Purpose of Evasion (27 page)

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 undeveloped. 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.

TFR relied on two low altitude radar altimeters that scanned 1,000 feet ahead. Via a computerized link to the autopilot, the two LARA channels compared data, automatically commanding the aircraft to follow land contours. It emitted an aural tone, beeping on climb, booping on descent. How precisely it mirrored the rise and fall of the landscape was determined by setting a switch on the TFR panel to soft, medium, or hard.

Shepherd set the ride for hard, which meant the bomber would hug the ground, conforming to every rise, ripple, and dip, well below the scanning range of tower radar; then he slammed the throttles to the stops. The afterburners kicked in, belching blue-orange flame and the F-111 rocketed forward.

The Libyan emitted an excited yelp as the acceleration slammed him back into his seat.

“They call this a fighter-bomber,” Shepherd said, keeping up the friendly charade. “But just between us, I usually put the emphasis on fighter.”

In the tower at Okba ben Nafi, the radar operator straightened in his chair as the F-111’s blip vanished from his screen. Younis, Abdel-Hadi, and the East German were staring at it in amazement and concern when the phone rang.

One of the air traffic controllers answered it. “Phone, sir,” he said in Arabic, crossing to Abdel-Hadi.

“Who is it?”

“Your duty officer.”

“Not now,” Abdel-Hadi said, annoyed at the intrusion.

“He says it’s an emergency, sir.”

Abdel-Hadi scowled and snatched up the phone.

Shepherd had the F-111 in supersonic dash now: wings at maximum sweep, 72.5 degrees; speed Mach 1.75. The TFR began beeping as it detected a sudden rise in the desert floor and automatically,
abruptly
, increased altitude to compensate; the instant the ridge crested the TFR detected the slope and pitched the nose down sharply, hugging the backside of the mountain, the tone booping as it put the plane back down on the deck.

The sleek bomber was nearing the point where Shepherd
planned to suddenly pull into a high-G climb. His hands were poised to move swiftly and precisely, from pistol to cabin pressure dump switch, to oxygen disconnect, to G-suit disconnect when the radio came alive with a sharp crackle.

Several phrases in Arabic followed.

Shepherd recognized General Younis’s voice.

“Naam yasidi,” the Libyan replied, pretending he’d received a routine instruction. He calmly made a notation on his kneeboard, then deftly reached to the ankle holster just below it, removed his pistol, and leveled the muzzle at Shepherd’s flight helmet.

“You will reduce speed, Major,” he said sharply.

“Why? What’s the problem?” Shepherd asked, hit by a rush of terror-charged adrenaline, his mind racing. He was tempted to carry out the high-G maneuver but realized the Libyan could easily put a bullet in his head before he could.

“The mission is over,” the Libyan replied coldly.

Shepherd’s heart sank as he nodded, eyeing the pistol, still evaluating, still deciding; then he eased back the throttles and leveled off, coming onto a heading for Okba ben Nafi.

43

THAT SAME AFTERNOON,
a U.S. Navy supply plane took off from Naples and headed south over the eastern Mediterranean. Several hours later, it circled the 6th Fleet on station off the west coast of Malta and landed on the flight deck of the USS
America
.

An orange-vested traffic control officer directed the plane to an unloading area aft of the superstructure. Crewmen moved in with wheel chocks and cargo-handling gear and removed a large container. They wheeled it across the deck to a Sea King helicopter and loaded it aboard.

The molded plastic container measured 24 inches wide, 36 inches long, and 30 inches deep, and was devoid of markings, save for a bright red priority routing ticket that read:

ORIGIN: OTS Langley

ROUTING: 6th Fleet HQ, Naples/USS America

DESTINATION: USS Cavalla

As soon as the container had been secured, the gray and white helicopter rose at a slight angle from the carrier’s deck into the hazy sky and came onto a heading for the Aegean Sea.

THREE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE
miles due east of the
America’s
position, the
Cavalla
was 80 feet below the surface proceeding through a shallow undersea valley in the Mediterranean Ridge between the islands of Andikithira and Crete at a speed of 12 knots.

After obtaining a fix on the Romeo’s position from the Viking, Duryea summoned Cooperman from the sonar room.

“See that?” the captain prompted as they studied the track he
had plotted on the electronic chart table. “If I’m right, Romeo’s going to be proceeding through here about sixteen hundred.” He marked a point between two islands on the Romeo’s course. “Now, if we’re
here
when he is ...” He marked the
Cavalla
’s course and drew a line between the two marks that was uninterrupted by islands or undersea terrain.

“We have a sonar window,” Cooperman said, smiling at the chance to determine if the target was
their
Romeo.

That was hours ago.

Now the
Cavalla
was in position.

Cooperman had the BQS-6 bow array in passive mode listening for cavitation. The sound was made by air bubbles collapsing as they spiraled off the tips of propeller blades and radiated mainly at right angles from the source. Though the submarines were far apart, the
Cavalla
was proceeding at 90 degrees to the Romeo’s course, which put the spherical transducer in her bow directly abeam of the target’s propellers. Cooperman’s ears soon perked at the distinctive hiss; it intensified as the Romeo moved into the window between the two islands. He patched the contact into the oscilloscope, comparing it to the one he had recorded en route to Tripoli weeks before. When identical patterns began tracing across the screen, he called the control room.

“I got him, skipper,” Cooperman reported. “It’s our boy.”

“Good going,” Duryea replied. He stepped to his chart table and went about predicting the Romeo’s course. Working back from its need to be in Beirut by the start of Ramadan, he calculated when the submarine would have to leave the cover of the Aegean for the Mediterranean and plotted an intercept point. “Even at a prudent fifteen knots we’ll be at the IP more than eight hours before lover boy arrives,” he said to McBride. “Get Lieutenant Reyes up here, will you?”

“Way to go, skipper,” the Chicano enthused when told the contact had been confirmed as the Romeo. “When do we take him?”

“Twenty-one hundred tomorrow; right
there
,” Duryea replied, circling a mark on the chart table centered in the basin cradled by Crete, Karpathos, and Rhodes. “That’s our intercept point.”

Reyes’s brow furrowed with concern. “That’s open water, sir; he’s going to be moving pretty damn fast.”

“Big problem, huh?” Duryea asked, deadpan.

Reyes nodded. “He’s too powerful to stop and there’s no way my guys could stay with him.”

Duryea pretended to wrestle with it. “In other words, it would be easier if he was dead in the water putting up a mast.”

“Sure, then we could—”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Reyes grinned, getting the message. “A dead stop.”

“Every day, at twenty-one hundred, Lieutenant,” Duryea explained, breaking into a cagey smile. “Like clockwork.”

Half an hour later, he was still smiling when McBride took a call from the communications officer. “Chopper from the
America
coming in,” he announced.

“Periscope-antenna depth,” Duryea ordered.

The Sea King was circling the rendezvous area when the pilot spotted the wake from the periscope. Soon the
Cavalla
punched through the surface, water cascading from her sail in torrents. Several miles to the south, the island of Crete cut a pale triangle out of the sky.

The deck was still awash when an aft hatch, located between the sail and dry deck shelter, which housed the SEALs underwater assault vehicle, swung open. Lieutenant Reyes and several members of his team climbed out and guided the helicopter into position.

While the Sea King hovered, the plastic shipping container was lowered to the submarine by a winched cable. Within minutes, the container was on deck and being wrestled through a cargo hatch into the
Cavalla
’s hold.

Duryea ordered the boat to periscope depth.

The planesmen went to work and the submarine began slipping beneath the surface. It had just leveled off when the phone buzzed.

McBride answered it. “Sonar has a contact on the towed array. Says he’s pretty sure it’s a Redfleet boat.”

Duryea responded with a thoughtful scowl, then crossed to the sonar room forward of the navigation console and stuck his head in the door.

Cooperman was sitting there, head cradled by thick headphone cushions, staring at the frequency pattern tracing across the oscilloscope.

“Twin screws,” Duryea observed on seeing it.

“Yes, sir,” Cooperman replied, putting the contact through the speakers so the captain could hear the rhythmic hiss. “Coming real fast.”

“
How
fast?”

“Forty-plus knots.”

Duryea’s lips tightened. “I’ve got a nasty hunch.”

“Me too, sir.”

Duryea mulled it over, then contacted ASW on the
America.
“Captain Duryea,
Cavalla
,” he said. “I need a contact verification.” He reported the target’s coordinates, concluding, “Request that be a MAD flyover.”

The acronym stood for magnetic anomaly detector, a device used to measure disturbances in the earth’s magnetic field. In a nonmetallic sea, a large metal object such as a submarine created a significant anomaly. MAD was normally used to locate a target precisely prior to ASW attack, but Duryea had another reason.

Within minutes of his call, an S-3A Viking was launched from the
America
’s starboard catapult. Dusk was falling as it soared over the Mediterranean, closing on the contact. A long tubular probe telescoped from beneath its empennage, like the stinger of a blue tail fly, as it made a low pass over the choppy sea.

“I’ve got dead needles back here,” the Tacco said. “You sure we’re on the mark? Hold it,” he corrected as the needles began moving off the pins. “I got him now. Barely a wrinkle, though; must be an Alpha.”

The extremely low reading left no doubt. Unlike any other submarine afloat, the Alpha’s titanium hull and structure left only ferrous fittings and propulsion machinery to create a magnetic disturbance.

In the Soviet boat’s control room, Captain Aleksandr Solomatin took a long, satisfied drag on his pipe. His long hunt was over.

The wily Russian hated being bested, hated being fooled by Duryea’s false radio transmission and had backtracked through Gibraltar, combing the Mediterranean for the
Cavalla
. He knew he could find it; knew his target’s special outfitting sacrificed a degree of stealth; indeed, his sonar technicians were hunting for a unique acoustic signature—a rhythmic whoosh made by the bulbous dry deck shelter atop the
Cavalla
’s hull—that distinguished it from every other submarine afloat.

“Damn,” Duryea growled when the Viking’s pilot radioed the news. “It’s an Alpha—
the
Alpha.”

“Man’s got an axe to grind,” McBride said. “Could cost us the intercept.”

Duryea nodded grimly. He loved challenges; loved playing underwater
hide and seek; but it was the last thing he needed now. He had the Romeo set up; had the personnel and the technical means aboard to carry out the hostage rescue mission; but there was no way it could commence until he lost the Alpha; no way he could chance Redfleet surveillance or the possibility that the Russian captain might directly interfere with the operation or alert the Romeo. He glanced at the chart table. The clock in the upper right-hand corner of the screen read:

02:DAYS

01:HOURS

18:MINUTES

37:SECONDS

—to Ramadan and counting.