Purpose of Evasion (2 page)

B
OOK

O
NE

A PEOPLE THAT EATS

IMPORTED FOOD

CANNOT BE FREE.

—COLONEL

MUAMMAR

EL-QADDAFI

1

LIBYA,
six months later.

Monday, March 31, 1986.

Not a blade of grass, not a single plant, bush, or tree, nothing but burnt sienna sand stretched for miles across this wind-burnished landscape—nothing except a concrete pipeline that slithered over the dunes like an immense, sunbathing rattlesnake.

The infernal stillness was soon broken by the rising whisk of rotors. A Libyan Air Force helicopter came streaking low over the Sahara, sunlight reflecting off its windshield like a flashing strobe.

Saddam Moncrieff sat next to the pilot, staring at the endless miles of concrete pipe that passed directly beneath him, contemplating a problem. A hydrologist of international repute, the pensive Saudi had engineered a plan to solve Libya’s serious water shortage, a shortage compounded by the high salt content of rain-fed wells, the nation’s only source. Even in Tripoli, tap water had become barely drinkable.

Subterranean aquifers discovered beneath the Sahara by American geologists searching for oil were the key to Moncrieff s plan: hundreds of wells drilled in the desert would pump 200 million cubic feet of water a day, twice OPEC’s daily output of oil, through 2,500 miles of pipeline to Libya’s thirsty cities.

The sections of concrete pipe, each 13 feet in diameter and weighing 73 tons, were manufactured round the clock at a modern desert complex; and Moncrieff s aerial survey of wellheads and pipeline had confirmed that the project was right on schedule. Despite it, Libya’s Great Man-Made River Project was in jeopardy. The subterranean reservoirs were drying up. By the time the $20 billion undertaking was completed, there would be little if any water to pump through it; and the Saudi had just determined beyond doubt that the cause was a dam that had diverted its source—a dam built several years before in neighboring Tunisia.

Contrary to popular conception, Tunisia had plenty of water,
as did neighboring Algeria and Morocco. The mountain ranges of the northern Maghreb—where ski resorts remain open well into April—were a copious watershed, supplying a string of oases that ran south to the city of Nefta. Here, hundreds of natural springs were funneled into an east-flowing tributary. It eventually drained deep into thirsty salt lakes, creating underground rivers that for eons had flowed hundreds of miles beneath the Sahara into Libya, feeding the subterranean Jabal Al Hasawnah water fields.

But Nefta Dam had blocked this tributary. Now, where there had been nothing, an immense, glass-smooth lake encircled by lush palm forests, olive groves, and fields of barley stretched to the horizon. Unfortunately, though a boon to Tunisia’s economy, the dam had cut off the supply of water to Libya’s reservoirs.

That was Moncrieff s problem; that and the fact that he was on his way to meet with Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi to decide how to deal with it.

The sun was burning through a light mist as the helicopter came in over the desert and landed at the Bab al Azziziya Barracks south of downtown Tripoli.

Moncrieff was ushered into the boldly patterned tent that served as Qaddafi’s personal domicile, joining the colonel, his chief of staff, General Younis, and several economic and industrial advisers.

Qaddafi wore a bulletproof vest and maroon beret embroidered with the Insignia of Islam. He sat on the edge of a desk beneath the soaring fabric and harsh fluorescents, digesting Moncrieff s report.

Ten years before, Qaddafi, the son of an illiterate Bedouin shepherd, had cut a shrewd deal with the Ivy League presidents of Western oil companies. The money provided free housing, education, and medical care for his people. But the lack of water threatened his vision for Libya’s future.

When Moncrieff and the members of Qaddafi’s staff were seated and had ceased to murmur among themselves, the Libyan leader looked up and broke the stillness. “We’re going into Tunisia,” he said quietly.

A stunned silence fell over the group.

A look flicked between Moncrieff and Younis.

The general was a short man with rigid posture that suited his
title. “Send a military force across the border?” he finally asked, wary of Qaddafi’s impulsive bent for invading his neighbors. An attack on the Tunisian city of Gafsa in 1980 and the current war with Chad, a demoralizing struggle over a worthless strip of desert, were its most recent manifestations. True, the lack of water was arguably a more noble and justifiable motive but, as the general knew, Tunisia was a far more formidable adversary.

“We have no choice,” Qaddafi replied, going on to remind his staff that relations between the two nations were strained and that it would be unrealistic to expect even a staunch ally, let alone Tunisia, to destroy a multibillion dollar investment. “I suggest an air strike, carried out at night by bombers flying below radar at supersonic speed,” Qaddafi concluded. “In a matter of minutes that dam would be a pile of rubble; and it would be over before Tunisian Air Defense knew it had even happened, let alone who did it.”

Younis’s face stiffened with grave concern.

“You don’t agree?” Qaddafi challenged.

“On the contrary,” the general replied. “Unfortunately, we don’t have aircraft capable of it.”

Qaddafi’s eyes narrowed, forcing vertical creases deep into his forehead. After a moment, he removed a thick, soft-cover volume from a bookcase behind his desk.

The Military Balance
was published annually by the International Institute for Strategic Studies in London. It quantitatively assessed the armed forces of more than 140 countries. The colonel relied on it to keep informed of the strength of enemies and allies alike, the latter with an eye to purchasing military hardware. He turned to the section where the Libyan Air Force was inventoried:

The list further enumerated helicopters, transports, and trainers. Qaddafi pointed to the total. “We have five hundred and forty-four combat aircraft,” he intoned. “None are capable of flying this mission?”

“Four hundred and fifty-one are inoperable, sir,” Younis said gently, citing a statistic in the report Qaddafi was conveniently ignoring. “We are woefully short of maintenance technicians, and spare parts. Only our SU-22s are—”

“Well, what about them?” Qaddafi challenged, zeroing in on the mainstay of his air force.

“A defensive weapon, nothing more,” Younis explained. “Even in broad daylight it can barely—”

“We’ve spent billions,
billions
,
and still can’t take out an unprotected dam?” Qaddafi bellowed.

“Not at night. Not at supersonic speed. Not below radar. Not in Tunisia without getting caught, sir,” Younis replied evenly. “No.”

Qaddafi ran a hand through his wiry hair, pondering the problem. “The Soviets will never sell us these aircraft,” he concluded sharply. “They’re worried we’re defaulting on the five billion we already owe them.”

Moncrieff had been quietly observing and analyzing. “Moscow isn’t the only source,” he said calmly after a long silence.

Qaddafi’s eyes shifted to the Saudi. “Where else?”

“Washington,” Moncrieff replied softly.

Younis looked stunned.

The colonel concealed his surprise, his large head tilting back at the familiar cocky angle. He had no doubt Moncrieff was serious. He knew the Saudi could make things happen; that he had powerful international connections; that he was different, privileged.

The Saudi prince had been educated in Switzerland and France as well as the London School of Economics, where he had honed his exceptional analytical skills. Indeed, Moncrieff had been the first to realize that finding a solution for the lack of water, not milking the abundance of oil, was the key to economic growth in the Middle East. It was a theory that had brought him to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he received a doctorate in hydrology.

“I’d be happy to explore the matter, sir,” Moncrieff said coolly.

“What would they want in exchange? My head?” Qaddafi cracked, knowing he had nothing that could induce the United States to give supersonic bombers to him, the financier of international terrorism.

“No, sir,” Moncrieff replied, not daring to laugh. “I’m quite certain acceptable currency can be acquired. However, delicate linkages would be involved. I’d need your help to secure them.”

“For example?”

“A meeting with Chairman Arafat would be essential—a private meeting.”

Qaddafi was considering it when the swish of a tent flap behind him broke his concentration.

An aide-de-camp entered and delivered a communiqué. “From the People’s Bureau in Rome, sir.”

Qaddafi took the envelope, broke the seal, and removed a cable, which read:

WE HAVE AN EVENT PLANNED THAT WILL PLEASE YOU.

The colonel looked up, smiling, and announced, “It seems our friends in Rome plan to celebrate Easter with a bang.” Then he went to his desk to make a phone call.

Younis took Moncrieff aside. “These bombers—you understand, they must,
must
have electro-optical guidance,” he sternly warned, referring to the state-of-the-art system that allows a pilot to locate his target at supersonic speed in total darkness and destroy it with bombs that home on a laser frequency.

“It’s called Pave Tack,” Moncrieff replied.

2

THE GENERAL DYNAMICS F-111
had Pave Tack. It had APQ 144 forward-looking attack radar, ASQ 133 digital fire control, and APQ 138 terrain-following radar.

The F-111 had everything; and Major Walter Shepherd, United States Air Force, lived to fly it.

An airborne stiletto, Shepherd thought, the first time he saw the bomber’s crisp edges, long, pointed snout, and swept-back wings. He knew it was a hot aircraft, one whose performance far outstripped its nickname; sure, the Aardvark was a bomber—a bomber with the speed and agility of a supersonic fighter.

The instrumentation was dazzling: navigation computer screen at left, Pave Tack radar at right joined by rows of flight systems gauges, topped by HUD, the heads up display system that projects data onto the canopy, allowing the pilot to keep his eye on the target while the weapons systems officer destroys it.

Walt Shepherd knew every square inch of his plane, every rivet, wire, computer chip, and data readout; his name was stenciled on the nose gear door. The United States government may have paid General Dynamics $67 million for it—but it was
his
plane.

Sixteen years ago, he was a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant fresh out of flight school when he started flying them. Assigned to a special squadron during the last years of the Vietnam War, Shepherd flew dozens of F-111 missions. Indeed, while many protested and avoided service, Walt Shepherd was flying an untested bomber in combat, and counted himself lucky to have the opportunity. Military service was a family tradition—God, love of country, a strong national defense were its guiding principles. An Eagle Scout by age fourteen, he delivered newspapers with dedication and sang with the Friendship Church choir. Like many towns in the southwestern pocket of Oklahoma, towns with names like Granite, Sentinel, and Victory, Friendship’s economy was dependent on nearby Altus Air Force Base. As a teenager, Shepherd
spent many afternoons watching military jets taking off; and despite his gentle nature, their thundering roar stirred something in him, something primal and raw that bonded with his unquestioning sense of duty, giving rise to a powerful yearning for combat.

Officially, Major Shepherd flew with the 253rd squadron of the 27th Tactical Fighter Wing at Cannon AFB in New Mexico. Three years ago in a TAC reshuffle, he came east to fly a routine operational readiness inspection. A clever and resourceful thinker with a flair for tactical innovation, Shepherd proved so adept at playing the enemy and penetrating radar defenses with his F-111 that he was assigned to the Pentagon to document his expertise and develop training programs. He had since been temporarily stationed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C.

On this cold, crystal clear morning, he was in the kitchen of his home on Ashwood Circle, a wooded cul-de-sac in the officers’ family housing sector, helping his two-year-old into a snowsuit.

“Come on, Jeffrey, hold still,” Shepherd admonished in his easy drawl, finally getting it zipped up.

“Bathroom,” the squirming child protested, clutching his crotch with mittened hands. “Bathroom.”

Shepherd let out a sigh. “Take him, will you?” he asked Laura, who had bounded into the kitchen, donning a parka.

The thirteen-year-old took one look at her heavily bundled brother and presented Shepherd with an open palm.

“Two bucks,” she said with a grin.

“Fifty cents.”

“Hold out for a dollar,” her mother chimed in, fighting a roll of plastic wrap, one eye on the small television atop the counter tuned to the “Today Show.”

“Steph,” Shepherd protested.

The phone rang. Shepherd answered it. “Congressman Guth-erie’s office,” he said, handing it to Stephanie.

She wiggled her brows in anticipation, making him laugh, and moved aside with the phone. A bright, ingenuously sexy woman, at thirty-seven Stephanie Shepherd still had the freshness of the University of Denver journalism student who had caught Walt’s eye at an Air Force Academy mixer nearly twenty years ago.

“Wish we were going with you, Daddy,” Laura pouted, glancing at her father’s luggage next to the door.

“Me too,” Shepherd said warmly, “but you know—”

“Yeah, I know, I can’t miss school.”

“I’ll miss
you,
princess.”

“You’re going to miss the finals too,” Laura said, referring to her upcoming gymnastics competition. She was standing next to the television when Willard Scott’s folksy weather report segued to an update of the morning’s top news stories.

“A terrorist bomb exploded aboard a TWA 727 jetliner en route from Rome to Athens, yesterday,” the newsreader somberly reported. “Authorities said those responsible are believed to be supported by, if not actual agents of, Libyan strongman Muammar el-Qaddafi. The explosion tore a hole in the fuselage, killing four American passengers who were sucked out of the plane, and fell fifteen thousand feet to their deaths.”

Laura turned to her father, her face a bewildered mask. “How can people do things like that?”

“They’re uncivilized, sweetheart,” Shepherd gently explained, turning off the television. “They don’t play by the rules the way we do.”

The child nodded sadly, a dozen questions in her eyes, then she took Jeffrey’s hand and headed for the bathroom.

“The interview’s set for this afternoon,” Stephanie announced brightly, hanging up the phone. She worked as a reporter for the
Capitol Flyer,
the base newspaper, and Andrews was in the congressman’s district.

“I hope he voted for the ERA,” Shepherd teased.

A horn beeped outside. Their faces tightened apprehensively. They looked at each other for a long moment, then kissed.

“Something else you’re going to miss,” Stephanie whispered as their lips parted.

“You bet; twenty years with a sex-crazed journalist isn’t the sort of thing that just slips a man’s mind.”

“Walt,” she admonished gently, unable to suppress a girlish giggle. “I meant our anniversary.”

“I know,” he said more seriously. “We’ll do something special as soon as you come to England.”

They were still embracing when the children returned and the horn beeped again. Shepherd kissed and hugged each of them, then hefted the luggage and went out the kitchen door to the air force van in the driveway.

AN HOUR LATER,
Major Shepherd and his weapons systems officer, Captain Al Brancato, were at their lockers in the squadron life support room, donning flight suits, helmets, and inflatable G-suit harnesses that girdled their legs and torsos; then they strode down the flight line to a khaki and brown camouflage-patterned F-111F bomber. It had low visibility markings with black stencils. The tail code read: CC-179.

TAC had finally finished the reshuffle and they had been transferred to the 48th Tactical Fighter Wing based at Lakenheath Royal Air Force Base in England.

Brancato was a gregarious man whose taut physique shaped his flight suit. Like most aviators, he adhered to a fitness program of aerobic exercise and workouts in the squadron weight room, where a sign cautioned:
THE FORCE IS WITH YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.
Gravity was the force, and aviators who flew high performance aircraft viewed G-induced loss of consciousness as a lethal adversary. Well-developed musculature acted as a natural G-suit, augmenting the inflatable harness to raise G-tolerance and prevent GLC.

For the last eight years, Brancato had been Shepherd’s alter ego and wizzo. The latter in more ways than one.

“Name the island that has a quarter of a million less inhabitants today than it did a hundred years ago.”

“Ireland,” Shepherd answered hesitantly.

“Not bad. . . . The American who had a long association with the Soviet Union as businessman and ambassador?”

“Armand Hammer.”

“Averill Harriman. Hammer was never ambassador.”

“You going to do this all the way to the U.K.?”

“Just for that, which famous composer poured ice water over his head to stimulate his brain?”

“Elton John,” Shepherd cracked, as they stowed their luggage on a rack in the weapons bay, empty because the plane was flown “clean,” without ordnance, on deployment flights. The crew chief, who for three years had overseen 179’s maintenance with customary fervor, hadn’t been transferred to England and he watched wistfully as the two aviators did their inspection, then slipped beneath the gullwing canopies into side-by-side red leather couches.

After forty-five minutes of systems checks and engine warm-up procedures, Shepherd radioed for clearance. “Andrews tower, Viper-Two ready to roll.”

“Viper?” Stephanie had asked when they first dated, thinking there was nothing at all venomous about him. “It certainly doesn’t suit you.”

“Well,” he replied, glancing skyward, “you have to understand I’m different up there.”

She hadn’t understood; indeed, she still didn’t. Despite being blessed with that rare combination of guts, skill, and judgment found in the best fighter jocks, killing was out of character for Walt Shepherd; conversely, call sign Viper had no trouble handling it.

Shepherd started the F-111 down the west runway; 30 seconds later, the sleek F model, hottest of the 111 series, was banking over Chesapeake Bay. Soon it was at 30,000 feet, streaking through the atmosphere at 750 MPH. The wings were at 16 degrees, standard for takeoff and climb. Shepherd set the indicator stop at 52, advanced the throttles, and eased back the handle in the sidewall; the wings swept at a rate of 10 degrees per second and the F-111 bolted forward.

“Yeah,” Brancato hooted as the acceleration slammed him back into his seat; it was a kick every time.

Speed was now Mach 1.75; precisely 1,250 MPH.

Shepherd guided the plane into a GAT-assigned commercial air corridor and engaged the autopilot; then he and Brancato settled in for the long haul.

Two hours later, the sleek bomber was 2,400 miles out over the Atlantic, 1,300 miles from its destination. Unlike practice missions, deployment flights had no tactical objective. Once on autopilot, aviators were essentially passengers in a supersonic taxi. Brancato passed the time reading, his nose buried in a biography of Churchill. Shepherd monitored the avionics.

“Mind watching the store for a while?” Shepherd asked, as he removed a palm-sized cassette recorder from a pocket in the leg of his flight suit and clicked it on. Years ago, the first time he and Stephanie were apart, he had wooed her via cassette, and he had been using it to keep in touch with home ever since: from Vietnam, the Philippines, wherever he was stationed without her.

“Thursday, three April,” he began in his easy drawl. “Real pretty up here, babe. We left the Grand Banks behind about an hour
ago. Advance report for touchdown is rain and more rain. Sounds like we’re talking weather for ducks. Speaking of water, Al thought you should know that Beethoven used to pour ice water over his—” He paused, catching Brancato signaling to the multi systems display. “He’s waving at me like a matador. Not Beethoven, Al. Be talking to you soon.”

“Three bogies coming off the deck at a hundred miles,” Brancato said, eyes riveted to the MSD screen, where three blips had penetrated the radar envelope.

Far below and to the northeast, a Redfleet Surface Action Group was cruising the waters of the North Atlantic: four submarines, three cruisers, and six destroyers in escort of the Kiev-class carrier
Minsk.

A radar operator in the
Minsk
’s
attack center had picked up the F-111’s signal. Its speed indicated he was tracking a military jet. The chance to observe American military aircraft wasn’t taken lightly.

Three Yak-36 VTOL interceptors had been scrambled. They were far from the cutting edge of technology. But advanced Soviet interceptors hadn’t been engineered to withstand the stress of catapult launches and arrester-hook landings like their American counterparts, and the vertical-takeoff-and-landing Forgers were the only aircraft deployed on Redfleet carriers.

In the F-111’s cockpit, Shepherd was intently studying the three blips on his radar screen. “Nothing coming back on the IFF,” he observed. Identification friend or foe transponders were carried on all NATO aircraft; radar blips not accompanied by an IFF symbol were considered hostile. “Have to be Forgers,” he concluded. “Under or over? What do you say?”

“We have twenty angels on their ceiling,” Brancato replied, suggesting they climb to avoid contact.

“Going to be tight,” Shepherd said.

He pulled back on the stick, putting the F-111 into a climb. The Forger’s ceiling was 41,000 feet, the F-111’s 60,000. At a rate of climb of 3,592 feet per minute, the F-111 would reach clear air in 3 minutes 10 seconds. The F-111 kept streaking upward through the blinding whiteness. The beeps from the radar detector were coming faster. The altimeter had just ticked 37,000 when they blended into a screech.

“Three bogies dead ahead fifteen miles,” Brancato announced. “We’re not going to make it.”

At a combined closing speed of 40 miles a minute, the 15-mile gap closed in just over 20 seconds.

The two lead Forgers split at the last instant and screamed past; one above, followed an eyeblink later by the second below. The passes were dangerously close.

The F-111 shuddered and bounced, emitting loud, thumping protests as it slammed into the vortex of turbulent air that spiraled off the Forgers.

“Crazy bastards,” Brancato growled.

“Six months on a carrier’ll do it to you.”

The third Forger was still 10 miles away, closing on the F-111’s nose from below.

“I got a lock on the trailer,” Brancato said, which meant the F-111’s computerized attack radar system was targeted on the approaching Forger. It was a warning, a game of one-upmanship, a deadly way of making a point. Hell, the Russian had it coming.

“Squirm, turkey, squirm,” Shepherd drawled, at the thought of the Soviet pilot’s radar detector letting him know that, but for an aversion to starting World War III and a clean plane, he and Brancato would have blown him out of the skies.

They had no way of knowing that the Russian was a kid; that his wingmen had purposely set him up for an initiation, fully expecting
he
would get the “treatment” for their harassment of the F-111. Unfortunately, the treatment had an effect his wing-men hadn’t anticipated. The novice pilot froze in the cockpit, his eyes wide with terror at the thought of his young life being ended by one of the Sidewinder missiles he imagined hung from the hardpoints beneath the F-111’s wings.