The Latakia Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller Page 10

  "No. Is no help for Anya."

  "Why?"

  "What is… is." There was something pathetic about her face. I could only imagine what she had been like in better days.

  "Don't understand, don't you want get out of here … to be happy?"

  "Happy people have no past, I have too much past, there is no happy for me."

  "Can't you leave him?" I grasped her arm. "You have a choice — make it."

  "I must do for my son. Do anything to make him safe. Must have chance for better life. No choice, do not blame me, my fate is to live with my guilt."

  "Guilt, what do you mean?" I wondered if there was something else.

  Her face gave the message her voice could not.

  "You can do it … leave him."

  "Cannot leave."

  "I don't understand. What can he do to you?"

  "He can send me to Kerhane."

  My gut twisted, I couldn't speak. The idea that he had such power stunned me.

  A tear formed and ran down her cheek. "You pray for Anya. Pray to forgive Anya's sins."

  "Is there nothing you can do?"

  "I know what I must do." The determined inflection in her voice was disconcerting. She twisted out of my grasp and rushed away.

  "Wait." I started to follow, but realized people were staring at me.

  Absorbed in a sea of conflicting and confused emotions, I wandered back to the hangar. Anya, forced into a life of destitution, forced to surrender all for her family's survival, didn't appear to have a chance. Hakim held all the cards.

  Chapter 9 ~ Busted

  Friday, 5 October

  The morning sortie was routine, Barlocks, Spoon Rests, and Tall Kings. I switched back to the VHF antenna setting, hoping to find something different. I did.

  The signal had a low PRF, estimated at about 100 Hz. Antenna scan rate hit right on ten seconds with a wide beam width. A Soviet made early warning radar.

  "Bingo, got a Knife Rest." Seconds later the signal disappeared. "Hell, it's gone."

  "Think it's from a ship?" asked Morgan.

  "Can't tell. With no DF capability, I can't tell if it originated from the coastal air defense complex or from a Sverdlov-class cruiser."

  The Air Force sergeant was waiting for us on the tarmac. I met him at the rear compartment.

  "Let me give you a hand." I opened the hatch and started to reach in.

  He reacted with alarm. "No, don't touch it … it's… ah, classified."

  "Don't worry, I got a clearance. I'll help you out."

  He shouldered me aside and grabbed the bags, one in each hand.

  "What's so special—"

  He didn't give me a chance to finish. "Get out of my way." He sighted Morgan peering out of the cockpit. "Sir, make him leave me alone." He was on the edge of panic. "Please…"

  Morgan said, "I'm curious too. What've we been carrying?"

  The man swung a bag at me, making contact with my elbow. I stepped back, reached in the pocket of my flight coveralls, and snapped open the switchblade.

  The guy let out a high-pitched shout, "He's got a knife."

  "And I got this." Morgan pulled back his open flight suit to reveal his PPK in a shoulder holster.

  The freaked-out sergeant swung around, sprinted back to the car, threw the bags on the passenger's seat, and burned rubber as he raced away.

  "A bit touchy don't you think," said Morgan.

  "I'm beginning to think he may have a good reason."

  Soldano asked as he approached, "What was that all about?"

  Morgan said nonchalantly, "Nothing, you know how these Air Force types are."

  On the return leg, I searched again for the Knife Rest with no results. As we approached the base, my thoughts turned to Anya. Her latest revelation about Hakim's power to send her to the Kerhane made me wonder. Was this another lie, or was it true? I had no way to find out. It was painful to imagine her locked up and used for men's pleasure. Even if her story was a lie, she didn't deserve that.

  * * *

  Wyndham reacted positively to the intercept. "This lends credence to reports Soviet naval forces are being re-deployed eastward towards Egypt and possibly Syria. COMINT intercepts reveal the Soviets extended the tour of duty for vessels on station in the Eastern Med. We also expect a surge deployment of warships through the Dardanelles and Bosporus Straits at any time."

  I said, "We can't be sure it was a naval radar. No way to DF."

  Morgan suggested, "Since it's a VHF radar, can't we use the aircraft to line up on the signal? Got plenty experience doing that."

  "Might work, it's in the A band, close to the original set-up," I said.

  Wyndham said, "Good thinking, give it a try." He eyed Soldano. "Captain, I want at least two more sorties today. We need to exploit this opportunity."

  Soldano shook his head. "Sorry, not going to happen. Specialist Collins is busy dealing with a maintenance issue."

  Wyndham stiffened. "What's the problem this time?"

  "Electrical, the IFF isn't working, should take only a few hours to rectify, but the afternoon sortie is scrubbed." The IFF or identification-friend-or-foe system displays a signal on the screens of tracking radars.

  I said, "The delay will give me a chance to tweak the antenna tuner while Collins works on the transponder. Based on this morning's intercepts, I think we're on the right track."

  "Very well," said Windham with an air of exasperation. "Keep me informed."

  On the way out, I halted and asked, "Did you find out any more about Captain Hakim?"

  He answered in with a condescending tone, "No need for you to worry any more. The matter has been resolved at a higher level."

  I could only imagine what that meant. Either he was feeding me a line of bull squeeze or there had been a payoff somewhere. Didn't trust Wyndham any more than I trusted Hakim, I'd continue to watch my back.

  * * *

  Determined to find out what was in the bags, I waited for Rankin to load the compartment for the evening sortie. He never showed up. I checked it out before we left. It was empty.

  In the air, the first leg proved fruitful. The VHF Knife Rest was present again.

  "Got the Knife Rest again, same parameters gotta be the same one. Start your maneuvers."

  Morgan flew a zigzag course in an attempt to use the twin-dipole antennas on the wing tip for DF as originally designed.

  "Hold it on that bearing … back a little more … hold it … now back a tad … that’s it, were lined up. It worked."

  "So, it's right in front of us?" said Soldano.

  "Let's swing around on the opposite course and see."

  Morgan banked and completed a 180 turn. "How's that?"

  Disappointed I said, "Can't tell. Signal strength is too close, no way to measure exactly due to the presence of a large back lobe on the radiation pattern. I can't tell if it originates in front, or behind."

  Soldano said, "We'll try again on the return leg. Don't want to stir up too much attention with our maneuvering."

  * * *

  We touched down at the British base at 2213. Morgan taxied up to the area where we usually met our Air Force liaison. He wasn't there.

  "Looks like a no show," said Morgan.

  Soldano seemed unconcerned. "We'll give him twenty minutes."

  I knew he wouldn't arrive, nothing for him to pick up. I settled back and replayed the Knife Rest recording. The pilots waited on the tarmac.

  Ten minutes later, Morgan stuck his head in the cockpit. "Any luck?"

  "No, this is as good as it gets with this jickey set-up."

  We waited another ten minutes. As we were about to leave, a Land Rover raced onto the tarmac and screeched to a halt beside the right wing-tip. A British captain and a pair of armed military police types exited. Their faces were grim. Soldano met them halfway.

  The Brit officer pointed to the cockpit and said with a commanding voice, "Everyone out."

  "What's the problem?" said Soldano.


  "We are going to search for contraband. Everyone out and stand away from the aeroplane."

  "Contraband, what do you mean?" Soldano's composure started to break.

  He pointed at Morgan and me. "You up there — out of the bloody cockpit."

  Soldano motioned to Morgan. "Don't move, stay inside." He turned to the Brit. "What's this about contraband?"

  "We have reason to believe you have been transporting heroin. Your comrade was apprehended this afternoon. We will search the aeroplane. You do not have a choice."

  "This is a United States Army aircraft. You do not have the authority to—"

  "May I remind you — this is a sovereign base of the United Kingdom. You will not be allowed to depart unless you comply."

  Soldano and the Brit edged away and conducted a heated conversation for about five minutes. Morgan exited and joined Soldano. I stayed put, procedures called for the plane not to be left unattended at any time.

  Without warning, Soldano and the British officer marched to the rear compartment. The door squeaked open, things rustled around, and the hatch snapped shut. More angry words, but I couldn't hear what they said. My imagination ran wild, but I knew the compartment was empty. The British officer spun around and strode back to the group. Soldano flashed me a curious stare and followed.

  A few minutes later, after an animated discussion, the British officer and the MP's entered the Land Rover and sped away.

  The pilots returned and fired up the engines. I started to ask, but Soldano waved me off. He was obviously upset, as was Morgan.

  The atmosphere on the return leg was tense. Neither pilot spoke. My curiosity burned as I tried to piece together the pieces of the puzzle. Now I knew what was in the bags and why the sergeant was nervous when I questioned him. One thing for sure, Rankin was moving contraband and it was heroin. Penwell had to be involved.

  Once airborne, I concentrated on the receiver. In addition to the normal signals, the Knife Rest signal came through even stronger. I wanted to ask for a DF run, but decided to leave well enough alone.

  Right before we approached the landing pattern, Soldano twisted back in his seat and ordered, "I want to see you on the ground … before we report to Wyndham."

  * * *

  A fuming Soldano confronted me outside the hangar. "The British MP's were searching for drugs — heroin to be more specific."

  "That's what I heard. What'd they say?"

  "Cypriot police arrested the Air Force sergeant who usually meets us on the tarmac. They caught him with two kilos of pure heroin. The British CID suspects we're flying the stuff in from Turkey. That's why I let them search the cargo compartment. If I hadn't, we'd still be there. The compartment was empty."

  "How'd they catch him?"

  "Didn't say." Before I could ask another question, Soldano lit into me, "Tell me what you know about this and don't give me any bull. Are you implicated in this shenanigan? Who else is involved?" Soldano's eyes were on fire. "Do you have any idea what this means? They have physical evidence … and they can tie it to us. If you know anything…"

  "Hell no, I'm not involved. You want to know who's involved — it's been right in front of you all the time." His expression reflected puzzlement and anger at the same time. I spat it out, "Penwell … and Rankin. I told you something was fishy with those bags."

  The captain's face froze. A flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. He spoke with a calmer tone, "From what Morgan told me … may be a possibility." He stared off into nowhere. "Maybe the rumors are true."

  After a long pause, I said, "What now?"

  "Good question." His face contorted. "If Penwell is involved, we can't be sure Wyndham isn't working with him."

  The arrival of a sedan and three Air Force jeeps loaded with Security Police interrupted the conversation. A blue clad officer stepped out of the sedan, Wyndham sat in the back seat.

  0015, Saturday, 6 October

  "This gonna take long?" I asked. They had split us up and I was sitting in front of two Air Force CID agents. They didn't tell me their names and I didn't ask.

  The lead agent, an older man with thinning grey hair, was an obvious Dragnet fan. The stiff-necked investigator, clad in civvies: clean shirt, tie, pressed trousers, sports jacket, and spit-shined shoes, mimicked Joe Friday's plodding humorless delivery, "We got all night. You're here to answer 'em, not ask 'em." He leaned in towards me. "All we want are the facts, Son."

  I leaned back and clasped my hands together, it was going to take a while.

  The door opened, and another agent entered. "Better check him for weapons, we found a pistol on one of the pilots."

  The lead agent scowled at me with jaws locked. "You carryin' any weapons, Son?"

  I whipped out my switchblade and popped it open. "This count?"

  He backed off. "Place it on the table, real careful, handle towards me."

  I complied. "Any problem? It's just my pocket knife."

  He picked it up and examined the blade. "Son, don't you realize this is a dangerous weapon?"

  "Sure, why would I want to carry one that's not dangerous?"

  "That's a real knee-slapper, Son. That all you got? A pistol … anything else?"

  "It's all I need."

  "Never mind the smart answers. You some sorta troublemaker?"

  The other guy, a younger imitation of his boss except for a flattop haircut, intervened, "Tell us about the dope. Where'd you get it? Who's in charge? Cooperate with us and maybe we can work a deal."

  "Don't know nothin' about any dope. I'm only doing my job — following official orders."

  "What kind of orders, what's your unit doing anyway? And what part do you play?"

  "Sorry, you don't have the need to know — compartmentalized at the highest level."

  The older guy exploded, his voice oozed with contempt, "Listen up, hotshot. I'm tellin' you, I don't care for you or your Army James Bond wannabes. You give us some straight answers, you hear."

  I didn't respond.

  "Alright, let's run through it again," said the younger guy. His demeanor was much calmer. "You say you're under orders, but we caught you transporting dope on a military aircraft. In my book, that makes you an accessory at least. Why don't you make it easy on yourself and tell it all?"

  The lead agent broke in with a sarcastic tone, "What you boys trying to do, run your own little version of Air America?"

  I grinned. He wasn't far off the mark.

  "Well, go ahead and chuckle away, Son. This is your one-way ticket to an eight by eight cell. We're gonna put you where your kind always ends up — in the slammer."

  The younger guy asked, "You ever been arrested before? Don't lie, we're gonna check you out real close."

  "Once." That got their attention. He motioned for me to continue. "Back in high school we took the coach's Thunderbird. Planned to ditch it at a hot sheet motel and call in a disturbance, but they pulled us over halfway there."

  "What was the disposition of the case? You serve any time?"

  "Worse than that, the chief of police turned us over to the coach. We ran laps every morning for a month."

  "Sounds like you're a born troublemaker," said the older agent.

  "Take the fifth on that."

  The younger agent said, "Wait a minute, I remember we had a message from the Army requesting we arrest a Sergeant Brannan. Is that you?"

  "Like I said, take the fifth."

  The older guy grinned like Christmas morning. "Go check it out." The younger guy left.

  He leaned back in his chair. "Can anyone vouch for your movements since you've been here?"

  "Sure." He waited for my answer. "Captain Hakim."

  He almost fell over backwards, wouldn't have been more surprised if the Pope walked through the door. "Hakim, what's your connection with him?"

  "He's been following me since I landed at the civilian airport. See him everywhere I go. If I had been mixed up in anything, he would have noticed."

 
"You know who Hakim is, don’t you?"

  "Turkish intelligence, believe they call it MIT."

  He sauntered over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed. Couldn't hear what he said. Moments later, he hung up and returned to his chair. Ten minutes passed without either one of us speaking. I stared at the wall while he glowered at me. Must be some sort of psych job. No problem, I was trained to cope with worse, much worse.

  My training for such an eventuality was the Air Force's aircrew survival course at Fairchild Air Force Base, when I was preparing for airborne intercept missions. They taught us how to resist enemy interrogation in case we went down in hostile territory. This was hostile territory.

  The other agent returned, shaking his head. "No soap, the request was rescinded a few days later. He's clean as far as the Army's concerned."

  "You bring the file I asked for?" said the older guy.

  He took the folder and skimmed through a sheaf of documents. Halfway through, he found what he was looking for.

  "What's with the Russian broad?"

  For the first time, he caught me unaware — should have known. "The waitress at the NCO club?"

  "We've been keeping an eye on her, seems you two been meeting at the snack bar."

  "Nothing, she waited on me at the club several times and she approached me at the snack bar. Something wrong with that?"

  "You two been heatin' the sheets together?"

  Took a second to register. "No, don't think they allow that at the snack bar."

  "Now you listen here, we've heard all the wisecracks we want from you."

  The other agent said, "She ask you to take her to the beach?"

  I hesitated and said, "Matter of a fact she did. How'd you know?"

  "That's one of her standard ploys." He gave the older agent a knowing glance.

  I waited for them to bring up our encounter outside the club. The Security Police airman may have included it on his report. "You saying she's a Russian spy or something?"

  "Or something."

  "What's that mean?"

  "She works for Captain Hakim," said the older agent.

  I didn't know what to say. Whatever I said would be wrong.

  "We've been working with him for the last two months. Seems he had some reliable intel on a drug smuggling operation. We been bustin' our butts looking at people here on base. But—"