by Greg Dinallo
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” one of the Filipino servants said, pulling Moncrieff out of his reverie. “A Colonel Larkin is here.”
“Here?” Moncrieff echoed with a surprised scowl.
“Yes, sir, in the entry. Shall I show him in?”
Moncrieff glanced thoughtfully to Katifa in the pool, then shook his head no. He left the terrace, hurrying through the house to the entry chamber where Larkin was waiting. The colonel wore civilian clothes; he stood next to a magnificently carved fountain that was centered beneath the soaring dome.
“Colonel,” Moncrieff said, crossing toward him.
“Good to see you,” Larkin replied brightly. Indeed, despite almost a month of wearying travel, his fighter pilot’s conditioning had kept him from becoming fatigued.
“I’m sorry we missed each other in Tripoli,” Moncrieff said facetiously. He forced a smile and led the way outside, where they wouldn’t be overheard. “Really, you should have called,” he went on in his British-flavored English as they walked in the gardens that radiated from the domed buildings with geometric precision. “I would have sent a car.”
“I barely made my flight,” Larkin replied in a bold lie. Yesterday, having been forced to wait until late afternoon to meet with Al-Qasim, he had missed his flight to Saudi Arabia. He spent a second night at the airport hotel on D’Jerba and could have easily called; but he knew Moncrieff was angry and wanted out; he also knew that a royal prince could block his entry into Saudi Arabia with a phone call of his own, and purposely hadn’t notified Moncrieff he was coming. “You see Arafat’s speech?” he asked, getting to business.
“Yes, I did,” Moncrieff replied cautiously.
“It hit the old man pretty hard. But he’s worked out an insurance policy and he’s counting on you to—”
“I’m out of the loop, Colonel,” Moncrieff interrupted. “I told him that.”
“I know. We need the lady.”
“Katifa?”
Larkin nodded.
“What for?”
“I’d prefer to go through it once. Is she here?”
“Yes. I don’t know what you have in mind, Colonel, but the old man briefed me on the hostages. If this has anything to do with the rescue, if it’s fieldwork, something dangerous, I’m unalterably opposed to her taking it on. She’s just getting back to normal; just starting to enjoy life, and I . . .” He paused, seeing the amused smile that broke across Larkin’s face.
“Am I picking up on something here?” Larkin asked.
“Maybe.”
“Then maybe you’re not the best judge of this.”
Moncrieff nodded grudgingly and led the way to the pool area. They arrived on the terrace just as Katifa was getting out of the water. She waved as a servant handed her a towel, then draped it over her shoulders, lit a cigarette, and started up the marble staircase toward them. The bikini did little to hide the freshly healed bullet wounds that dotted her tawny flesh.
“You can thank Nidal for this,” Larkin began after Moncrieff had made the introductions. “We had high hopes for this hostage rescue until he threatened to kill them. We still do. But there’s no guarantee the Cavalla can pull it off before the deadline. The old man figures Nidal won’t kill them on the sub because he’d have to dump the bodies at sea. No proof that way; no media hype.”
“I agree,” Moncrieff said.
“We’d have a chance to stop him if we knew where the executions would be carried out.”
“His headquarters,” Katifa replied, exhaling a steady stream of smoke. “Casino du Liban.”
“You’re certain—beyond any doubt?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible with Abu Nidal.”
“Then we’ll need someone on the inside,” Larkin said, leaving no doubt he was talking about Katifa.
“I hasten to point out we’re not on the best of terms these days,” she protested.
“He tried to abduct her,” Moncrieff chimed in. “I briefed the old man. Didn’t he mention it?”
Larkin nodded. “He thinks we can use it; and do what we did with Yevchenko,” he said, referring to a high-ranking KGB officer who, several months after defecting to the West, claimed he had been abducted and held against his will; he subsequently returned to Moscow.
“I recall that incident,” Moncrieff said, puzzled at the analogy. “The old man looked like a fool; people thought he had lost his touch, and perhaps more.”
“Which thoroughly convinced Moscow that Yevchenko’s story 5 was bona fide,” Larkin explained with a sly grin. “He’s back at Moscow Center now, running his own section; with our blessing, of course.”
Katifa thought about it for a long moment and nodded. “I can see how something like that might work,” she finally said, “but why should I take the chance?”
“Because you and I both know there isn’t going to be a homeland in Israel by the start of Ramadan, this year or any year; and if Nidal kills those hostages, there’ll never be a sanctuary in Libya either.”
“I think you’re wrong. The hostages aren’t part of the equation anymore,” Katifa explained. “Qaddafi acquired the planes without them.”
“Which means,” Larkin countered, “he has no incentive to turn over a couple of thousand square miles of desert to anybody.”
“Of course he does,” Katifa retorted. “You must understand that he wants more than military hardware or water out of this. It’s no secret that Arab unity and the destruction of Israel are his goals. A Palestinian sanctuary would be a perfect start; the stature and power he would gain are sufficient incentives to provide one.”
“Maybe; but not without ANITA.”
“Anita?” she asked, puzzled.
“It’s an acronym for a computer entry key,” Moncrieff explained. “The F-111s are useless without it.”
“And Qaddafi won’t get it until we get the hostages,” Larkin said.
“There’s no other way he can get this entry key?”
“None.” Larkin lied, not because he knew Shepherd had already voluntarily revealed them, which he didn’t; but because he knew there was a chance the secret police might force him to do so. It was the perfect leverage to manipulate her and he would have used it regardless.
Katifa pondered his reply for a moment, looking out over the grounds and pool that shimmered in the light to the Red Sea beyond. Two thousand years, she thought, two thousand years since Moses parted it, since the Israelis fled the Egyptians; it hadn’t even been forty since Palestine was partioned by the British. “Will you excuse us?” she said to Larkin, leading Moncrieff aside.
“He’s right, isn’t he?”
“Don’t do this, Katifa,” the Saudi pleaded.
“I don’t have any choice.”
“You’ll be shot on sight.”
“No. You just said it yourself. Abu Nidal tried to abduct me in Tripoli, not kill me. Believe me, I’d already be dead if that’s what he wanted.”
“I doubt he would ever trust you again.”
“You’re forgetting something,” she said firmly. “I’ve been like a daughter to him for almost twenty years. He’ll hear me out.”
Moncrieff saw the determination in her eyes and knew he had no chance of convincing her otherwise. “I was hoping we had put all this behind us.”
“So was I,” she said sadly.
42
SHEPHERD had spent the night billeted in officers quarters at Okba ben Nafi Air Base. He had gotten a good night’s sleep, devoured several square meals, and, for the first time in weeks, was feeling reasonably healthy; indeed, the prospect of finally retrieving his F-111 had contributed mightly to his recovery and sharpened state of mind.
“Where’s the weight room?” he inquired on arriving that morning at hangar 6-South. He frowned, feigning disappointment when told there wasn’t one; in truth, he was much more interested in the physical conditioning of Libyan aviators, than in working out, and was quietly delighted to learn their natural G-suits had gone undevel
oped. He spent the day planning a practice mission and reviewing the various flight and attack systems with the East German, his technical staff, and the Libyan flight crews assigned to theF-111s.
Early that evening, after being fitted for flight gear, Shepherd was directed to a locker room where the Libyan aviator General Younis had selected as his first pupil was waiting.
This is the man I have to beat; kill if need be, Shepherd thought, as they shook hands and began suiting up: first the Nomex flight suit, then the G-harness that went over it, sheathing calves, thighs, and torso. Made of a double-walled fabric that inflated like a blood pressure cuff during high G-force maneuvers, it squeezed blood from the lower extremities upward to the brain, helping to keep an aviator from blacking out.
Shepherd pulled the last of the zippers that ran up the inseams of the G-suit, then slipped on his flight helmet, closed the visor, and adjusted the oxygen mask. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone a week without suiting up, without flying, let alone a half dozen. It was a strange feeling; strange and distant. He had just raised the visor when he noticed the Libyan take a small pistol and holster from his locker, and strap it to the inside of his left calf below his kneeboard, which held a list of fly-to-points.
They left the locker room, oxygen and G-suit hoses swaying in front of them, General Younis trailing behind.
“Will we have escort aircraft?” Shepherd asked offhandedly, as they crossed the hangar toward the F-111s.
“Certainly,” Younis replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking, if we treated them as bogies we could work on some evasive maneuvers en route to the target,” Shepherd explained earnestly. He hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted to risk alerting them; but he knew he would be monitored on radar, knew any unexpected move would trigger suspicion, and needed to keep them at bay for as long as possible. “Our people do it all the time during practice missions.”
“Of course,” Younis replied smartly. “I expect you to teach our men everything you can, as quickly as you can. Make use of every minute of flight time.” He paused, then addressed the Libyan aviator. “You’ll be working on tactical evasion en route to the target.”
They exited the hangar, striding a short distance through the darkness to the sleek bomber, then began a walk-around inspection in the glare of the work lights that illuminated the area.
“The way we do it,” Shepherd said matter-of-factly, making certain he didn’t appear too anxious to get into the air, “the aircraft commander does the detailed inspection; the wizzo checks external stores and the like. Mine always paid special attention to the BRUs and Pave Tack pod.”
After the inspection, they climbed boarding ladders to the cockpit and slipped beneath the gull-wing canopies. Each had a copy of the ANITA programming sheet Shepherd had made up earlier.
Younis joined Abdel-Hadi and the East German on a platform that was positioned adjacent to the cockpit. They watched intently as the Libyan turned on the Pave Tack computer, and went to work on the NDEP, the console-mounted keyboard, entering the alphanumeric data under Shepherd’s supervision. When finished, the two aviators buckled in and latched the canopies closed.
The hydraulic platform lowered and pulled away.
The ground crew coupled a hose from an air blower to the starter breech on the left side below the SOAP door; five minutes later, both engines were over the horn and spinning at 17,000 RPM.
Shepherd lifted the throttles. Fuel flow and ignition were instantaneous. The high-pitched whine sent a chill through him as the blower was disconnected and he began a check of flight systems.
Then the Libyan took the controls. He released the wheel brakes, slowly advanced the thottles and began guiding the bomber through the taxiways toward the runway.
Younis, Abdel-Hadi, and the East German climbed into the Krazz. “Well, we no longer have any use for the Palestinian,” Abdel-Hadi observed coldly as they drove off, heading across the air base to the control tower.
They took the elevator to the cab and crossed to the angled windows that overlooked the airfield. Far below, two SU-22 fighters that would escort the F-111 roared down the runway, taking off into the darkness.
“We’re on the mark,” Shepherd reported moments later, when the F-111 arrived at the top of the runway. He took over the controls, turned onto the center markings, set the brakes, and tested flaps and stabilizers. One at a time, he ran the engines up to full military power, then into afterburner range. “Burners and MIL are optimum,” he said. “We’re ready to roll.”
“You have immediate CTO,” came the reply. “Winds are one-four-five at twelve knots.”
Shepherd homed the throttles and released the brakes. The F-111 lurched forward and began racing down the long concrete ribbon.
Shepherd’s mind was racing along with it, reviewing the moves he had worked out to elude the fighter escort, overcome the pilot, and steal the plane: it would begin with a swept-wing, supersonic TFR dash 200 feet above the desert, which would be followed by the key maneuver, a sudden pull into a high-G afterburner climb. At eight to ten times the pull of gravity, the Libyan’s lack of physical fitness coupled with being caught completely unawares would cause him to black out.
“Clueless and useless in the furball” was what aviators called the phenomenon. GLC ambushed the most experienced of them on occasion, lasting as long as 30 to 60 seconds, precious seconds that Shepherd would use to dump the cabin pressure and disconnect the unconscious Libyan’s oxygen and G-suit hoses. Deprived of all respiratory support, he would, at the least, remain comatose, allowing Shepherd to disarm him, shoot him if necessary, and take control of the aircraft.
The F-111 was 10 seconds into its takeoff roll now.
The 1,500-foot marker flickered past in a blur.
Shepherd was monitoring inlet pressure, fuel flow and ratio, pounds of thrust, takeoff trim, and air speed. When the latter reached 145 knots, he eased back on the stick, rotating the nose up.
The sleek bomber leapt off the runway and began climbing into the blackness. D’Jerba was a mere 200 miles away; at top speed the F-111 could cover the distance in under 10 minutes.
WHILE THE F-111 streaked skyward, Adnan Al-Qasim’s BMW sedan came down Al Jala Boulevard in Tripoli and turned into As-Sarim Street, its headlights playing across the concrete dragon’s teeth that lined the approach to the Bab al Azziziya Barracks.
The previous afternoon, after Larkin informed him of Shepherd’s intention to steal an F-111, Al-Qasim had quickly realized the matter could destroy him if wrongly perceived; on the other hand, properly finessed, he could orchestrate Shepherd’s demise without bringing about his own. Shepherd couldn’t very well steal an F-111 while in prison, Al-Qasim had reasoned; so he spent the evening evaluating the situation, deciding it was too delicate to be handled via phone. He called Abdel-Hadi’s office and, refusing to divulge his agenda, made an appointment for late the following afternoon. He would be driving executives of a Dutch electronics company to Tripoli for meetings at several ministries and would go to the barracks compound when finished.
Now, on arriving, he presented his credentials to the guard, then proceeded across the grounds to secret police headquarters and asked to see Abdel-Hadi.
“Something came up,” the duty officer replied. “He canceled all his afternoon appointments and won’t be returning. Do you wish to reschedule for tomorrow?”
Al-Qasim scowled and nodded. “Ten o’clock.”
The phone rang.
The officer answered it and jotted down a message, then noticed Al-Qasim heading for the door and called out, “Al-Qasim. This meeting; it is in regard to what?”
“A top-secret matter, as I explained yesterday.”
“It would still be best if I tell Abdel-Hadi something. There’s a chance he won’t see you otherwise.”
“Tell him it’s regarding the American prisoner,” Al-Qasim replied grudgingly. “He’ll know because he—”
“Major Shepherd
?” the officer interrupted.
Al-Qasim nodded emphatically.
“He was released this morning.”
“Released?” Al-Qasim echoed with apprehension.
“Transferred,” the officer corrected, glancing to his log. “Crew quarters; Okba ben Nan Air Base.”
THE F-111 was streaking high above the desert now, the infinite blackness broken only by the horizon, where a faint amber glow separated sand from sky.
Shepherd was enjoying the incredible silence, the reassuring pressure of the G-suit against his body, and the tingling sensation that was rising in his stomach. He was flying instinctively now; had the moves planned out; had each precious second down cold. He was so close he could taste it: Stephanie, the children, his name cleared, life at long last back to normal.
His eyes darted to the radar screen; two blips were closing on his position. “Looks like a couple of baby-sitters coming in,” he observed, enjoying the calmness that had come over him. He was in the zone, in total command; cool, calculating, flying a mission.
Soon distant streaks of light cut huge arcs in the darkness, as the two SU-22 fighters began moving into escort position off the F-111’s wings.
“I think it’s time for that lesson in tactical evasion,” Shepherd said in a friendly tone intended to relax the Libyan. “Hang on.”
“You propose to outrun them?”
“Nope. We’re going to do something you can’t do with any other bomber on earth,” Shepherd replied, knowing the maneuver would soften him up.
At that, he hit the brakes—spoilers up, flaps down, throttles back—causing sudden, rapid deceleration. Air whomped against control surfaces in protest; shoulder harnesses dug painfully into muscle.
The SU-22s were caught unawares and went rocketing past into the darkness.
Shepherd trimmed the bomber’s attitude and headed for the deck. He leveled out 200 feet above the desert floor, then engaged the terrain following radar.