The Latakia Intercept_A Ross Brannan Thriller Read online

"Runs like a top. The mechanics know their stuff after all."

  Morgan followed Soldano and I ambled over towards Collin's workbench. Rankin passed by carrying a canvas bag. He placed the item in the rear cargo compartment.

  * * *

  The pilots conducted a careful pre-flight inspection before we took-off at 1400. The flight plan called for a course south to Cape Andreas, skirt Cape Greco, and land at the British base at Akrotiri on the southern shore. Following a one-hour layover, we would return over the same route. Wyndham assured us the Syrians would view our flights as a routine courier run.

  The Turkish coastline slipped by below, the sky was clear with maximum visibility. I flipped on the recorder, signed on, and began to scan the spectrum for signals.

  The phosphorus green readout on the scope confirmed the familiar high-pitched audio from a Syrian early warning radar. Frequency was 165 MHz in the A-band band. I knew the PRF (Pulse Repetition Frequency) was 360Hz, sounded about right. The antenna scan rate was right on six seconds. I assumed it was Syrian. The signal was too strong to be from Egypt.

  "Got a Spoon Rest."

  Morgan replied, "What's it used for?"

  "An early warning and target acquisition radar for the SA-2 Guideline surface-to-air missile system, nothing for us to worry about."

  Seconds later, a signal from a P-14 Tall King radar came on line in the A-band. The scan rate was slower, about twenty seconds.

  "Tall King."

  "Wasn't that the one they developed in response to the U-2 flights back in the fifties?"

  "Right, it's a huge stationary radar."

  I didn't need the Electronic Order of Battle Handbook to identify the sounds I listened to over the years. I could do the job with my eyes closed. Back in a familiar world, my headache disappeared. I identified the radar type by estimating its pulse repetition frequency as displayed on the spectrum analyzer scope. Long-range early warning radars send out fewer pulses per second than shorter-range missile tracking radars. They also have a lower scan rate. The scan rate, or how often the radar beam scans the horizon, often one or two revolutions per minute, is indicative of high-powered long-range search radars. Radars associated with missile systems rapidly scan a much smaller area and display different search patterns.

  Next, I switched to the C band expecting to find a P-15 Flat Face search and tracking radar associated with the SA-3 Goa air defense system. The band was silent.

  The E-band produced a signal with a ten seconds' scan rate. I didn't need any other parameters to identify it as a P-35 Barlock land-based surveillance radar.

  "Barlock in the E-band."

  Morgan said, "Is that the one used with the Fan Song?"

  "Right, part of the SA-2 Guideline SAM system."

  "We are out of range … aren't we?"

  I checked the chart. "Pretty much so, but if they wanted to, they might get off a lucky shot."

  "How 'bout airborne signals?"

  "So far, nothing on the I-band indicating airborne or missile tracking radars."

  Morgan was a little bit nervous. This was new territory, a different experience than Vietnam. I didn't blame him.

  A search for PRV-11 Side Net E-band nodding height finder radars produced no results. The RAF Decca Type-80 on Mt. Olympus droned on.

  Finally, I switched back to the A-band antenna, hoping to find something different, possibly a Soviet made P-10 Knife Rest B early warning radar also used by the Soviet Navy. No luck.

  * * *

  "There it is, straight ahead," said Morgan. "The British base is on that peninsula."

  As we winged over the deep blue waters of Akrotiri Bay, Morgan contacted the tower and began his final approach. He continued his descent until we passed over the rugged cliffs of Cape Gata, moments later, we touched down on the end of the 8,000-foot east/west runway.

  On the ground, Morgan taxied up to a pad near the terminal building and killed the engines. A blue Air Force sedan pulled up beside us and a U.S. Air Force sergeant got out, opened the trunk, and removed a canvas bag. Soldano deplaned and spoke briefly with the young man, who seemed anxious for some reason. The captain watched the sergeant remove a similar canvas pouch from the rear compartment and replace it with the bag he was carrying. After a word with Soldano, the sergeant saluted, placed his bag in the trunk, and drove off.

  "That was easy," said Morgan. He slipped out the door, hopped to the tarmac, and began his preflight walk-around, aided by Soldano.

  A few minutes later, Morgan re-entered the cockpit and began his take-off checklist. Soldano climbed back up on the wing and said, "Are we ready to go? Anybody need a break?"

  Morgan glanced back, and I shook my head. Could have used a break, but didn't want to push it with the captain.

  Morgan started the engines, contacted the tower, and we took-off on our way back to Adana.

  Out over the bay, Soldano spoke his first words to me on the flight, "Pick-up anything new?" His voice still had an irritated sharpness.

  "No, same signals, Tall King, Barlock, and Spoon Rest, routine early warning, not even a height finder."

  Morgan said, "No tracking or fire control?"

  "No. Don't think we really want to be tracked and sure as hell don't want to be lit-up by a fire control signal."

  Morgan laughed. "Yeah, we're supposed to be low profile."

  Soldano said, "When we get back, I want you and Collins to make a careful inspection of your equipment. I want results, not excuses."

  * * *

  After the post flight debriefing, I hung back and confronted Wyndham. It didn't make sense. Most intercepts are devoted to locating radar sites along with their general signal parameters for the electronic order of battle. We had no direction-finding antennas and no capabilities for precision parameter measurements.

  "I still don’t understand our mission. What I'm picking up is routine signals, nothing new and no naval signals. If you're looking for anything else, you gotta understand this crate isn't equipped to do the job. What's going on? What are we really after?"

  He pulled me to a corner and spoke in a hushed tone. "As I'm sure you realize, the new Soviet SAM-6 poses a real threat, so far we haven't been able to confirm a complete set of electronic parameters."

  I agreed, "The Russians didn't allow them to be deployed in Nam because they didn't want us to develop countermeasures."

  "Right, they have to be attacked without effective countermeasure, which increases the risks to air assets." He pointed at the chart. "The Syrians deployed new SAM batteries over the last year, mostly around Damascus. Following a visit by Assad to Moscow in February, the Soviets supplied new SAM systems. They now have thirty-six batteries. Half are SA-6. The current tensions may enable us to rectify our deficit of accurate data about their capabilities."

  I had an anxious feeling, the one when you realize a train wreck is waiting to happen. "You're counting on a war breaking out, so we can make an intercept?"

  Without looking up, he said, "In a manner of speaking. Now you can see why stealth is more important than a precise DF capability. They should expect the RU-8 to be collecting COMINT not ELINT."

  He was right, but it was my butt on the line. He wasn't the one riding decoy. Then, all of a sudden, the focus was on SAM sites. What happened to the naval targets? Still didn't add up. Three months seemed like a long time.

  While I had him alone, I asked, "You do know we're being tailed by an officer from MIT, don't you? The same guy that I caught going through my things." Decided not to mention Anya, nothing good would come from bringing her into the discussion.

  It seemed to have caught him by surprise. "MIT, you mean the Turkish intelligence service?"

  "Correct."

  "What makes you think—"

  "A Captain Hakim has been tailing me since the first day."

  "You know his name?"

  "Sure, seems like everyone does. You don't?"

  Wyndham recomposed himself and said, "Nothing to worry about."

>   I didn't believe him. If he had said the sun was shining, I would have gone outside to make sure. He was that type of guy. Sadly, I had the displeasure of working with too many of his ilk.

  That evening, on the way to the mess hall, I decided to skip the club. It was best to avoid her, I might say or do something I would regret. Betrayal is a violation that touches one's soul.

  Sunday, 30 September

  Slept late Sunday morning, Soldano gave everyone the morning off despite Wyndham's intense objections. I had the feeling the captain was about fed-up with the CIA man's attitude. Too late for breakfast at the mess hall, so I wandered over to the snack bar.

  Two cups of coffee and halfway through the weekend edition of the Stars and Stripes, Anya walked in and headed straight for my table. Her face was bright and cheerful.

  "I not see you. You have trouble, no?" Her tone expressed concern. She sat across from me.

  "No trouble."

  She didn't catch the cool tone of my voice. "The day is good for beach, yes?"

  I didn't answer. She reached across and grasped my hand. "We go to beach today. Is for good time for us." She closed her eyes and smiled. "Make love on beach like movie."

  A tingle of anticipation ran through my body. Her hard sell was working. Torn between playing along and exercising good sense, good sense won out for a change. "Don't think so."

  "You not want to see Anya?" Her disappointment was palpable.

  "Did Hakim send you here this morning?" Her expression froze. Could tell I was on target. "What are you after?"

  Her eyes avoided my gaze. She fidgeted in the chair and inhaled a nervous breath.

  "I know you work for Captain Hakim. Why are you spying on me?"

  "Not have choice."

  "You admit it."

  She fiddled in her pocket and produced a cigarette. "You not understand."

  "I understand all right. I've been played for a sucker."

  Her hands trembled. It took two attempts to light up. After a long draw, she exhaled, her eyes focused down on the tabletop. "I have no choice."

  "You said that already."

  She inhaled again. "I must do what he say. Is bad for me. I come to Turkey, have no papers. Police arrest me, my mother, and my son. Hakim take me and make me work for him. I have no choice."

  "Your son? — You said before you had a brother."

  Caught in a lie, her face muscles twitched, she glanced up at me. "I not tell truth to you. I want—"

  "You have a husband? Where's he at?"

  Her voice trembled. "Russia, Siberia, the Gulag — he is dead to me."

  "You expect me to believe this?"

  "Is true." She sat up straight and took another drag on the Marlboro. "My husband, engineer, we live Tiblisi in Georgia, work aviation factory …. He arrested … go Siberia."

  "How did you get out of Russia?"

  "We leave because my mother is Jew. They not want us. I pay man to go over frontier to Turkey."

  I wasn't buying that story. Sounded like a soap opera. "That's it?"

  "Yes, you not believe?" Tears stared to flow.

  Had to give her credit, she was putting on a good show. Almost had me convinced.

  She still hadn't answered my first question. "What does Hakim want?"

  He body tensed. "I not say to you. He give me trouble if I talk."

  "Are you his woman?"

  What little color she had left in her face faded away. Her eyes revealed a total defeat. I had my answer loud and clear without her speaking a word.

  She crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. The chair legs scraped the floor as she sprang to her feet. "No have choice." Tears began to flow in earnest. "Is truth."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  She spun around and rushed to the door.

  * * *

  During the Sunday afternoon flight, I played with the antenna settings, trying to find something other than the ever-present Tall King, Barlock, and Spoon Rest radars.

  Soldano asked, "Any results?"

  "No, Just the same early warning emitters. Trying to find something in the other bands, but no luck so far."

  Morgan said, "Would it help if we increased our altitude?"

  "No. What we're receiving is most likely the costal radars near the ports of Latakia and Tartus, doesn't appear we're interesting enough for them to turn on their tracking systems."

  "So, Wyndham's low-profile gig is working," said Morgan.

  "Guess so. It looks like that's about the only success we've had."

  Soldano exhaled an exasperated breath. "Is there anything else you can do?"

  "Not with the present set-up. I'm amazed it's working at all."

  He didn't answer, and we flew on in silence until we landed.

  We taxied up to the Air Force sedan parked in front of the operations building on the British base. Morgan said he would stay with the aircraft if I wanted to stretch my legs. I squeezed out the door and hopped to the tarmac. Soldano headed to the office.

  The same guy, a young Air Force sergeant, strode over to the rear hatch, removed a medium sized canvas satchel, and replaced it with an identical bag.

  "What's in the bags?" I enquired, not actually curious, merely trying to make conversation.

  He avoided looking at me. "Don't know. Just doing what they tell me to do." For some reason, he seemed nervous. He closed the hatch, hurried back to the car, and drove off.

  A few minutes later, Soldano returned. "Say Captain, do you know what we're carrying on this so-called courier run?"

  The question took him by surprise. "Never gave it any attention — most likely empty bags."

  "The bag he picked up was full, appeared to be heavy. He swapped it with an empty."

  He shrugged. "Not our concern. Don't worry about it."

  On the return flight, I continued to stew over Anya. I surrendered to a drunken impulse with little attention to consequences. I was relieved that I didn't give in to temptation and agree to go with her to the beach. Couldn't go anyway, we had a flight, but I couldn't tell her that. Problem is, sometimes I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between opportunity and stupidity.

  * * *

  Following the flight, I followed Soldano and Morgan into the office. Burns, the detachment clerk, said, "Sergeant Brannan, mail call, you got a letter."

  "Mail call on Sunday?"

  "Came in a few minutes ago. We had a batch of mail sitting in the base post office and they finally figured out where to deliver it to."

  Puzzled, I took the envelope. No one knew where I was. I hadn't told anyone who would have bothered to write, not that many anyway. The return address was my old unit in Frankfurt. It was from Sergeant Williams, my former supervisor, dated Wednesday three days ago. I stepped outside, tore open the envelope, and began to read.

  I rushed back into the building and charged through the briefing room door. The captain was speaking to Wyndham.

  "Captain read this." I thrust the letter at him.

  Soldano glowered at me and reached for William's letter. He read it, pausing once to consider me with a pensive glance, and passed it back.

  "Means nothing until I receive official word."

  Wyndham strode over, and I handed him the letter. He read it, shook his head, and spoke to Soldano with a sarcastic tone. "If this is correct, we doubtless won't be receiving any official word."

  Soldano nodded in agreement. "You can go Sergeant." He gave a hint of a smile for the first time. "And please make an effort to stay out of trouble."

  Outside, I inhaled a breath of sweet relief. William's letter was my salvation.

  According to Williams, Parker jumped the gun with his fallacious assumption I had concocted a set of fake orders to get out of Frankfurt. He sent the message before reporting me to the Provost Marshal. Took the Provost Marshal's office less than an hour to decide my orders were valid. By that time, Parker had raised a stink with the commanding officer of ASA Europe and ended up with egg on his face
before it was over. It took the Frankfurt Comm Center several days to figure out where to forward the message. Williams's letter, dated a day later, befell the same fate with the base post office.

  I forgot to ask Wyndham what was in the bags.

  * * *

  The letter gave my spirits a lift. Following chow at the mess hall, I rambled down the main drag, decided to head for the gym and work out. Shoot some baskets and burn off my lingering anger with Anya. As I approached the entrance, I spotted a green car parked down the street. Good sense lost out. I headed straight for the vehicle. It was empty.

  I stood, unsure if it was the one, and started to leave. Hakim exited the building across the street. A reflex sent my hand to my back pocket. He continued straight towards me, a cold hard unyielding expression on his face. I stood blocking the driver's- side door.

  I spoke first, "Why are you following me?" unsure if he understood English.

  He spoke with a heavy gruff accent, "Get away from the car. Do not pull the knife."

  I moved my hand away but stood my ground. "Why is she spying on me?" His eyes didn't respond. "Anya. Why is she spying on me? What do you want?"

  He halted a foot away. We were face to face, trying to outstare each other. Hakim had the visage of a fighter, facial scars, crooked nose, and those hard-cold eyes. His breath reeked of spices and strong Turkish tobacco.

  "Move soldier, I told you to get away from the car."

  I stood my ground. Didn't want to be the first to blink.

  He shouldered by me, reached around, grabbed the handle, and jerked the door open in a swift movement that swept me towards the front of the car. Before I could regain my balance, he started the car, slammed it in gear, and left me in its wake.

  I glanced around. Several airmen gave me inquisitive looks. Chastened by the experience, I walked slowly back to the gym and wondered how close I had come to a serious confrontation. Hakim's physical power was obvious. He had brushed me aside with ease. Reminded me of my first college freshman football game when a huge opposing lineman knocked me on my butt as I tried an ill-fated pass rush. But this was no game, Hakim was dead serious, and I still didn't know why.

  Chapter 7 ~ Penwell

  Monday, 1 October