by Greg Dinallo
“Yes?” he answered in Arabic.
“Moncrieff, it’s Larkin,” the colonel said, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “We’re here.”
“So are the hostages,” the Saudi replied, watching the gunboat making its way between two Libyan Navy patrol boats stationed in the harbor.
“Thank God,” Larkin replied. “What about the Cavalla?”
Moncrieff glanced to the other side of the wharf.
The immense submarine was lurking just beneath the brackish water. Duryea had taken advantage of the fact that Tripoli harbor has some of the highest tides in the world, and moments earlier had quietly slipped into position at periscope/antenna depth. Only the upper head of the boat’s main scope was visible. The command center had switched from redlight to blacklight—a condition of total darkness broken only by the dim glow of essential instrumentation—which dilated Duryea’s pupils, maximizing his night vision.
The lanky skipper had his face pressed to the eyepiece of the periscope, panning it slowly as he tracked the gunboat across the harbor.
“Take her up,” he ordered as the vessel reached the end of the wharf and began pulling into position.
The black water erupted into a tumultuous bubbling as the football-field-long hull began rising.
“Colonel? Cavalla just broke the surface,” Moncrieff reported as water cascaded off the sub’s sail. “It’ll be good to see you.”
“Tell me about it,” Larkin said. “On our way.”
Larkin, Applegate, and the two Special Forces aviators quickly exchanged their helmets and flight suits for the civilian clothing in their gym bags in order to maintain the cover scenario Larkin had given Duryea. Then the group piled into an unmarked Libyan Air Force helicopter that wasted no time in lifting off and heading for Tripoli harbor.
IN BEIRUT, on the sixth floor of the Turk Hospital, Abu Nidal’s physician sat in his office studying a lab report. It baffled him, as had the previous one—which had prompted his order that the test be repeated. His notorious patient’s health was an all-consuming concern and he had waited anxiously for the results. He pondered their implication, then headed down the corridor to one of the VIP suites in the private clinic.
Despite the late hour, Abu Nidal sat propped up against the pillows in his bed, reading reports from terrorist groups around the world that were faxed to Casino du Liban and delivered to the suite daily.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.
“Better. Much better,” Nidal replied, delighted at his progress. “It’s like a miracle.”
“No, it’s called insulin,” the doctor said with a smile, shaking a finger at his patient admonishingly. “All you have to do is take it regularly.”
Abu Nidal’s brow furrowed. “I was taking it.”
“Certainly not as prescribed.”
“Yes, of course,” Nidal said adamantly.
“You’re positive?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely positive. Why?”
“Well,” the doctor replied, clearly baffled, “your blood workup found no evidence of it.”
“None?”
“That’s correct. I ran the tests twice just to be certain. I know it sounds odd but it was as if you hadn’t been taking any at all.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I just started a fresh supply.”
“I’d very much like to see one of those vials.”
“I’ll arrange for it right now,” Nidal said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at an upsetting notion that struck him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, lifted the phone, and dialed. “Mobile operator, please.”
IN TRIPOLI HARBOR, the breeze had died and a taut stillness prevailed. The two vessels flanked the wharf.
Duryea stood on the Cavalla’s deck. The team of navy SEALs armed with AR-16 assault rifles was deployed around him.
Directly opposite, heavily armed PLO terrorists, faces concealed by checkered kaffiyehs, lined the rail of the gunboat. The canvas shroud had been peeled from the 14-mm deck gun, which was loaded and manned.
Moncrieff stood alone on the wharf between the two vessels. His nerves crackled with tension as he watched Katifa walk up a gangway onto the gunboat’s deck and disappear into the cabin.
Moments later she emerged, leading the hostages. They paraded behind her like a line of obedient schoolboys, uncertain as to their fate.
They were all men—faces gaunt from malnutrition and anxiety; pale from months—and, for some, years—of confinement in darkness. Seven men with atrophied muscles and minds who had been deprived of life’s sweetness, their hope destroyed by the fear of being forever lost to the forces of political extremism and religious fanaticism. They stood there timidly, heads bowed, staring blankly into the night.
They were close, so close, Duryea thought, as he watched the deckhands roll a gangway into position. So close he could almost touch them. His eyes caught Fitzgerald’s and he smiled, nodding reassuringly.
The haggard station chief was just committing his heart to the scenario, just starting to believe that he and the others were actually being released, when the ship-to-shore phone in the cabin behind him buzzed, shattering the tense silence.
It was Abu Nidal calling.
The gunboat captain’s eyes filled with panic as they spoke. The instant he hung up, he began shouting in frenzied Arabic at the terrorists on deck. They sprang into action, descending en masse upon the group of hostages, and began roughly pushing and shoving them back into the cabin.
“What are you doing?” Katifa demanded, trying to stop them. “What’s going on?”
The captain slammed the transmission into reverse and gunned the engines. The gunboat lurched and roared away from the wharf. “Shoot her!” he shouted, seeing Katifa’s interference. “Shoot her!”
Katifa heard him and ran across the deck, intending to dive into the water to escape. One of the terrorists stepped out from behind the cabin, blocking her way, and fired a burst from his Skorpion. The rounds tore into Katifa’s body, but her momentum carried her into him.
They both went over the rail into the sea.
Katifa was wracked with searing pain that radiated from each wound like internal flashes of lightning. The plunge into the chilly water had a pleasurable, numbing effect; she went into shock and lay there, floating face down, motionless.
The Palestinian went under and stayed under, fighting to shed the heavy cartridge belts girdling his chest, which were dragging him down.
“No! No, hold your fire!” Duryea shouted, concerned the terrorists would kill the hostages if the SEALs returned the fire.
Moncrieff was already sprinting across the wharfs rough-sawn timbers. He tossed the radiophone aside and dove into the oily water, remaining submerged as he began swimming toward Katifa.
Terrorists on the departing gunboat began spraying the surface with bursts from their Skorpions.
The helicopter carrying Larkin and the others had come in over the Old City, which borders the west end of the harbor. It had circled the wharf and was just touching down when the gunfire broke out. The four Americans piled out of the chopper and dashed up the gangway onto the Cavalla’s deck.
“What the fuck happened?” Larkin exploded.
“I don’t know!” Duryea shouted over parting bursts from the Skorpions. “Shit just hit the fan!”
“Bastards!” Larkin exclaimed bitterly. “Let’s get out of here.”
“They your people?” Duryea asked, pointing far across the wharf to the water on the opposite side.
Larkin turned to see Moncrieff and Katifa in the center of a widening pool of blood. The Saudi was struggling to keep her afloat and swim toward the wharf.
“No,” the colonel replied coldly, unwilling to risk the time it would take to maneuver the sub into position to rescue them, or to risk that once aboard they would inadvertently blow the cover story he had given Duryea. A hollowness grew in the pit of Larkin’s stomach. He couldn’t believe it had gone so wrong.
“Cast off!” Duryea shouted to McBride, who was standing on the bridge atop the sail.
The Cavalla was already slipping away from the wharf as Duryea, Larkin, and the others scrambled down deck hatches. The black-hulled submarine cut swiftly through the water and vanished in the night.
17
THE AIR STRIKE WAS OVER.
For eleven and one-half minutes, the early morning silence had been rudely shattered by the thunderous roar of supersonic bombers and earth-shaking explosions, then replaced by the wail of countless sirens.
Flames were raging through the Bab al Azziziya Barracks on As-Sarim Street; dazed and panicked, Libyans were emerging from the rubble that covered downtown streets where the air was ripe with the pungent odor of cordite and death; the crews of F-111s were settling down for the seven-hour return flight to England; the mission commander was conducting an accountability check, confirming that two F-111s had been lost; navy Intruders were landing on the decks of carriers; and network anchormen were just wrapping up their evening broadcasts when the president took his seat behind his desk in the oval office.
“We Americans are slow to anger. We always seek peaceful avenues before resorting to the use of force, and we did . . .” the president said in his smooth, perfectly paced delivery, pausing just long enough before adding, “None succeeded. This raid was a series of strikes against the headquarters, terrorist facilities, and military assets that support Muammar el-Qaddafi’s subversive activities. It will not only diminish his capacity to export state-sponsored terrorism, but will also provide him with incentives and reasons to alter his criminal behavior.” He paused again, his lips tightening into an angry red line. “I’m sorry to report,” he went on gravely, “that two of our aircraft were shot down and four of our brave young men gave their lives in the fight against terrorism. We have done what we had to do. If necessary we shall do it again.”
THAT night in London, two Special Forces agents arrived at The London Hospital on Mile End Road. White uniforms and maroon baseball caps with military insignia identified them as air force medical personnel. They had wasted no time in getting there; but it had taken hours to acquire the proper vehicle, attire, and identification, and several more to drive the 140 miles from Upper Heyford. It was 10:45 P.M. when they approached the nurse’s station, pushing a gurney.
“We’re here to pick up Major Shepherd,” one of them announced genially.
“Oh, my,” the nurse replied, glancing to the ID tag clipped to his pocket. “We weren’t expecting you at this hour. There’s a form you’ll have to fill out,” she said, hurrying off to fetch it. “I won’t be a minute.”
A patient, returning from the men’s room at the end of the corridor, overheard them. He returned to the dimly lighted ward and crossed to Shepherd’s bed.
“Shepherd?” he said, shaking him. “Hey, Shepherd?”
“Uh?” Shepherd awakened from a deep sleep. “Yeah, yeah, what is it?”
“Some people here for you.”
“People?” Shepherd wondered groggily, the meaning of it finally dawning on him. “Oh, oh, yeah, thanks.”
He pulled himself from the bed, intending to go to the bathroom. His knees buckled slightly and he fell back against the pillows to gather his strength.
The phone at the nurse’s station was ringing when the nurse returned with the form. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, handing it to one of the Special Forces agents as she answered the phone. “Men’s ward,” she said brightly, wincing at the reply. “I’m sorry, doctor, we’re quite understaffed at night, and—Certainly, doctor,” she replied, jotting on a pad.
At the far end of the corridor, Shepherd, feeling steadier now, was pushing through a door on his way to the bathroom when he froze in his tracks, recognizing one of the ambulance attendants at the nurse’s station. It was the SP he had bashed with his flight helmet the night he escaped from Upper Heyford.
Shepherd had no doubt they had come to kill him; nor that Applegate had sent them. Indeed, as Applegate had ordered, Shepherd had told no one else where he was, not even Stephanie, and now he knew why Applegate had wanted it that way. He leaned back behind the half-open door, closed it slowly, and returned to the ward, his mind racing in search of a way to elude them.
A few minutes later, the agent finished filling out the transfer form and signed it. The nurse was still on the phone. “Be all right if we get Major Shepherd ourselves?” he prompted.
“If you don’t mind?” the nurse whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “The patients’ names are on the beds. They’re fast asleep. Go about it quietly, if you will?”
“No problem.”
“Oh, lovely,” she said, relieved, gesturing to the set of battered double doors at the end of the corridor. “I’m sorry, doctor. Could you repeat that?”
The agents had no trouble finding Shepherd’s bed. One of them removed Shepherd’s flight suit from the open locker and folded it. The other positioned the gurney to make the transfer, then peeled back the bed covers and slipped a pistol from his shoulder holster. He had the butt poised to render the sleeping occupant unconscious when he noticed the ponytail flopped across the pillow and recoiled at the sight of the comatose derelict.
“This isn’t Shepherd,” he said in a tense whisper.
They had Shepherd to thank for it. On returning to the ward, he had exchanged name cards with the derelict who had attacked him; then, he removed his hospital gown and, knowing he would be conspicuous in his flight suit, he put on the shirt and blue jeans that were in the derelict’s locker, leaving the flight suit in their place. He slipped out a door at the far end of the ward, made his way to a service entrance, and went down one of the black wrought-iron staircases that led to Mile End Road. A street market filled the median between the east-and west-bound lanes. It was deserted at this hour, the voices haggling over prices silenced, the boxes of merchandise locked away. Shepherd was stumbling toward it when he saw a bus approaching. He waited in the shadows of the curbside shelter and flagged it down.
The conductor thumbed the clumsy ticketing machine that hung at his waist, watching with amusement as the apparently inebriated passenger struggled to climb aboard; the aging fellow’s grin turned to a sour scowl as Shepherd stuffed an American dollar into his fist and plunged unsteadily down the aisle into a seat.
About a half hour later, the red double-decker bus had crossed Stepney and was winding through Poplar. Shepherd was feeling woozy. He feared passing out in public and falling into the hands of authorities again. The bus turned into Preston’s Road, where the Isle of Dogs juts boldly into the Thames, bending it sharply. The street was lined with rundown hotels. Shepherd got off the bus at the corner. He took a room in the Wolsey, a grim edifice with crumbling plaster and torn, yellowed curtains, paying cash in advance. The lumpy mattress felt like a waterbed, and he fell asleep instantly.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING in Camp Springs, Maryland, Stephanie Shepherd’s station wagon came down Perimeter Road and turned into Ashwood Circle. She had driven her daughter to school, then delivered her piece on Congressman Gutherie to the Capitol Flyer offices. Unable to sleep after the reports of the air strike, she had worked late into the night on the article.
“Mrs. Shepherd?” a man’s voice called out softly as she got out of the station wagon.
Stephanie freed Jeffrey from his seat belt, and turned to see three air force officers approaching from a government car at the curb. One was a chaplain.
“Can we give you a hand with those?” he asked, gesturing to the groceries.
She had seen casualty notification teams knock on other doors; seen the solemn faces and somber cadence; and she knew before another word was said that something had happened to her husband.
“Yes. Thank you,” she replied evenly, recalling she had promised herself she would respond with dignity and strength should this moment ever come. She handed them the groceries, scooped up Jeffrey, and led the way inside. They sat in the den amid the mi
litary memorabilia and toys. Jeffrey began playing with a truck.
Stephanie couldn’t imagine the truth, nor could these officers tell her. Indeed, their emotion was genuine as they reported precisely what 3rd Air Force Command and Pentagon officials believed had happened.
“Your husband died in the service of his country,” the chaplain said.
“Yes, I know,” Stephanie replied weakly.
It was a common response. Families of men in combat often subconsciously accept their deaths as inevitable, in defense against the terrible shock.
“His one-eleven was hit by a surface-to-air missile during the raid on Libya,” one of the officers said. “We have no reports of the crew ejecting.”
“I understand,” Stephanie said, his words dispelling any hope that Shepherd might eventually be found alive. She tilted her head thoughtfully, taking small comfort in the knowledge that he had died doing what he loved.
“Major Shepherd’s effects will be forwarded as soon as possible,” said the other officer. “On behalf of the president and the United States Air Force, we extend our condolences and sympathy.”
“Thank you,” Stephanie said, voice cracking with emotion. “Thank you very much.”
“God bless you,” the chaplain said.
Stephanie responded with a fragile smile. She showed them to the door, closed it, and stood there traumatized, fingers knotted, the tears running in a steady stream down her cheeks, the shattering words echoing over and over, “Your husband died in the service of his country; your husband died in the service of; your husband died; died; died; died . . .”
She was pulling a sleeve across her eyes, trying to regain her composure when a toy truck rocketed across the floor, startling her. An instant later Jeffrey came crawling after it. He looked up at her, his head cocked to one side, open-faced and innocent. Her lower lip started to quiver, then the grief overwhelmed her. She slid to the floor numbly and hugged the child to her bosom.
THAT SAME DAY, on London’s Isle of Dogs, it was well past noon when Shepherd awoke to the sounds of the bustling waterfront streets below. He dragged his aching body out of bed and down the corridor to the bathroom. His elbow brushed the wall, sending a cascade of peeling paint chips onto the floor like confetti. The face that stared back from the cracked mirror startled him. He had a heavy growth of beard, a small bandage across one side of his forehead, and a purple discoloration on his jaw. He took a cold shower, which invigorated him, then headed for the nearest pub and ordered a roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee.