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.