The Ethiopian Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller Read online

  THE

  ETHIOPIAN

  INTERCEPT

  A ROSS BRANNAN THRILLER

  THE SECRET COLD WAR SERIES - BOOK 2

  A Novel by

  RG AINSLEE

  The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller

  The Secret Cold War Series - Book 2

  Published by RG Ainslee

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 by RG Ainslee

  Cover Image: By Author

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and events are products of the author's imagination. It draws from the historical record, but any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Certain institutions and agencies are mentioned, but the characters involved, depiction of the agencies' operations or sources/methods of collection/analysis presented should not be construed as factual.

  This is the second book in the Secret Cold War Series.

  For any inquiries about this book, please contact the author at rgainslee.com

  The first Electronic version: May 2018

  The Ethiopian Intercept is a story of Cold War Electronic Intelligence (ELINT) long hidden behind a curtain of secrecy. ELINT is intelligence derived from collecting, processing, and analyzing radar and guidance control systems.

  Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen of the security services manned the front line of the Cold War. Assigned to isolated foreign outposts, naval vessels, or flying along the Iron Curtain, they collected signals intelligence and provided an extra layer of early warning. All too many died by accident or enemy action. The first American combat death in Vietnam was a soldier of the Army Security Agency. The Secret Cold War series is dedicated to their memory.

  Thomas Jefferson: "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 ~ The Border

  Chapter 2 ~ The Desert

  Chapter 3 ~ The Operation

  Chapter 4 ~ The Blackbird

  Chapter 5 ~ The Intercept

  Chapter 6 ~ Adrift

  Chapter 7 ~ The Island

  Chapter 8 ~ Lamu

  Chapter 9 ~ The Road

  Chapter 10 ~ Malindi

  Chapter 11 ~ The Beach

  Chapter 12 ~ Mombasa

  Chapter 13 ~ The Train

  Chapter 14 ~ The Plains

  Chapter15 ~ Nairobi

  Chapter 16 ~ The Embassy

  Chapter 17 ~ The Mountain

  Chapter 18 ~ Lara

  Chapter 19 ~ Lisette

  Chapter 20 ~ Addis Ababa

  Chapter 21 ~ Marsden

  Chapter 22 ~ Return

  Chapter 23 ~ The Plan

  Chapter 24 ~ Sudan

  Chapter 25 ~ FUBAR

  Chapter 26 ~ BOHICA

  Chapter 27 ~ Escape

  Chapter 28 ~ Arizona

  Chapter 29 ~ Lex Talionis

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Author's Notes

  The Secret Cold War Series

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The Iranian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller

  A word from RG Ainslee

  Chapter 1 ~ The Border

  Thursday, 19 June 1975: Sierra Vista, Southern Arizona

  "What you peckerwoods doin' over there?"

  Jolted, I drew an abrupt breath and glanced back over the stucco cinderblock fence.

  "You — I’m talkin’ to you." A lean gray-haired senior citizen had just caught me sneaking-a-peek into J. Andrew Marsden's dining room.

  Who's this old geezer? Undaunted, I strode over to the fence. "You seen Mr. Marsden?"

  "Asked you first." His wrinkled scowl puckered up even more. "What you think you're doin'?"

  Just my luck, an argumentative old buzzard. "Sir, we work with Marsden over at the Army Proving Ground. He didn't show up this morning and we need to check and see if he's okay."

  The man's body quivered, spittle oozed from the corner of his mouth. "You boys better get your butts outta here pronto or I'm callin’ the cops."

  I straightened up, pulled out my wallet, and tried to sound assertive. "Sir, here's my Army ID — name's Ross Brannan."

  The elderly neighbor wiped his jaw on his sleeve and scrunched up his eyes as he strained to read the card. After a few tense moments, he gave me a funny look and responded with an incoherent mumble.

  "We need to speak with Marsden, it's a security matter." What I meant but couldn't tell him: a serious national defense issue was involved.

  Mack called out from behind, "No vehicle in here," he stood at the garage back door, forehead against the window, "it's empty."

  Mack Gibson, my boss, and I were civilian employees of the Relint Corporation. A private contractor operating the Cochise Project for the Department of Defense at the Army Electronic Proving Ground at nearby Fort Huachuca. Marsden was the brains behind the enterprise.

  Mack ambled over to the old man. He was more a people person than me, and closer to the man's age by twenty years. Mack rested an elbow on top the fence and asked with a persuasive tone, "Did you talk to him or notice anything unusual?"

  The man cast a suspicious eye. "He never says nothin’." Mack started to speak, but the man continued, "You boys missed him by… fifteen minutes. He just backed out and drove off." The man scratched his head. "You know what? He did have lot ’a stuff piled in the back seat."

  My jaw tightened. Has Marsden flown the coop? A little voice deep inside screamed: Something’s not right.

  Mack raised his left palm and spoke with a calm but firm tone, "Sir, we need to check inside the house. I'm sorry — don't have time to explain."

  Unbelievable. I wheeled and jogged towards the back door.

  The man hollered, "You boys better skedaddle, el pronto."

  I glanced back. Veins protruded from his temples, the old coot appeared on the verge of a stroke.

  Jiggled the doorknob — locked.

  "I warned you SOB's." He shook a gnarled finger at Mack. "I'm calling the cops."

  Mack ignored his protestations and shouted, "Go ahead, kick it in."

  The old cuss shrieked rude comments about our pedigrees and shuffled back into his faux adobe house. I wondered if he was going for his gun. This was southern Arizona after all, only a few miles from Tombstone and the OK Corral, Wyatt Earp territory. There I stood, unarmed, didn't even have my switchblade.

  Three steps back, sprung forward, and struck at the door with my boot’s thick Vibram sole. The lock broke on the third wallop and I pushed on inside, not sure what I'd find.

  Everything in the kitchen appeared normal for a single man: dirty dishes in the sink, breakfast leftovers on the table, half-eaten bag of Cheetos on the counter, overflowing ashtray, and a box of empty beer bottles on the floor.

  "Marsden. — Anybody home?" No one answered.

  A hollow sinking sensation gnawed at the pit of my stomach. A vague uneasiness set in. My mind reeled with possibilities and questions. In some way, I knew from the start, a sixth sense, the funny little feeling you get before it happens, something was wrong. Sometimes instincts are right. That morning, the inevitable journey tha
t awaits the unlucky had interrupted my third cup of coffee.

  In retrospect, I should have stayed back at the office. By all rights, the MP's, CID, or both should have taken the lead. Seemed like a straightforward errand at the time: drive out there, see if he was home, check the place out. Perhaps a simple explanation was in order.

  The trouble started earlier when the electrical engineer failed to show up for work, an unusual occurrence, even for Marsden. When he didn't report by ten o'clock, Mack, the assistant director, called his house — no answer. A quick glance into Marsden's office found it in disarray with a near empty bookshelf.

  We searched the project lab and discovered technical data missing from the secure filing cabinets, including classified files detailing the project’s inner workings. We suspected he was up to no good and rushed to his house to confront him.

  Mack joined me in the dining room. He said, "I'll take his home office and you check out his bedroom."

  The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke. A California style king sized bed, with a plush Corinthian leather headboard, sprawled unmade. Scattered clothes littered the green shag carpet. Dresser drawers pulled out and half emptied.

  My eyes lingered for a moment on a large velvet painting over the bed: Dogs Playing Poker. Appeared Marsden had a discerning eye for art. I reckoned he picked up the masterpiece at one of those tourist traps in Nogales.

  A flat box, discarded on the floor beside the bed, held the remnant of a large pizza: a partially eaten slice laden with extra pepperoni. An empty Tres Mujeres tequila bottle and a lifeless Negra Modelo beer six-pack stood as monuments to the pizza's demise.

  On the nightstand beside his bed sat a pile of raunchy magazines, not just girlie pics, real hard core: S&M, teenyboppers, and the like. —They don't even sell this stuff at the bus station. — I picked up an issue and thumbed through the first few pages. —Whoa — I'm no prude, but the pictures were downright depraved.

  I wasn't familiar with all the particulars of Marsden's habits, but did know the well-paid engineer lived a high-roller lifestyle outside of work. Everyone knew he liked expensive booze and cheap women. Our boss Lieutenant Colonel Hansen had been on his case about wild weekends across the border. Several months ago, the colonel discreetly bailed Marsden out of the Nogales jail the morning after an ugly fight with a pimp. I later found out the lurid details over a Coke with Margie, Hansen's secretary.

  "Looks like he’s gone." Mack peered in from the hallway. "His office is cleaned out, nothing—"

  "Check this out." One of the more graphic magazine covers featured an obviously agitated redhead clad only in thigh-high boots with a long bullwhip trailing from her hand.

  Mack paused, an incredulous look, and shook his head in disgust. "Can't believe you're handling those things. Must be pretty nasty, don't you think."

  A gross image formed in my mind. I flicked the magazine to the floor and stepped into the bathroom to wash my hands. A stack of even more lurid magazines lay beside the throne.

  Mack called from the hallway, "Go check the garage. I'll take the living room."

  The garage sat empty, not even tools or yard implements. At the last moment, I noticed a piece of paper trapped under the pull-down door. A hard tug produced a multicolored pamphlet, an advertisement for Sanborn's auto insurance for Mexico.

  That's when it hit me. Marsden was leaving the country with his classified work materials and notes. We worked with him every day, trusted him, and now this. Betrayal is a violation that touches one's soul.

  I shouted, my voice quivering with rage, "Found something. He may be headin’ south of the border."

  Mack hurried in and glanced at the brochure. "I'll call CID and get a team over here."

  He had informed the Criminal Investigation Division right after we suspected a security breach. They didn't seem too concerned. No surprise there, they had dealt with Marsden's peccadilloes before.

  "What ya think he's up to?" Couldn't figure his motive, the project was dead, two years wasted. Of all the possibilities, one had traction. "You don't believe he's planning to defect, do you?"

  After a pensive moment, he answered, "Don't know. In any event, it would be disastrous to let him get away with a treasure trove of classified material."

  "He was right. In the wrong hands, the documents stolen by Marsden might divulge our research priorities. Give the Soviets valuable insight.

  Mack rolled up the garage door. "You think he's headed to Mexico?"

  "That'd be my guess. Though, I wouldn't put it past him to hole up in some cathouse over the border." Marsden liked to brag about his women, but until now, I always thought it was mostly BS.

  He examined the brochure. "You might be right. Bet he's in Nogales by now."

  "Don't think so, too far away. So's Douglas."

  Mack didn't say anything. I knew he was thinking.

  Figured Marsden would want to get out of the country as fast as possible. "Naco's our best bet, it's a lot closer."

  He flipped the brochure over and gave it some thought. "Don't know. Let CID figure it out."

  "By the time they do, he'll be long gone. If he's defecting, it'll be too late." Like a fool, I surrendered to an ill-timed impulse. A snap decision with little thought to possible consequences. "I'm gonna try to catch up with him. He don't have that much of a head start."

  Mack hesitated and glanced outside. "Okay, go ahead, I'll wait for CID."

  I sprinted to my red 1965 Triumph TR4 sports car parked in Marsden's driveway, hopped over the door into the roadster, twisted the key, punched the starter button, shifted in reverse, and backed out to the street.

  The cantankerous old man paced back and forth in his front yard. When he saw me, he let forth a chorus of blasphemous expletives and flashed rude hand gestures in my direction. Luckily, he was unarmed.

  Mack shouted from the garage door, "Don't cross the border and don't take any chances."

  Police sirens howled in the distance. I floored the accelerator. Gears meshed in synchronization. The TR surged and burned rubber for half a block to a rowdy symphony of exhaust tones. Out on the road, I headed south on Arizona Highway 92, right above the speed limit through Nicksville.

  The highway turned east at Ash Canyon. The open road lay ahead. A nudge on the gas pedal and the speedometer needle inched towards a hundred miles an hour. The custom supercharged big bore motor hammered away at full horsepower, exuding pure poetry through the free flow exhaust system.

  Dust devils raced across the sandy desert floor as the small open topped sports car sped along the straight and narrow asphalt. An untamed dry brown vista stretched endlessly, covered by cactus, mesquite trees, creosote bushes, and rocks, lots of rocks. The border crossing loomed ahead, some fifteen miles away.

  The affair started two days before when Marsden and Lieutenant Colonel Hansen, the director, had it out over the project’s pending cancellation. The concept promised a revolutionary breakthrough: encoding for a tactical air–defense missile guidance system immune to existing electronic countermeasures. However, we made little progress over two years of intensive research. The Army deemed the design unworkable and pulled the plug.

  Marsden was upset — no, more like unhinged. He had been convinced the system would eventually produce results, certain the project only needed more time and funding.

  True to form, Hansen agreed with the Pentagon's conclusion: the concept wasn't viable and, in the end, futile. The Pentagon assigned him as the project's director at the insistence of and over Marsden's objections. The pretentious officer fit in real nice with the big-shots, the pampered princes of the Pentagon, the dog washers of the military-industrial complex. He was only too glad to serve as their hatchet man. Hansen never truly believed in the project and constantly clashed with Marsden over the projects objectives and progress.

  Marsden interpreted Hansen's failure to go the extra mile as an unforgivable sin. Their confrontation almost came to blows, but to everyone's disappointment, fizzl
ed out into a two–way hissy fit.

  * * *

  I entered Naco, a sleepy border town, slowed to a safe speed, and drove down the main street to an adobe style building housing the U.S. crossing station.

  A young Border Patrol officer sauntered out to meet me. Before he had a chance to speak, I blurted, "Did a red Plymouth Road Runner go through here this morning?"

  The tall lanky man answered with a pronounced Texas accent, "Yes sir, not ten minutes ago," his eyebrows lifted, "Friend of yours?"

  "No, I work with him." Marsden wasn't a friend, but we always got along. I respected his knowledge and he never talked down to me, just an odd character, nothing unusual for a person of his caliber, a PhD in electrical engineering from Georgia Tech. "Can you call over and have him stopped?"

  "No sir, no can do. We don't got no authority in Old Mexico." Nevertheless, he was curious. "Why you ask?"

  "I'm with the proving ground at Huachuca. We've had a security violation." I produced my Army civilian identification card. "The guy driving the red Plymouth may be carrying stolen classified documents."

  The officer eyed me with an air of suspicion. My outfit: jeans, chambray work shirt, and a Denver Broncos ball cap didn't exactly look tech like.

  He examined the card and spoke with a dry laconic voice, "Five ten, one seventy," he couldn’t see through my dark Ray Bans, "hmm, brown hair … you got sandy hair." He studied the photo, glanced up, and said it … the inevitable, "This picture makes you look almost like Steve McQueen."

  I flashed a halfhearted grin. "Yeah, that's what the ladies tell me." Unfortunately, I lacked the charismatic appeal of my near look-alike, but the slight resemblance had proved socially useful in the past. Now I had bigger fish to fry. "Can you alert the authorities over there?"

  He shook his head and handed the card back, his voice calm and courteous, "Sorry sir, ain't nothin I can do. He's cross the border, beyond our jurisdiction."

  "I'm going after him." Didn't have time for bureaucratic red tape, Marsden was slipping away. "Call over and tell 'em to let me through."

  The officer stiffened. "Hold on bubba, ain't a good idea. Anyhow, your vehicle got no insurance sticker for Mexico. They won't let you in without one … and he'll be long–gone by the time you get all the paperwork done."