The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "You couldn't have arrived a worse time. We're doing our best to keep our people from bailing out and they send us a bunch of TDY commandos." He paused and shook his head. "Excuse the sarcasm, you'll understand before too long. My name is Howard McKenna. Do you have your orders?"

  I passed the sealed envelope containing our mission authorization from NSA. He opened it, sat down, and read it over. "How long do you expect to be here? This seems pretty open ended to me."

  "We're authorized to stay long as needed. It depends on the mission requirements. Sorry, I can't get into details."

  "Sure, but my advice is to wrap it up soon as you can. Things are going to hell in a hand basket and I'm not sure if we can hold out much longer. If the Shah is overthrown, all bets are off."

  I glanced at Jack. He agreed.

  "One other point, do not in any circumstances talk politics or anything remotely related with our Iranian colleagues. They're sitting on the fence and don't know which way to jump. Just stick to business and small talk. Most of them are good men, but there are a few opportunists, who could go either way. So be careful, extremely careful. — Got it?"

  "Yes sir, we will do our best to keep a low profile."

  "Let's see, Brannan you're an analyst, what role do these other gentlemen play?"

  "You might say they're my body guards." He gave me a questioning stare. "We had to leave our weapons in Frankfurt. Do you have any spare Uzi's laying around?"

  He eyeballed Jack and Amadeo with a look of astonishment. "You've got to be kidding. Do you realize what'd happen if you started shooting up downtown Tehran?" He paused. "They'd string our butts up in a New York minute. Actually, I'm not sure it'd even take that long. No weapons. — Let me repeat. — No weapons."

  Jack touched my arm. "It's okay Ross, let me handle the security. — Thank you, Colonel. We'll take your suggestion under advisement."

  "Not a suggestion—" McKenna stopped in mid-sentence when Amadeo spoke to Jack in French, telling him, he would look around for weapons. "Who the hell are you, the freakin French Foreign Legion?"

  "No, they're just a pair of snake-eaters. Don't worry about us Colonel we'll keep a low profile. Who do I see about my mission responsibilities?"

  He picked up the phone. "Sergeant Lewis, I have some … people, who will be in your office in a minute. Get them where they need to be." He hung-up the phone and told me, "Two doors down the hall." He gave us an artificial smile. "Please make an effort to stay out of trouble."

  * * *

  "We've had two Boeing 707-3J9C tanker transports modified to carry out SIGINT missions," advised Mike James, "Also a couple of modified C-130's." SIGINT means signal intelligence, a combination of COMINT, communications intelligence, and ELINT, electronic intelligence.

  "All missions are fully tasked. We'll have a position open for you in about two weeks." James, the assistant operations director responsible for mission tasking, coordinated IBEX flights with his Iranian Air Force counterpart.

  "Is that the best you can do? We don't relish the prospect of hanging around here too long."

  "I hear you, but mission tasking comes from stateside. You're lucky to get anything at all. But, if the Soviet's fly a big test, all bets are off."

  "Seems like all bets are off is every one's favorite phrase around here."

  "Welcome to Iran."

  "Say, do you think we might find living quarters closer to the base? We're in town at the Persepolis Hotel right now."

  "Two SIGINT operators are leaving in a few days, I'll check with them. Maybe you can take over their apartment about a quarter mile off base. It'll be expensive as hell, but a lot easier than a daily commute from downtown."

  "I'll do that." We were on Wilson's dime, so money didn't matter. What's a few bucks to the government? Probably cost less than a congressman's lunch. "Where are the aircraft? I’d like to check out the equipment."

  "They're over at Mehrabad."

  "You mean the main airport?"

  "Yes, it's both the country's major civil airport and the largest air base. We have our operations here and fly out of Mehrabad." I must have looked surprised. "This base is too small and crowded in by civilian houses for the big aircraft, they decided to use Mehrabad years ago, don't ask me why. I just work here. The Iranians operate a shuttle for us, it's not bad once you get used to it."

  Jack and Amadeo met me at the entrance to the building. "Did you guys have any luck," I asked.

  "We're good to go, but we couldn't find anything for you. Sorry."

  Wasn't sure if they couldn't or didn't want to find me a weapon, after all, Jack hadn't seen me in action yet. Why do I think there'll be a yet?

  "What'd you find?"

  Jack pulled a black pistol from his waistband. "So far, just this old Russian Tokarev TT semi. I’ll try to score an AR-16 or two later on. If we're gonna be here that long."

  "Better get to it. Appears we're not such a high a priority as Wilson thinks. By the way, the gun looks like the one Suslov carried."

  Jack passed the pistol. "Yeah, it’s the same kind that killed the lady in Nepal. It may be ugly, but it's effective. The 7.62 packs a pretty good punch. I bet Suslov had his weapon optimized for long-range work. These things are obsolete for frontline use, but still effective for special purposes."

  I pulled back the slide — loaded. "You said Suslov was lucky or an extremely good shot. Which one?"

  "Probably both, and don't forget the brass shell casing. Not your standard steel cased Tokarev round, most likely special KGB stock."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  Amadeo said, "If we told you, we'd have to kill you." Jack gave me a wry grin. They're CIA after all.

  "You got plenty ammo?"

  "There lies a little problem. The Iranian sergeant I bought it off of only had a partial tin full." Amadeo pulled a flat metal can from his pocket, "Looks like less than twenty rounds. Sure like to test fire it though."

  "Bet if you shot it off out in the street tonight, nobody would notice."

  Amadeo canted his head. "Now you're beginning to make sense. There's hope for you after all."

  I handed the pistol back to Jack, "Looks good."

  Jack asked, "What do we do now?"

  "As I said, we might be here for a while. I don't fly for two weeks. I'm going to see if we can find accommodations closer to the base. Got a lead, I'm going to check out now. Why don't you do a recon of the area and meet me back at the operations center snack bar in an hour."

  * * *

  I spoke to the three departing analysts and arranged to take over the lease on a one-room apartment just down the street from the main gate. They warned me the landlord might try to jack up the rent and most likely demand baksheesh to make the deal.

  I wandered in to the op's center just in time to catch McKenna leaving for the club. He asked, "Did you get your situation squared away with Captain James?"

  "Captain?"

  "He's ex Air Force. Most of us are."

  "Sure, everything's A-okay. … Say, you don't know where we can find some ammo?"

  Friday, 12 January: Tehran

  We had been in Tehran almost a week. The first winter snows began falling, once busy avenues quiet as traffic slowed. We spent the morning holed up in the apartment listening to the radio.

  "This is the BBC world service. The time is 1400 Greenwich Mean Time. Here is the news…" The reader recounted the day's dreary events. Radio reception was poor, the crackle of static and heterodyning made it difficult to follow the local correspondent's account. It didn't matter, the real news was happening right outside our window.

  Rumors spread like wildfire. News of a buildup of Soviet forces across the border deemed credible, the Russians coveted Iran for access to the Straits of Hormuz. Leftist mujahidin seemed sympathetic to the idea. They believed Marx and Islam are compatible. Everyone else regarded the Soviets as opportunists ready to take advantage of any situation offering a low risk chance to advance their interests.

/>   Rumors claimed the Communists had taken over the oilfields, but in fact, Ayatollah Khomeini ordered from his exile in France for oil workers to close down the country's production. Most foreign technicians had already departed, creating a fuel shortage. No one believed the army could return oil production back to normal.

  Another persistent rumor partially based on facts: President Carter ordered Marines and helicopters to Turkey and a task force to the Gulf. Intervention was at hand and the Iranian military would take over. The truth of the matter: U.S. intelligence failed to assess the intensity and range of opposition. As a gesture of support for the Shah, the president directed a carrier task force to the Persian Gulf from the South China Sea. Three days later, he relented and ordered the ships to return to station.

  As the signal faded, Amadeo said, "The landlord told me rumors of a military coup are growing more ominous. Troops are being reassigned to distant areas in order to diffuse the situation, the reasoning being, if ordered to fire on civilians, troops from a distant province will be less inhibited from doing so. He thinks a coup would mean a bloodbath."

  Jack agreed, "Rumors are a dime a dozen. One guy at the base told me people went nuts last month when someone on the radio announced Khomeini's face would appear on the moon. The fanatics were crying and jumping around over that one."

  Amadeo peered out the window of our fourth-floor apartment. "Looks like another riot in the making." We had just moved in two days before, a welcome change from the hotel, especially the long drive back and forth to the base.

  I joined him at the window. "Wonder what's it about this time?" We gave up trying to figure out the dynamics of the frequent disturbances, content to stay out of the way.

  Amadeo shook his head. "It's too cold for this sort of stuff."

  "Sounds pretty hot to me."

  Jack sat down. "Let's hold off a while before we head on up to the base."

  I agreed, and we settled in. The BBC broadcast came back to life, more of the same: the world going to hell in a hand basket.

  Amadeo grinned. "Think the BBC will broadcast the Super Bowl next week?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure they'll devote the entire day to the broadcast." As luck would have it, the Cowboys would meet the Steelers for the crown.

  "Who you for?" needled Jack.

  "Guess I'll have to become a Terry Bradshaw fan."

  Amadeo popped off, "You know what they say about Bradshaw?"

  "What?"

  "He couldn't spell 'cat' if you spotted him the 'c' and the 't'."

  "It ain’t a spelling bee. All he has to do is throw the ball."

  Gunfire interrupted our banter. A bullet pierced the window and ricocheted off the concrete block wall. We all hit the floor.

  "Everybody okay?"

  "Hey man, I'm bleeding." The ricochet had struck Amadeo's arm.

  Jack swung into action and retrieved the first aid kit. "Hang on, let me rip the sleeve and get a pad on it." He tore the fabric and exposed a bloody patch. "You'll be okay. Looks like it just creased the skin."

  "Yeah, but it hurts like hell, feels like my arm's about to fall off."

  "Come on now, you've been shot before, suck it up." Jack squirted antiseptic on the cut and Amadeo responded in Spanish with a few creative expletives even I hadn't heard before.

  I headed for the door. "I’ll go down and see if the landlord can get us a ride to the base, looks like he's going to need stitches."

  * * *

  McKenna was steamed. I stood in front of his desk. "I asked you politely to make an effort to stay out of trouble. You've been here less than a week and already created an incident."

  The incident McKenna referred to occurred when the taxi driver refused to take us to the base. Jack pressed the muzzle of the Tokarev against the driver's neck as a motivational tool. We arrived in record time.

  Unfortunately, the driver forgot to take down the Ayatollah's picture on the dash. Guards at the front gate pulled him from the vehicle and beat the tar out of him. Taking advantage of the chaos, I jumped into the driver's seat and drove to the infirmary.

  While we waited at the infirmary, an Iranian military police squad arrived and confiscated Jack's Tokarev. Somehow, he convinced the lieutenant not to take him into custody. Apparently, a little baksheesh was involved, but I’m not sure. I don't understand Farsi.

  After stitching up his arm, the doctor told us Amadeo would be all right. The bullet, deformed by the ricochet, produced a wicked, but not debilitating slash. He insisted Amadeo stay at the infirmary for at least two hours. Amadeo protested, rose to leave, but his knees, weak from the loss of blood, gave out and he agreed to stay for a while longer.

  After McKenna finished his butt chewing, followed by an insincere promise from me to watch it in the future, Jack and I walked over to the communications center to inform Wilson of the morning's developments. A secure telephone line was unavailable, so I sent an encrypted message via teletype:

  TO: Dir SSRP

  FROM: Raven One

  Ruiz wounded by gunfire this AM. Will be OK. Need assistance. No weapons available. No cooperation from IBEX. Flight delayed for two weeks. Situation on ground deteriorating.

  While waiting for Wilson's answer, I tried to call Lisette. I hadn’t spoken with her since we left Albuquerque. The Iranian telephone service was in complete disarray, no open lines to the states available. Thought about asking Wilson to call but decided not to push my luck.

  The shooting served one useful purpose. My thoughts now focused completely on the mission. There would be no turning back, survival the first priority. My only real comfort, Lisette was safe at home.

  Two cups of coffee later, an answer clacked out over the grey teletype printer:

  TO: Raven One

  FROM: Dir SSRP

  Spoke with Dir NSA. Expect improvement your situation ASAP. Personal weapons a problem. Use initiative. Advise if Ruiz needs evac.

  I told Jack to scrounge around again for some suitable weapons. The colonel's message was suitably vague, the equivalent of a blank check.

  Later, I sent the following message:

  TO: Dir SSRP

  FROM: Raven One

  Mission tasking available next flight 15 Jan. Ruiz OK out of clinic no evac. Advise if cost of weapons a problem.

  As I left the Comm Center, Jack met me at the door. I asked him if he had any luck.

  "Got two AR-15's and three M1911's. Ammo will not be a problem this time. They're stashed in the trunk of the car."

  "The car? Where did you come up with a car?"

  "That's it over there. An Iranian made car called the Paykan." Amadeo sat behind the wheel.

  "Where? How?" I was impressed. Apparently, Jack was a major league scrounger. A useful talent if there ever was one.

  "For some reason," he was smiling big now, "McKenna had a dramatic attitude adjustment. He almost fell all over himself trying to accommodate our needs. Maybe we should've asked for more."

  15 ~ IBEX

  Monday, 15 January: In flight with IBEX

  Project IBEX, a joint U.S./Iranian activity, consisted of five ground listening posts near the Soviet border and the joint operation of electronic reconnaissance aircraft assigned to the Imperial Iranian Air Force Electronic Reconnaissance Wing.

  Four C-130's and a single Boeing 707, based at Mehrabad Air Base, were equipped with a dozen operator positions to monitor and record signals and automated ELINT black boxes capable of detecting and classifying radar emitters. These systems fed from antennas arrays and a retractable direction-finding array embedded in the aircraft’s wings and fuselage.

  The primary mission was to intercept telemetry transmissions from Soviet missile launches. From the first moments of launch to splashdown, the missile spews out a flood of vital data. The goal: intercept signals to measure Soviet missile performance.

  I sat with twelve other electronic intercept operators at a bank of consoles fitted with cathode-ray displays and receiving equipment, waiting, listeni
ng, eyeing the green phosphorus display, anticipating the invisible electron stream beaming through the inner reaches of space.

  A ragged blip appeared on the grassy line on the panoramic display, the first drop of what would become a torrent of telemetry signals from a Soviet missile test. The rocket fired from Tyuratam in Central Asia destined to splash down in the Pacific Ocean off Kamchatka.

  However, the signal held no operational significance for me. I was after something entirely different. Valentina indicated a new test series to begin this month. My job was to monitor the frequency associated with last February's intercept by the T-2 site. So far, it had been a onetime occurrence. Not unusual for a new system under development.

  The prospect of frustrating J. Andrew Marsden's handiwork was especially appealing. I even held him in lower esteem than Hansen, in other words — I hated his guts. Marsden, a rare breed, a mad genius, was willing to sell his services to whoever would allow him to pursue his dream: a missile guidance system invulnerable to conventional countermeasures. The Pentagon shunned his brainchild, so he peddled it to the Soviets.

  This was not my first time to fly such a mission. During my Army time, I flew on COBRA BALL, a specially configured RC-135, operated from Shemya in the Aleutian Islands. Our target was DOS-2, a system similar in design to Salyut-1. Telemetry wasn't my specialty, but I always enjoyed the intensity of the missions.

  Late into the flight, Tom Allison approached my position. "Looks like you're going to have a water-haul. Like I said, if they have something new, they're not going to test it while we're in the air."

  Tom, the chief field analyst for the IBEX team, held out little prospect of success. They programmed the signal parameters into the automated collection system but produced no results. He remained convinced the signal was a freak transmission or onetime occurrence. I was unconvinced. I intercepted the signal over Ethiopia, and it almost cost me my life. To them, the signal was just another day's work. To me, it was a personal quest.