by R G Ainslee
It had been tense while we waited for word on Mack's condition. McKenna, already come and gone, promised to make arrangements for Masters' body to be flown home soon as the airport re-opened.
My briefing for McKenna had left out one important fact. I decided not to tell him the attack was by the Soviet KGB and left the impression an Iranian mob was responsible. Jack and Amadeo agreed that it would raise too many questions about our activities. The mob provided a convenient cover. Fortunately, the Iranian army patrol arrived in time to give witness to the story.
Amadeo telephoned the landlord and warned Lisette. I figured it would be clearer coming from him in French. I was worried Suslov might try to kidnap her. He escaped during the confusion. She insisted on speaking to me and I told her to stay inside the apartment with the PPK until we arrived. Uncharacteristically, she agreed with no argument.
My only wounds consisted of several minor cuts from flying glass. Amadeo had a bump on the head and Jack suffered a few scrapes from scurrying around on the pavement. The bad guys suffered three dead, Suslov wasn't one of them.
Jack, per my instructions, took charge of security arrangements. "One of us needs to stand guard over Mack until he's released. They might try again." He eyed the bump on Amadeo's head. "You go rest. I'll stay here. Ross, how 'bout you?"
"I'll take the shift this evening, but first I need to tend to Lisette."
The young Iranian lieutenant met us in the lobby. A Texas A&M graduate, he spoke good English for an Aggie. "If I can help you guys out let me know. I'll be around for a few more weeks at least." I must have looked puzzled. "I'm out of here when it hits the fan and I'm afraid it's just around the corner."
I shook his hand. "Good luck and thanks again."
* * *
Lisette met me at the door to the apartment, PPK in hand. Over her shoulder, I noticed a bottle of wine resting in an ice-filled bowl. Without speaking, she clutched my hand and led me to the pillows and cushions arranged Iranian style on the floor. She dropped the pistol on a pillow, reached up, caressed my cheek, and kissed me. I sat and pulled her to my side.
A memory of our first meeting in Lamu, only a few months earlier, flashed before me: a petite young woman in her early twenties, short light golden-brown hair, the beginnings of a honey tan, entered the room with a tray of bread and fruit. She wore a loose white cotton dress that left everything to the imagination. She had a pure and simple charm that transformed her plain looks in a way I came to appreciate.
"What is problème?" She asked, breaking the reverie.
"Thinking about the first time we met."
She had been in a convent in France, training to be a nun. Her parents killed in an automobile accident on their way to see her take her vows. Heartbroken, she struggled and reacted against turmoil by suffering on the inside. Tormented, insecure, and inflicted with self-doubt, she left the convent. Her uncle brought her to his hotel in Kenya to escape her sorrow.
Touched by her story, I revealed a deep inner secret, carried in silence for years. Told her, I also lost my parents in a car wreck. How the traumatic experience scarred and shaped my life. How suppressed memories of the incident left me an empty shell, until I finally came to terms with grief by immersing myself in work. How deep down, I understood what she was going through.
Her eyes held all the mysteries of the universe, true love had always been an unsolved riddle. I found what I longed for … couldn't lose her again.
"Lisette, it's not safe here. You must go home. I can't… I mean we have a new life to consider. You know what I mean. Please."
She rose and eased over to the table and filled two glasses. She returned, settled onto the cushion beside me, and sat in silence. She closed her eyes as if ordering her thoughts. After a few moments, she made the sign of the cross, opened her eyes, and spoke with a deliberate tone.
"I tell you. I have careful made my thoughts in English. Please listen." She drew a deep breath. "Am I safe here?"
"No. It is very dangerous. We're targets of both the Russians and the Iranians. You must leave — you must go home."
For a second, I thought she didn't understand, or her stubbornness about to resurface again. Her blank expression revealed nothing and then she spoke with a calm voice, "I go. Will you return with me?"
"I have a duty to stay, it's my job. It's important that I stay, they need me."
Her lips tightened, and she gazed into my eyes. "You must do what you do."
A faint flicker of hope emerged. "Yes. So, you understand?"
"If I ask you to choose … do you choose me or your profession?"
Her words hit like a cold bucket of water. It’s come to this, Lisette or my job. Trapped, I had no choice. "My highest duty is to you. I'll do whatever it takes. I can't lose you again. We'll leave on the first available flight — together."
Tears reflected in her sad eyes and she lowered her head. "I will wait for you at home. Please be safe, mon amour."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. Another monumental failure to communicate, had I run afoul of the language barrier again? "You want me to stay?" I asked incredulously.
"You must do your duty. I pray for you to return. It is your life — our life…" She couldn't continue, breaking into a flood of tears. We embraced. A strange and wonderful feeling of happiness and dread enveloped me.
18 ~ Aftermath
Friday, 26 January: Tehran
Khomeini supporters continued to taunt soldiers in the streets. Loyalist troops answered words with bullets, firing into the crowd or sniping with coldblooded accuracy. The situation building to a head, the ayatollah's arrival rumored at any time.
Mack made progress, awake, but sedated. Master's death hit him hard. The doctor informed us Mack could leave the hospital in a week if no infection cropped up.
Jack strode into the hospital room to relieve me from my guard stint. He asked, "How's Mack?"
"Much better. Talked with him for about a half hour, before they gave him another pain killer shot."
"They treating him okay, any problems?"
"No, everything seems fine. They're professional, but I sense they'd like to get rid of us ASAP."
"Talked with McKenna before I left, he's trying to arrange a flight out for Mack. May take a while though. By the way, is Lisette taking all this okay?"
"Better than expected. — I convinced her to go home."
"How did you manage that?"
"Dunno. Guess the ambush made up her mind. Anyway, she finally saw the real danger. She was broken up about Masters, even though she just met him a few nights before. We even managed to have a calm and rational discussion. But in the end, it was her decision."
"Man, you have a way with women. Don't mean to be outta line, but she is one strong-willed little gal. You really know how to charm the ladies."
Not wanting to dissuade Jack's unrealistic perception of my skills with the opposite sex, I agreed. "Guess you're right."
"How you gonna get her out of the country? All available flights are booked-up for the next century. Everyone wants out."
"I managed to get her on the first flight out tomorrow on Air France." Didn't tell him Lisette already had it arranged. She called Rochelle and bingo, secured a seat. Once again, never underestimate Lisette when she is determined.
"Unbelievable. Bet, that's a load off your mind."
"Yeah, by the way, you're invited for a going away dinner this evening."
"Thanks, but I don't have a date."
"Yes, you do. Rochelle's flight is due to land at any moment."
* * *
I stood on the curb in front of the apartment, watching the Air France min-van disappear down the street. Rochelle convinced Lisette to spend the night with her, so they could go the airport together. Jack persuaded me it would be safer, less chance of a repeat ambush. Reluctantly, I surrendered to logic and agreed. Just to be sure, Jack escorted the van in a borrowed Paykan.
Our last evening together in Iran wa
s a somber occasion. Not even the French Merlot, brought from Paris by Rochelle, was enough to liven up the event. Small talk soon gave way to tears as we said our good-byes. At one point, I was afraid Lisette might change her mind. She would have, but for the intervention of Rochelle, who reinforced the wisdom of leaving.
After they left, I cleaned the PPK and resolved to make it back alive. Have to, got a family now, a whole new set of responsibilities.
Saturday, 27 January: Mehrabad Airport
We arrived at Mehrabad an hour before departure and met Lisette and Rochelle for a brief final good-by. Our parting tears, not the only ones, many of their fellow passengers were leaving loved-ones behind.
The revolutionary atmosphere in Tehran intensified. The government tried to stage demonstrations to convince the people they were still in charge. They all ended in pathetic failures. It was obvious to all: It's only a matter of time.
Panic began to arise among the American expat community. Some crammed possessions into cars and made for the Turkish border. Others, forced to stay, armed themselves.
Incidents against Americans increased, and the American Ambassador advised all non-essential personnel to leave. We weren't the only ones attacked: an American army officer shot near his home, the U. S. consul beaten by a mob, but for us, our attacker was Russian.
With Khomeini due any day, what the future held was anybody's guess. My bet was on anarchy, a low odds bet, betting on peace and order unlikely to find any takers.
On the way to the airport, we chanced upon a large mob near the university. Jack, always security conscious, insisted we turn around and take a much longer way around. He wanted to avoid choke points for another ambush attempt. He blamed himself for a lapse in procedures before the shooting. I disagreed. We weren't expecting a strike from the Russians.
As we stood by the window, watching the giant airliner taxi out to the runway, a feeling of foreboding overwhelmed me. The past few days events finally catching up, the adrenalin of the survival response long depleted.
A wave of relief came over me when the Air France 747 lifted off, into the sky, on its way to safety. Rochelle, a true friend, came through, securing a seat in the crew section, probably putting her job at risk.
"There they go. It's strange, I'm glad to see them leave this mess, but I'm sure going to miss her," Jack's voice cracked with emotion, "she's quite a gal."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'm going to see if Wilson can arrange a stopover in Paris when we go." Jack had fallen for Rochelle, and her attraction for him was even more obvious.
"Sounds like a winner." I left unsaid my doubts about ever getting out of Iran alive. We still had a mission to complete, one more flight scheduled on Monday. It would probably be another waste of time, the real chance for an intercept lay at T-2. My eagerness diminished. Now, all I wanted to do was go home.
* * *
Back at Doshan Tapeh Air Base, Tom Allison met us with news. "T-2 made another partial intercept of the priority signal. Quite a bit more than before, but it's still sketchy. You think you might be able to go up there?"
"Don't know. It's not up to me. I've lost my eagerness for this mission. I just want to get out of Iran."
"Yes, I understand. Don't think we have much time left. I get the drift from the Iranian's that they are about ready to leave too. One word of warning don't be surprised if they commandeer the aircraft to the Gulf on one of these missions. If I were you, I'd take my passport and all my money with me on every flight. You can't be sure where you'll end up. Good thing you got your wife out when you did."
"Thanks for the advice. Let's take a look at the intercept."
Monday, 29 January: In flight with IBEX
The drone of the C-130's four turboprop engines competed with the silence in my earphones. Again, no results, nada, just white noise, and the whine of the turboprops.
The atmosphere on the sortie was tense. The pilot and co-pilot replaced at the last minute and escorted off the tarmac under guard following a spirited argument with the Iranian commander. We weren't sure what the fuss was about, except it was one more sign things were about to hit the fan.
In flight, I wanted to ask Tom if he knew our final destination but decided against it. Everyone was on edge, walking on eggshells, not wanting to provoke the Iranians.
A Soviet fighter across the border delivered the only real excitement during the sortie. An Iranian voice intercept operator first picked up the fighter's ground control voice transmissions. The ELINT operator came on line to tell us a fighter had acquired us on his search radar. A Smerch-A, NATO code-name Firefox in the I-band. This confirmed my suspicion that our stalker was a supersonic MiG-25 Foxbat.
It became even more exciting when the Soviet pilot locked on with his tracking radar. I anxiously waited for the ELINT operator to announce he was receiving guidance signals, indicating the launch of an AA-6 Acrid missile. It never came. The pilot announced over the intercom that the Foxbat passed us, flying over Iranian airspace.
The flyby, unusual but not unprecedented, we were on the southern reaches of Soviet territory, a Wild West of airspace. Anything was possible, including a shoot down.
Fortunately, the rest of the flight was uneventful: no more MiG's and my headphones remained silent. We headed back to Tehran. I would not go home via Dubai.
* * *
McKenna met our bus at the base. He had never done that before. I felt a sense of apprehension. Had something happened to Lisette? Surely, she was safe in Paris.
"Brannan, I have a message for you. Come over here." He motioned for me to join him away from the departing flight crew.
"What is it?"
"Your CO, Colonel Wayne Wilson will arrive here on Wednesday. The message hard copy is in the comm center. Thought I'd let you know."
"Did it say why he's coming?"
"Didn't say, but I hope he can take Colonel Gibson back with him." He called Mack, Colonel Gibson, because Mack was a retired Air Force lieutenant colonel. Those guys stick together. McKenna made sure Mack had the best treatment available.
"Great. I was worried about him getting out of here. Any word on the rest of us?"
"No, there are no advance arrangements for your evacuation. Maybe he has something else in mind."
I was sure Wilson had something else in mind and didn't like it. If we weren't going home, we might be going to T-2. Strange, only a few days ago, I was eager, but now all I wanted to do was leave.
Wednesday, 31 January: Tehran
Amadeo and I borrowed a car and drove to Mehrabad Airport to meet Colonel Wilson. We never found our light blue Paykan after the ambush. Jack and Amadeo spent a whole morning searching, but the car was long gone, probably to complete its life as a Tehran taxi.
Crowds had already begun to gather at the airport. The latest rumor had Khomeini arriving the next day. Fortunately, most people seemed in good spirits and we entered the airport without incident, except for the de rigueur "American Satan" chants.
Wilson's Pan Am flight arrived only an hour late, not bad considering conditions. The airline sent the plane to evacuate its own people who worked for the IBEX project. My sixth sense didn't need to tell me this was an omen. Things were about to come to a head.
To our surprise, John Smith, the CIA man and SSRP operations director, accompanied Wilson down the ramp. Both men dressed casually in civilian clothes. I interpreted Smith's presence as another bad sign. Amadeo concurred.
After clearing immigration and customs, they emerged into the main lobby. We greeted them informally, not wanting to draw any attention. Wilson seemed pleased when I told him we had a car.
Amadeo and I loaded their gear into the Paykan provided by McKenna. The car one of several abandoned by departing technicians. Amadeo weaved his way out of the airport and proceeded through Tehran.
Wilson asked first thing, "What is Colonel Gibson's condition?"
"Much better, the doc thinks he should be able to travel on release from the
hospital. We can go see him in the morning."
He glanced at Smith with a nod and continued, "What's the situation here?"
Typically, Wilson was straight to the point. I respected his no-nonsense style, for him the mission was primary. He wasn't fanatical, just dedicated and had always been upfront with me. Not entirely sure I trusted him completely, but at least he wasn't a backstabber like Hansen.
I twisted and spoke back over the front seat. "Deteriorating by the day, you'll see, and will probably get worse. This morning, McKenna informed us that technicians at T-1 abandoned the site and are returning to Tehran."
Wilson furrowed his brow but didn't speak. John Smith remained poker faced, but his eyes were busy surveying the passing street scene.
"He's working to arrange their evacuation, already requested a special flight."
Wilson paused and frowned. "So, T-1 is history?"
"Not entirely. The crew managed to leave the automated intercept equipment running. Data will continue to upload to a satellite link — at least until the Iranian's figure it out."
Amadeo interjected, "Radio Moscow's broadcasts in Farsi have been busy stirring up anti-Americanism. They're accusing the U.S. of just about everything they could think of and even came up with a few new ones."
I continued, "Yeah, it's been interesting to watch the Iranians at the base listen to the broadcasts, some are openly disdainful. Then you have the ones that just seethe, you can tell by the way they glare at you. Those are the guys you gotta to watch out for."
Wilson diverted his eyes to a large poster of Khomeini plastered on a passing truck. "Very interesting."
"One other thing, McKenna told us American advisers were denied access to a southern air base. He seemed worried."
John Smith, his voice tense, "One of our biggest concerns is the status of the Iranian Air Force's Phoenix air-to-air missiles. Contingency plans exist to withdraw or destroy them to keep the Soviets from seizing the technology."
"How close is it to that?" I asked.
