Purpose of Evasion (3 page)

“What the hell?” Shepherd exclaimed, realizing the planes were on a collision course, seconds from impact.

He turned hard right, executing the standard avoidance maneuver, expecting the Russian to do the same. He didn’t. Instead, he panicked and turned left across the F-111’s path, just beneath its nose.

The Forger’s wingtip slashed into the underside of the bomber’s fuselage just forward of the cockpit. A hailstorm of metal fragments filled the air as the wingtip disintegrated and the Forger continued past. Several of the projectiles punctured the F-111’s skin. One tore through the left sidewall beneath the auxiliary gauge panel and slammed into Brancato’s right shoulder.

“Al? Al?” Shepherd shouted, over the piercing whistle of rushing air as the cockpit depressurized.

Brancato groaned in pain. His hand clutched the blood-soaked shoulder of his flight suit. A crimson splash was creeping up the side of the canopy, turning it into a garish stained-glass window that gave a red glow to the cockpit.

Shepherd scanned the instrument panel: the master caution light was full on; the left engine tachometer was surging erratically, indicating the whirling turbine had ingested metal fragments; the utility pressure gauge had dropped to well below 1,000 psi, which meant the hydraulic system that deployed landing gear and activated speed brakes was also damaged.

Shepherd shut the malfunctioning engine down, pushed his oxygen mask bayonets tight into the receivers, then did the same to Brancato’s. “Al? Come on, Alfredo, talk to me!”

“I don’t know, I feel real weird,” Brancato muttered. “Better head home.”

“We’re past the PNR,” Shepherd replied, making reference to the point of no return, which meant they were closer to England than the United States. “Hang in there,” he said. He thumbed the radio transmit button and began broadcasting. “Four-eight TAC? This is Viper-Two. Four-eight TAC, this is Viper-Two. I have an in-flight emergency. Do you read?”

“This is Four-eight TAC,” Lakenheath tower replied. “Affirmative, Viper-Two. Go ahead.”

“Harassed and struck in midair by hostile aircraft. Assume Soviet Forger. My wizzo’s injured. We have frag penetration in the capsule; left engine and utility pump are out. ETA nineteen-thirty zulu.”

“Copy, Viper-Two. You have an immediate CTL. Repeat, immediate CTL. We’ll monitor.”

The three Forgers were nowhere in sight now.

Shepherd brought the wings forward to 16 degrees and set the throttle of the working engine to cruise speed; then he engaged the autopilot and unzipped Brancato’s flight suit, peeling it away from the wound. “How’re you doing?”

“Nothing a dish of fettuccine wouldn’t cure,” Brancato growled, fighting the pain.

Shepherd removed his squadron scarf, folded it into a thick wad, and pressed it against the bloody puncture. “That one
T
or two?”

“Huh?”

“How many
T
s
in fettuccine?”

“Two, dammit. You going to do this all the way in?”

“Yeah. Somebody once told me it’s impossible for a Sicilian to die while he’s talking.”

“God.” Brancato groaned, adjusting his position in the flight couch.

“That big
G
or little g?”

3

THAT SAME MORNING
in Washington, D.C., while shock waves from the bombing of the TWA jetliner reverberated round the world, armored limousines converged on the White House. They snaked between the concrete barricades, depositing solemn passengers at the South Portico.

The hastily convened group sat with the president in the cabinet room as he read a memorandum. It listed the names, hometowns, and ages of the four Americans who had been killed. One was a fourteen-month-old child. The president’s lips tightened in anger; then, he set down the memo and looked up at his advisers.

“Is this Qaddafi’s work?” he asked softly.

“We can’t prove he gave the order, sir,” National Security Adviser Kenneth Lancaster said, “but we know he did.”

“I think it’s time to consider an air strike against Libya,” the secretary of state chimed in.

“Not in my book,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said firmly. “I’m going on record right now as opposed to any military response to terrorism. Frankly, I’m far more interested in talking about the Soviets,” he went on, chafing over the incident with the Forgers.

“As you very well know, Admiral,” the secretary of state lectured, “a protest has been filed and I expect an apology will be forthcoming. The incident has been overshadowed by these events and I suggest it remain so.”

“I agree,” the president said. “This is no time to take a hard line with Moscow over an accident.”

“Yes, sir,” the CJC replied dutifully. “But I respectfully submit we have no justification for attacking Libya.”

“What we
have
is a nasty problem,” Lancaster said. “Anyone care to suggest how we solve it?”

“With a pistol, Ken,” CIA’s Kiley replied coldly. The pressure had become intolerable of late, intensified by the fact that, despite
CIA’s vast resources, Beirut station chief Tom Fitzgerald had vanished without a trace.

“That would put us in violation of twelve-three,” the secretary of state warned, referring to Executive Order 12333, which forbids sanctioning assassinations.

“Forget twelve-three,” Kiley said. “An attack on Qaddafi’s nerve center couldn’t be construed as an assassination even if it
did
kill the son of a bitch.”

The president thought it ironic that the civilians were in favor of using force and the military opposed. “It seems we have no proof Qaddafi gave the order. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Lancaster replied, tamping his pipe. “Furthermore, the antiterrorist people in Rome and Athens have announced their investigation isn’t focused on Libyans.”

“Which means Qaddafi’s going to get away with it,” Kiley retorted, angrily. “We should bomb his Muslim ass right out of North Africa.” He saw the president grimace and added, “As Machiavelli once so wisely advised, ‘Never do an enemy a small injury.’”

“Well, no one would like to get him more than I,” the president said. “But first, I want evidence,
hard
evidence that Libya is behind these terrorist acts.”

“You’ll have it, sir,” Kiley replied, then he turned to an aide seated behind him, one of many who ringed the walls of the conference room, providing documents and data to their bosses. “That KH-11 we have parked over Poland—how fast can we adjust its orbit?”

Keyhole number eleven was a spy satellite equipped with an ultrasophisticated electro-optical surveillance system a hundred times more sensitive to energy in the infrared and visible light spectrums than state-of-the-art film or video cameras. It also had formidable signals intelligence capability and could intercept a broad range of electronic data: radio, telephone, video, and cable transmissions in the VHF, UHF, and microwave bands, among them.

An intense, physically compact man with military bearing stood in response to the DCI’s query and crossed to the table carrying a red binder. A Vietnam ace and charter member of a top-secret Special Forces unit formed after the failed Iran hostage rescue mission, Air Force Colonel Richard Larkin possessed the cool fatalism men who have often faced death acquire. The surge of
terrorism had gotten him assigned to the White House as a consultant on antiterrorism; but in truth he worked for Bill Kiley.

Colonel Larkin set the binder on the table and found the section he wanted. “Three days, sir,” he replied in a resonant voice that emphasized the hard Ohio vowels.

“Good,” Kiley said. “Have them park it right over Qaddafi’s tent. We’re talking cast-iron coverage. He won’t be able to get a hard-on without us knowing it.”

SEVERAL DAYS
after meeting with Muammar el-Qaddafi, Saddam Moncrieff flew to Tunis, 300 miles northwest of Tripoli, taking a taxi to PLO Worldwide Headquarters.

Despite the grandiose title, it turned out to be a series of cramped offices in a shabby building near the university quarter. The Saudi was thoroughly searched by PLO guards, then driven to Yasser Arafat’s private residence. The nineteenth-century seaside villa was on a cul-de-sac several miles northeast of the city, near Carthage. The chairman of the Palestinian Liberation Organization had been living here since his expulsion from Beirut.

Now, in a sparsely furnished sitting room adjacent to a courtyard where several stunted pines rustled, the man with the large features and scraggly beard, who had made the checkered kaffiyeh a symbol of the Palestinian cause, listened intently as Moncrieff laid out a proposal that involved the PLO, Libya, and the United States. “The net result,” Moncrieff concluded, “would be a homeland for Palestinians in Libya.”

Arafat’s eyes widened with resentment. Despite being scattered throughout the Middle East and North Africa, despite decentralized leadership, despite being oppressed and demoralized, Palestinians had never lost sight of their goal. “Are you suggesting we relinquish our claim to Palestine?” Arafat asked incredulously.

“On the contrary,” Moncrieff replied, having purposely provoked him to make the distinction. “I believe this could go a long way to securing it.”

Arafat’s eyes softened with curiosity. “How so?”

“Think of it as a sanctuary; a territory, if you will, where you could gather your people and infuse them with a renewed sense of hope and purpose.”

Arafat mused as the implication dawned on him. He had long ago admitted, if only to himself, that the Israelis would never
willingly grant Palestinians any degree of sovereignty. Indeed, they had recently begun resettling Soviet Jews throughout the West Bank and Gaza Strip. “An
unoccupied
territory—”

“Yes, sir, precisely.”

“Free of Israeli scrutiny,” Arafat went on, becoming more intrigued with what he was envisioning. “One where, if I understand your thinking correctly, Palestinians and their leaders could regroup and launch an all-out effort to reclaim their homeland.”

“I’d say your view coincides with mine, sir, yes.”

Arafat settled back in his chair and spooned some honey into a cup of tea. The idea had merit, he thought. Divide and conquer was the oldest tactic in the book; and for decades, the Israelis had confined Palestinians to territories in southern Lebanon, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip, which their forces occupied—territories that were thousands of miles from Tunis, where the PLO leadership had been exiled. Four frustrating years of it, not to mention
decades
as the titular head of a nonexistent nation, had convinced Arafat that reunification was vital. “I think it’s worth exploring,” he said after a long silence. “What does Qaddafi want? Or should I be asking, how much?” he added with a knowing smile.

“No, he’s not interested in money; but he would very much like to acquire certain ‘currency’ which you’ve amassed per Article Seventeen of the
Intifada.
”

Arafat stiffened as Moncrieff expected he would. The
Intifada
was the PLO manifesto, a top-secret document that after decades of impulsive warfare and rhetoric had precisely defined the movement’s goals and tactics, and given the Palestinian uprising its name. Only PLO leaders were privy to its contents.

“I proofed the first drafts, sir,” Moncrieff explained. “I met the author when I was at MIT; actually, I knew her quite well.”

“Then you also know Abu Nidal controls the currency you’re after, not I.”

“That’s why I came to you first.”

“Abu Nidal is no longer a member of the PLO. I’ve no power over him,” Arafat declared, splaying his hands resignedly. “To be blunt, you don’t stand a chance.”

“They said that about the Zionists in forty-eight,” Moncrieff replied, risking the insult to win his respect. He knew that the Palestinians’ hatred of their archenemy was tempered by grudging admiration. The Zionists had pulled it off—
they
had a homeland.

Arafat studied Moncrieffs eyes, gauging his intent. It was a
guileless challenge, a forthright peering into one’s soul in the Arab manner. Then the PLO chairman’s expression softened, and he pulled himself from the chair. “We’ll take a walk,” he said genially. “And I will tell you what you’re up against with Abu Nidal.”

Arafat slipped through the arched doors into the courtyard and strolled off into the night with Moncrieff at his side. Two bodyguards appeared from the shadows and followed them across the pale gray marble. “It’s a horrid story,” Arafat began. “A story that would make a smart man abandon the idea. Of course, there’s always the fool who would find it encouraging.”

IN WASHINGTON, D.C.,
the meeting with the president broke up just before noon. Colonel Larkin avoided the postmortem sessions in the White House corridors and drove to the Pentagon, just south of Arlington Cemetery, to initiate redeployment of the spy satellite.

Not gifted, not born to lead, Larkin grew up in a family where compassion went unrewarded and ruthlessness triumphed. He developed a tenacious, can-do mentality in an effort to satisfy the harsh standards. It was Larkin, deemed too small to play football, who starred on his college team, who won the hand-to-hand combat competition in survival training camp, who after being shot down and captured while strafing a North Vietnamese supply convoy in his F-4 Phantom, escaped from a POW camp and survived months in enemy-infested jungles, fighting his way back to American lines.

“What’s going on?” he asked his secretary as he entered his office in the Pentagon’s basement, where Special Forces personnel were inconspicuously housed.

“What isn’t?” she replied, brandishing a stack of phone messages.

“I need satellite tracking first.”

She was reaching for the phone when it rang. “Colonel Larkin’s office? Hold on please.” She covered the mouthpiece and said, “Mister Moncrieff.”

Larkin’s eyes widened with curiosity, then he reached across the desk and scooped up the phone.

“Moncrieff,” he said, brightening. “It’s been a while. What’s going on?”

“I’m having breakfast,” the Saudi replied, though it was evening at Arafat’s villa. “I had an insatiable craving for scrambled eggs and bacon.”

Larkin’s eyes flickered knowingly at the remark. “Coming right up,” he said, hitting the hold button. “Put this on the scrambler, will you?” he said to his secretary. Then he headed down the long corridor toward his office, reflecting on the blustery autumn morning in Boston when he recruited Moncrieff.

That was five years ago.

The Saudi was writing his doctoral dissertation at MIT at the time. He was walking across the campus alone when the precise man with the short, neatly combed hair and dark suit, whom he thought bore a striking resemblance to former Secretary of State Alexander Haig, approached.

“I represent some people who are very interested in your work,” Larkin began after introducing himself. “You have a minute to chat?”

“Yes, sir, I do; but I’m afraid there wouldn’t be much point in it,” Moncrieff replied, having assumed Larkin was a corporate recruiter. “I’ve decided to go into business for myself and haven’t been interviewing.”

“Yes, I know,” Larkin said, privy to a CIA background check that informed him Moncrieff planned to return to Saudi Arabia and open his own consulting firm. “Have you ever considered working for the U.S. government?” he asked, showing him his identification.

“I can’t say I have, sir, no,” the young Saudi replied somewhat curiously. His English was impeccable, with a mild British inflection imparted by years of schooling in the United Kingdom. “I’m not an American citizen.”

“Not a requirement. Talent and intelligence are the criteria. I’d say you’re more than qualified.”

“So is everyone else at MIT.”

“They won’t have your positioning. Your work will be a natural entrée to situations we’d like to observe.”

“Observe—”

“Right. No assignments. You do business and tell us what you’ve seen or overheard along the way.”

“May I think it over?”

“Of course; discuss it with your family. I’ve no doubt they’ll approve.”

Nor did Moncrieff. Born into the Saudi royal family, he knew this was a chance to make his mark within the competitive and staunchly anti-communist family structure. Those who practiced Zakat, a pillar of Islam that obliged Muslims of wealth and social rank to almsgiving and involvement in affairs of state in the spirit of Western noblesse oblige, were well rewarded.

Since acquiring his Ph.D., Moncrieff had been “observing” those drought-stricken nations in Africa and the Middle East where his work had taken him. The political and economic climate, the mind-set of leaders, their state of health and personal happiness were all reported to Larkin; and bright fellow that Moncrieff was, he began seeing opportunities and proposing ways to exploit them.

Now, on this cool, April morning, Larkin entered his office, closed the door and lifted the phone. “Moncrieff—we’re clear. What’s on your mind?”

“You mean other than the fact that civilization is unraveling at the seams?”

“Tell me about it. This damned bombing’s got the president stuck in neutral.”

“Yes, rather nasty business, isn’t it?”

“Very. The DCI’s taking it pretty hard.”

“Perhaps I can help the old fellow out.”

Larkin brightened and loosened his tie. “You saying you have something on Libya for me?”