The Ethiopian Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller Page 2

  An insurance sticker, he's going to get away because I don't have a freakin' sticker — Unbelievable. "Look, I need help, this is really important, I can't explain, national security is involved."

  With renewed interest, he asked with a precise tone, "You with the MP's?"

  "No, I'm a civilian tech analyst. This guy's stolen some highly sensitive materials, it's important."

  The officer bobbed his head and shot an anxious glance across the border. "Hold on, give me a minute." He stepped inside, dialed the phone, spoke briefly, paused as if waiting for someone, glanced back at me, and began to speak. All I heard was snippets of Spanish, the conversation unintelligible.

  No sign of Marsden's red Plymouth past the Mexican control point. Figured he was on the highway heading south. Marsden probably wanted to hole up at the local brothel but was smart enough to keep going. Had to realize the Army wouldn't allow him to get away scot-free.

  I sat trying to decide if jumping the border was worth it. My knuckles turned white as I grasped the steering wheel. Problem is, sometimes I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between bold action and stupidity.

  The tall Texan hung up and returned. "Sir, just talked with my amigo, Freddy Rodriquez of the Mexican Federal Police. He might be able to assist you."

  We both glanced south as twin glass pack mufflers resonated off the buildings. "Here he comes now." A late model black and white Chevy Nova sped across the border. "He can help you find him but may be powerless to hold him."

  The vehicle skidded to a halt and I jumped in. Officer Rodriquez nodded a greeting. I asked, "Did you see the car?"

  "Si, Senor! ¿Tiene un arma … pistola?"

  "Don't know … No sè." I wasn't sure if Marsden was armed or even capable of using a weapon. He never showed any violent tendencies, at least not at work, never guessed him for a traitor either.

  Rodriquez spun the Nova around, peeled rubber, and roared back across the line: glass packs thundering, siren screaming, lights flashing. The speedometer quivered on the hundred-k mark as we zoomed past the Mexican border station. People, dogs, and burros scurried aside as we sped down Calle Hildago past the plaza bandstand, slowing only to pass over the topes, or speed humps, outside town. Once on the open road, the Nova lurched forward as he floored the accelerator and the brown dry Sonora desert flashed by.

  The highway south was smooth with few potholes, narrow, and no shoulders. Officer Rodriquez, in his late twenties, sported a pencil thin mustache, and his neatly tailored uniform showed he took pride in his job. He didn't ask questions and kept his eyes glued to the road. A grey burro ambled on the pavement. Rodriquez expertly braked and swerved, leaving the unfazed animal and a shower of gravel behind.

  * * *

  The chase gave me time to think and I managed to work myself into an advanced state of agitation. I couldn't understand why Marsden was on the run. The project was a failure. The data? Why take a bunch of almost useless materials? What happened, did he just snap and take off? No, I figured he was doing it out of spite. He hated Hansen's guts — had to be the reason, one I understood. Nevertheless, there's some things you just don't do, and he wasn't going get away with it.

  A quarter hour later, we caught sight of the Road Runner in the far distance. Marsden hadn't been driving fast and didn't appear to be fleeing. We drew up behind him, siren and lights blazing. Marsden glanced up at the rearview mirror, eased off the road, and coasted to a halt on a patch of gravel.

  Officer Rodriquez pulled up ten yards from Marsden's Plymouth, and shut off the siren.

  "Senor, stay en auto. I talk with him."

  "Be careful, I don't know if he's armed." I had no idea if he was dangerous or not and was only now beginning to understand — I didn't have a clue about Marsden.

  Rodriquez patted his pistol, a chrome-plated M1911 Colt semiautomatic. "No hay problema Señor!"

  He exited the car, stepped out on the pavement, and approached Marsden's Plymouth with his hand on the holstered pistol. I eased out behind the open door.

  Marsden stood beside his vehicle. Dressed in khaki pants and a bright red sport shirt a size too large, he appeared flustered, his corpulent face flushed pink. Marsden forced a smile, held up his right hand, and boldly greeted the officer with his best barroom Spanish. "¿Qué pasa amigo?" He always considered himself a charmer, especially with the ladies.

  Rodriquez came to a halt, half way between the cars, excitedly responding in Spanish too fast for me to understand. Marsden spread his hands in a friendly gesture. The officer relaxed his grip on the pistol.

  Marsden appeared nervous but stood his ground by the car. Rodriquez continued with his rapid-fire Spanish and Marsden gave him a No Comprende stare.

  In a moment of distraction, Marsden glanced my way. His astonishment betrayed his guilt. Rodriquez diverted his attention in my direction. Marsden reached back into the car and pulled out a pistol.

  Rodriquez tried to draw his weapon. Marsden had the drop on him and fired. The hard-thin pop–pop of a small caliber round echoed through the desert. Both bullets found their mark as they slammed into the tailored uniform shirt.

  The officer staggered towards Marsden and slowly raised his weapon. Marsden fired. Rodriquez slumped to his knees, his chrome plated pistol clattered to the asphalt. Mortally wounded, the last desperate gasps of life passed his lips as the young officer collapsed face first to the hot pavement.

  The main threat eliminated, Marsden turned his attention to me. His face burned red with anger. Fury exploded from his eyes. I had seen him like this once, a few days before during his confrontation with Hansen. A chill ran down my spine. Marsden was capable of violence. The moment incomprehensible: how can you work with someone for years and be so wrong?

  Marsden raised the weapon and took aim. Stunned by what I had seen, my comprehension narrowed by tunnel vision, I focused on the gold-plated pistol. Something you would expect to find on a Nogales pimp. An image of death on a desert road came to mind. Now, I was about to die, a thin metal door my only protection.

  A flash from the muzzle — a wet slap on my right shoulder — the shot passed through the open window and found its target, but the fact didn’t register in my frazzled consciousness.

  I ducked inside the car, desperate to find a weapon. A hard pop startled me as a small hole appeared in the windshield. A second round ricocheted off the hood. I bailed out, mouth dry as a cactus, heart beating at a furious pace, slipped on the gravel, and fell to the rough ground.

  Marsden fired two quick shots. The first hit the radiator and produced hot steam. The second slammed into metal, right above my head.

  Stretched out helpless, paralyzed by the numbness of fear, the coup de grâce expected at any moment. Time stood still. Marsden's footsteps reverberated. A loud thud — I flinched — nothing happened. It had only been a car door slamming.

  A car engine started and soon faded in the distance. I pulled myself erect, leaned on the door, and watched the red Road Runner disappear down the road.

  The officer lay motionless on the hot black asphalt. The chrome pistol gleamed in the harsh desert sun. I staggered forward to the road.

  A dull sting burned in my right shoulder. I glanced down. Blood oozed from the wound and dripped down to my pants leg. A mind-numbing sense of panic arose as I realized the blood was mine. Reached across and tried to stem the flow — a sharp stab of pain — I jerked back, mesmerized by bloody fingers. My head began to swim, skin cold and clammy, nausea, knees buckled…

  Saturday, 21 June: Naco, Sonora, Mexico

  The cute nurse at the clinic in Naco, on the Mexican side, stood at the door. "You have visitor, Señor."

  I woke the day before with my left hand handcuffed to the hospital bed. The restraint now gone, but a hefty Mexican Federal Police officer stood guard outside the room, a chrome–plated Smith and Wesson revolver tucked in his belt.

  Mack Gibson, dressed in his typical short-sleeved Guayabera shirt, strode in after exchanging
pleasantries with the Federale. "Feeling better?"

  "I guess … the painkillers help some." An exaggeration, my shoulder still hurt like hell. "Could be worse."

  "That's right. You're fortunate Marsden carried a pocket gun. Anything more powerful than the thirty-two he used would have done some serious damage." Mack belonged to the Rod and Gun Club and fancied himself an authority on such matters.

  "Still can't believe it."

  "The doc told me the bullet grazed a bone, tore muscle, and damaged some nerves. You must have passed out from a nervous system shock."

  "I'm just glad to be alive. Thought for sure, I was a goner. He was on target with his first four shots, got the officer, then me, but his last shots went wild. I wonder why?"

  "Likely, his adrenalin level spiked when he started shooting. Most people can't shoot accurately once that happens. You're fortunate Marsden ran out of ammo. They found eight spent cartridges." Mack pulled a lead chunk from his pocket. "The doc gave me this. Looks like Marsden used the cheap stuff. Thought you might want a souvenir."

  "Nah, you keep it. Lucky those pimp guns don't come with an extra magazine."

  "A thirty-two’s good enough for James Bond."

  "Yeah, but Marsden ain't no Double-Oh-Seven. With that gold-plated pistola he looked more like Goldfinger."

  Mack chuckled. "You may be right. Can you recall any more about the shooting?"

  "Can't remember anything after Marsden left. I came to when a car stopped and heard someone talking Spanish." The incident was only two days ago, but seemed longer, the painkillers created an undefined blur. "You have any idea when I can get out of this place?"

  "That's why I'm here. As soon as Bartlett wraps up all the details, we'll get you back across to Arizona. I talked Colonel Hansen into arranging for the Army to provide a helicopter to fly you to the hospital in Tucson."

  "Bartlett?" I struggled to recall the name.

  "The Border Patrol officer. He persuaded the Mexican authorities you were a victim and not involved in anything illegal. Fortunate you didn't have a weapon on you when they found you."

  An ironic thought crossed my mind: if I had managed to stop Marsden, I’d probably be locked up in the local calaboose. "How did he convince them to let me go?"

  "Bartlett is friends with the Rodriquez family. The slain officer's father-in-law is police chief in a town south of here. He was able to pull some strings with the federal authorities."

  "Thanks for everything Mack. I'm sorry about—"

  "Next time pay attention when I tell you not to do something. You’re just too headstrong for your own good and need to stop trying to buck the system." He finished off with a disarming grin. "Remember this: you're good at your job, but not indispensable."

  Seems I tend to resist authority, especially with people like Hansen. Don't know why, I'm just that way. I do need to try harder.

  "Learned my lesson — no more taking off on my own."

  "Believe it when I see it." He shook his head in resignation. "Anyway, we'll work it all out when you get back."

  "How's Hansen taking all this?"

  "On the warpath and after your scalp. He's looking for scapegoats."

  "Yeah, I can imagine." I really could. I had no doubt Mack would stick up for me. A retired Air Force lieutenant colonel, he didn't mind butting heads with the brass when the situation called for it. Mack had been brought in four months into the project to mediate between Hansen and Marsden.

  Hansen and I had a long history and it was a sure bet he would use the incident to his advantage and to my detriment. Hansen wasn't going to do anything to hurt his chances for promotion. The SOB brownnosed his way up to lieutenant colonel intent on at least an eagle on his collar before retirement.

  "Any word on Marsden?" I wanted to find him, we had unfinished business. I'm not a violent person, but subject to change if I ever got my hands on him. The Good Book says forgive your enemies: I'll forgive the SOB right after I—

  "No, appears he got away clean, his location is still unknown. They didn't even find his car. The Mexican Federal Police are geared up for this and making an all-out effort to find him. Not going to be a pretty sight when they do."

  A graphic image lingered for a moment. "What'll happen to the program? Is the office going to close?" My life was spinning out of control and I wondered if I still had a job.

  "Not sure — can't talk about it here. We may be able to stay open with a different mission. But, I can tell you, things are starting to hit the fan. Marsden's disappearance is a major concern, the Army CID and the FBI interviewed everyone in the office, military and civilian. The CID will want to interview you in the next few days. He left with all his notes and some official project files. The total damage remains undetermined. An inquiry board is being set up to convene sometime next month."

  Bartlett stuck his head into the room. "Mr. Gibson, let's saddle up before they change their minds." The nurse brought a wheelchair and Mack rolled me out to his brand new 1975 Jeep Cherokee.

  Back in Arizona at the Border Patrol station, a helicopter thumped in the distance. The short drive made me woozy, ready to throw up at any moment. I began to fade and asked to lie down. The next thing I remembered was the sensation of being airborne somewhere over Southern Arizona.

  Chapter 2 ~ The Desert

  Monday, 16 January 1978: Fort Huachuca, Arizona

  The helicopter, a Bell UH-1N better known as the Huey, swooped down for a hot offload. The blades changed pitch, dust enveloped the area, and the copter hovered over the landing area for a split second. A reduction in noise and a bump told me we were on the ground.

  A visibly tense Captain Willis coughed, ducked out the door, and headed for the trucks through the billowing downwash. Willis, supervisor of the Army technical crew, put on a self-important air and wasn't one for small talk. He hated to fly and struggled, with poor results, to appear composed during the flight.

  After pausing to thank the pilot, I hopped out, ducked my head, and dashed through spiraling dust to the trucks. Engine noise intensified as the pilot increased blade pitch, tilted forward, and wind milled away.

  Our test site, set on a ridge overlooking the southern Arizona desert, offered a clear view both visually and electronically. Our schedule called for a routine live test series using a simulated Soviet threat force scenario against a new ground-based radar-jamming system.

  The crew drove the five-ton trucks with expandable huts out over the weekend, set up, and calibrated the equipment. We would be in the field all week, unless something failed, as it did so often. Long hours isolated in the cold desert counted as a hardship for some. No problem, I didn't mind and was used to it. At least I wasn't cooped-up in an office with stiff-necked brass snooping over my shoulder.

  First stop was with Master Sergeant Bronson, the senior non-com, to find out if there were any problems.

  "Everything's copacetic so far … one man short though. Dawkins reported to sick-call this morning." Bronson paused and feigned surprise. "Claims he's got the flu." Dawkins, a second hitch spec-four, worked in equipment maintenance.

  No great loss, the guy was a well-practiced slacker. I responded with a cynical grin. "All right, it'll be tough, guess we can manage." We both agreed we were better off without him.

  After a walk-around to check the set-up, we entered the hut containing the analytical equipment and ran through our pre-test checklists before initiating the first test cycle. My job was at the pulse analyzer scope on the primary position. We recorded everything, but I still liked to make manual notes, a habit from my days with the Army Security Agency.

  A good operator with a trained ear might distinguish signals lost in the grass on the receiver pan and analyzer scopes. So-called grass is the ragged noise level signal displayed on the scope baseline. I learned long ago to accurately identify all known Soviet radar signals from their unique sound and parameters displayed on the scope. That ability helped me land a job with Relint.

  The
tests were going satisfactorily, our gear worked for a change. Even the new diesel generators thumped along without missing a beat. The week was off to a fine start. If we were lucky, we would be able to wrap things up in four days and get an early start on the weekend.

  * * *

  About three o’clock in the afternoon, Captain Willis climbed into the equipment hut. With more than a hint of irritation in his voice, he said, "Brannan, the commo truck just received a radio-teletype message for you."

  "What's it say?" I half-expected another round of inquisitive visitors. Too often, we functioned as a magnet for bored field grade officers from the Pentagon, just the type of stuff that drives me nuts. Their presence usually turned into a goat-rope that disrupted the routine and invariably the brass would issue an order instructing us to clean-up our act and maintain a more orderly appearance, something hard to do between desert sand storms.

  "A Huey is on its way to pick you up and return you to the post."

  A few bewildered seconds passed. "Why?"

  "Here see for yourself." He thrust the yellow tear sheet in my face.

  I read the message over twice. "Wonder what the heck this is about."

  Willis was annoyed because the tests would shut down in my absence. I briefed him on what he needed to do to wrap-up the collected data. If the results weren't complete, we would be required to start over.

  Samson, an Army spec-five at the next position groaned. "There goes the weekend."

  He’d talked about his plans earlier. The Loro Morado Bar in Nogales can be expensive when you're loaded to the gills — tell me about it. I started to tell him he would be better off staying in the field, but the Huey’s thump-thump signature echoed in the distance.

  The pilot, an Army warrant officer with three Vietnam tours under his belt, brought the olive drab helicopter straight in for a hot landing. The occasional flight back and forth to the range was always enjoyable. Most days I rode out in an equipment truck and helped set up and calibrate the delicate test gear.