by Greg Dinallo
Kiley’s passion drew a taut silence over the room. Twenty seconds passed before the president broke it. “So am I,” he said in a voice hoarse from tension. “It’s time to make the world smaller for terrorists.”
THAT AFTERNOON a heavy rain was still falling at Mildenhall as a military transport, which had taken off from Berlin’s Templehoff an hour and forty minutes earlier, landed.
Colonel Larkin deplaned, cleared customs, and strode in a precise cadence to a gray government sedan parked adjacent to the MAC terminal. He tossed his two-suiter into the backseat and got in next to Major Applegate, who was behind the wheel.
“I hear business in Germany is booming,” Applegate said in his high-pitched rasp as he pulled away from the arrivals gate.
“So did the president,” Larkin replied with an intensity that set him apart from his affable colleague. “Talk to me about these crews, A.G.”
“Pilots,” Applegate corrected smartly, handing him a file card with two names, one of which was Shepherd. “No wizzos. I figure the fewer personnel involved the better,” he went on, explaining he had purposely selected two pilots, assigned to fly the raid on Libya, who had unexpectedly lost their weapons systems officers.
“Assigned to the raid . . .”
“That’s the beauty of it.”
“What do you have in mind?” Larkin prompted warily. “I mean, have you talked to them about this?”
“Not yet. But it might be worth a shot.”
Larkin’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. There isn’t a pilot alive who’d turn his plane over to the enemy without asking a lot of questions.”
“We’ve got some damn good answers.”
“What if they don’t agree? What if one of them takes his military oath too seriously; refuses to carry out an order that’s wrong? That’s illegal?”
Applegate’s prominent brows arched. “Good point. We’d be in deep shit if one of them turned out to be a whistle-blower.”
“Bet your ass. This cat gets out of the bag, it makes a beeline right for the oval office.”
“There are ways to make sure it doesn’t.”
“Just one,” Larkin said ominously. “Separate these guys from their planes and fly the mission ourselves.”
“Sounds like we’re talking hardball,” Applegate said, the stone-cold expression in Larkin’s eyes leaving no doubt as to his intent.
“You have a problem with that?”
“You know better,” Applegate replied; then, hunching his bear-like shoulders with uncertainty, he added, “It’s just that these guys are air force.”
“I don’t need to be reminded, A.G.,” Larkin said firmly. “The problem is, if we’re going to sell the idea that two one-elevens were lost in the raid, we have to release the names of the pilots that went down with them, the assigned pilots. And we can’t have these guys walking around saying otherwise.”
“What about incapacitating them somehow—a fender bender, food poisoning? Then we fly the mission, and release phony names and bios.”
Larkin shook his head emphatically. “It’ll never hold water. The media is going to be all over this thing. They’ll want to interview the dead pilots’ families. The air force will hold a memorial service. The president will console their wives and kids—”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Applegate said, steering around some double-parked vehicles.
“Besides, it’s not sure enough. What if one of them gets his gut pumped and shows up on the flight line? We can use phony IDs to cover a couple of nonexistent wizzos but not these guys. We’re not dealing with just planes, we’re dealing with assigned planes and assigned pilots and we have to account for both.”
There was no more to be said on the matter. The scenario demanded stringent security. Extreme measures would be necessary to guarantee it wasn’t breached. The slightest chance that the top-secret mission would be revealed, the hostages imperiled, or the government compromised had to be eliminated in advance.
“A couple of details still have to be covered,” Applegate said, as he turned off Lincoln Road, parking in front of Building 239. The pedestrian, postwar structure served as headquarters for U.S. 3rd Air Force.
The place was buzzing with activity as the two officers cleared security and climbed a staircase to Applegate’s office at the far end of a second-floor corridor. The computer terminal was tied in to Mildenhall’s main frame. Larkin turned it on and typed in his security clearance code. The computer responded:
VERIFIED: CLEARED TO TOP SECRET: PROCEED
Next, Larkin accessed the mission file and scrolled through the personnel roster, finding:
PILOT: SHEPHERD, MAJOR WALTER M.
WIZZO: TO BE ASSIGNED
He changed it to read WIZZO: ASSIGNED—ensuring a new weapons systems officer wouldn’t appear. He repeated the procedure for the second pilot, then, accessing their personnel files, deleted the name of their commanding officers and inserted his own. This was preventative damage control; any queries from those not privy to the covert subtext, which might threaten the mission, would come to him rather than to 3rd Air Force personnel.
Larkin was about to shut down the computer when something caught his eye. Along with personal information each file also contained a photograph. The images hadn’t registered during the data search, but now the colonel’s attention was drawn to the engaging smile and thoughtful eyes of Major Walter Shepherd.
Their forthright stare filled Larkin with anxiety. It wasn’t the unconventional nature of the mission that troubled him; nor was it what those in the trade called the Nuremberg Syndrome, the specter of Nazi officers executed for carrying out orders they knew to be wrong rather than question them. No, what bothered Larkin was that the men he’d be acting against were on his side.
He had steeled himself against it until now. A few minutes passed before he found the rationale. Yes, he could live with that, he thought, having convinced himself that the two pilots would be called upon to do no more than they had promised the day they were sworn into the military—indeed, no more than what might happen if they flew the mission; no more than Larkin, himself, would do should the need arise—die in the service of their country.
9
THE FOLLOWING MORNING the rain had eased to a steady drizzle when Shepherd awoke in his quarters in the housing provided to newly arrived officers at Lakenheath Royal Air Force Base.
Four days had passed since the encounter with the Soviet Forgers. After being debriefed by Applegate, Shepherd had immediately phoned Stephanie at their home on Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland and assured her he wasn’t injured. Having eased her anxieties, he decided not to mention in the same breath that he had been assigned to fly a mission.
Now, after showering and pulling on a jumpsuit, he settled back with a cup of steaming coffee and turned on his cassette recorder.
“Tuesday, eight April. How is my favorite little gymnast doing?” he drawled. “And how’s her mommy and brother? I went over to the hospital last night to see Al. He’s complaining the pasta isn’t al dente, so I figure he’s doing okay. It turns out that little sortie with the Russians was just a warm-up. We’ve got a real live mission on the boards now. It should be history by the time you get this; so should Qaddafi. I’m real sorry about messing up our anniversary, babe. Like I said, we’ll make up for it soon as you get here.” He paused at a knock and shut off the recorder.
The door was partly open, and he looked up to see a rain-soaked courier standing in the corridor.
“Major Shepherd, sir?”
“You got him, Corporal,” Shepherd replied, returning his salute and taking the envelope. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, sir,” he said, saluting and hurrying off down the corridor.
Shepherd glanced to the puddle where the corporal had been standing and smiled. Well, they sure named this place right, he thought.
The envelope contained orders, informing Shepherd he had been transferred to Upper Heyford RAFB, and was to
report that afternoon at 17:00 with his F-111.
Upper Heyford, one hundred and forty miles southwest of Lakenheath, was dedicated to the training and deployment of weapons systems officers and ECM technicians. Crews permanently stationed there flew EF 111-As, the Electronic Counter-Measures version of the F-111. They escorted the bombers during raids, jamming enemy defense and missile guidance radar.
It was just past 3:00 A.M. at Andrews Air Force Base. Shepherd decided to wait until after arriving in Upper Heyford to call Stephanie about the transfer.
About an hour later, he and Captain Mark Foster, the other wizzo-less pilot, arrived at squadron headquarters.
Square-jawed and blue-eyed with a thick shock of auburn hair, Foster had grown up on a ranch in the Texas hill country.
After processing aircraft and personnel transfer documents, the two pilots spent the rest of the morning plotting turn points for an orientation mission they would fly en route to Upper Heyford—an extended flight that would allow Shepherd to become familiar with the crowded and tightly controlled air corridors that crisscrossed the United Kingdom. When finished, they suited up and went to the flight line.
Shepherd’s F-111 had been repaired and had been on active status for several days now. He settled into the cockpit as the air crew hooked up the Dash-60, a pneumatic blower that wound the engines to start speed. At 17,000 RPMs, he lifted the throttles and the turbines came to life. After an hour of routine warm-up procedures and systems checks, he glanced wistfully to the empty seat next to him, and radioed the tower for takeoff clearance.
AFTER ALTERING the two pilots’ computer files at Mildenhall, Larkin and Applegate had gone directly to Upper Heyford. With CIA sanction, they took over a hangar in a remote corner of the field. In the next few days the offices and life-support room, which contained the aviators’ lockers and gear, were quickly painted and outfitted. A small group of Special Forces personnel—guards, aviators, technicians, clerical staffers—who would play various roles in the scheme to acquire the two F-111 bombers joined them.
“Better find out if either of these guys carries a weapon,” Larkin asked when reviewing the details.
“Done,” Applegate said proudly; he knew most pilots carried a sidearm only when flying combat, but there were those who carried one whenever they flew. “The Texan carries a thirty-eight. Shepherd flies clean.”
“Sequences your targets if nothing else,” Larkin mused. It also resulted in the selection of a sniper rifle as a weapon. Fired from a distant and concealed position, it would provide a margin of safety for the marksman and, requiring an imperceptible change of angle between shots, facilitate extremely rapid shooting.
That was three days ago.
Now, in one of the offices, Larkin and Applegate sat on opposite sides of a desk, the parts of a disassembled rifle spread out in front of them.
The Iver Johnson Model 300 was the finest of sniping rifles: a fluted and counterweighted barrel reduced vibration and whip; a short-throw bolt allowed a marksman to fire all four rounds in five seconds; an X9 Leupold scope ensured they would be bull’s-eyes.
Applegate had cleaned the IJ3’s parts and now, as he assembled them, he checked each for specks of dust or excess oil, making sure the action was working smoothly.
Larkin opened a box of 8.58 mm cartridges and examined them, his wintry eyes making certain that the bullet was properly seated in the case, that the primers were centered, that there were no imperfections that might result in a misfire. He selected four cartridges and handed them to Applegate, who began thumbing them into the magazine.
THE RAIN had finally stopped as the two F-111s completed the orientation mission and streaked through swiftly falling darkness, landing side by side on Heyford’s north-south runway. At Larkin’s request, air traffic control directed them through the maze of taxiways to the remote hangar.
The colonel was waiting on the tarmac when the bombers emerged from the mist and taxied into view. With him were four members of the Special Forces contingent that he and Applegate had assembled: two crew chiefs who would tend to the aircraft, and two guards wearing Air Force Security Police uniforms who would patrol the area.
The crew chiefs guided the planes to a stop, then positioned ladders against the fuselages and assisted the pilots from their cockpits.
Larkin tensed slightly as Shepherd and Foster strode toward him in the darkness, removing their flight helmets. “Hope you’ll excuse the lack of drums and bugles,” he said genially after introductions had been made.
“President’s got to cut the deficit somehow,” Shepherd joked.
“We hear he’s got other priorities this week, sir,” Foster said with a smile.
“And we’re keeping them as low pro as possible,” Larkin replied brightly, stealing a glance at the pistol on Foster’s hip. “You’ll hook up with your wizzos and spend a few days getting in the groove. When the red light flashes you’ll brief with the EF crews and join the strike force en route.”
Larkin led the way toward the hangar. Shepherd and Foster followed him through the personnel door and down a long corridor, entering beneath a narrow balcony that ringed the hangar’s second-floor offices.
“LS room’s over there,” Larkin said, gesturing to the far side of the huge space. He began falling back, his heart pounding in his chest, as they crossed the empty, sound-deadened hangar, which, he and Applegate had reasoned, would not only contain the loud reports but also offer no cover to their targets.
Above and behind them on the darkened balcony, Applegate was waiting with the sniper rifle. He quietly set the forestock on the pipe rail, tuned the telescopic sight, and aligned the first target, the armed target; he let the cross hairs drift onto the back of Foster’s head, held a breath, and calmly squeezed off the round.
Shepherd heard the sharp crack and whirled at the same instant Foster pitched forward, spinning toward him in a shower of tissue and blood.
Simultaneously, Applegate jacked the IJ3’s bolt, made the quick shift in angle that put the cross hairs on Shepherd, and fired again. But in that split second, the unforeseen happened—Foster had spun into the line of fire. The round tore into his back as he passed in front of Shepherd. Larkin was reaching to his shoulder holster when Shepherd, having every reason to believe the colonel was also a target, made a lifesaving dive, knocking him to the ground.
Applegate saw the tangle of arms and legs and held his fire for fear of hitting Larkin, who had drawn his pistol and was fighting furiously to get to his feet. Shepherd saw the flailing weapon and then, their faces inches apart as Larkin broke free and went rolling out from under him, Shepherd saw, not fear and surprise, but determination and intent—murderous intent that told him he, not the sniper in the balcony, would be Larkin’s target. Shepherd kicked Larkin’s arm as he came up out of the roll into a firing crouch. The shot went wild. The 9 mm Baretta skittered across the floor.
Shepherd ran for the exit, glimpsing an obscure figure on the darkened balcony above. Applegate fired both remaining shots, but Shepherd had taken away the angle by running directly beneath him, and the rounds missed, chipping into the concrete floor.
Larkin retrieved his weapon and dashed into the corridor. Shepherd had already reached the opposite end and exited into the darkness. He spotted one of the security policemen, assumed he was bona fide, and sought assistance. “Hey! Hey, these guys just—” He bit off the sentence when the SP went for the pistol on his hip. Shepherd still had his flight helmet by the chin strap. He swung it at arm’s length. The rock-hard plastic connected with the side of the SP’s head. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain.
The flight helmet went bouncing across the tarmac.
Shepherd’s eyes darted to the SP’s pistol, lying 10 feet away. A lanyard trailed from the handgrip to the holster, which meant Shepherd couldn’t just grab the weapon and run. He saw Larkin exiting the hangar and sprinted toward a tanker truck that was parked beyond the two F-111s. Larkin opened fire but, in the darknes
s, he had little chance of hitting a moving target with a handgun. Shepherd didn’t know what was going on, other than that men in air force uniforms had killed Foster and were trying to kill him. Russians? Spies? Terrorists? The last thing that would occur to him was that they were Americans, officers who had fought for their country and were as committed to its defense as he was. The only thing he knew for sure was that he would be dead if he didn’t get out of there.
Shepherd climbed into the cab of the tanker, thanking the Al-mighty that most military vehicles had unkeyed ignitions. He turned the starter switch, slammed the transmission into drive, and roared off into the darkness as Larkin and the SPs approached on the run.
Applegate came out of the hangar an instant after the truck roared past. He lumbered to his sedan, drove across the tarmac, and pulled to a stop next to Larkin. “Mop up inside,” Larkin barked at the SPs. He got in next to Applegate, who floored the accelerator.
The truck had reached the far end of the huge hangar and was turning into an access road that ran alongside it. Shepherd was steering with one hand and fumbling across the dash in search of the headlight switch with the other. He had no knowledge of the base; no idea where wing or security police headquarters were located.
The side view mirror came ablaze with light.
Shepherd glanced to see the sedan in pursuit. His hand finally found the dash switch. The truck’s headlights came on, revealing a chainlink fence dead ahead. The gate was closed and padlocked. The truck smashed through it, littering the area with fencing, and came onto an unlighted, two-lane road that wound through the rural Heyford countryside.
The sedan rumbled over the fragments of twisted pipe and chainlink, in pursuit.