Greg Dinallo
Purpose of Evasion
FOR MY WIFE, GLORIA
AN INDIVIDUAL, EXCEPT FOR THE
PRESIDENT, ELECTED OR APPOINTED
TO AN OFFICE OF HONOR OR PROFIT IN
THE CIVIL SERVICE OR UNIFORMED
SERVICES, SHALL TAKE THE
FOLLOWING OATH:
“I,_____, DO SOLEMNLY SWEAR (OR
AFFIRM) THAT I WILL SUPPORT AND
DEFEND THE CONSTITUTION OF THE
UNITED STATES AGAINST ALL
ENEMIES, FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC;
THAT I WILL BEAR TRUE FAITH AND
ALLEGIANCES TO THE SAME; THAT I
TAKE THIS OBLIGATION FREELY,
WITHOUT ANY MENTAL RESERVATION
OR PURPOSE OF EVASION; AND THAT I
WILL WELL AND FAITHFULLY
DISCHARGE THE DUTIES OF THE
OFFICE ON WHICH I AM ABOUT
TO ENTER.
SO HELP ME GOD.”
PREFACE
June 14, 1985 — terrorists hijack a TWA jetliner: an American serviceman is executed; thirty-nine other Americans are held hostage for seventeen days.
December 27, 1985 — terrorists attack the Rome airport: twenty people are killed; five of them, Americans.
April 2, 1986 — a terrorist bomb explodes aboard a TWA 727 en route from Rome to Athens: four Americans are killed.
April 4, 1986 — terrorists bomb La Belle Club, a West Berlin disco: two American servicemen are killed.
April 5, 1986 — a U.S. spy satellite intercepts a cable from the Libyan People’s Bureau in East Berlin to Tripoli. The president, citing it as proof that Libya sanctioned the bombing, decides to retaliate.
April 14, 1986 — U.S. Air Force F-111 bombers from Lakenheath, England, and U.S. Navy A-6 Intruders from carriers in the Gulf of Sidra attack Libya.
The result: military facilities in Tripoli and Benghazi are destroyed. Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi’s compound is hit, but he is unharmed. Two F-111 bombers are hit by Libyan missiles. One is destroyed. Its crew is lost.
In the aftermath many questions were asked, the most incisive being: Why use F-111s based in England — a 5,800-mile, 14-hour round trip, requiring many inflight refuelings — when A-6 Intruders, based on carriers 200 miles from Libya’s shores, could have been used exclusively?
The official answer: To showcase military hardware and coordination skills, proving to Americans and the world that years of increased defense expenditures had paid off.
All that is history. What follows is fiction.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For technical information about the F-111 bomber, and the raid on Libya, I am indebted to the 27th Tactical Fighter Wing at Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico, and especially to the following U.S. Air Force personneclass="underline" Major Richard E. Brown, who has logged in excess of 4,000 hours at the controls of F-111s, more than any other aviator; Master Sergeant Gregory Weigl, crew chief; and Technical Sergeant Rhett Blevins, weapons specialist — all of whom at one time or another served with F-111 squadrons based in England.
I would also like to thank Major Ronald Fuchs and Captain Marie K. Yancey of the Air Force Public Affairs Division for directing me to the above-mentioned experts.
Furthermore, with regard to submarine sequences, it is important to acknowledge the extremely high level of technical literature published by the U.S. Naval Institute, as well as the counsel of those experts whose request for anonymity must be honored.
Along with my thanks, I offer apologies to all for technical embellishments or errata that were dictated by the drama and the need to blend fact with fiction.
MAP
PROLOGUE
Katifa’s skin was flawless. Bassam had no doubt of it as he caressed her, his fingertips gliding gently over her smooth flesh, which had the sheen of translucent amber. Not a freckle, not a blemish, not a single needle mark had he found — which was strange since the prescription for insulin was in her name.
Bassam had no doubt of that either.
About a week ago, a contact at the Turk Hospital pharmacy where it had been filled showed it to him. And though Katifa’s fiery beauty stirred Bassam’s passion, it was the medication that aroused his suspicion.
He immediately set out to satisfy both.
That afternoon, following a day of classes at Beirut University College, where she taught political science and Bassam taught economics, Katifa had hurried across the parking lot and got into her car.
The old Mercedes sedan refused to start.
Bassam just happened to be passing by and offered to help. He opened the hood and jiggled a few wires.
“Try it now,” he said in a confident tone.
Katifa turned the key and held it; still nothing.
“You’ve found me out,” Bassam joked with self-deprecating charm. “Fuel economy was my worst subject.” Then, after appropriate tinkering and head scratching, he deftly replaced the rotor he had removed from the vehicle’s distributor a short time earlier.
The engine kicked over.
Katifa beamed.
And as Bassam had planned, he soon spent an evening exploring Katifa’s supple body, paying special attention to the smooth expanse of her thighs and flat plane of her abdomen, sites where her nose and mouth. “I went through Al Zarif to make sure I lost him.”
Rashid’s face tightened. He led her to a window, peering through a slit in the boards nailed over it.
“You didn’t,” he said in a tense voice.
Katifa’s eyes narrowed to see a shadow moving across the grounds below. The glow from a window washed over the man’s face, revealing his features.
“Bassam… you bastard,” she hissed bitterly.
“You know him?”
“Yes, from school,” she replied, trying to hide the embarrassment she felt. “We’re… colleagues.”
Rashid saw the evasive flicker in his sister’s eyes. “You’ve been fucking a shetan,” he said, pegging Bassam for a spy, possibly a CIA operative, which he was. “He’s been making inquiries at every pharmacy in the city.”
What Rashid didn’t know was that several weeks before, CIA had been informed that a terrorist leader had been treated at the Turk Hospital private clinic for diabetic shock — unofficially, no name, no records — and Bassam had been checking out all new prescriptions for insulin.
Rashid gathered men from other rooms in the casino. Like him they were young and lean, with eyes that blazed with intensity — the offspring of Palestinians deported from Jordan who had sought refuge in Beirut amid the warring Druze, Amal, and Shiite militias, with whom they shared a hatred for the United States and Israel. Despite it, Palestinians were unwelcome in Beirut and had been without power since Yasser Arafat was expelled in 1982. They would have been long forgotten if not for the series of bombings, hijackings, and kidnappings that captured world attention. Yet it wasn’t the PLO that had orchestrated them, but a radical PLO splinter group called the Fatah Revolutionary Council.
Now Rashid and his band of FRC guerrillas fanned out into Casino du Liban’s marble corridors and stairwells in search of the intruder. All were armed. Several carried Skorpions, the ultralight, easily concealed submachine gun long favored by the PLO.
Bassam had crossed the darkened gaming room and was climbing the sweeping staircase, his hand wrapped around the grip of a pistol. He reached the top, moved slowly down a corridor, and had started up some steps to a landing when the marble tread beneath his foot creaked. He froze and cursed silently, deciding to leave while he still could, and report his discovery. But a shadow was stretching slowly across the floor in the corridor behind him. He glanced about for a way to avoid an encounter. The soft whisk of denim up ahead told him he was trapped. He holstered his weapon, inching his way back toward the corner, his eyes glued to the shadow, which grew longer and longer. His fingers slipped a knife from his pocket and opened it, skillfully masking the click of the blade as it locked in place. He waited until the last possible instant, until the terrorist’s lithe silhouette was about to turn toward him with his Skorpion. Then swiftly, instinctively, Bassam clamped a hand over his mouth, yanked his head back sharply, and drove the long blade upward into the soft flesh just behind his chin. It pierced his tongue, went through the roof of his mouth, and darted into the base of his brain. He died instantly without making a sound.