Purpose of Evasion (13 page)

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 military 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.

The Great Auk’s Head on West Ferry was buzzing with the lunchtime crowd of dock workers, aproned market clerks, and seamen. The air strike on Libya was the topic of conversation; and the president of the United States was on the television above the bar, holding a press conference.

Shepherd watched in disbelief as the chief executive announced that he and Captain Foster had died in the raid on Tripoli. Despite the fact that he was alive, that assassins were hunting him down, the president was telling the world that he had died heroically. Shepherd didn’t know why; and he still didn’t know if those trying to kill him were spies, terrorists, or renegades within his own government; but he was certain that military, diplomatic, and law enforcement officials were to be avoided until he did. Having paid for the hotel, he had $43 in cash and no credit cards. The only people he could trust were unavailable: Brancato in a hospital bed; and Stephanie, 3,500 miles away. Shepherd glanced across the pub at the phone booth, aching to call her, aching to say, “Hi, babe, I’m alive. I love you. I need your help.” But he knew how they worked: their phone would be tapped; mail intercepted; family surveilled. Applegate had told him; he just failed to mention that his people would be doing it.

Shepherd sat there, absentmindedly stirring the coffee, searching for a way to contact her safely; and then the pieces began falling into place. Whoever they were, he would appear to play right into their hands; do exactly what they expected; their zeal and professionalism would do the rest. It was a long shot, but the risk factor was low and it was all he had. He finished the sandwich and returned to his hotel room. It was a dump, to be sure, but the sun streaming through the window gave him a good feeling. He took his cassette recorder from a pocket and turned it on.

B
OOK

T
WO

THE UNITED STATES HAS

NOT SWAPPED BOATLOADS

OR PLANELOADS OF

AMERICAN WEAPONS FOR

THE RETURN OF AMERICAN

HOSTAGES.

– RONALD

REAGAN

18

THE TIME WAS
7:16
A.M.
Eastern Standard Time.

A maintenance van entered Andrews Air Force Base through the systems command gate just off Allentown Road. The technician behind the wheel wore an identification tag clipped to his breast pocket. It displayed his picture and security clearance, and identified his employer as
SOUTHEASTERN BELL
but, in truth, the quiet, unassuming fellow worked for Bill Kiley’s Company.

The van proceeded down Perimeter Road to a huge windowless building that contained telephone switching equipment for base housing and offices.

The technician left the van, and entered the hardened structure, proceeding through the vast interior to the towering racks of switching equipment that routed incoming international calls. Each was identified by a country dialing code.

Rack 044 handled all calls originating in England.

The technician rolled the track-mounted ladder into position, climbed to a work platform, and opened his attaché case. It contained tools and electronic devices aligned in neat rows. He removed one of the latter from a sealed plastic bag and went about installing it in the panel.

This wasn’t a standard bugging device but a unique communications interceptor that was a vital part of a damage control plan hatched by Kiley in the tense hours following the air strike and aborted hostage exchange.

That was more than twelve hours ago.

On leaving Tripoli harbor, the
Cavalla
had joined the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean beyond Libyan waters.

Larkin disembarked, carrying the aluminum attaché that contained the ANITA codes. He, Applegate, and the two Special Forces agents transferred to the USS
America
, presenting themselves as intelligence operatives brought out of Libya. The failure of the rescue mission meant that “need to know” rules were still
in force and no mention was made of the hostages. Larkin went straight to the carrier’s communication room, called Kiley on a secure satellite link, and gave him the bad news.

“The hostages . . .” Kiley said as soon as Larkin had finished. “They were all on deck—Fitz was with them.” They were statements, not questions.

“Yes, sir,” Larkin replied.

“What about a fix on the gunboat’s position?”

“Not yet, sir.
Cavalla’s
working on it.”

“I need Duryea right away,” Kiley ordered.

When the hookup was made, he and Duryea formulated a plan to use the team of navy SEALs aboard the
Cavalla
to rescue the hostages should the gunboat be located.

Soon after, Larkin and Applegate were flown from the carrier to an air base in northern Spain, where they boarded separate military jetliners.

APPLEGATE’S
flight to Mildenhall RAFB in England took just under three hours. The two Special Forces agents informed him Shepherd was still on the loose.

Applegate immediately contacted Kiley at CIA headquarters in Langley and briefed him. The DCI decided against including British military and civilian authorities in the manhunt; CIA couldn’t very well ask for help in finding a pilot the president had just announced died in the raid on Libya. Instead, a discreet search under Applegate’s direction was mounted. He and the two agents wasted no time in leaving for the hospital on Mile End Road in London, where Shepherd had been last seen, a two-hour drive from Mildenhall.

LARKIN
was still high over the choppy Atlantic, several hours from touchdown, unaware of the problem. The dexadrine had done its job too well and he couldn’t sleep. The details of the failed mission raced through his mind like an endless videotape replay. It wasn’t the fact that he had murdered good men in cold blood that tormented him, but that he had done so and come up empty.

The time was 10:14
A.M.
when the flight landed at Andrews.
Larkin cleared customs, went to the longterm lot where he had left his car, and drove directly to Langley for a debriefing session.

“Morning, sir,” the colonel said wearily, as he entered the DCI’s seventh-floor office.

Kiley was standing at the window, reviewing a copy of Shepherd’s personnel file, and didn’t respond immediately. “Hello, Dick,” he finally said in a subdued tone.

“Tough one to lose, sir.”

Kiley nodded glumly. “It gets worse,” he replied, going on to explain that Shepherd was still at large.

Larkin paled and fought to maintain his composure.

“Applegate figures he’s still somewhere in London. We have a full-court press in the works. According to this we might very well need it,” Kiley concluded, indicating Shepherd’s file. He turned to a page he had marked and, with grave expression, read, “ ‘Major Shepherd is a precise and resourceful thinker. Throughout his career he has demonstrated an unusually high aptitude for tactical expertise and innovation—’ ”

“I’ll leave for London immediately,” Larkin offered stiffly, anxious to repair the damage.

The DCI shook his head no. “A.G. can handle it.”

Larkin nodded numbly. He was certain Kiley knew how badly he wanted to fix it and was purposely denying him the chance as punishment.

“The good news is we had a cable from Duryea. He has a pretty tight fix on that gunboat.”

“She hasn’t made port,” Larkin ventured, the glaze lifting from his eyes. “The hostages are still aboard . . .”

Kiley nodded and allowed himself a little smile. “
Cavalla
’s
on an intercept course. Odds are we can come out of this with what we want if we lick this Shepherd thing.”