The Sahara Intercept Read online

  He led me into the building and down to a briefing room where an intense young man in rumpled combat fatigues greeted us.

  "Mr. Brannan, this is Lieutenant Yaakov, one of our operations specialists." We shook hands.

  Yaakov wore black rimmed glasses. A plastic protector protruded from his shirt pocket. He eyed me as if I was a new and strange specimen. His handshake dangled lifeless, without conviction.

  "Lieutenant, please brief Mr. Brannan on our situation here."

  Yaakov's expression didn't change. He turned and gestured towards a large map. "At this outpost, we are able to collect real-time data on Syrian air defenses. If necessary, we can also conduct electronic warfare against said positions. In case of a ground attack, we can provide artillery targeting deep into Syrian territory." He offered a hint of a smile. "Our position also enables us to carry out certain operations in Syria and Lebanon."

  "How about the Syrian air defenses?" I asked.

  "Syria has modern weapon systems, but their air defenses are centralized in keeping with Soviet doctrine and are dependent on vulnerable radio communications. Their early warning, signals intelligence, and tactical air management systems are weak."

  He was right. The Soviet doctrine is to build uncomplicated and durable military equipment. Their gear may not be expensive and state of the art, but is effective, nevertheless.

  "They managed some upgrades though."

  "Correct. Some upgrades in their SA-2 systems have been reported. Their modern systems are more effective. However, their method of deployment at static sites makes them difficult to redeploy in a tactical situation. Consequently, they are easy for our aircraft to evade during deep strike interdiction raids into Syria territory."

  "I examined the signal back at your base. What do you think it is?"

  Yaakov eyed Major David, paused, and spoke, "Perhaps the signal is an anomaly. We acquired only one intercept."

  "Is the site operational?"

  "Yes." He glanced towards the major, who nodded. "Would you like to see for yourself?"

  "Sure."

  Seated at a familiar console, I listened to the buzz of several P-40 Long Track target acquisition radars. Nothing seemed unusual. A check of their third harmonics produced nothing.

  "You observed the signal one time only?"

  "Yes, that is what I said."

  "Do you have a location plotted?"

  "We have only one bearing, but it does not intersect known Syrian air defense sites."

  I walked to the map. "What's the bearing?"

  "112 degrees."

  I moved the string to the 112 mark, and asked, "How about an airfield?" I tapped a spot on the map. "The string intersects this airfield, Khalkhalah Air Base."

  "You are familiar with this facility?"

  "I studied the Syrian Order of Battle before I left home."

  "Tell him what you told me," said Major David.

  "The signal you intercepted was perhaps changing its waveform to produce added energy in the third harmonic." I repeated what I had told Major David. "In summary, random micro bursts attached to the third harmonic, hidden in the acquisition signal, contain guidance instructions, and never switches to the guidance mode."

  Yaakov appeared puzzled for a few seconds. His face contorted in disgust. "The concept is ridiculous. How could you ever conceive of such an incredible idea?" He looked to Major David, who remained reticent.

  "You're right, it is a crazy idea, but the system does exist."

  "And how would you know?"

  "I helped develop it."

  His incredulous expression stayed unchanged. "I thought you were American."

  "Yeah, but I worked with the SOB who developed the concept before he defected. I know this sounds implausible, but he made it work. He was trying to build a system invulnerable to existing countermeasures."

  "Let us assume you are correct. What you describe is not invulnerable to existing countermeasures."

  "Right … but if you are unaware of the system, your countermeasures efforts will be directed to the normal guidance system while the missile receives instructions from a different source. A simple deception, the microbursts hidden in the third harmonic undetected."

  Yaakov shook his head. "No, such a concept will never work."

  "It has, I was shot down by a missile guided by the concept." My statement wasn't entirely true. I had indeed crashed after flying over Ethiopia in an SR-71 spy plane, but we were never able to attribute the shoot down to the system which was in place and fired missiles at us.

  "And where did this happen?"

  His smirk was a bit too smug. The guy was getting to me. I paused and scrunched my eyes. "Sorry, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

  He sniffed. "I do not appreciate American humor."

  Major David intervened. "Why don't we go to the dining room before they stop serving? We can discuss this later."

  I stood. "Fine, I had a light breakfast at the hotel."

  Yaakov declined to join us for lunch. The major and I dined alone at an isolated table in the near empty mess hall.

  "I'm not sure the lieutenant believed my story."

  "Can you blame him? It is a fantastic tale." His serious expression faded into a soft smile. "You see, Yaakov is an engineer and as such not prone to engage in fanciful theories."

  "Do you think this is a fanciful theory."

  "As I said, it is a fantastic tale. Let us not discuss the details here." We sat in silence for a few moments. "Oh, by the way what did you think of Lieutenant Yaakov's fiancée?"

  "I don't…"

  "Your driver, Corporal Alon."

  I was speechless.

  He must have recognized my surprise. "They make a special couple don't you think?"

  "Yeah, she's so shy and he's…" I guessed Yaakov was her whatever option.

  Major David chuckled. "Excuse me, I must leave now and return to Glilot. You may walk around outside if you wish." He tilted his head towards the east. "But, please do not wander too far. We are on the cease fire line and the Syrian snipers lack our sense of humor."

  After he left, I gathered my borrowed coat and walked out to the edge of the compound. The Golan Heights and Syria lay before me. I wondered if Marsden was out there somewhere. Rumors had it, that he fell out of favor with the Soviet authorities last year. The Langley guys lost track of him, no word on his whereabouts. Could he be doing his thing for the Syrians or were the Soviets testing the waters again? He did have contacts in Syria. That's where he went to first after his defection. He also passed through the country after his escape from the Mexican prison.

  The intercepts offered insufficient information to know for sure. I would stay one more night, working an intercept position. Maybe I'll get lucky.

  * * *

  I sat in the intercept room, waiting, listening, and eyeing the green phosphorus display, anticipating the electronic representation of pulses emanating from a hostile air defense system capable of destroying any aircraft within its reach.

  A ragged blip appeared in the luminous grassy line on the panoramic display, an electronic signal, a P-40 radar, NATO designation Long Track. The H-band early warning radar functioned with the SA-6 air defense system. The antenna pointed at 112 degrees, in the direction of Khalkhalah Air Base deep inside Syria. I spun the dial to the frequency of the third harmonic and waited. Nothing happened.

  I turned to Yaakov, sitting at the next position. "Still no luck, this is the seventh time I've had him tonight."

  Yaakov, busy watching the G-band for signs of a Straight Flush fire control radar, said, "I am sure you will not find anything, because it does not exist."

  I couldn't argue, at that point I wasn't even sure myself. It was close to 0500, nearing the end of a long night, a long frustrating night. Maybe Yaakov is right; this is all a waste of time. Why would the Russians give Marsden a second, no a third chance? If I had my way, it'd be three strikes and you're out. I hadn't thought about Marsden much the
last few months, but now I was beginning to burn with hate again. Gotta let it go, no use worrying over something you have no control over.

  Saturday, 28 June 1980, Golan Heights, Israel

  The new shift came on duty at 0800, time to go. My flight left Tel Aviv in the evening and perhaps I would have an hour or two for a nap and a swim at the seaside hotel. A vision of Tamara splashing around in the surf wearing a bikini flashed through my mind. I switched to the frequency of the third harmonic and checked one last time. Nothing.

  I dragged into the dining room and joined Yaakov as he sipped on a cup of tea. "Long night," I said, "Thanks for your help. Sorry we didn't find anything."

  "Not to worry. A dull night is preferable, don't you think?" His eyes bored in on me, still serious and without humor.

  "Yeah, been there done that." I grinned. "An exciting shift means the bad guys are up to no good. Right?

  At last, he smiled. "By the way, a jeep will be available to take us to the airfield for the flight to Tel Aviv."

  It took a few seconds to process what he said. "Us?"

  "Yes, I am going on leave."

  'That's nice." I tried to picture him with Tamara. It didn't compute.

  He looked up with an air of concern. "What do you make of the Italian airliner?"

  "I don't know. What airliner?"

  "Oh, you have not heard the news. Last night at about midnight an Itavia Airlines DC-9 plunged into the Tyrrhenian Sea."

  "Any survivors or word why it crashed?"

  "No, is much too early to tell."

  * * *

  The Beechcraft taxied to a stop on the military tarmac at Sde Dov Airport. An open jeep pulled up beyond the wing. Tamara swung her legs out exposing a generous portion of thigh.

  Yaakov exited and I followed. She glanced first at him and offered a weak smile. The expression on her face was priceless as she recognized me. A furtive glance back to him and then back to me. I smiled, winked at her, and nodded my head.

  "Welcome to Tel Aviv, Mr. Brannan," she emphasized the mister part.

  Yaakov shot me a quizzical look. "You have met?"

  "Yeah, the corporal drove me from the airport. She's a good driver."

  Yaakov frowned and strolled to the jeep without comment. Tamara followed in silence.

  * * *

  Cleaned up, bags packed, and ready to go, I passed through the lobby, and out the front door. Major David, driving a jeep, pulled up and motioned for me to get in.

  "You look disappointed," he said with grin. "I discovered an interesting development. We will talk on the way."

  "Yeah, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't." In fact, I was relieved. I threw my bag into the rear and slipped into the front seat. He popped the clutch and we sped away.

  "It is possible this Marsden may be in Syria."

  "How do you know?"

  He smirked. "If I told you, I would have to kill you."

  "Hey, I was joking, you sound serious."

  He laughed. "I made inquiries to some, say … unnamed colleagues. It seems a person travelling on a Paraguayan passport under the name Juan Antonio Machado entered Syria, last year. His profession given as an engineer without specifying a field, his arrival noted, but no follow-up, because no suspicions were aroused. His description matches your depiction of this Marsden."

  "That's him, gotta be."

  "What makes you think this man may be Marsden?"

  "The owner of Marsden's favorite bar in Nogales was Tony Machado."

  "Nogales?"

  "Yeah, Mexico, Sonora, right south of Fort Huachuca where we worked together. And the initials, J.A.M. The SOB's too vain for his own good. It's him."

  The major drove along, deep in thought. About a block later, he said, "I will start some follow-up, but do not expect too much. Even if it is Marsden, the matter will be a low priority in the greater scheme. One signal is not enough for a major effort."

  "Yeah, I understand. I'll bet you guys have bigger fish to fry."

  The major nodded. "Yes, that is one way to describe our situation. By the way what do you think of the crash of the Italian Airliner?"

  "All I know is what Yaakov mentioned this morning. Why, is there something suspicious?"

  "The press is full of rumors about a possible sabotage."

  "Thanks, that's just what I need to hear before boarding my flight."

  3 ~ The Ustica Mystery

  Wednesday, 2 July 1980: Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico

  My pride and joy, a true masterpiece, an almost like-new 1975 Italian Moto Guzzi V7 750 Speciale sat gleaming in the parking space in front of the Radio Propagation Research Office. The perfect lines of the bike attracted admiring looks wherever I went. The red monster handled like a tiger, the big back tire allowed me to whip into corners without a care in the world. And the exhaust — pure symphony.

  Captain Jim Barker walked up. "You really love that bike, don't you?"

  "Yeah." I reached down and wiped a smudge of dirt from the fuel tank. "Wanted another one for years." Bandits had stolen my last motorcycle during a tour of duty at Asmara in Ethiopia.

  "Lisette still isn't keen on you riding a hot bike?"

  "No, I was surprised she didn't sell the Guzzi while I was gone." She had this thing, didn't like motorcycles: too dangerous, especially for a new father with responsibilities. We compromised. I bought a helmet.

  In the office, Sergeant Alice Swift, the unit clerk, a cute twenty-four-year-old college dropout from California, greeted my return, "Welcome back, sir."

  Since I was a civilian, I asked her not to call me sir, but she did anyway, probably just to irritate me. It worked.

  "Did you have a good time?"

  "Yeah, it was a real blast."

  She grinned, an artificial pretense of a smile. I never could tell whether she was sincere or not.

  My office, standard Air Force issue: populated by an aging grey metal desk, uncomfortable vinyl cushioned chair patched with duct tape, and a couple of drab metal filing cabinets. A series of aeronautical charts took up the wall behind the desk. I sat down and filled Barker in on the details of my trip and the stopover at Bolling Field in Washington, D.C.

  "…so, that's about it. They don't believe the signal is significant. Michaels wasn't convinced, and Mack was unsure. Wilson said they couldn't chase a ghost, needed something concrete. He told me to get on with other business."

  "So, it was just another water haul?"

  "Yep, that about sums it up … but I still believe Marsden is active somewhere. Sure would like to get my hands on the SOB again." I took a deep breath and sighed. "What's on tap? I lost track over there."

  "We flew a test mission down to Holloman yesterday. Hardy is working on the results and Sergeant George is going on a three-day leave starting tomorrow." George was our operations NCO and Hardy was a tech specialist. "No more tests scheduled this week. You know, July fourth weekend."

  "What about Jack and Amadeo?" Jack Richards and Amadeo Ruiz were CIA special operations specialists responsible for security and such for our unit. They were good at their jobs, deadly to be exact.

  "They're up at Fort Carson in Colorado for a few days mountaineering with the Rangers. Be back after the weekend."

  "How'd they swing that?" Mountaineering — Why?

  "You know Jack. The guy has all sort of connections. I think they just wanted a change of pace."

  "Sounds about right." For me, everything had been pleasantly dull for the past few months and I was beginning to like it. Anyway, Jack and Amadeo needed to keep their edge. They had saved my life on multiple occasions.

  I checked the in-box for messages, all routine. As Barker turned to leave, I asked, "How's Sarah and the kid?" He was a new father too. We first met in Kenya where he served as an assistant air attaché. He flew me into the southern Sudan on a rescue mission and we only survived because of his skills as a pilot. Jim was also a good friend.

  "Doin' okay. Remember, I'm on leave next week. Going back
to Ohio to visit her mother. You know how grandmothers are— " Barker blushed. "Sorry, forgot."

  "Alright." He did forget. My poor kid doesn't have grandparents. My parents, sister, and high school sweetheart died in an auto accident during my first year in college. Lisette's parents had also perished in an auto wreck in France. Our past anguish was the bond that brought us together. We understood each other's grief.

  * * *

  The Roadrunner Apartments, an older slightly run-down complex had a couple of things going for it. The place was cheap and more importantly, close to the main gate of Kirtland Air Force Base. We had lived there for two years. Our ultimate dream: to buy a little house, somewhere up the mountain. Lisette had visions of a chalet, Alpine style.

  "I'm home." Raven, the cat, ignored me from the comfort of my favorite chair. I walked into the kitchen. A note attached to the refrigerator, undecipherable, written in French. She must have been in a rush.

  I pulled a bottle of Modelo Especial out of the fridge and retreated to the living room. I turned on the TV and chased Raven out of the chair. He hissed, flicked his tail, and stalked off. Some news guy chattered about the air crash in Italy. No survivors, the cause a mystery, lots of speculation. I knew the Italian papers would turn it into a sensation of epic proportions. They always do.

  Lisette burst through the door with a flurry of French expletives. I sensed something had upset her and racked my brain for something I might have done.

  "What's up? Thought you'd be home."

  She held the baby under one arm and a toted a plastic bag with the other. "You not have buy the Pampers."

  Uh oh, I forgot. "But you found some, no problem." I tried to brush it off, didn't work, and she stormed off into the bedroom. I could tell from the smell; the Pampers were well overdue. I took another pull on the Modelo Especial.

  "Ross, au secours, help me."

  * * *

  Later, the baby changed, diapers disposed of, and the bedroom aired out, we sat down for supper. Lisette didn't fit the stereotype of the French gourmand, she favored various ethnic delicacies, such as roasted goat, or as we call it in New Mexico — cabrito. However, since the baby came into our lives, my diet had taken on even simper fare, sandwiches, TV dinners, and fast food.