by R G Ainslee
"What is comro… Je ne comprends."
I threw up my hands. "Guess it means you win."
"As should be."
"I'll call Amadeo and see if he can drive us around. I haven't had a chance to see the town either."
It took some persuading, but Amadeo finally relented and agreed to give us a brief tour. Jack, otherwise engaged, hadn't shown up yet. Amadeo said Rochelle's flight didn't leave until late afternoon.
Fortunately, the pale blue Paykan didn't stand out in traffic, only one of thousands. Amadeo blended in just fine and Lisette dressed like most Iranian women. A warm jacket and a local hat purchased from a shop around the corner offered me a minimal disguise.
We cruised around for about an hour without incident. Traffic wasn't bad either, except at the main intersections. Traffic lights cycled through green-yellow-red, cops perched on pedestals directed traffic without regard for the lights, and cars inched through the intersections paid no attention to either. Amadeo soon learned how to keep from being run over: ignore the speed bumps and go ahead full blast.
We drove past the American and French embassies. Lisette pointed out the lack of protestors in front of her embassy. As we approached the university, she told Amadeo she wanted to go to the bazaar.
"Wait a minute — we're not going to get out of the car and traipse through the bazaar. Just forget about it."
"What is trace?"
"Traipse. We're not going — that's it."
She gave me the look, the one I can't resist.
Amadeo said, "Trouble up ahead."
A line of trucks filled with soldiers blocked the intersection. Student demonstrators assembled down the street faced troops in riot gear.
Several army trucks carried Khomeini posters. Soldiers waved sympathetically at the people gathered to watch. Troops confronting the students aimed their weapons at the crowd. A young soldier yelled to the spectators.
Amadeo said, "He's telling everyone to get down."
A student broke from the crowd and dashed towards the trucks, screaming at the top of his lungs. A sergeant met the student halfway and clubbed the kid with his weapon as he tried to pass by. A young soldier raised his weapon and fired at the sergeant. The shot missed, and the ricochet struck a member of the crowd.
"Let's get the hell outta here," I yelled.
Lisette covered her eyes with shaking hands. Amadeo jammed the car into reverse and backed up until he could turn around. Gunfire echoed through the streets while we continued without speaking for three or four blocks.
Amadeo broke the silence, "Where to now? Had enough?"
"Hell yes. — Take us home." The last thing I wanted was to get mixed up in a street riot with Lisette at my side. The reality of impending fatherhood began to sink in — I had an extra life to protect.
Lisette drew in a deep breath and spoke to Amadeo in French. All I understood was bazaar.
"She still wants to go to the bazaar." His questioning expression reflected in the rear-view mirror.
"What do you think?" I asked, eager for some help.
"They re-opened the main bazaar after the Shah left. Ahmed, back at the base told me he took his family last evening."
Lisette squeezed my arm. Her face projected a guise of pig-headed determination. I knew better than to argue.
"Give the lady what she wants. I'm only along for the ride."
The bazaar, a hotbed of support for the Ayatollah, Khomeini posters festooned the walls. The curious eyed us warily. Amadeo came up with a story for the inquisitive merchants: Lisette and I were French, and he artfully left the impression we were somehow connected with the Ayatollah's impending arrival.
Lisette charmed the merchants with Amadeo interpreting. Apparently, free spending tourists were in short supply. I tried to keep my mouth shut, content to play the part of the suffering husband, which was easy. Consequently, the eager merchants showered Lisette with bargains and the occasional gift. With difficulty, I talked her out of buying a large Persian carpet. We returned to the apartment laden with packages holding spices, jewelry, and stuff.
* * *
Later, that evening the whole gang came over for supper: Mack, Masters, Amadeo, and an exhausted Jack Richards. Lisette arranged with the landlord's wife, Aniseh, for a traditional Iranian meal. They spent the afternoon shopping for food and preparing the meal in the landlord's ground floor kitchen.
We gathered, Iranian style around a low table, sitting on pillows. I insisted utensils be provided. I had tried the traditional eating-with-the-hands bit with less than satisfactory results. Lisette reluctantly agreed.
Mack bragged to Lisette, "These kebabs are great."
Lisette beamed. They were her idea and she used spices bought at the bazaar. The kebabs, meat cubes threaded on a skewer with eggplant, onions, tomato, bell pepper, and mushrooms were delicious. However, the meat tasted familiar.
The mystery soon resolved when Jack inquired, in French, about the origin of the meat. Amadeo gave a knowing smirk — he knew. Mack and Masters continued eating, unaware.
"De chèvre, bien sûr."
I was right — goat.
17 ~ Crisis
Tuesday, 23January: In flight with IBEX
Over the years, flights along the edges of the Soviet empire, collecting data for NSA, claimed the lives of almost 200 American airmen. Sometimes they died in equipment related incidents. Unfortunately, hostile fire killed far too many. Most flights never purposely penetrated Soviet airspace and operated in plain sight. The Soviets flew similar reconnaissance missions.
The normal procedure for an IBEX flight was to fly along the border and collect whatever came along. The year before they tried a more aggressive approach, the IBEX Boeing 707 and two Iranian F-14s engaged a Soviet MiG-25 over the Caspian Sea. Ground stations tracked the mission with excellent results.
Soon after takeoff, the crew turned-on and checked the equipment. The recording tapes annotated with the daily sequential mission number, mission date and time, and the operator's name. In addition to the written log, a running narrative was inserted onto the tapes to provide context.
Real drama started when the mission coincided with lift-off at a Soviet launch site. The aircraft intercom would announce, "Fire in the hole," when the booster lifted the telemetry package into the atmosphere, initiating a torrent of signals.
On this day's mission, everything proceeded in a normal fashion. At one point, the scope lit up and a rasping sound rattled through my earphones. A jolt of adrenalin coursed through my veins. It was only an image, a fleeting ghost from a distant transmitter, weaving its way through the electromagnetic spectrum.
Time was running out. The flights had achieved nothing of value. Mack said we might get a few more chances before Wilson pulled us out. The situation on the ground remained volatile. Rumors had it Khomeini could arrive any day.
Then, there was Lisette and the baby to be. Tried to convince her to stay at the apartment, but she had a mind of her own. Think stubborn as a mule. She might well be at the market, in the bazaar, or… I dreaded to think where she might be. And the pistol, what if some mullah harassed her on the street? I hoped her religious sensibilities would restrain her from popping him one between the eyes.
En-route back to base, the crew chief brought the interior lights up. We powered down the equipment, pulled tapes off the recording decks, and labeled the reels with the mission number, date, and security classification.
As expected, Mack met us on the tarmac. He wanted to fly along on the mission, but the limited space available didn't allow it. "Any luck," he asked.
"Nope. Think we can have better luck up at T-2. Don't you agree?"
"I'm beginning to think so. They intercepted another fragmentary signal today, but not enough for a comprehensive analysis."
"Did you ever think it might just be something innocuous?" I thought back to the image signal, it happened before. In the past NSA spent hundreds of man-hours analyzing exotic signals only to
discover an ordinary explanation, like the electronic emission from a doorbell.
"No. It's real. We just need to hit it at the right time. Don't think you're going to get permission to go up to T-2. They may have to pull our people out any day now. I'm afraid we're nearing the end of the line."
"You still returning on Thursday?"
"Yes. Colonel Wilson wants me to report back. Probably have a confab with the directors soon as I get back."
"What do you need me to do in the mean time?"
"Get lucky."
Thursday, 25 January: Tehran
Khomeini was supposed to fly into Tehran on Friday, the Muslim day of prayer. However, the prime minister, an appointee of the now departed Shah, changed his mind, and moved troops to Mehrabad Airport to prevent his landing. Mack and Masters were scheduled to return home the same day.
We arrived at the airport to find the field surrounded by troops and tanks. An Iranian army captain brusquely informed everyone, "Airport closed until further notice."
Several thousand people came to the airport to see the plane leave for Paris to pick up Khomeini. The army turned them away. The disappointed crowd left chanting, "Death to the Shah."
"What do we do now?" asked Amadeo from the driver's seat.
Mack, uncharacteristically agitated, said, "Guess we go back to the base. Beats the hell out of me why they didn't tell us before we left."
I offered a lame smile. "If you stay much longer you'll get used to it."
Downtown, we met another demonstration with marchers carrying posters of the Ayatollah. Soldiers took up positions astride the street to block the chanting crowd from advancing into the city center. One squad of troops accepted flowers from the demonstrators and joined the chants, "Long live Khomeini."
Amadeo weaved past the demonstration and hung a right down a side street. Cars plastered with the Ayatollah's picture sat empty, windshields smashed.
Amadeo spotted them first, "Three guys in a white car following us."
"You sure?" asked Jack.
"Yeah, they're pretty obvious."
I twisted my head around and studied the oncoming traffic. The car a Paykan accelerated, cut into the lane next to us, and shot past on the right. A man in the back seat gave us the once over.
A chill crawled up my spine — a flash of recognition — "Did you see that guy?"
Mack answered, "Yeah, looks like a tough customer."
"It's Suslov."
Amadeo said, "You mean the KGB cabrón from Nepal?"
"It's him." I caught my breath. "I'd recognize his face anywhere." What’s he doing here? He told me it wasn’t over. Hell… at least Jack and Amadeo are here.
We approached a traffic circle, the white car continued on around and we darted away down the main street. Masters racked the slide on his M1911 and said, "Looks like we lost him."
"Don't show your piece," warned Jack. Masters moved the weapon to his side.
Traffic slowed at the next intersection. Amadeo glanced up at the rear-view mirror. "They're behind us again."
I peeked over my shoulder. The white car weaved through traffic. "Fifty yards behind, he's closing in."
A break in cross traffic allowed us to blast through the intersection. The white car repeated the dangerous move and edged closer. Three blocks later our progress slowed at a traffic circle and our pursuer advanced to two car lengths behind. Amadeo, hoping to avoid a choke point, pulled a sudden right turn at the next corner and accelerated down the less travelled street.
"Lost him," said Amadeo, "He didn't make the turn."
Mack roared, "Put the pedal to the metal and let's get the hell out of here."
Three blocks later, we slowed for an intersection and a black Nissan minibus drew up on our left side. The side door slid open. Two men dressed in black and wearing ski masks brandished AK-47's in our direction.
Amadeo's reaction was swift. He tapped the brakes and pulled hard to the left into the van's rear side panel. The van skidded and slid crossways in traffic. The Paykan crashed into the van's open side door. Two men sprung out the rear, weapons drawn.
The white car sped by on our right. Shots flashed from its rear window. Glass fragments sprayed inside the car. Jack slid out and fired over the roof at the men from the van. Masters fired from the open window. The men's AK's barked out, a 7.62 volley slammed into the car.
The incident lasted only seconds. Two gunmen lay dead on the street surrounded by expended steel case cartridges. Jack spun around, aimed at the van driver, now fleeing on foot, and held his fire as the man disappeared past a cluster of curious onlookers.
Masters leaned against my shoulder and emitted a rattle like sound, his head a coppery smelling bloody mess. Mack moaned and crumpled into my lap. I snapped out of my frozen state and yelled, "Amadeo, help, we need help."
He didn't answer. His head slumped over the wheel.
Two men appeared between vehicles ahead, both armed and aiming at us. A jolt of cold adrenaline coursed through my veins — Suslov.
I yelled, "Jack — behind you."
Jack reacted without looking back. He pivoted, dropped to the ground, brought his weapon to bear and cut loose with two shots towards the new threat. — Suslov returned fire. — Jack responded with a volley and rolled to a protected position beside the van.
Everything played out in slow motion: I grabbed Master's M1911, fired through the windshield without thinking, operating on instinct alone. Incoming rounds punched through the glass. The M1911 barked again and again. The windshield shattered, and the firing stopped.
I yelled, "Jack — Jack, where are you?" No answer. I couldn't hear. The blast from the forty-five inside the car deadened my hearing. My world froze. Am I the only one left alive?
A face appeared in the window beside Mack's still body. A young Iranian screamed, spittle spewed from his lips, his eyes burned with hate. A second face joined him.
I responded, yelled back. Panic began to swell — Why is this happening? Are they going to finish me off? — Where's Suslov? I raised the weapon towards them. The slide was locked back. The Iranians apparently didn't realize I was out of ammo, backed off, and re-joined the growing crowd on the curb.
A bearded Iranian, a Mullah wearing a black robe, pushed his way through the pack and began to shout. The people took up his chant. All I heard was an undefined booming sound, the sound of death closing in.
A strange sense of calm came over me. I expected to die at any moment. Alone and unable to hear, the aura of death hung over me. Lisette — what'll happen to her? The baby, I'll never see the baby. It's over… My heart felt like it stopped beating.
I had almost accepted my fate when Jack appeared at the driver's window. He examined Amadeo slumped over the steering wheel.
In a split second, the survival instinct kicked in and my mind refocused on the reality of the moment. I yelled, "Is he okay?"
Amadeo stirred and came out of his daze. He had bumped his head when the vehicles collided. His head twisted towards the open window. Jack jerked the door open and Amadeo slid out and slumped to the pavement.
Three unshaven young men wearing green armbands joined the Mullah and attempted to stir up the crowd. It worked, the crowd was about to turn into a mob. I felt the rhythm of the now familiar chant, "American Satan — American Satan — American Satan." The men advanced towards the car, followed by the Mullah and a group of young men in a state of frenzy.
Jack fired a shot into the air. The crown flinched and retreated a few steps. The black robbed Mullah and the three men in green armbands held their ground.
Mack moaned and started to stir. — He's alive. — Blood oozed from his side. He took a round when the white car sped past. I tried to comfort him, "Hold on, we'll get you to a hospital."
Amadeo drew his weapon and edged back to the rear window. "Ross, you okay?" I could hear, just barely. He studied Masters' head wound and grimaced.
A rock or paving stone bounced off the roof of the car. Jack
fired another shot. Another rock passed through the shattered windshield and slammed into the front seat. Amadeo aimed at a man advancing with a large rock. The man, wearing a green armband, retreated to safety.
I examined the weapon still in my hand, ejected the empty magazine, and looked over at Masters hoping to find an extra magazine. The sight of his head and the blood covering his clothes made me retch.
Jack had just made a move to recover the nearest AK-47 when shots rang out from behind. Rifle shots, bullets zinged off the pavement, one man in the crowd rolled to the gutter, a second dropped to his knees. Jack and Amadeo ducked in front of the car, but I had nowhere to hide. Trapped between Masters and Mack, I hunkered down best I could.
The Mullah and his three thugs beat a retreat down the street. The mob followed close behind with four men dragging the wounded to safety. The firing stopped, and Jack edged up beside the shattered window. He shot a quick look and told me to stay down.
Seconds later, an Army truck pulled up behind the car. Troops sprang from the back, pursued the mob for half a block, and set up defensive positions at the next intersection. The mob come to a standstill a block away and took up the chants again.
A young lieutenant approached the car and shouted a command in Farsi. Jack and Amadeo laid the weapons on the pavement and raised their hands. Amadeo spoke to the officer in Farsi.
The lieutenant answered in English. "Do you need assistance?"
Amadeo answered, "Yes, we have wounded —need an ambulance."
The officer checked out Mack and Masters. "We will take you in our vehicle. The military hospital is nearby. An ambulance will take too long, even if it gets here."
The soldiers produced two stretchers, loaded Mack and Masters into the truck, Jack grabbed the luggage and we joined them for a wild ride to the hospital.
* * *
"Your friend will live. He has a gunshot wound in his ribcage and the bullet penetrated his lung. We removed many fragments. The bullet broke apart before it entered the body." The Iranian surgeon spoke to us outside the military hospital's main operating room. "I am sorry the young man did not live. It is tragic to die so young, but, as you can imagine, we have experienced many such events over the last months."
