The door was partly open, and he looked up to see a rain-soaked courier standing in the corridor.
“Major Shepherd, sir?”
“You got him, Corporal,” Shepherd replied, returning his salute and taking the envelope. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, sir,” he said, saluting and hurrying off down the corridor.
Shepherd glanced to the puddle where the corporal had been standing and smiled. Well, they sure named this place right, he thought.
The envelope contained orders, informing Shepherd he had been transferred to Upper Heyford RAFB, and was to report that afternoon at 17:00 with his F-111.
Upper Heyford, one hundred and forty miles southwest of Lakenheath, was dedicated to the training and deployment of weapons systems officers and ECM technicians. Crews permanently stationed there flew EF 111-As, the Electronic Counter-Measures version of the F-111. They escorted the bombers during raids, jamming enemy defense and missile guidance radar.
It was just past 3:00 A.M. at Andrews Air Force Base. Shepherd decided to wait until after arriving in Upper Heyford to call Stephanie about the transfer.
About an hour later, he and Captain Mark Foster, the other wizzo-less pilot, arrived at squadron headquarters.
Square-jawed and blue-eyed with a thick shock of auburn hair, Foster had grown up on a ranch in the Texas hill country.
After processing aircraft and personnel transfer documents, the two pilots spent the rest of the morning plotting turn points for an orientation mission they would fly en route to Upper Heyford — an extended flight that would allow Shepherd to become familiar with the crowded and tightly controlled air corridors that crisscrossed the United Kingdom. When finished, they suited up and went to the flight line.
Shepherd’s F-111 had been repaired and had been on active status for several days now. He settled into the cockpit as the air crew hooked up the Dash-60, a pneumatic blower that wound the engines to start speed. At 17,000 RPMs, he lifted the throttles and the turbines came to life. After an hour of routine warm-up procedures and systems checks, he glanced wistfully to the empty seat next to him, and radioed the tower for takeoff clearance.
After altering the two pilots’ computer files at Mildenhall, Larkin and Applegate had gone directly to Upper Heyford. With CIA sanction, they took over a hangar in a remote corner of the field. In the next few days the offices and life-support room, which contained the aviators’ lockers and gear, were quickly painted and outfitted. A small group of Special Forces personnel — guards, aviators, technicians, clerical staffers — who would play various roles in the scheme to acquire the two F-111 bombers joined them.
“Better find out if either of these guys carries a weapon,” Larkin asked when reviewing the details.
“Done,” Applegate said proudly; he knew most pilots carried a sidearm only when flying combat, but there were those who carried one whenever they flew. “The Texan carries a thirty-eight. Shepherd flies clean.”
“Sequences your targets if nothing else,” Larkin mused. It also resulted in the selection of a sniper rifle as a weapon. Fired from a distant and concealed position, it would provide a margin of safety for the marksman and, requiring an imperceptible change of angle between shots, facilitate extremely rapid shooting.
That was three days ago.
Now, in one of the offices, Larkin and Applegate sat on opposite sides of a desk, the parts of a disassembled rifle spread out in front of them.
The Iver Johnson Model 300 was the finest of sniping rifles: a fluted and counterweighted barrel reduced vibration and whip; a short-throw bolt allowed a marksman to fire all four rounds in five seconds; an X9 Leupold scope ensured they would be bull’s-eyes.
Applegate had cleaned the IJ3’s parts and now, as he assembled them, he checked each for specks of dust or excess oil, making sure the action was working smoothly.
Larkin opened a box of 8.58 mm cartridges and examined them, his wintry eyes making certain that the bullet was properly seated in the case, that the primers were centered, that there were no imperfections that might result in a misfire. He selected four cartridges and handed them to Applegate, who began thumbing them into the magazine.
The rain had finally stopped as the two F-111s completed the orientation mission and streaked through swiftly falling darkness, landing side by side on Heyford’s north-south runway. At Larkin’s request, air traffic control directed them through the maze of taxiways to the remote hangar.
The colonel was waiting on the tarmac when the bombers emerged from the mist and taxied into view. With him were four members of the Special Forces contingent that he and Applegate had assembled: two crew chiefs who would tend to the aircraft, and two guards wearing Air Force Security Police uniforms who would patrol the area.
The crew chiefs guided the planes to a stop, then positioned ladders against the fuselages and assisted the pilots from their cockpits.
Larkin tensed slightly as Shepherd and Foster strode toward him in the darkness, removing their flight helmets. “Hope you’ll excuse the lack of drums and bugles,” he said genially after introductions had been made.
“President’s got to cut the deficit somehow,” Shepherd joked.
“We hear he’s got other priorities this week, sir,” Foster said with a smile.
“And we’re keeping them as low pro as possible,” Larkin replied brightly, stealing a glance at the pistol on Foster’s hip. “You’ll hook up with your wizzos and spend a few days getting in the groove. When the red light flashes you’ll brief with the EF crews and join the strike force en route.”
Larkin led the way toward the hangar. Shepherd and Foster followed him through the personnel door and down a long corridor, entering beneath a narrow balcony that ringed the hangar’s second-floor offices.
“LS room’s over there,” Larkin said, gesturing to the far side of the huge space. He began falling back, his heart pounding in his chest, as they crossed the empty, sound-deadened hangar, which, he and Applegate had reasoned, would not only contain the loud reports but also offer no cover to their targets.
Above and behind them on the darkened balcony, Applegate was waiting with the sniper rifle. He quietly set the forestock on the pipe rail, tuned the telescopic sight, and aligned the first target, the armed target; he let the cross hairs drift onto the back of Foster’s head, held a breath, and calmly squeezed off the round.
Shepherd heard the sharp crack and whirled at the same instant Foster pitched forward, spinning toward him in a shower of tissue and blood.
Simultaneously, Applegate jacked the IJ3’s bolt, made the quick shift in angle that put the cross hairs on Shepherd, and fired again. But in that split second, the unforeseen happened — Foster had spun into the line of fire. The round tore into his back as he passed in front of Shepherd. Larkin was reaching to his shoulder holster when Shepherd, having every reason to believe the colonel was also a target, made a lifesaving dive, knocking him to the ground.
Applegate saw the tangle of arms and legs and held his fire for fear of hitting Larkin, who had drawn his pistol and was fighting furiously to get to his feet. Shepherd saw the flailing weapon and then, their faces inches apart as Larkin broke free and went rolling out from under him, Shepherd saw, not fear and surprise, but determination and intent—murderous intent that told him he, not the sniper in the balcony, would be Larkin’s target. Shepherd kicked Larkin’s arm as he came up out of the roll into a firing crouch. The shot went wild. The 9 mm Baretta skittered across the floor.