Purpose of Evasion (8 page)

The pursuing sedan came through the turn. Applegate slammed on the brakes. The sedan screeched to a stop a distance from the crossing, where, despite
its
brakes being locked, the freight was still streaking past, blocking their view.

“Son of a bitch!” Larkin exclaimed, thinking the truck had made it through.

“Come on, come on,” Applegate urged the train impatiently, eager to resume the pursuit.

Suddenly, the jet fuel ignited with a loud whomp. Flames shot into the night, high above the passing freight, which continued through and beyond the crossing, finally revealing the conflagration beyond.

The truck was on its side, almost parallel to the tracks, and totally engulfed in flames. The interior of the cab looked like the inside of a blast furnace.

Larkin and Applegate got out of the sedan and stared awestruck at the roaring inferno.

The intense heat kept them at a distance.

Larkin watched one of the fenders turn to a puddle of molten steel. His mind was racing, calculating all the factors: There would be no human remains, he reasoned, nothing to identify
who
had died. Shepherd would be cremated; his flight suit and dogtags would be ashes amid the debris. Furthermore, theft of equipment from military bases was an ever-growing problem. Investigators would have every reason to conclude that the truck and its valuable cargo had been stolen and that it was the thief who had perished in the fire.

While the flames raged, Larkin and Applegate searched the surrounding area, concluding beyond any doubt that Shepherd hadn’t been thrown from the cab.

The locomotive had come to a stop more than a mile past the crossing. By the time the engineer and fireman had shaken off the effects of the collision and walked to the burning truck, Larkin and Applegate were long gone.

They drove back to the hangar, joining the two Special Forces SPs who had completed the cleanup. Now, at Larkin’s direction, the SPs drove to a darkened corner of the airfield where a new runway was under construction and buried the pilot’s body, knowing that the corpse would soon be forever entombed beneath an 18-inch-thick slab of rock-hard concrete laced with reinforcing steel.

Larkin went to his office, thinking that Kiley would really be pleased, and sent a cable that read:
BIRDS IN HAND.

It was time to get on with the business of delivering two F-111 supersonic bombers to Muammar el-Qaddafi.

10

THAT SAME AFTERNOON
in Beirut, Katifa sat at a table in the kitchen of her apartment with a package of insulin she had picked up from the pharmacy. She opened the box and lined up the vials on the table.

Moncrieff sat opposite her with a cup of water and a small pitcher of milk. He poured a little into the water and stirred it. Then added a few drops more.

Katifa peeled the wrapper from a syringe, pierced the first vial, and began extracting the insulin.

Moncrieff kept adding drops of milk to the water until the cloudy liquid perfectly matched the density of the insulin, which he was pleased to discover was odorless, sparing him the task of duplicating its scent; then he left the table to make a phone call.

IN TRIPOLI,
Muammar el-Qaddafi was in his tent at the barracks compound on As-Sarim Street, sulking over a devastating economic report issued that afternoon by the Libyan secretariat of industry.

The quarterly index stated that once fertile agricultural communities were failing; many factories—producers of ore, textiles, and foodstuffs among them—were shutting down; citizens were complaining that shops and market shelves were bare—all due to the frustrating lack of water.

Qaddafi reflected on his goals; on the dreams of grandeur that drove his ambition to unite the Arab world under the teachings of Islam and to destroy Israel, an ambition that justified his offer of sanctuary to Palestinians. Having helped ease tensions in the Middle East, he would not only gain military hardware but also stature as a statesman—stature he expected would lead to his being hailed as a modern-day Gamal Abdel Nasser, who had been his boyhood hero. The late Egyptian leader had had similar
ambitions and had faced similar problems, irrigating his arid land with the Aswan Dam. Despite Qaddafi’s desire to emulate him there was no Nile, indeed, not even a single river, in Libya. Now, having found the solution, another nation—an
Islamic
nation—had nullified it. In his most lucid moments Qaddafi attributed the existence of Nefta Dam to a cruel twist of fate, not malicious intent; but when lost in the darkest recesses of his paranoia, he had no doubt it was a Tunisian conspiracy to deny him greatness.

The intercom buzzed several more times before the colonel set aside the report and tapped the button.

“Moncrieff is calling from Beirut,” the Bab al Azziziya operator announced.

“Moncrieff,” Qaddafi said, brightening, “I can usually count on you for some good news.”

“Not today, sir, I’m afraid,” the Saudi replied, going on to explain that Abu Nidal had scuttled the plan. “However, with your cooperation I’m quite certain it can be salvaged.”

THAT EVENING IN BEIRUT,
Abu Nidal’s gunboat was approaching Casino du Liban when Qaddafi called on the ship-to-shore radio. The conversation was short, contentious, and ended moments before the boat entered the marina, where Katifa and Hasan were waiting.

“Qaddafi’s called a summit,” Nidal said, gesturing they come aboard. “He wants to meet with Assad and Arafat in Damascus.”

“What about?” Katifa asked nonchalantly as she handed him the package of insulin.

“This sanctuary in Libya,” Nidal replied with disgust. “I’m not going. It’s a waste of time.”

“I agree,” Katifa said firmly before adding, “unless that’s exactly what Qaddafi wanted to hear.”

“What do you mean?” Nidal asked, his curiosity aroused as she had hoped.

“Well, your absence would make it much easier for him to turn the others against you.”

“Not Assad. Assad would never turn against me.”

“Forgive my boldness,” Katifa said gently. “But as a famous Palestinian fighter once said, ‘Loyalty taken for granted eventually leads to betrayal.’ ”

Nidal smiled, taken by her acuity and spunk. He had recognized early on that of the two siblings he had adopted, Katifa was the child of promise.
She
had the first-rate mind and cunning most akin to his own. He reflected for a moment, then shifted his look to his protégé. “Hasan?” he prompted, soliciting an opinion.

“Qaddafi is just trying to assert his power. It would be a sign of weakness to come when he calls.”

“I wouldn’t be so concerned with appearances, Hasan,” Katifa retorted. “Results are what count.”

“You sound just like the Saudi,” Hasan taunted.

Her eyes flashed with feigned anger. “How dare you compare me to the shetan who created this problem?”

“You’re the one who brought him here.”

“Enough,” Nidal snapped, his eyes darting to Hasan. “She would have been wrong to do otherwise; the decision was mine to make; as is this one.” He jerked his head, dismissing him, then turned to Katifa. “I think you’re right,” he said, his eyes softening with pride. “If I don’t protect our interests, who will? Make the arrangements for Damascus.”

A short time later, Nidal’s gunboat slipped out of the marina and into the night. Hasan was still seething when Katifa went up the gangway and through the casino to her car, taking the coastal motorway back to the city. He followed in his jeep.

The shower was running when Katifa entered her apartment on Tamar Mallat.

Moncrieff was just starting to soap up. The draft that blew through the apartment when Katifa opened the door billowed the shower curtain against his body.

“Katifa?” he called out.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” she replied.

Hasan had parked around the corner. He slid along the side of the coarsely stuccoed building to a window, peering between the shutter slats. His eyes widened as Katifa removed her dress and slipped out of her bra and panties. He was so intent that his foot dislodged a few small stones, which went tumbling down the hillside.

Katifa was on tiptoes, stretching her lithe body, when she heard the sound. She glanced curiously to the window, then crossed to it. Hasan leaned back into the darkness as her shadow fell across the shutters and she secured the latch, then crossed to the bathroom.

“Hi,” she said brightly, as she slipped into the shower with Moncrieff. “Nidal agreed to go. No thanks to Hasan,” she added, explaining what had happened.

Moncrieff wrapped his arms around her waist. She arched her back, forcing her pelvis against his, aroused by the needle-fine jets of water that stung her flesh.

Hasan had gone around the building to the entrance and down the corridor to Katifa’s apartment. He pulled his knife from its sheath and inserted the point between the door and jamb, quickly slipping the latch.

Moncrieff and Katifa were embracing passionately when Moncrieff felt the shower curtain blow against his torso again. He put his finger to her lips, then pointed to the billowing curtain. “Someone’s here,” he whispered.

Hasan was crossing to the hall that led to the bathroom when his eyes darted to something familiar. The paper wrapper was lying on the floor next to a wastebasket in which he found several used syringes, one still half-filled with milky fluid. He was examining it when he heard the creak of floorboards and whirled to confront Moncrieff, who was wrapping a towel around his waist as he came down the hall. An instant later Katifa appeared behind him, slipping into a bathrobe.

“Stop him,” she exclaimed. “If he gets to Nidal—”

Hasan lunged toward the door. Moncrieff went after him, got a fistful of his hair, and yanked him backwards into the apartment, kicking the door closed. Hasan pulled free and slashed at him with the knife. The Saudi sidestepped, grabbed Hasan’s wrist with one hand, and threw a punch with the other.

Katifa recoiled as they tumbled past her to the floor, fighting for control of the knife.

Hasan came out on top and tried to plunge the knife into Moncrieff s chest. The Saudi had both hands wrapped tightly around Hasan’s wrist, holding it off. Gradually, Moncrieff twisted it around until the point of the blade was facing Hasan. Moncrieff bent a knee, getting a foot under him for leverage, and tried to roll Hasan over. But the Palestinian’s elbow was planted firmly on the floor, securing his position.

Katifa slipped a bare foot behind Hasan’s elbow. He sensed what she was about to do and flicked her a horrified glance. Her face turned to stone. She kicked his arm out from under him.
The tremendous pressure Hasan was exerting propelled him suddenly downward. The knife pierced his chest to the hilt.

Moncrieff pushed Hasan’s body aside, staggered to his feet, and studied her for a moment, then broke into a thin smile.

“I know,” Katifa said. “My father would have been proud of me.”

11

THE SNOW-DOTTED HILLS
of Scotland’s Southern Uplands lay basking in the warmth of a spring morning. Billions of water droplets, swelling until they could no longer cling to the basalt ledges, began plunging to the earth. Soon, a gentle gurgle rose, increasing gradually to a throaty roar as the rivulets formed streams that rushed across the moors. Finally, as they had for millennia past, they came together with thundering fury in a breathtaking cascade at the Falls of Clyde.

From there, the River Clyde flowed northward past Glasgow to the coastal Firth, where vessels steamed south toward the Irish Sea and English Channel, or north into the Atlantic Ocean and Norwegian Sea.

Centuries ago, this access to major sea routes spawned Glasgow’s legendary shipyards. More recently, it led the United States Navy to select Holy Loch on the west bank of the Clyde as a submarine base.

The USS
Cavalla
, a Sturgeon-class hunter-killer submarine, was stationed there. Assigned to an ongoing top-secret CIA covert action program, the
Cavalla
was outfitted with a hull-mounted dry deck shelter. The DDS housed a submersible vessel used to deploy the team of navy SEALs who were part of the crew. This highly trained and motivated special warfare unit was skilled in demolition, assassination, and counterinsurgency techniques.

Commander Christian Duryea was the
Cavalla
’s skipper. As a youth, the lanky, blue-eyed son of a New York City fireman dreamed of being a navy pilot; and he was well on his way the day the acceptance letter from Annapolis came. It was during his second year at the academy when he first noticed his vision had deteriorated.

“Twenty-sixty in both eyes, son,” the optometrist said a few days later, confirming that Chris would never fly military aircraft. “I’m sorry.”

Chris Duryea quickly decided that next to dogfighting, skippering a sub was the most autonomous command the navy offered.

Now, almost twenty years later, he was hovering over his chart table when a cable was delivered to the command center. His eyes went right to the Z prefix, which denoted FLASH priority.

Z172608ZAPR

TOP SECRET

FM: KUBARK

TO: USS CAVALLA

RE: REDEPLOYMENT

AF COLONEL RICHARD LARKIN ARRIVING 9APR. WILL CONDUCT MISSION BRIEFING. CITE DIRECTOR.

Duryea tugged thoughtfully at an earlobe. Orders usually came via COMSUBLANT, commander of the submarine force in the Atlantic. CITE DIRECTOR meant they had come directly from the DCI. Something big was in the works.

“That’s tomorrow,” Duryea said to Lieutenant McBride, his executive officer. “Better juice the crew.”

THE MORNING
after acquiring the F-111s, Larkin boarded a flight at Upper Heyford for Holy Loch. The plane headed northwest over the English countryside to Scotland, arriving at the submarine base just over an hour later. A Royal Navy hovercraft was waiting. The powerful vessel rose up haughtily on its cushion of air, slid down the ramp into the Clyde’s oily waters, and whisked him across the immense loch. In less than fifteen minutes it was approaching the concrete refitting pier where the USS
Cavalla
was berthed.

Larkin stepped ashore, carrying a slim aluminum attaché case. He strode beneath the towering cranes used to lower ICBMs into submarine missile hatches and went up the gangway, boarding the
Cavalla.

A brisk wind came up as Duryea greeted him and led the way down into the command center. “Where we headed?” he asked offhandedly as they came off the ladder.

“Tripoli,” Larkin replied flatly.

Duryea’s brows went up. “Don’t stop now, Colonel,” he prompted, intrigued as Larkin knew he would be.

The colonel used the DCI’s cover story to explain the mission: the hostages had been shrewdly hidden in Libya. CIA had found and rescued them. The air strike was a diversion to get them out—on the
Cavalla.

“Why not fly them out?” Duryea wondered.

“One Stinger and it’s all over,” Larkin replied, referring to the shoulder-mounted mobile missile launcher favored by terrorist groups. He explained that the
Cavalla
would ferry the hostages to the USS
America,
an aircraft carrier based in the Mediterranean with the 6th Fleet. “We’re talking need-to-know rules, Commander. Nobody, not Sixth Fleet, Third Air, or Cinclant, knows about this yet,” he concluded, the latter an acronym for commander in chief of the Atlantic. “If word got out and it went bust—”

“I understand, Colonel.”

“Good. Only after we have the hostages aboard, and only then, will the
America
be notified. By the time we rendezvous, teams of physicians and psychologists will have been flown in to care for them.”

Duryea broke into a broad smile, pleased to have the challenge, and went to the electronic chart table, a large horizontal television screen linked to the boat’s powerful BC-10 computer. An inventory of surface and undersea charts were stored in its superfast bubble memory. He encoded at the terminal and a highly detailed chart of Tripoli harbor appeared on the screen.

“Right there,” Larkin said, indicating a desolate wharf near the Old City. “That’s the rendezvous point. The air strike will be keyed to your schedule. I need a guaranteed ETA.”

“Five days would be realistic.”

“The night of the fourteenth?” Duryea nodded.

“What about Redfleet surveillance?”

“My specialty.” Duryea was a genius at playing underwater hide-and-seek with his Soviet counterparts. It was the one source of pride his humble nature couldn’t suppress. “We’ll be there.”

“So will I,” Larkin replied smartly, handing him the attaché he’d brought. It contained ANITA, the key essential to programming Pave Tack computers. “Keep this in your safe. I’ll need it when we rendezvous in Tripoli.”

“You’re going in?” Duryea asked, surprised.

“Four of us. We’ll be leaving with you.”

“I can’t promise you a room with a view,” Duryea joked, shaking Larkin’s hand. “Good luck, Colonel.”

Larkin went to the communications room and sent a cable to Kiley confirming 14 April as the date for the air strike, then left the submarine.

“Cast off,” Duryea ordered in a soft, firm voice.

The departing hovercraft was still on the horizon when the
Cavalla
’s deck crew cut loose the hausers that had kept her lashed to the refitting pier. A stiff breeze tore at the lookouts standing on the hydroplanes on either side of the sail. Both wore safety harnesses cabled to the hull as they leaned into field glasses scanning the expanse of green-black water.

Several hours later, the
Cavalla
had left Holy Loch and proceeded down the River Clyde into the choppy Firth.

One hundred miles northwest, a Redfleet submarine was cutting through the North Atlantic’s cold depths. The titanium-hulled Alpha routinely tracked U.S. submarines emerging from the Firth of Clyde into North Channel, the turbulent body of water between Scotland’s southwest shores and Northern Ireland.

Captain First Rank Aleksandr Solomatin was her skipper. He was thumbing a fresh bowl of tobacco into his meerschaum when sonar notified him they had picked up the
Cavalla
’s signal.

“All ahead full,” he ordered, lighting his pipe.

The
starpom
echoed the command.

A blast of steam surged against the turbine blades and the sleek Soviet boat sprinted forward. The blazing 45-knot speed was achieved by its sleek profile and the use of a highly automated liquid-metal–cooled nuclear reactor.

An hour later the
Cavalla
was entering North Channel from the Firth. Duryea stood on the bridge scanning the horizon. “Depth under keel?”

“One eight five, sir,” McBride responded smartly.

“Take her down,” Duryea said. He took a deep breath of the crisp, salty air and exhaled slowly, savoring it.

“Clear the bridge,” he ordered. “Rig for dive.”

The whomping claxon joined the hiss of air rushing from ballast tanks. Plumes of water arched gracefully over the sea from the main vents. The bow tilted down sharply, sending water over the submarine’s deck in graceful swirls.

“Conn? Sonar,” came the voice over the bridge phone.

“Talk to me, Cooperman,” Duryea responded.

“Contact bearing one seven three,” the
Cavalla
’s sonarman reported, his left hand dancing over the entry panel keyboard, his right rolling the target designation ball, his ears tuned to the syncopated beat in his headphones that came from the twin screws common to all Soviet submarines. “Redfleet boat for sure, skipper.”

“Anybody we know?” Duryea wondered.

“She’s coated, sir. Squooshes instead of pongs.” The unusual echo was produced by the anechoic tiles on the Alpha’s hull, which absorbed sonar transmissions.

“That cuts it to Alpha, Mike, Sierra, or Viktor,” Duryea replied, knowing all had the new Clusterguard coating. “Can we narrow that?”

Cooperman pushed several buttons on his console, as he studied the patterns tracing across a monitor in the panel in front of him. A high-speed computer printer, built into the surface of the control console above the keyboard, was recording the images on a continuous printout.

Stocky and slow-moving, Marv Cooperman defied the classic profile of a sonar technician. He loathed electronics and wasn’t into music or video games, but had infinite patience and an exceptional memory for sounds.

“She’s cutting a big hole in the water, sir,” he reported. “Forty-four knots. Has to be an Alpha.”

“Good going,” Duryea enthused. Knowing he was up against the much faster boat would affect the evasive strategy he selected.

In the Alpha’s attack center, Captain Solomatin stood in a cloud of pipe smoke, smoothing the coarse beard that concealed his smile. No other submarine in the world could have gotten there in time.

“Keep him on a tight leash,” the Russian ordered. Whatever the
Cavalla
’s mission, it would have to get past him to carry it out.