The Latakia Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller Page 4

  The first lieutenant from the Air Force security unit was unimpressed with my account of the intrusion. "Must be some Turk looking for booze, it's happened before. Maybe you people are being paranoid."

  Pete, who had been quiet said, "Yes sir, but ‘cause you’re paranoid, don’t mean they ain’t out to get you."

  Soldano jumped in before the lieutenant had a chance to respond. "Don't you think it's a coincidence it was the same man who followed the sergeant from the airport?"

  "You can't be sure of that, besides what could he be looking for?" His eyes narrowed. "What are you people doing down there anyway?"

  Soldano ignored his question and I cut in, "He wasn't looking for booze. He's some sort of…" I struggled to find the right words, "security, or intelligence operative."

  "Look here, you secret squirrel types are always seeing stuff, get a grip on it."

  Soldano stayed remarkably calm. "You're not concerned there might be spies operating on this base?"

  He leaned back in his chair and answered with a smug self-confident tone, "We know for a fact there are."

  "Why don't you round them up?" I said.

  "Because they'd replace them with some new ones. We know who most of them are and keep an eye on them. Better to know who they are than not."

  "And the man the sergeant described, is he one of your so-called spies?"

  The lieutenant's brow furrowed. "Can't say."

  My sixth sense told me he was lying.

  Soldano stood. "Come on let's get out of here, we're keeping the lieutenant from his important duties."

  Outside, I asked, "What now?"

  "I'll discuss the matter with Wyndham in the morning. Maybe he has some ideas."

  I told Marcos, "Check in on the quarters periodically during the day, maybe that'll discourage whoever's poking around."

  "Right on. Let me at the sorry SOB."

  Monday, 24 September

  Collins, Saleh, and I worked through lunch. Installing and testing the electronic equipment took two full days of hard tedious work. Collins was as frustrated as I was. Every time we assumed we had a problem solved, something else materialized.

  The mechanics also worked through the morning, but at a slower pace. Seemed they took a ten-minute break about every hour to nurse the brew in their coffee cups. I'd already decided they didn't have a regular coffee maker but relied on a bottle from the tool chest.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, I checked in with Soldano. He was hunched over the table plotting lines on an aeronautical chart with Morgan. Wyndham was nowhere in sight.

  I said, "Sir, the equipment's installed."

  "Will it do the job?" said Morgan.

  "Not sure."

  Soldano looked up. "What's the problem?"

  "It's a CIA set-up."

  Morgan said, "Does that make a difference?"

  "I'm afraid so, in this case CIA means Can't-Intercept-Anything."

  Soldano said, "Dispense with the humor, Sergeant, I need to know if we can accomplish our mission."

  "I'm not joking, sir." I paused. "Can I speak with Wyndham about our assignment? Maybe he can clarify what naval targets we're after."

  "Not here — left for Ankara an hour ago. He said you'd be told at the appropriate time."

  "The time is now."

  Soldano said with a clipped irritated tone, "You can tell him that when he returns."

  "What did he say about the security situation?"

  "Nothing." Soldano relaxed a bit. "But he did seem irritated."

  "In what way?"

  "Not sure. Can't read that man, doesn't give much away."

  "Did you tell him I sensed the man might be some sort of Turkish security agent?"

  "Yes. That's when he informed me he was leaving for Ankara."

  "Think there was a connection?"

  Soldano nodded. "Who knows? In any case, we'll deal with it ourselves, no one on the base is taking this seriously." He paused. "Keep your eyes open and inform me even if it is just a suspicion."

  I said, "Checked with Marcos before I came over here, he's keeping a close watch on the quarters."

  "You have any ideas?" Soldano directed the question to Morgan.

  Morgan said, "No, but I still want to know about the electronic gear, Wyndham talked about radar intercepts. All my experience has been with voice DF sorties. I want to know if there'll be any difference in procedures."

  I said, "The gear we installed is omni-directional. It uses the wing antennas, so I don't see any need to use your usual DF methods." Normally, the pilot would change the heading to line up with the signal. "It's not what I'm used to and I won't know how well it'll perform until we do a test flight. Will the bird be ready tomorrow?"

  Morgan shook his head. "No way, too many things left to be checked out. Bolan says he needs at least two more days." Soldano started to speak, but Morgan resumed, "The aircraft was in bad shape to start with. By all rights it shouldn't be considered airworthy."

  On that encouraging note, I asked, "Surely it was okay when it got here and where did it come from? Thought the RU-8's from Nam were sent back to the states?" We had already decided the aircraft had been used in Vietnam.

  Soldano said, "Can't answer that, the flight and maintenance logs are missing. As best we can tell, it's been sitting on the tarmac here for the last four months. I'm not sure where it originated."

  I said, "I do know RU-8's operated in the area before. Back in 1970, one on a flight from Iran to Turkey, with two generals aboard, strayed over Soviet Armenia and was forced to land, causing an international incident."

  "How do you know that?" asked Morgan.

  "I was stationed in Germany at that time and remember there was some speculation it was lured across the border by a false beacon signal. The Russians have tried it before."

  Morgan said, "That's interesting. An officer at base operations told me a flight from Iran experienced engine problems and they landed here."

  "How did it get from Vietnam to Iran?" I asked.

  "Didn't say, but they pulled the crew out and left the plane. I suppose, with all the reshuffling going on in the Army, it sorta got lost between the cracks … until now."

  The story sounded fishy, like the rest of the enterprise. "So, I'm about to risk my life flying over water in a piece of junk." I considered mentioning Bolan's brew, but decided not to rock the boat.

  Soldano spoke with a clipped tone, "Don't worry. It'll be airworthy when we take it up. Anything else you need?"

  I nodded towards the safe. "Can I check out the EOB now? I need to memorize the locations of the land-based emitters within range."

  Morgan said, "Considering your equipment's limitations, do you think you can identify the signals?"

  "Sure. I can recognize everything they have with my eyes closed." I actually could. Signal identification was my strength. For me it was like listening to music. If I could pull up an audio signal, I could identify the radar, no problem.

  Morgan appeared skeptical, but I didn't care. Three months and I was finished. Next stop, a day job with regular hours, and a whole lot more pay. However, we were in the volatile Middle East, a region ruled by Murphy's Law.

  I spent the next two hours reviewing ship borne systems for Soviet vessels known to frequent the Syrian base. The Syrian Navy operated Osa and Komar class fast attack missile boats, which I did not expect to encounter. I also plotted out known Soviet made radars in Syria, concentrating on the coastal air defense complex near the ports of Latakia and Tartus.

  * * *

  Tired of the mess hall and snack bar fare, I headed for the Air Force NCO Club. Monday evening wasn't a busy night and I was early. I settled in at an empty table off to the side. Didn't want to mix with the base personnel, too many inconvenient questions.

  A waitress sighted me and wandered over. Before she had a chance to speak I asked, "What kind of beer you have?"

  She replied with a deep accented voice, "Turkish, German, Am
erican."

  "You have Henninger?"

  "No."

  "München Hofbrau?" She nodded. "Bring me a cold one." Not my favorite, but it would have to do. Turkish beer was okay, but why compromise. The Air Force NCO's seemed to favor Schlitz and Pabst's Blue Ribbon.

  I watched her as she strolled over to the bar. Appeared to be in her late thirties, wasn't what one would describe as a looker. A bit full-bodied, but in the right places.

  When she returned with the beer she asked, "You want menu?"

  "No, bring me a steak, well done, with fries."

  She wrote down the order and headed for the kitchen.

  I wanted to ask about her accent, sounded Slavic, but thought better of it. She didn't look Turkish, but you never know.

  Halfway through my steak, Bolan arrived and headed straight to the bar. He didn't notice me and joined a group of Air Force NCO's. He had already found some drinking buddies.

  Sat back and relaxed with my second beer. Bolan told a joke and got a big laugh. He glanced around and nodded. I raised the bottle in reply. Even though the entire enterprise seemed doomed to failure, my spirits began to improve. All I had to do was make it through the next three months. Nothing was going to hold me back. Feeling upbeat and confident, I ordered a third beer.

  My mind wandered back to Frankfurt and Fräulein Annette Preusser. She worked in the travel office on the ground level of the I.G Farben Building, the mammoth structure known as the Pentagon of Europe. We had lunch dates at the snack bar, movies, Sunday afternoon rides, and a few awkward nights at a new German disco. Like every other red-blooded male in the building, my fantasies anticipated more. Inviting her to join me on my Riviera trip was top of the list.

  Sorry to say, we never hit it off that well. The week before I left, I saw her riding in an Austin-Healy with the new lieutenant from the third floor. It appeared the popular Fräulein found a new interest. The guy seemed to have lots of money and I had seen them together multiple times. Best forget her and move on with my miserable life.

  The waitress returned. "You want beer?" Her voice had a vacant uninterested quality.

  "Nope … threes my limit."

  She presented the check. I pulled out a few bills and laid them on the table.

  "Kinda quiet here tonight. Is it usually this dull?"

  She didn't respond.

  "Ever have a band … dancing?" Not that I liked to dance, I was trying to engage in a friendly conversation to break through her dour demeanor.

  "You want dance, go to Adana."

  "That's not what I had in mind."

  Her dark eyes bored in on me. "What you say … have in mind?"

  The way she said it caught me off guard. Before I could respond, someone called from across the room and she left before I could answer.

  What did I have in mind? That begged the question. I was just trying to chitchat. Did she take my careless comment for something else? Besides, she wasn’t my type and Soldano had ordered us not to engage with foreign nationals.

  I ambled over to the bar and spoke a few words with Bolan. He was in high spirits and unusually sociable. The guy had a prodigious capacity to hold booze. His liver was undoubtedly working overtime. After listening to one more ribald witticism, I left the club.

  A green car sat parked twenty yards down the road. I reduced my pace to take a better look. Ten yards away, the engine cranked to life and the vehicle eased away at a slow deliberate speed. It was too dark to identify the driver.

  Chapter 4 ~ Anya

  Tuesday, 25 September

  With Wyndham gone and nothing else to do, I hung-out at the snack bar catching up on my reading. Halfway through a Flying Magazine article, entitled 'Don't Take Takeoffs for Granted,' Pete Marcos and Collins moseyed in and sat down.

  "How's the mechanic's doing?"

  Collins replied, "They looked busy, but the Sarge sure does take a lot of coffee breaks."

  "Yeah, tell me about it." This morning Bolan seemed unaffected by last night's session at the club. He drank a lot but never showed it.

  Pete glanced at my reading material. "You like flying?"

  "Sure, I'd like to get my license someday. Took glider lessons during my tour in Germany, even got certified."

  The big guy shook his head. "Not for me, I don't like it, even on a big airplane. You dudes can have it."

  "You never considered airborne?"

  "No way dude, don't even joke about it."

  Collins said, "And this is from someone who rides a big wave on a flimsy surfboard."

  "Hey, water's softer than dirt and ya don't have as far to fall."

  "Anything else going on?" I asked Collins.

  "No, Pete and me are going out to the Air Force pistol range. You want to join us?"

  I glanced at my Timex and shut the magazine. "Why not."

  * * *

  The Air Force range master didn't seem happy to see us. Pete said something about needing to keep his proficiency rating. I backed him up and the older Air Force tech sergeant relented. After a derisive lecture on range safety, he issued us a stack of paper targets.

  Once on the firing line, Collins said, "Sounded like he didn't think we ever fired a weapon."

  I said, "Somebody must have told him we were ASA." Got a big laugh, Army Security Agency soldiers were notorious for antics at the range.

  The big MP said, "Sarge, you ever shoot a forty-five?"

  "Sure."

  The loudspeaker blared with the range master's gruff voice, "Listen up down there. — Ready on the firing line?"

  Pete acknowledged the command, handed me the standard issue M1911, and said, "Six rounds in the mag, try the ten-meter target."

  I checked the chamber and racked the slide. From a two-handed stance, I placed six shots in a three-inch group.

  "Good shooting, Sarge. You ever consider the MP's?"

  "No way dude, don't even joke about it."

  He laughed and handed me another magazine.

  I reloaded. "Which target?"

  Collins pitched an empty soda can down range. "Hit this."

  One-handed, I fired from the waist gunslinger style, the can bounded along the ground as five more quick hits sustained the momentum. A small chunk of can halted ten yards past the target.

  Pete was impressed. "Whoa dude — far out."

  "Where did you learn to shoot like that?" asked Collins.

  "Working summers on my uncle's ranch back in New Mexico. I got a lot of practice with a twenty-two, shooting rattlers from the saddle."

  "Uh oh," said Pete, "Here comes the range master."

  The red-faced sergeant rushed down the firing line shouting, "What the hell you yahoos think you're doing?"

  * * *

  The Air Force mess hall was serving liver. A detour to the snack bar was in order. It was packed. Ordered a cheeseburger with fires and took the only empty table. Moments later a feminine voice spoke from behind.

  "Can I sit, today is crowded." The deep accented voice belonged to the waitress at the NCO Club. She held a tray with a plate of noodles, the cheapest item on the menu.

  "Sure."

  Between bites, she inspected me with an impassive gaze, offering no sense of personal interest. She had a plain weary face with high cheekbones. A broad nose and dark eyes. Her black hair cut short, too short for my tastes.

  I ate my cheeseburger in silence.

  She finished and asked, "You have cigarette?"

  "Sorry, don't smoke."

  "Is bad habit." Couldn't tell if she meant smoking or not smoking.

  She reached in the pocket of her faded dress and pulled out a pack of Marlboros, drew one out, raised it to her lips, and lit up from a book of matches.

  The woman took a long drag, paused, blew out a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth, leaned across the table, and stared into my eyes. "You new here, yes? I see you at club."

  "Yeah, just got here…" My voice faded as I realized the need to watch my step.

 
; "My name Anya … Anya Voronina."

  Sounded Slavic, I asked, "Where you from?"

  She took another drag on the Marlboro. "I come from Russia. I am… what you say… refugee."

  "Been here long?"

  Her gaze veered away into the distance. "I come one year. My mother, brother, and I come Turkey. No go back, much happy to go west," she shrugged, "even Turkey."

  "You like it here?"

  "Is hard, no can visa for America. This is my America. You understand, yes?"

  I wanted to find out more but didn't want to draw out the conversation. Figured if she worked at the club, she must be cleared.

  "What your name?"

  "Ross … call me Ross."

  She flicked an ash to the floor. "Where you come from America?"

  "New Mexico."

  She seemed surprised. "You from Mexico, no America?"

  "No, New Mexico, north of the border, next to Texas."

  She drew in and expelled another puff. "You cowboy?"

  "Yeah, guess you could say so."

  Her cool detached attitude seemed to change. She smiled. Her eyes displayed a new sense of interest. "You do like Clint Eastwood? What you say…" She aimed and waived her finger at me like a gun.

  "No, I'm… was a real cowboy. Not like the movies."

  Her lips curved in a dreamy smile. "Cowboy. I meet real cowboy."

  She seemed fascinated by the concept of meeting a cowboy. If it had been a different time and place, I would have been tempted to play it to the hilt. She wasn't my type, appeared she smoked too much, a few years older, but you never know.

  She gazed at me, dark eyes serious, her eyebrows arched in anticipation.

  "Last night, what you mean … have in mind?"

  "Nothing." Me and my big mouth. When am I, gonna learn to watch what I say?

  "You like … how you say plyazh … on water … place by water."

  "You mean the beach?"

  "Yes, yes, beach. Much good beach in Turkey." She beamed. "You like beach, yes?"

  "Yeah, I like to swim in the surf." Uncomfortable and unsure where she was headed, I said, "Don't you think it's a little late in the season?"

  "Not understand."

  "Don't you think the water might be too cold?"

  She inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. "Not for Russian."