by R G Ainslee
"Not sure," said Wilson, "We don't want to be here when it happens. That'll be the end for sure."
"What's the view on things over here, from back home?"
"A congressional committee issued a report a few days ago blaming everyone, from the president on down, for a short-sighted policy that supported the Shah and ignored the feelings of the people. They claimed the agencies intelligence collection and analysis were weak and relied too much on the Shah's underlings."
Smith said, "I concur. Most of the intelligence about internal affairs came from SAVAK, the Shah's secret police."
We passed a burned-out army truck. Wilson said, "Look like it's getting pretty rough."
"Yeah, a lot of people are bailing out. Your flight is scheduled to take a load out today."
John Smith said, "That’s correct. At the terminal in Frankfurt, I met a group of Americans just arrived from Tehran. They told me a cheer erupted when the pilot announced they left Iranian airspace."
Amadeo broke in, "Up ahead."
"Looks like trouble," said Smith.
I answered, "No, just a mob, one of the facts of life you learn to live with."
Amadeo slowed down, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, watching for signs of another ambush. I pulled out Lisette's PPK, clicked off the safety, and stuffed an extra magazine in my shirt pocket. Amadeo reached under the seat and laid a M1911 in his lap.
"Sure the hell looks like you expect trouble," insisted Smith, reaching into his bag and producing a Browning Hi-Power. I wondered how he managed to carry weapons on a civilian flight. Wilson fidgeted nervously in his seat.
"Just being cautious. The crowds usually don't cause any problem, except for chants, spitting, and an occasional rock. What we have to watch out for is another ambush." I looked back over my shoulder. "Van coming up on the left."
John racked the slide on his High-Power. "Got him."
"Keep an eye on him. Yell if he makes a move." I told Wilson, "Colonel — Roll down your window. I need to have a clear line for a shot." Wilson muttered an obscenity and complied.
We passed the crowd, receiving a steady chorus of "American Satan — American Satan." The van kept its distance, apparently just an Iranian trying to make a living, and turned on a side street. We continued without further incident.
* * *
Wilson's flight had arrived late afternoon and we followed McKenna's advice to avoid the base until morning. I decided we should all stay at the apartment for the night. Wilson reluctantly agreed.
"When we arrived, Mister Amiri met us at the door, all excited. He heard from a reliable source the Ayatollah would arrive tomorrow. I told him I had a few overnight guests and need to have a meal prepared, if possible. He said his wife had prepared a feast in celebration of the glorious event and invited us to join in. Amadeo apologized and told him our guests were tired from their journey and need to rest.
I told Wilson as we climbed the stairs, "If Khomeini does arrive tomorrow the confusion may give us a chance to slip on to the base unobtrusively."
"Why does Colonel McKenna want us to keep a low profile?"
Amadeo answered, "He's getting nervous about the Iranian personnel, and thinks it might gin up a rumor if two more Americans arrive unexpected. I agree with him and don't want to signal your presence too soon, it might give the Russians ideas."
Wilson took a deep breath. "That's just lovely." We entered the apartment and he exclaimed with an exasperated tone, "What now?"
"Amadeo will go relieve Jack at the hospital after we eat."
"Fine, that will give us time to go over—" I held up my hand to halt him, pointed to my ear, and then to the walls. Wilson nodded back in recognition. The walls may have ears, we didn't know for sure, but always played it safe.
19 ~ Decision
Thursday, 1 February: Tehran
The big day finally arrived. Khomeini set to return to Iran from exile. For once, the rumors had been true. Khomeini loyalists seized control of Mehrabad airport and a chartered Air France 747 was due at any moment.
We spent the first part of the morning at the military hospital with Mack. Fortunately, he was much better. The hospital seemed almost deserted, only essential medical staff still on duty. Everyone else took the day off, probably at the airport, or packing.
"I'm ready to go now, ASAP," Mack insisted, his eagerness to leave fueled by the prospect of a real meal from the base snack bar. The Iranian hospital food had been a constant source of complaint.
"Yes, I agree," said the doctor, "I prefer two more days' of hospital care, but…" He raised his hands. "You understand?"
"Thank you doctor, we'll take him right now if that's all right."
"Please." He started to call for a nurse and paused. "I will find a wheelchair, if you will gather his personal effects."
"Amadeo, bring the car around to the emergency entrance and we'll meet you. Jack, go with him. Colonel, his things are in that locker. We don't need to waste any time. John, check the hall and make sure everything is clear." Much to my surprise, everyone complied with my orders, without objection.
* * *
An hour later, after leaving Mack and Amadeo at the apartment, we sat in McKenna's office watching history unfold on Iranian TV. A sea of humanity covered every square inch of the airport tarmac.
Finally, a massive Air France 747 touched down and taxied to the waiting crowd, now in an advanced state of frenzy. Hundreds of guards positioned between Khomeini and the throng tried to stem the tide.
McKenna bellowed, "I'll be an SOB — those idiots are playing the Shah's national anthem. Some fool's going to pay for that. Can't believe it." Sure enough, less than an hour later, Revolutionary Guards took over the studio.
I asked Jack, "What are they chanting?"
"Best I can tell: we salute you, peace upon you, Khomeini we follow you."
"How are they going to extract him out of that mess? There's no way," asked Wilson.
We watched entranced. The crowd continued to grow, the frenzy building. The overwhelmed guards struggled to separate Khomeini from the wound-up crowds. At last, a helicopter landed, Khomeini boarded the craft, and left the airport.
"One of the top Air Force generals is piloting the chopper," said an astonished McKenna, "I'll bet he's trying to buy himself some protection."
"Think it'll work?" asked Smith.
"Hell no, not with those cold-blooded bastards."
Wilson, visibly annoyed, asked McKenna, "Colonel, please let us borrow your conference room, we need to get down to business."
* * *
We all relaxed around the conference table after John Smith checked the room for bugs. Amadeo joined us after McKenna sent someone to relieve him.
Wilson wanted a report on the ambush and state of security for the operation. Jack gave him a professional assessment, pulling no punches. "In brief Colonel, we're riding a wild horse without a saddle and our hands tied behind our back. The revolutionaries just as soon hang us as look at us, the Russians are trying to kill us, and we don't know which way our Iranian allies will jump."
Wilson took Jack's report in stride. "Do you believe the military will crack?"
"The young Air Force cadets at this base have only a fleeting loyalty to the regime. Best I can tell they're caught up in all the Khomeini business and the officers could go either way. I believe the whole shebang will blow up any day now."
I joined in, "What about the Soviets? How are they involved?"
John Smith spoke up, "It's clear they want back in Iran. We chased them out after the war and helped oust the Soviet backed Prime Minister Mossadegh back in the fifties. They play to win and don't mind changing the rules to suit themselves. This is just too big of an opportunity for them to pass up."
Isn't Islam incompatible with Communism?" I asked, "Do they have a chance?"
Amadeo said, "According to Radio Moscow broadcasts, the leftist mujahedin believe Marx and Islam are compatible. You see them on the streets all
the time. Not sure how powerful they are, but they do stand out."
Smith continued, "Sometimes people are willing to make a pact with the devil to achieve their aims. We do the same thing. We supported Stalin to defeat Hitler."
Jack asked, "How about the Soviet buildup across the border, won't that alienate the Iranians?"
"Anything's possible, but don't count on it."
"How do you sum it up?" asked Wilson.
"They win, we lose."
"Thank you for your words of encouragement," remarked Wilson with a sardonic frown. "Now, let us address our situation on the ground. Brannan, I concur with your decision not to reveal the identities of your attackers. The less said the better."
I asked, "Could Suslov be running a rogue operation? Why would he be actively trying to kill American personnel?"
John shook his head. "The KGB tends to go by the book. It's rare for an individual to show much personal initiative in the field. They don't like to take a lot of risks. The penalties for failure are too great. If they're trying to kill our people, you can almost bet on it, the directives come from the top."
"But why?" I asked, "Must be something connected to the info from Valentina. They think we know something important and…"
Wilson raised a hand to quiet me. The expression on his face said volumes. He knew something but didn't want to discuss it. He avoided my eyes and glanced at John, who had remained silent.
John spoke, "From what we know now from an unimpeachable source, it is evident Valentina Kayroli's information was essentially correct. And you are correct. They see our operation as a high value target."
"This was verified from other sources?"
No one chose to answer my question. Apparently, there were other parties involved. Ones we weren't privy to. I recognized the need for the source to remain compartmentalized. It bothered me, but I understood. The source must come from someone inside the Soviet Union. Their identity needed to be protected. Can't risk people in the field knowing the whole story, they are exposed and subject to capture. Wilson and Smith knew, but we were destined to remain in the dark.
After a nervous pause, Wilson continued, "Our latest intelligence has Marsden in Russia. We can only assume he will become involved in their program after he is debriefed."
I shifted in my seat wondering where Wilson was headed.
"The signal fragments have been analyzed, but no definitive conclusions have been reached. The fragmentary parameters were collated with Brannan's observations over Ethiopia, and Marsden's description under interrogation."
Here we go, he's getting closer — don't like this.
"Time is running out. We need to obtain a clean intercept of the signal—"
I interrupted, "Does this mean you plan to continue sorties along the border?"
"No. That approach has proved futile, and time is of the essence. The only viable option left is for Raven-One to proceed to T-2 and conduct appropriate intercept operations."
I made a lame attempt to play devil's advocate and save my skin, "Why risk it, there's almost no chance we'll even make it up to the site. The whole country is falling apart and so far, they've only been able to make fragmentary intercepts. I don't see how—"
The colonel cut me off with a slap on the table. "We need you on site. You are the only person with the knowledge to accomplish this."
"But, I don't—"
"You're not going to bail out on me now — are you?"
Thought about it: Just say hell no and go home.
"If you choose not to go to T-2, all of our efforts will be for naught. The deaths of Kayroli and Masters will have been for nothing. SSRP will fail. It will be the end of the line. Our future is riding on Raven-One." His eyes bored in on me. "Is that what you want?"
Trapped again with no honorable way out, my temper flared, "Colonel, you're one manipulative bastard."
He stared at me for a moment. "Think my wife would tend to agree. What's your answer?"
Wilson was devious, but at least up front about it and not a back stabber like Hansen. Again, I had no choice, his guilt trip worked, and I needed the job. "Okay, you win."
Jack seemed eager for the challenge. "I take it Amadeo and I will accompany him up to the site."
"Affirmative," answered John Smith. Apparently, they already had it worked out. All they needed was a sacrificial lamb. "You'll provide security on the ground and assist in any type of unconventional evacuation if needed."
"Unconventional evacuation — what do you mean?" I had the feeling again, my sixth sense raising an alarm.
"We're unsure about the loyalty of the local technicians on site. The T-2 site director has heard rumblings about hostile intent from the local revolutionary committee. The situation is fluid."
Yeah, fluid like in something you can drown in. Gave in too soon.
"By unconventional evacuation, I mean you may have to exit the site by other means. An air evacuation may not be available if the Iranian Air Force crumbles."
"Other means, what do you—"
"You may be forced to go overland."
"To where?" I pictured us hitchhiking and getting picked up by a carload of fanatics.
"You may have to improvise. But rest assured we will make every effort to recover your team."
Jack broke into the conversation and saved me from spouting an unfortunate comment. "We'll need more gear than we have now. We're only operating with a few weapons appropriated from the IBEX crew."
John Smith strode over to a large duffle bag on the floor. "Got you covered." He opened the bag and pulled out two handheld radios, a pair of Uzi's, two Browning High-Power pistols, and the Sig. The original gear Jack and Amadeo left behind in Frankfurt.
"How, did you—"
He cut me off. "Don't ask — you can obtain cold-weather gear on the local economy. It'll help you blend in better if you have to cut out on your own."
"Cold weather gear?" asked a concerned Amadeo.
"T-2 is on a mountain covered with snow this time of year." John gave Amadeo a wicked grin. "Got a problem with that?"
"Sure do. I'm from Miami."
"When do we go?" I asked.
"Be on the tarmac at 0700."
"You mean tomorrow?"
"Yes. You will spend the night on base. Things are wild out on the street. No need to take chances. Don't worry about your gear at the apartment. Colonel McKenna's man will collect it and make final arrangements with the landlord."
"Don't like that term — final arrangements."
John gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, poor choice of words."
We spent the next two hours going over critical mission details. Again, the CIA guy's professionalism impressed me. I remained concerned about my relative inexperience.
John Smith had a plan worked out, a flight to Mashhad Air Base in Eastern Iran and on to the airfield below T-2. The IBEX operation had a C-130 on standby, ready to evacuate equipment and personnel from the outstations, but Wilson managed to convince McKenna to let us fly on a normal resupply mission to Mashhad. We would arrive at the air base unannounced and contact the IBEX ground control team. They would arrange for transportation to the site. He emphasized the need to maintain tight operational security. The situation on the ground was volatile and we needed to be ready to change the plan at any time.
Jack and Amadeo worked out a set of radio protocols for local communication. They were aware of the need to keep messages short and to the point. Both the Iranians and Russians could be listening.
"Any final questions?" asked Wilson.
I kept quiet, too late anyhow.
Friday, 2 February: Doshan Tapeh Air Base
"What do you mean the flight is scrubbed?" barked an angry Wilson.
McKenna raised his palm in frustration. "Don't blame me. The Iranian pilots are refusing to fly today."
"Refusing… Why?" The colonel was about to light the afterburner on his legendary temper. "What's so special about today?"
"
Some malarkey about no flights on Friday… you know, their Holy Day. Sorry, this has never been a problem before."
Wilson blew out a breath and paced around the office. He came to a halt and examined a large operational navigation chart tacked to the wall. A minute later, he addressed McKenna with a cool air of authority, "Can we obtain clearance from air traffic control for a flight?"
"They're closed today. The base is locked up tight." McKenna shifted nervously. "What did you have in mind?"
Wilson placed his hands on his hips and gave him the stare. "You have a CV-2 parked inside the hangar. I know it belongs to an IBEX contractor and not controlled by the Iranian Air Force. — I want it."
McKenna thought it over. "Just might work. Far as I know, it's ready to go. We have it on standby for emergency runs to remote sites. You sure you're willing to take a chance?"
"I need it today. — Now — I need to get these men to T-2, ASAP."
"We don't have a pilot on base, it'll take time. Not sure if we can find one."
Wilson snapped, "I'll fly it."
"You checked out on the Caribou?"
"No, but I have—"
McKenna raised his palms in surrender. "Don't want to hear about it. If I hear it take off, I'll assume it was a training flight." He fiddled with papers on his desk. "Good luck Colonel, you'll need it."
Wilson motioned to John Smith, "Come on, you drive us down to Hanger Four, we're leaving right away."
"Colonel are you sure you don't you need a co-pilot?" I asked in a last-ditch effort to save my skin.
The colonel's eyes steeled. "If I need any help, guess I can rely on your recent experience flying twin engine aircraft. You take the co-pilot's seat."
I blushed and swallowed hard. Sergeant George is going to have some explaining to do — didn't figure him for a snitch.
* * *
We left Doshan Tapeh unnoticed by air traffic control. No one was on duty. Likewise, the Iranian mechanics were absent, celebrating, or getting ready to flee. The only hitch had been the guard at the hangar. Jack solved the problem with a twenty-dollar bill.
The DHC-4 Caribou, or CV-2 as the Army called it, cruised along at 160 knots. Mashhad lay 530 miles east of Tehran, 50 miles from the Soviet border and 100 miles from Afghanistan. The flight calculated by Wilson to take about three hours.
