“They could give him to us. We had Justice file on him,” suggested the Secretary of Defense.
“We shoulda just kept the sum-bitch,” growled Admiral Daniels. “When we forced him down in Sicily, the goddam Eye-talians took an hour to find Carabinieri to escort the bastards off the plane.”
“Yes. Well, gentlemen,” continued the Secretary of State, “we will continue to encourage the Italians to hold firm, with dubious chance for success. We have asked the Soviets to urge Baruni to contain and if possible disarm the terrorists, again with little hope of more than clucks of sympathy from behind hands held up to conceal giggles of glee. We have no channel to Baruni other than the Italians, who, for political reasons already outlined, will be of little use, and none whatsoever to the hijackers. We will advise the President to make a strong denunciation of the crime, and then see what we can develop. That’s political, Dave. I hope the military has more answers than we do.”
David stood and pulled down at his gray vest, smoothing it over his stomach with both hands. “Thanks, Henry. Admiral Daniels has taken the point on this problem; Navy has all the assets looking at Baruni. Admiral?”
Admiral Daniels stood and coughed as he stubbed out his cigarette. “The situation has me worried, gentlemen, for two reasons. One, even though we know we can evade the rinky-dink radar their Russian friends have given the Libyans, and can attack through it, we can’t do it without their knowing we’re coming. Two, we know Baruni has at least two companies of tanks and two squadrons of aircraft on the base, and the last SR-71 photos indicate that another company of T-72s is approaching from Tarhunah, the training base seventy kilometers to the southeast.”
“That’s the base where we believe Soviet Spetznaz commandos have been training terrorists,” interjected the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, seated with the Defense Secretary’s staff.
“Quite,” continued Admiral Daniels, irritated at being told something everyone in the room already knew. “Third, the base at Uqba ben Nafi is immense. Its perimeter is more than twenty miles around. Unless we have precise knowledge of where the hostages are, and where the terrorist and the Libyan strong points are, it will take an impossibly large force to secure the base, find our people, neutralize the terrorists, and bring our people out.”
“And that’s if the terrorists don’t simply kill the hostages at the first shadow on a radar screen, or the first sound of an aircraft engine over the coast.” David Wasserstein’s voice had an edge on it.
“Yes, sir,” said Daniels.
“So what’s the good news, Arch?” said the Secretary of State pleasantly. There were a few soft chuckles.
Admiral Daniels smiled. “We have set up a planning group, in London, and another with Admiral Bergeron, the commander of the Sixth Fleet aboard America. We would like to suggest the other chiefs put in experts they think might help us solve this problem.”
“A joint-services operation?” Wasserstein’s voice held more than a hint of sarcasm.
“I believe my colleagues and I agree,” Daniels looked at his fellow chiefs and received nods - enthusiastic from the commandant of the Marine Corps, skeptical and reluctant from the Army and Air Force, “that there isn’t time for the joint approach to go beyond planning. Navy will run this, with the help we need from Air Force and Army.”
“We sure as hell can’t afford another screwup like that Iranian debacle several years ago,” Wasserstein reminded everyone, none of whom wished to be reminded.
“Yes, sir,” said Admiral Daniels, fighting his contempt for the little sharp-tongued civilian. “We intend to avoid those mistakes by uniforming command and control on the navy-marine corps methods. Our army and air force brethren have agreed.” Again, the Commandant of the Marine Corps nodded enthusiastically, and the Chiefs of Staff of the Army and Air Force smiled faintly. “When you joined us, we were just on the point of appointing appropriate planning coordinators for the London group, which is forming now.”
General Klim rose and spoke quickly. “Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Loonfeather, commander of the 3d of the 73d Armor, just finished observing a REFORGER exercise in Germany.” Klim was amused as the bluff admiral took charge. “He should be in London by now.”
“Colonel Ian Wight, for Air Force,” said General Vaughn. “He has the F-111 wing at Upper Heyford in England. Also, already there.”
“So we will have options in one or two hours, Mr. Secretary,” said Admiral Daniels, glad that his fragile coalition was holding together.
The Secretary of Defense heaved his small body out of the deep chair. “We had better go and see the President, Henry.” The civilians filed out of the war room. The military men grinned at each other, glad they hadn’t been asked to go along to explain the extreme difficulties of the problem.
London, 1400 GMT
Captain John Harris strode into the quiet room and stopped. Stuart and Forrest sat talking quietly, poring over plans of the Uqba ben Nafi Air Base that had been faxed via satellite from Langley. Maniero talked softly on the phone.
Harris looked at Stuart for a long time. He’s a good-looking man, and solid, he thought. Stuart was tall at six-feet-one, and his body looked athletic and trim, although conditioned from a squash court rather than hard training. He had thick, unruly blond hair, a shade too long, deep blue eyes, regular features. Good record in Vietnam, good civilian career; messy divorce, probably drinks too much. Harris wondered how much they could trust Stuart’s ten-year-old skills.
Typical Vietnam vet, thought Harris with bitterness. They’re all bruised, flawed men. We all are. “Stuart, got anything?”
Stuart and Forrest looked up. They both look tired, thought Harris, but they’re alert.
“Maybe, Captain,” said Stuart with a faint smile. “The bermed pond in the middle of the airfield is a reservoir; stores water for fire fighting. Photo recon and SIGINT [signal intelligence] have taken precise measurements and conclude that the reservoir is 110 meters long, seventy meters wide, and at least five meters deep to the top of the berm, and they reckon that it’s full of water to a depth of no less than four meters.”
Harris looked at the photos, the plans, and the marked-up computer calculations from the tech people. “How does this help us?”
“We have to get people into the center of the base,” said Stuart, “to hold the hostages while the major break-in occurs. If that reservoir checks out, and the next pass of the KH-11 surveillance satellite gives another picture good enough to confirm the water depth of at least three meters, we could drop a SEAL parachute team into the reservoir. The reservoir is 200 meters from the Operations Building, where the prisoners are almost sure to be held, and even closer to the line of ready fighter aircraft in revetments near the crossing of the two runways.”
Stuart pointed at the shimmering surface in the photograph, then at the plans. “Moreover, the reservoir is across the northeast-southwest runway - runway 03/21 - from the Ops Building, and therefore in darkness to an observer in the lighted area all around the Ops Building and the tarmac in front.”
Harris rubbed his rough-stubbled chin. He felt as tired as his small task team looked. “The Libyan message said that any overflight would be taken as cause for executing the hostages. How are you going to get jumpers in?”
“Well, Captain, we think a HALO drop. We’re still flying SR-71 recon flights, and they aren’t picking those up.”
“True,” said Harris. “But they go by at 70,000 feet.”
“The HALO could be made from a B-52 from 40,000. That was standard altitude in Nam, because the radars the Soviets provided for the SAM-3s could only acquire up to 35,000 feet.”
“Haven’t the Russians given the Libyans better gear?”
Stuart smiled. “Not says our Agency friend.”
Harris looked across at Maniero, who nodded but looked very worried. “So Stuart, that’s a plan?”
“An element, John, just an element.”
Harris smiled. “OK, William, keep w
orking on it. The good news is that you are recalled to active duty in our beloved Navy, with the temporary rank of commander. Indefinite assignment.”
Stuart felt a rush of emotions, contrary to one another. Probably cost me my job, and most certainly Aliba. But I want to be in on this, he thought. I didn’t love the Navy, but I felt purpose and pride. I could use a dose of purpose and pride. “Aye, aye, sir!” Stuart snapped a salute in jest, but Harris returned it. “Just get my tailor to throw another thick stripe over the two of my old lieutenant’s rank on my dress blues.”
Harris stood. “Shit, Commander, where you’re going, you will not need dress blues!”
Stuart stood and watched Captain Harris depart the quiet room. Where am I going? he thought.
Washington, D.C., 1400 GMT (0900 EST)
The President got up slowly from behind the ornate oak desk in the Oval Office. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders, slim through the waist and hips. His hair was thick and dark and his eyes were clear despite his seventy-two years, and his jaw was set in a determined cast.
His back was acting up from a near fall he had taken riding at Camp David on the weekend, and he felt stiff and old. There was nothing about the job of President of the United States that he didn’t like, except having to get up far earlier than his normal rising time of eight o’clock, and to think clearly through a complex briefing. The briefing about the hijacking had made him very angry.
The President liked his Secretaries of State and Defense. He trusted them, and he knew that they knew he preferred simple options assessments to detailed briefings of the sort they had just delivered, supported by numerous aides, who had just departed. The President rubbed his eyes and sat again behind the historic desk, touching it fondly with his fingertips. He put his hands behind him to massage his back through his suit jacket. “Well, men, what in the hell are we going to do about this outrage?”
Henry Holt answered. “The timing is especially bad, with the Russians just about willing to come to a summit.” The burly Secretary of State was sweating in the close air of the office, and would have loved to remove his jacket. In all his years in office, the President had never taken off his jacket in this room, and the Secretary knew he never would.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll both agree that getting our people back is far more important than any summit,” said the President pointedly, knowing that the two cabinet officers probably didn’t agree. “And I hope you have a better set of plans for us to consider than what your predecessors gave President Carter during the Tehran hostage problem.”
“As we indicated, Mr. President,” began the Secretary of Defense, “we have planning groups in London and Washington, as well as Admiral Bergeron’s team with Sixth Fleet.” The Secretary paused; then continued. “The operation is under the overall guidance of the Navy. Tripoli, unlike Tehran, is close to the sea, and reachable by navy and marine corps forces of all types, without resort to the heroic measures that were necessary, and ultimately unsuccessful, in the Iranian situation. Militarily, the operation is doable, though extremely risky.”
“Because the terrorists may kill the hostages while the raid is in progress,” commented the President, reviewing his notes.
“Yes, sir. That, and the risk to our political interests in the Middle East and with the Soviets,” said the Secretary of Defense.
The President looked at the Secretary of State, who looked pained. The President reflected with sadness that the relationship between the two men had never been good, even though they had once worked for the same major construction company in California. “Henry?”
“We have to get those people out, Mr. President, and unharmed, if possible. They are not only Americans, but American military personnel and families. As much as we want that summit, we cannot deal in a friendly way with the Soviets when a planeload of our people is being held by one of their clients.”
“And?” said the President, toying with a long, sharp letter opener.
“And I think the Russians understand that, sir. Ambassador Dobrynin was outwardly truculent, but he almost smiled beneath it.”
The President turned back to his Secretary of Defense. “Dave, if we need one, have we got a military option?”
The Secretary of Defense looked at his watch. “In an hour or two, Mr. President, the planning groups in London and at Sixth Fleet and here in Washington will have something preliminary.”
“Make sure we can do it, Dave,” said the President, rising once again, rubbing his back. “And make sure our friends in the region are prepared to help us, Henry.”
The Secretary of State felt the force of the President’s words. Who are really our friends in a situation like this, he wondered, and more important, whom can we really trust?
London, l500 GMT
Stuart left the embassy by the side entry after a dreary lunch of the dry bread and cheese disasters the English took for sandwiches. John Harris had told him to go home and sleep and to come back to the embassy at 7:00 p.m., when the London group for the whole operation would be convened, and task groups formed.
Stuart unlocked his flat and opened a window to let in a bit of the cool, damp air. Alison always insisted on keeping the windows tightly shut, and the flat was dry and stuffy from the ancient, noisy steam radiators. He took off his clothes and lay naked on top of the rumpled bed. He had a sharp pain behind his eyes from studying the detailed photographs and a duller, throbbing ache at the back of his head, which, together with his slight fever and deep feeling of fatigue, told him to expect a visit from his old Vietnamese malaria.
Stuart had left the Navy in 1973 when it became apparent that the war in Vietnam was going to be abandoned by the United States and never won. His mind traveled back to the images and feelings of the time, raced along by the familiar buzz of the malaria.
Stuart had come from a family with a long military tradition and had grown up in the serene and genteel countryside of Virginia. He had been commissioned after graduating from college and been assigned to an amphibious assault ship, the old Valley Forge, operating off Vietnam. When he returned with the ship, he married and prepared to settle down and forget the boredom and the terror of his war. After six months in the States, he had received orders back to Nam as officer-in-charge of an ANGLICO (Air and Naval Gunfire Liaison Company) team, spotting air and naval gunfire for the Army and marines, working in the jungle and along the rivers and, during the Tet Offensive of 1968, even in the cities that were temporarily occupied by the Viet Cong and the NVA. It seemed so long ago.
Against all reason, he had extended his commitment after serving nine months in Washington with Naval Intelligence and returned to the jungle once more. He knew as he lay in his bed in London, the fever rolling through his body in waves and the pain seeping from his bones into his flesh, that he could never have explained why he went back, not then, and not now. But he had gone, and he had crept through the choked jungle streams and across dewy, moon-silvered paddies in North Vietnam and Laos, following rumors of imprisoned American flyers. Twice, out of the many times, he had found skeletal men, alive but unseeing, and he had quietly led his team through the camps, killing the guards, every one, and then leading the poor, weeping, frightened men out of hell and back to their homes.
Stuart got up and went to the bathroom and swallowed three aspirins with a whole tumbler of water. I hope the malaria just takes a bite and leaves, he thought. I want to go back to the embassy in a few hours. He took his temperature, watching in the mirror as sweat coursed down his face and chest. He looked at the thermometer, 39 degrees Celsius. About 102 Fahrenheit, he figured, and already sweating freely. The attack is almost over.
He returned to bed and pulled the sheet and blanket over him as he shivered with alternating waves of hot and cold. His mind slid away from him, and he thought about returning home from Vietnam each time he had done so, and how each time it had been worse. Stuart’s wife had left him in 1968, cursing him for leaving her alone while he returned to
the war the nation had rejected. By 1973, absolutely everybody hated the war, although the vociferous demonstrations of the late sixties had ended abruptly once the threat of the draft was removed. Stuart had felt alienated even from people who had been close friends. It seemed that people, American people, hated him and rejected him because he felt too attached to the war and the men who had died there to denounce it and them and wear flowers in his hair.
The first job offer he had received after he resigned his commission had been from Western Petroleum, with the promise of posting overseas, and he had taken it, glad for the sands of Kuwait and then the offshore rigs of Indonesia. In the last ten years, he had spent eight months in the United States, and although he had seen people soften, he still felt denied and alone and angry every time he went home.
Stuart tossed underneath the blanket. He pushed the sheet away as it became soaked and tangled and cold against his skin. Now, I’m going to help plan a desperate raid into a heavily fortified base in Libya, an operation that looks close to impossible on paper and would be worse if actually tried. And I feel good about it. I’ve missed feeling American, and patriotic, and proud.
The fever folded through his brain in viscous waves, and the pain increased. He shivered and wrapped the woolen blanket more tightly around him. The dream began, haunting and lovely, painful and familiar. Flames circled him and engulfed him, and he was in the jungle near the DMZ once again, and he was dying again, but he wasn’t afraid. The dream had different endings, and now as the flames died he could see the silhouette of a slender, long-legged woman, her image distorted in the shimmering heat. He couldn’t see her hair, but he knew it was thick and blond, and he couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was the beautiful face of the woman who had been his wife.
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