by Greg Dinallo
“The hostages?” Shepherd asked sardonically.
Larkin nodded. “Two for seven; it’s an acceptable kill ratio in any war.”
“You didn’t even get one.”
“We got their location,” Larkin countered sharply. “They’re being rescued tomorrow. Keep digging.”
Shepherd hadn’t expected that; he weighed Larkin’s reply for a long moment before he began hacking at the earth with the shovel, his mind racing, searching for a way to use it as a weapon. But the colonel was standing too far away; Shepherd couldn’t come close to hitting him with it. He had been digging for about 15 minutes when Stephanie’s voice shattered the silence.
“Walt? Walt, where are you?” she called out from somewhere within the thicket of trees and tall grass that surrounded the clearing.
Shepherd froze at the sound; he had hoped her arrival would distract Larkin long enough for him to somehow gain the advantage.
“Answer her,” Larkin ordered in a tense whisper. “Answer, dammit,” he insisted, threatening him with the pistol.
“Walt?” Stephanie called out again. “Walt, you hear me? Where are you?”
“Over here,” Shepherd finally shouted in reply.
Larkin’s attention was riveted on the thicket; then he heard a rustling behind him. His reflexes dulled by jet lag, the colonel was a split second slower in reacting than he otherwise might have been. He turned just as a figure lunged out of the marsh grass and swung a tire iron at Larkin’s head. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked, causing the bludgeon to graze its target and strike his arm instead, knocking the gun from his hand.
Larkin went after it. As he scooped it up and whirled to fire, Shepherd took several quick steps toward him and swung the shovel like a baseball bat, swung it with all his might. It struck Larkin with a sickening thud; the sharp, V-shaped end of the blade buried itself deep in the center of his chest. He emitted a muffled groan and stiffened, his weapon leveled at Shepherd; but the life went out of him before he could fire and the pistol fell from his hand. Shepherd jerked the shovel. It came loose and Larkin went over backwards. Shepherd let out a long breath and turned to the man who had come out of the marsh grass.
It was Brancato.
Shepherd stared at him in stunned silence, his mind racing with questions as Stephanie emerged from the thicket and wrapped her arms around him. They clung to each other for a long, silent moment. Then Stephanie’s eyes drifted to Larkin and the Palestinian. She cringed at the grotesque sight, prompting Shepherd to lead her through the marsh grass to the Transportpanzer. Brancato followed.
“Al,” Shepherd finally rasped as they arrived, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Al. God, what the hell—”
“I kept hearing about what a great time you were having,” Brancato replied wryly.
Shepherd stared at him numbly, appreciating his attempt at levity but beyond response.
“Like I told Stephanie,” Brancato went on, “I was still in the hospital when that desertion bullshit hit the fan. I tried calling a couple of times but couldn’t get her. I finally reached her dad; he told me you guys were here. I got in last night.”
Shepherd nodded, his eyes adrift with uncertainty. “How did you know Colonel Larkin was here?”
“There’s a car parked back there. This was on the seat,” Stephanie explained, producing a rental folder. The bold printing across the top proclaimed: LARKIN.
Shepherd took another foxhole shovel from the TTP’s hull. He and Brancato left Stephanie behind, returned to the clearing, and finished the job Shepherd had started. They dug in silence, burying Larkin and the Palestinian side by side.
“Steph fill you in on what happened?” Shepherd asked as they walked back to the Transportpanzer.
“Yeah, I listened to that tape too,” Brancato replied. “Unbelievable.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “You know about Ramadan?”
Shepherd shook no.
“They’re going to kill the hostages.”
“Bastards. When?”
“One a day starting tomorrow if they don’t get a homeland in Israel. Which everyone knows they ain’t.”
“Larkin said there’s a rescue in the works.”
Brancato brightened. “Let’s hope he was right.”
Shepherd nodded grimly. “You know, when I found out what this was all about . . .” He paused and shook his head in dismay.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Brancato offered, sensing the irony. “You would’ve been the first guy to put it on the line for them.”
“What military officer wouldn’t?”
Brancato nodded emphatically. “What now?”
Shepherd shrugged, wracked with exhaustion. He slumped to the ground, his back against one of the TTP’s huge tires. “Go get my plane, I guess.”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Stephanie protested.
“Why? Nothing’s changed.” Shepherd groaned forlornly. “I still can’t prove my story; I’m still on the run. I don’t see that I have much choice.”
“One thing’s different . . .” Brancato said, letting the sentence trail off.
“What’s that?” Stephanie asked.
“He won’t be going in alone.”
Shepherd shook his head no emphatically. “No. No way. This one’s mine.”
“There are two names stenciled on that one-eleven.”
“Al,” Shepherd admonished.
“Name the Italian wizzo from Bensonhurst who won’t take no for an answer?” Brancato challenged.
Shepherd thought about it for a moment, then broke into a tired smile.
47
AFTER PICKING UP the Soviet Alpha on sonar, the Cavalla remained on course and spent the night proceeding beneath the choppy Aegean to the area of open sea cradled by Crete, Karpathos, and Rhodes, where Commander Duryea planned to intercept the Romeo. He had purposely zigzagged en route to test the Soviet boat’s intentions.
The submarine was completing the maneuver when Cooper- man called from the sonar room. “I just picked up the Romeo on the bow array, sir,” he reported, having already conducted an acoustic signature comparison that removed any doubt. “Range seventy-five miles. ETA our position twenty-one hundred.”
Duryea glanced to his watch. “Seven hours.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain turned to his chart table and marked the Romeo’s position. It had embarked on its journey to Beirut and was just emerging from the Cyclades between Thira and Anafi. “Where’s the Alpha?”
Cooperman switched to the towed array. The fingertips of one hand were dancing over the AEP keys, palm of the other working the TD ball. “Bearing one eight zero, range eight miles,” he replied, confirming the Soviet submarine was closely tailing the Cavalla.
“Stay on both of them,” Duryea ordered softly. He hung up and turned to McBride. “Romeo’s right on schedule,” he said with mixed emotions.
“And the Alpha?”
“Still right on our tail,” Duryea replied, clearly annoyed. “What do you figure our Redfleet friend thinks we’re doing out here?”
“Based on our course and configuration”—McBride said, referring to the dry deck shelter atop the Cavalla’s hull—“he’s got to be thinking we’re going through the Dardanelles into the Black Sea to do some serious snooping around his bases.”
“Which means he’d be expecting us to try and lose him,” Duryea said, thinking aloud, his eyes riveted to the Romeo’s course and the point of intercept he had drawn on the chart table. “What if we proceed due east to the Turkish channel?” He drew a line across the Aegean, past the intercept area, to the easternmost chain of islands: Lesbos, Chios, Samos, Lipsi, Leros, Kalimnos, Kos, Nisiros, Tilos, Hakis, and Rhodes, which ran in a tight north-to-south line. “At first, it would look like we’re running for cover; but I bet Alpha’s captain just might notice we’ve come onto a course that’s an alternate route to the Dardanelles.”
McBride nodded and smiled.
> “What would he do? Pursue or leapfrog?”
“Leapfrog,” McBride answered.
“Why?” Duryea asked, in a professorial tone.
“Because the terrain is dangerous and sonar’s totally useless in there. I’d sprint ahead and be waiting for us at the mouth of Dardanelles.”
“Me too.”
“Once we lose him,” McBride said, picking up on Duryea’s lead, “We can circle Rhodes, sprint back to here”—he indicated an area in the Mediterranean south of the Crete-Rhodes gap—“and be waiting for Romeo when he moves into the Med. Even at top speed, which he’ll never make through that terrain, he couldn’t get there before we . . .” He trailed off with a scowl, realizing he had overlooked something in his enthusiasm. “Only one problem—”
“We blow the twenty-one hundred intercept,” Duryea said.
McBride nodded grimly.
Duryea thought about it for a moment, then brought the Cavalla to periscope-antenna depth, and went down the passageway to the communications room.
THE TIME in Washington, D.C., was 8:46 A.M.
Bill Kiley was in a breakfast meeting with his staff when his secretary informed him Duryea was on the line. He left the French Room and went to his office across the corridor to take the call.
Duryea briefed him on the situation. “We have the Alpha set up,” he concluded, “but we can’t lose him in time to carry out the rescue as scheduled.”
Kiley groaned. “When were you planning to make your move?”
“Twenty-one hundred today, sir. Romeo stops and comes to periscope-antenna depth each day at that hour,” he went on, anticipating the question. “We’re tracking him on sonar now, but I’m thinking we lay back and tail him until twenty-one hundred tomorrow.”
Kiley paused, briefly calculating the time, then winced. “That’s three hours before the deadline.”
“Yes, sir, I know; but based on Romeo’s need to be in Beirut by Ramadan, we can predict his course and position with a high degree of accuracy.”
“Any options?” Kiley pressed. “Any at all?”
“Other than ignoring the Alpha, no.”
“What’s the down side if you do?”
“The Alpha spots us making the move, warns the Romeo, and the crazies kill all the hostages.”
“Better to chance cutting it close than chance losing them all,” Kiley calculated glumly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Commander,” Kiley said, ending the call.
Duryea hung up and glanced to McBride. “All ahead full,” he ordered, putting the new plan into action.
THE FACADE of the National Commercial Bank headquarters in downtown Jeddah glowed pale mauve in the twilight, the triangular shaft of white marble rising majestically from reflecting pools, giving it the illusion of being twice its height.
The time was 7:10 P.M.
Moncrieff had spent the day in his twenty-fifth-floor office. He made several phone calls to distant time zones where the business day was just commencing, then left for the day, taking the high-speed elevator to the lobby. His heels clicked on the polished marble as he crossed to an exit that led to a ramp where a Mercedes limousine with the royal crest on the door was waiting.
The Saudi had been working long days in anticipation of the period of reduced productivity during Ramadan; it also helped keep his mind off Katifa’s return to Beirut. He was preoccupied with the details of several projects and had reached the limousine before realizing the chauffeur was behind the wheel instead of poised to open the door for him. He scowled and opened it himself, climbing into the backseat.
“I thought Ramadan commenced tomorrow,” he said facetiously, referring to the shortened work hours.
“Don’t move,” the Palestinian replied sharply as he turned in the driver’s seat and leveled a pistol at Moncrieff s forehead. Two more Palestinians emerged swiftly from the darkness and got in, flanking him. The limousine was the only vehicle on the ramp at this hour and they had had little trouble overcoming the chauffeur.
Moncrieff tensed and glared at them as they drove off in the darkness, heading north on Al Madinah Road. There was no need to ask who they were or what they wanted, nor any need to fear for his life; he knew he would already be dead if they had intended to kill him.
One of the Palestinians held a pistol on Moncrieff as the other produced a hypodermic syringe and, with practiced ease, stabbed the needle through Moncrieff s trousers into his thigh, depressing the plunger.
Within five seconds the Saudi was unconscious, and a piece of duct tape had been stretched over his mouth.
The limousine angled east to Andulus Street, leaving the city, and headed north into the desolate terrain that bordered the Red Sea. Twenty minutes later the driver turned onto a dirt road, following it to a rocky slope that tumbled toward the surf below.
A flashlight blinked in the darkness, where two more Palestinians were waiting. The Pentothal had plunged Moncrieff into a deep state of unconsciousness and he offered no resistance as they strapped him facedown to a stretcher; then they carried him to a cove at the base of an outcropping, where the refurbished gunboat was anchored. Once aboard, the stretcher was taken to the compartment where the hostages had been concealed.
The captain ordered Moncrieff be covered with blankets and posted an armed guard inside the compartment; then he closed the hidden bulkhead, returned to the bridge, and gave the order to cast off.
The twin diesels rumbled to life and the rust-stained Zhuk cut through the water on a heading for Port Taufiq and the Suez Canal 600 miles north. The Red and Mediterranean seas were at nearly identical levels and the man-made waterway that joined them had been built without locks, providing swift passage, especially for small vessels.
After setting his course, the captain radioed Casino du Liban. “Cargo aboard and en route,” he reported when Abu Nidal came on the line.
“When do you estimate delivery?”
“Within thirty-six hours.”
“Very well.” Nidal clicked off and glanced to his watch. It was 7:51 P.M; more than an hour before the Romeo was due to check in. He left the communications center, his head tucked between his shoulders like a turtle’s, deep in thought.
DURYEA had proceeded due east through the southern Aegean, with the Soviet Alpha on his tail, for more than eight hours. This was hazardous terrain. The bottom was a craggy range of seamounts and escarpments, the passage between them made all the more difficult by the crosscurrents that surged like underwater rivers.
Now the Cavalla was north of Rhodes, approaching Simi, when the Alpha’s captain figured it out. “The Turkish channel,” Solom-atin mused, hovering over his chart table. “The Turkish channel to the Dardanelles.”
“Continue pursuit, Comrade Captain?” his starpom wondered. “Through that topology?” Solomatin admonished, detecting his eager tone. “Remember what happened to Borzov?” he asked, referring to a colleague who ran his boat aground in a Swedish fjord a decade earlier. “He has been captain of a desk in Polyarnyy ever since.”
Indeed, as Duryea had predicted, Solomatin decided to avoid hazardous pursuit and sprint northward on a parallel track toward the entrance to the Dardanelles.
“Alpha’s dropping off, sir,” Cooperman reported.
Duryea sat deep in thought. The whole thing would fall apart if the Alpha’s captain hadn’t really gone for the fake but was just playing a clever game of hide-and-seek; and the numerous hiding places the terrain afforded made it hard to be sure he wasn’t. Duryea contacted ASW on the America and requested a flyover.
“We’ve had an S-3A tracking him since we made that MAD run,” the ASW duty officer reported. He put Duryea on hold and contacted the Viking in flight; 30 seconds later he came back on the line. “Viking reports he just changed course and is sprinting north.”
“That’s what I want him to do. Make sure your guys let him know they’re up there,” Duryea instructed, deciding ASW harassment would further convince the Alpha�
��s captain he was endangering the Cavalla’s mission and encourage the leapfrog tactic.
“We’ll keep a blowtorch to his tail, sir.”
The Cavalla entered the Turkish channel and curled, not north around Simi toward the Dardanelles, but south around the eastern tip of Rhodes, sprinting at 25 knots into the Mediterranean on a southwesterly course. It covered the 150 miles to the new intercept point south of the Crete-Rhodes ridge in just under six hours, arriving an hour ahead of schedule to pick up the Romeo.
Duryea lifted the phone. “Sonar? Conn. Anything?”
“No, sir. I just did a sweep. We’re in clear water.”
Duryea pursed his lips thoughfully. “It’s probably taking Romeo longer to proceed through that terrain than I thought. Hang in there.”
For the next hour and a half Cooperman sat in his compartment, listening to the sounds of the Aegean. Most of the ferries, hydrofoils, and fishing vessels that ran between the countless islands were stilled at this hour and he was left with the melodic swish of an immense school of sardines riding the fast-moving current.
Duryea kept the Cavalla on station, nudging slowly northward into the gap between the islands. He had a cool, patient temperament, which served him well when it came to waiting, to letting a situation develop. But this one didn’t; his target never showed. The Romeo had to be out there somewhere. It lacked the speed and stealth to elude him. Despite logic, despite technology, he was haunted by the hollow feeling that the Romeo had somehow managed to get past him and was on its way to Beirut.
48
“I HATE TO SAY IT, BABE, but you better get back to the hotel,” Shepherd suggested when Stephanie briefed him on her run in with the D’Jerban police. “Just do whatever you were doing before I got here.”
She protested but knew he was right and drove back to the Dar Jerba in the car she and Brancato had rented.
Shepherd, who had been up almost thirty-six hours, spent the afternoon in the Transportpanzer sleeping.
Brancato had spent it thinking.
A pink-tinged glow still hung over the Gulf of Bougara as Brancato made his way through the towering marsh grass to the road. He drove Larkin’s rented sedan to the far side of Borj Castille, circling to a flat outcropping of rocks that jutted out into the sea. He rolled down the windows, put the transmission in neutral, released the handbrake, and started pushing.