by Greg Dinallo
“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.
12
A GOLDEN, late morning sun streamed through the curtained windows of Stephanie Shepherd’s kitchen.
She was loading the dishwasher when the phone rang.
“Stephanie?” the congressman said in his gregarious rumble. “Jim Gutherie. Glad I got you. Why don’t we have lunch and finish that interview?”
“I’m up against a deadline on a story,” she fibbed, “but I can drop by your office this afternoon.”
“My afternoon’s jammed. I’d sure like to knock this off today.”
She paused, her lips tightening as she wrestled with the decision. She’d be less than truthful if she denied she was flattered by the congressman’s attention; less than truthful if she denied she didn’t sometimes feel left out of her husband’s life. Oh, she was still madly in love with him; but over the years she’d come to realize that Walt loved his country, the air force, his F-111, and his wife in that order. She didn’t really mind, she just longed to be a part of it; to share it; to better understand it and him. Writing for the base newspaper was a less than satisfying attempt to do so. Funny, she thought, the things that made Walt so special to her were the things that got in the way. “Why not, Jim?” she finally replied.
“Good,” Gutherie enthused. “Twelve-thirty, Cafe Promenade at the Hay Adams.”
Stephanie showered and was wrapping herself in a bath towel when she caught sight of her naked torso in the mirror and poked an accusing fingertip into a ripple of flesh. The first time someone said she and her daughter, Laura, looked like sisters, she was flattered. But down deep, she knew it was because they dressed alike. Stephanie had been living in jeans, sweatshirts, and running shoes, and rarely dressed up anymore. She hated middle age. A harmless lunch would ease the pain of it.
She had just finished dressing and was evaluating the effect when the phone rang again. It was the gymnastics coach at Camp Springs Junior High.
“I’m afraid Laura took a little fall during practice this morning,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oh my . . . Is she all right?”
“She’s fine; twisted her wrist when she landed. I think it’d be a good idea to have it X-rayed.”
“Of course. Thanks. I’m on my way.”
Stephanie called Gutherie’s secretary and canceled the luncheon; then, she left Jeffrey at the base day care center, and headed for Camp Springs Junior High.
It had never been any different, she thought. As soon as Walt left, the catastrophes began. It was the children’s way of letting him know he was needed. The syndrome was all too common among military families.
A half hour later, Stephanie had picked up Laura and returned to Andrews, driving directly to Malcom Grow Medical Center on Perimeter Road.
The emergency room doctor looked young, she thought. Too young, like a high school debater. He snapped Laura’s X-rays in front of a light panel and indicated a gray line on a bone just above her wrist, pronouncing it a hairline fracture of the lower radius.
It wasn’t a serious injury, but to a budding gymnast who had been traini
ng hard, it was terribly upsetting not to be able to compete.
At home, Laura settled gloomily in the kitchen with a tin of chocolate chip cookies.
“Builds strong bones,” Stephanie chided, pouring her a glass of milk.
“I really miss Dad,” Laura said wistfully, making circles in the crumbs on the counter.
“Me too. What do you say we call him?”
The teenager’s eyes brightened. “Mean it?”
“Of course. The number’s in the—” Stephanie cut off the sentence as Laura bolted from the kitchen. “Easy! You’ll have a cast on the other wrist,” she cautioned, hurrying after her.
Laura quickly found the package of transfer data and read the digits aloud as her mother dialed.
“Forty-eighth TAC,” a woman’s voice answered.
“May I speak with Major Shepherd, please?”
“Major Shepherd,” the woman said, encoding at a keyboard filling her computer screen with names. “I’m sorry but I don’t list an extension for him.”
“Are you sure? I talked to him last week.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, scrolling through the names again. “Let me transfer you to Personnel.”
Personnel had no trouble at all finding him. “Ah,” the clerk said, pulling the file up on her screen. “He’s right here on my transfer roster.”
“He’s been transferred?”
“To Upper Heyford. I have the number if you like.”
“Of course, please.” That’s odd, Stephanie thought, as she jotted it down. It wasn’t like Walt. He always let her know how to reach him. “Could it be temporary?” she asked, thinking that might be the reason.
“I doubt it. He’s got a new CO. According to his file, he reports to a Colonel Richard Larkin now.”
Stephanie wrote down the name, hung up, and called Upper Heyford. Informed Major Shepherd wasn’t in his quarters, she left a message.
AT ABOUT the same time 90 miles west of London, the haunting whistle and rhythmic clack of a freight train, snaking through the Buckingham countryside, greeted the early twilight.
Shepherd thought he had died and gone to heaven, which he was surprised to discover smelled like a beer hall. The tangy scent of lager, strong and tart, the way he liked it, filled the air.
He was lying on his stomach, atop a mountain of hops in an open freight car, one of many on their way to a London brewery. As he slowly regained consciousness, his mind filled with confusing flashes of memory: the scream of grinding steel, the pain of brutal, bone-jarring impact, the sting of searing sheets of flame.
His presence on the train was a matter of simple physics and decisive action. For as the locomotive collided with the rear of the tanker truck, knocking it out of its path, the front went pivoting around back toward the tracks. The vehicle came to rest on its side, the cab literally within inches of the passing train. The impact had torn open the driver’s door, wrenching it back on its hinges into a nearly horizontal position; and while the flame and smoke from the roaring inferno at the rear of the tanker blocked Larkin and Applegate’s view, Shepherd pulled himself out of the cab and climbed onto this “platform.” He was spattered with burning fuel; but his flight suit, made of Nomex—the same fireproof material used to outfit astronauts and race drivers—protected him. Despite the pain from the battering he’d taken in the tumbling cab, he was fully conscious and able to think. He had no doubt the men who had tried to kill him were waiting on the other side of the tracks; he also knew, injured and unarmed, he didn’t stand a chance on foot. He crouched there staring at the wall of flames shooting up around him, then glanced to the open gondolas rushing past just below and made his decision. The inferno was literally licking at his heels, as he crawled to the edge of the door and jumped.
He landed in one of the gondolas atop a mound of hops. It cushioned the impact, but couldn’t overcome the momentum of the train. He clutched desperately at the crumbly cones that offered no handhold and went rocketing into the steel sidewall. His head smashed against it, knocking him unconscious.
Hours later, he was still out cold when British Railway officials, who had been dispatched from London, arrived on the scene, disconnecting the damaged locomotive and detaining its crew for questioning. The train spent the night on a siding, as did Shepherd, who was concealed in one of the forty gondolas. He slipped in and out of consciousness several times, though he had no recollection of it.
The following morning another locomotive and crew were assigned to take the cargo to its destination.
Now, as the freight moved slowly through the countryside, Shepherd was gradually accepting that he was alive. His head pounded. His bruised muscles protested the slightest movement. His mind fought to comprehend what had happened to him. He turned over and struggled to a sitting position. Excruciating pain shot through his battered limbs. Everything began whirling about. He fought the rising nausea and put his head between his legs, which steadied him. Slowly, methodically, he undid the zippers of his G-suit and discarded it. He made his way through the hops to the edge of the open gondola and peered over the side.
The darkened countryside whistled past in a blur.
The right-of-way ran parallel to the A40 motorway. An illuminated sign at an interchange was visible through a break in the trees. The letters were three feet tall but a severe case of double vision prevented Shepherd from reading them. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to no avail. Finally, he covered one eye with his palm and squinted. The jumble of letters merged. For a brief instant he could make out: LONDON 45K. The letters gradually blurred and everything started spinning again. He slumped against the side of the gondola and passed out.
A short time later, he awakened beneath a star-dotted sky. The temperature had plummeted and he was shivering from the dampness and cold.
The piercing sound of an air horn announced that the freight was entering the yards just south of Hackney Wick Stadium on the desolate eastern outskirts of London. The engineer began guiding it through the myriad of signals and switches.
Shepherd crawled to a standing position. Lights from distant buildings looked like tiny balls of illuminated fuzz. The canted roofs of sheet metal warehouses marched into the gritty darkness, blending with the endless acres of rolling stock parked on sidings. Shepherd swung a leg over the side of the gondola and fought to keep his balance while his foot searched frantically in the darkness for the first tread on the ladder. Finally secured, he straddled the edge for a moment, then swung his other leg over and began making his way down.
The train snaked between darkened maintenance sheds, then jerked through a series of switches.
Shepherd lost his grip on the ladder and started falling backward. The train lurched in the opposite direction, propelling him toward the ladder again. He clung to it fiercely, waiting for the freight to slow. An eternity passed before it braked to a 5 MPH crawl.
A flickering light on the other side of the yard pierced the ground fog that draped over the tops of the buildings and boxcars. It caught Shepherd’s attention. He could vaguely see several figures gathered around it. Trainmen? Yard workers? A conductor? he wondered, his spirits rising as the ghostly forms seemed to materialize, then vanish in the haze.
Shepherd didn’t have the strength to jump. He let go of the ladder and hit the ground hard, rolling across the chunky gravel and tall weeds sprouting between the ties and spurs. His aching body came to rest against the ungiving concrete base of a yard signal. He lay there for a moment gathering his strength, then pulled himself upright and leaned against it, squinting into the darkness to get his bearings.
The light was on the other side of the yard.
Shepherd took several deep breaths and started walking toward it. A sharp ringing rose in his ears. Light reflecting off the landscape of polished steel rails intensified the serpentine pattern, heightening his feeling of vertigo. He began swaying but pressed onward, struggling to maintain his balance.
The flickering light came closer
and closer.
It came from a fire in a trash pail just outside an abandoned switchman’s shack—a source of warmth for the derelicts huddled around it. One wore a rumpled military surplus officer’s cap. The other had a filthy ponytail and was snaking uncontrollably, not from the cold but from heroin withdrawal. He wrapped a tattooed fist around the neck of an empty beer bottle and watched expectantly as Shepherd stumbled toward him.
13
“WHERE IS HASAN?” Abu Nidal asked as he stepped from the gunboat onto the dock at Casino du Liban. The meeting with Qaddafi, Assad, and Arafat was that afternoon; and he had expected Hasan to drive him to Damascus.
Katifa thought Nidal would be flat on his back in his cabin. For two days he had been injecting himself, not with insulin but milky water. She couldn’t believe he had held on this long.
“We haven’t seen Hasan for days,” one of the young terrorists replied with a baffled shrug.
“Not since you chastised him,” Katifa responded, feigning she was equally perplexed.
Following the confrontation at her apartment, she and Moncrieff had bound and gagged Hasan’s corpse and left it in the trunk of an abandoned car in the Ammal sector, making it appear he had been killed by enemy militia.
Katifa, Nidal, and his bodyguard walked up the gangway and through the casino onto the grounds. They were approaching her car when Nidal stumbled.
“Are you all right?” Katifa asked, alarmed. The words rang true, despite her relief that he was, at last, on the verge of acute ketoacidosis, a condition that occurs when blood cells are forced to burn fat and protein instead of glucose which requires insulin. As a result, the blood becomes saturated with glucose and potentially lethal waste products called ketones.
“I feel lightheaded,” Nidal explained, as they steadied him. “It’s been like this for several days.”
