." Had to be on-board, I needed the job. Marsden was involved, and I made one last desperate plea. "I'm sorry Colonel. Please, I know what to ask. Ruiz and Richards don't have the technical knowledge. I do. I assure you I can handle the job. Please reconsider."
"You’re good at your work, but you have a tendency to act rashly. That just won't do. We don't need mavericks. This is a team effort. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Colonel," interrupted John Smith, "he may have a point. He does have a better handle on the technical aspect, and it should be a simple in and out mission, no danger, or threats as I can see. Brannan should be able to handle it."
After a long pause, Wilson spoke, "Very well, we'll take it under consideration. I will inform you shortly." He disconnected without saying goodbye.
I hung up the phone and then it occurred to me: I’ve been set up.
* * *
Wilson called back three hours later. "Brannan, your request is granted. I'm sending you to Nepal. Just find out what she has to offer. Report to me here at Bolling on Thursday. If the weather is satisfactory, Captain Barker can fly you Andrews direct, if not go commercial. We'll have all the papers you need and final instructions. You'll fly to New Delhi through London and on to Kathmandu. The CIA station chief will take it from there."
"How about Ruiz and Richards? I could use some back up."
Amadeo Ruiz and Jack Richards, CIA officers a
nd former military special operations specialists, were at Fort Gordon, Georgia for a few weeks specialized training with the Army Signal Corps.
"No, Smith says we don't need too many people on site. Don't need to attract attention. Besides, they need to complete their course. The CIA has a few assets in Nepal, but mostly you will be on your own. However, I am arranging for them to be here for the briefing."
"Do we pick them up?"
"Not necessary, we have other arrangements. Call me when you get here." He hung up.
I buzzed Alice. "Tell Barker to come to my office?"
Jim strode in and closed the door. Barker was in charge as far as the Air Force was concerned, but I was the one with overall operational responsibility.
"How's the weather forecast? Wilson wants me in DC on Thursday."
"Still looks good, Sergeant George has already begun the prep. What's up?"
"Wilson's sending me to Nepal." I filled him in on the plans.
"We're not going to pick up Jack and Amadeo?"
"No, Wilson told me I'm yoyo on this one."
"Yoyo?"
"Yeah, like in you're-on-your-own. In any case, this should just be a routine mission, in and out. What could go wrong?"
Monday PM, 11 December: Roadrunner Apartments
"Népal — I not go now. I have classes. Can you wait for break de Noël?" I had just told Lisette I’d be away for a week or so. Unfortunately, she assumed she would be coming with me.
She gazed at me with doleful eyes. We had something special. I didn't want to leave. The last few months had been the happiest in my life. She was delighted with her new life as a student at the University of New Mexico.
"No. I'm sorry, this is strictly business, not a pleasure trip. Like last month when I went to Turkey for a week."
Her eyebrows tensed. "Will you have danger?" She knew from personal experience trouble was my constant companion.
"Nah, it's only a routine trip, part of my job."
"Oh, I always want to see l’Himalaya." She hugged and gave me the look, the one I can't resist. In an attempt to make me feel guilty, she pleaded with a forlorn tone, "M'emmener avec toi … take me with you?"
We had discussed the fact my job involved classified missions and she understood. Couldn’t tell her the details of my work but felt obligated to tell her where I was going. We shared a special bond and I couldn't lie to her.
Lisette, twenty-four years old, but with her short light golden-brown hair, honey tan from the African sun, and petite size could pass for a teenager. Not what one would consider strikingly beautiful, her charm transformed her plain looks into something special.
When we first met, my impression was a mere frail petite girl. I was mistaken. She was in fact a determined and resourceful woman who responded well in a crisis. Her quick thinking saved the day several times. Her inner strength and perseverance continued to amaze me, most likely something to do with her religious training at the convent and the tragedy that changed her life.
"Be back right after Christmas and we can go up to Santa Fe for some more skiing. Is that okay?"
Feigning indignation, she answered, "Très bien, the délicatesse will be ready soon." She pirouetted and marched towards the small kitchen in our one-bedroom rental at the Roadrunner Apartments.
A delicacy. Sounds promising. I followed and asked, "Great, I'm really hungry. What are we having?"
She wheeled around and beamed. "A surprise. Mrs. Lopez help me. A special délicatesse: Cabrito al Pastor."
I opened the fridge and grabbed a cold beer, a Modelo Especial. Our black cat, a kitten, naturally named Raven, followed me back to the well-worn couch. I took a long pull on the beer and counted my blessings.
My life had been adrift after the tragic death of my parents, sister, and high school sweetheart in an auto accident during my first semester at New Mexico State. I enlisted, and the army became a substitute family. Disgusted with bureaucratic tangles, I chose not to re-enlist after eleven years. A new job with the Relint Corporation at Fort Huachuca, Arizona came along, but I was living life without any reason for existence. I enjoyed my work but lacked real inner purpose until I met Lisette. Then I lost my job after the fiasco in Africa.
Now, I was happily married with a new job and seeking redemption in my professional life. For too long my only emotional attachments had been fleeting ones. Now, I had what I longed for and desperately wanted to keep it. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.
"The délicatesse is ready."
I rose out of my chair ready to do battle with the dreaded Cabrito al Pastor. Born in New Mexico I was familiar with Cabrito or broiled goat. I’d eaten plenty Cabrito in my day. Sorta like chicken, one day you’ve had enough and don’t want no more. But I wasn’t about to tell her.
Lisette liked to experiment with various ethnic foods and too often, it involved goat. At least she didn’t indulge in the French predilection for frog-legs, snails, or heaven forbid —horsemeat.
3 ~ Bolling AFB
Thursday, 14 December: Bolling AFB, Washington, D.C.
Bolling Air Force Base sits across the Potomac River from the Pentagon. The Special Signals Research Project, housed in a nondescript wooden building, appeared ordinary like the rest of Colonel Wilsons's enterprise, something no one would ever mistake for anything important.
Wilson wasn’t one of those narcissistic Pentagon Princes, the ticket-punching bureaucrats consumed with furthering their own careers, the ones with fancy offices. The conference room furnished in Korean War surplus was also unremarkable: institutional pale blue walls, a large gray metal table, and well-worn chairs. Photos of aircraft adorned the walls, including our U4A Aero Commander.
The flight from Albuquerque took 11 hours with a single fueling stop at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. Sergeant George, always a stickler for proper procedures, was especially displeased with my unauthorized time at the controls. Barker had been giving me flying lessons.
Master Sergeant Theo George, a six foot-four heavyset native of Washington, D.C. was the non-commissioned officer in charge of our base operations. A graduate of Howard University and a twenty-five-year veteran of the Air Force Security Service, the sometimes gruff, always no-nonsense sergeant possessed little sense of humor. That said; he was good at his job, leaving us to deal with larger issues.
I earned a sailplane license in Germany, but never logged enough time to obtain a powered aircraft rating. Almost all my flight experience had been as an airborne intercept operator. Barker was a darn good pilot. He had flown any number of transport and light aircraft throughout his ten years in the Air Force. First flew with him in East Africa during our rescue mission into the Sudan where his bush pilot skills saved the day.
"Any questions?" asked the tall and imposing Colonel Wayne Wilson who wore the wings of a combat pilot. The ribbons on his uniform, including the Silver Star and Distinguished Flying Cross, symbols of a notable record in Vietnam. He had just completed a summary of the mission objectives.
In addition to Wilson, seven others sat around the table. Barker at my right, John Smith and Mack Gibson, my old boss at Fort Huachuca now the chief analyst of SSRP, sat on either side of Wilson. Amadeo Ruiz and Jack Richards flew up from Fort Gordon especially for the meeting. Lieutenant Colonel Hansen, another former boss, now the NSA liaison officer with the project sat at the end of the table. The last man was an Ivy League type civilian, introduced as Mister Hartley from across the river. They didn't say which river.
Several questions came to mind, but Hartley spoke first. "Wilson, what qualifications does Brannan have for this mission? As you can imagine, we're more than a little gun-shy after the fiasco in East Africa." He didn't even give me a glance.
Wilson answered with a sharp edge to his voice, "Brannan is one of our best signal analysts, and having worked on the Cochise Project is in a unique position to ask the right questions. We have full confidence in his ability to—"
"Brannan was involved with
the Marsden interrogation. Can you assure me he won't screw this up too?"
My mouth was open, about to end my career for good, but Wilson spoke first with intensity, "Let me remind you, it was because of Brannan's interrogation we obtained any information at all out of Marsden. Because of this man sitting here," he pointed at me, "we avoided a major setback in our air defense efforts. And let me further remind you, he placed his life at risk multiple times and delivered the goods." Wilson was about to light the afterburners on his temper.
The pencil-neck, decked out in an expensive pinstriped suit, raised his lip in a sneer. "That's all and good Colonel, but let me remind you, we cannot afford a second debacle like—"
"The mission was not a debacle, but an important success. If you had any experience at all in these matters, you would understand."
"My experience is not at issue here. The issue at hand is Brannan and his suitability to undertake this mission. Furthermore, we do not—"
Wilson cut loose with his don't-mess-with-me voice, "Mister Hartley, let me remind you," and he spat out the word you, "I am the one tasked with the responsibility for this mission. The Special Signals Research Project was specifically set up to take on such tasks. My people place their lives on the line every time they go on a mission. And furthermore, I was personally assured by the directors of the agencies involved and the Secretary of Defense — no outside meddling in my operations will be tolerated. Am I making myself clear?"
Hartley closed his folder and flounced out of the room without saying another word. It was obvious, the guy was a cosmic elitist supremely convinced of his genius. Washington seems to be full of his type: the vain, greedy, and impervious to reality, promoted into positions of power by a continuous parade of like-minded political hacks.
Wilson, his face red with rage, inhaled a deep breath, quietly regaining his composure.
Hansen puffed up and exclaimed, "Wilson, don't think you can afford to piss-off the White House. That man is a highly placed national security assistant, a respected Wall Street lawyer, a—"
Wilson cut him off, "Thank you for your opinion Colonel. Are there any other questions?"
