“What are you doing?” Katifa demanded, trying to stop them. “What’s going on?”
The captain slammed the transmission into reverse and gunned the engines. The gunboat lurched and roared away from the wharf. “Shoot her!” he shouted, seeing Katifa’s interference. “Shoot her!”
Katifa heard him and ran across the deck, intending to dive into the water to escape. One of the terrorists stepped out from behind the cabin, blocking her way, and fired a burst from his Skorpion. The rounds tore into Katifa’s body, but her momentum carried her into him.
They both went over the rail into the sea.
Katifa was wracked with searing pain that radiated from each wound like internal flashes of lightning. The plunge into the chilly water had a pleasurable, numbing effect; she went into shock and lay there, floating face down, motionless.
The Palestinian went under and stayed under, fighting to shed the heavy cartridge belts girdling his chest, which were dragging him down.
“No! No, hold your fire!” Duryea shouted, concerned the terrorists would kill the hostages if the SEALs returned the fire.
Moncrieff was already sprinting across the wharfs rough-sawn timbers. He tossed the radiophone aside and dove into the oily water, remaining submerged as he began swimming toward Katifa.
Terrorists on the departing gunboat began spraying the surface with bursts from their Skorpions.
The helicopter carrying Larkin and the others had come in over the Old City, which borders the west end of the harbor. It had circled the wharf and was just touching down when the gunfire broke out. The four Americans piled out of the chopper and dashed up the gangway onto the Cavalla’s deck.
“What the fuck happened?” Larkin exploded.
“I don’t know!” Duryea shouted over parting bursts from the Skorpions. “Shit just hit the fan!”
“Bastards!” Larkin exclaimed bitterly. “Let’s get out of here.”
“They your people?” Duryea asked, pointing far across the wharf to the water on the opposite side.
Larkin turned to see Moncrieff and Katifa in the center of a widening pool of blood. The Saudi was struggling to keep her afloat and swim toward the wharf.
“No,” the colonel replied coldly, unwilling to risk the time it would take to maneuver the sub into position to rescue them, or to risk that once aboard they would inadvertently blow the cover story he had given Duryea. A hollowness grew in the pit of Larkin’s stomach. He couldn’t believe it had gone so wrong.
“Cast off!” Duryea shouted to McBride, who was standing on the bridge atop the sail.
The Cavalla was already slipping away from the wharf as Duryea, Larkin, and the others scrambled down deck hatches. The black-hulled submarine cut swiftly through the water and vanished in the night.
17
The air strike was over.
For eleven and one-half minutes, the early morning silence had been rudely shattered by the thunderous roar of supersonic bombers and earth-shaking explosions, then replaced by the wail of countless sirens.
Flames were raging through the Bab al Azziziya Barracks on As-Sarim Street; dazed and panicked, Libyans were emerging from the rubble that covered downtown streets where the air was ripe with the pungent odor of cordite and death; the crews of F-111s were settling down for the seven-hour return flight to England; the mission commander was conducting an accountability check, confirming that two F-111s had been lost; navy Intruders were landing on the decks of carriers; and network anchormen were just wrapping up their evening broadcasts when the president took his seat behind his desk in the oval office.
“We Americans are slow to anger. We always seek peaceful avenues before resorting to the use of force, and we did…” the president said in his smooth, perfectly paced delivery, pausing just long enough before adding, “None succeeded. This raid was a series of strikes against the headquarters, terrorist facilities, and military assets that support Muammar el-Qaddafi’s subversive activities. It will not only diminish his capacity to export state-sponsored terrorism, but will also provide him with incentives and reasons to alter his criminal behavior.” He paused again, his lips tightening into an angry red line. “I’m sorry to report,” he went on gravely, “that two of our aircraft were shot down and four of our brave young men gave their lives in the fight against terrorism. We have done what we had to do. If necessary we shall do it again.”
That night in London, two Special Forces agents arrived at The London Hospital on Mile End Road. White uniforms and maroon baseball caps with military insignia identified them as air force medical personnel. They had wasted no time in getting there; but it had taken hours to acquire the proper vehicle, attire, and identification, and several more to drive the 140 miles from Upper Heyford. It was 10:45 P.M. when they approached the nurse’s station, pushing a gurney.
“We’re here to pick up Major Shepherd,” one of them announced genially.
“Oh, my,” the nurse replied, glancing to the ID tag clipped to his pocket. “We weren’t expecting you at this hour. There’s a form you’ll have to fill out,” she said, hurrying off to fetch it. “I won’t be a minute.”
A patient, returning from the men’s room at the end of the corridor, overheard them. He returned to the dimly lighted ward and crossed to Shepherd’s bed.
“Shepherd?” he said, shaking him. “Hey, Shepherd?”
“Uh?” Shepherd awakened from a deep sleep. “Yeah, yeah, what is it?”
“Some people here for you.”
“People?” Shepherd wondered groggily, the meaning of it finally dawning on him. “Oh, oh, yeah, thanks.”
He pulled himself from the bed, intending to go to the bathroom. His knees buckled slightly and he fell back against the pillows to gather his strength.
The phone at the nurse’s station was ringing when the nurse returned with the form. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, handing it to one of the Special Forces agents as she answered the phone. “Men’s ward,” she said brightly, wincing at the reply. “I’m sorry, doctor, we’re quite understaffed at night, and — Certainly, doctor,” she replied, jotting on a pad.
At the far end of the corridor, Shepherd, feeling steadier now, was pushing through a door on his way to the bathroom when he froze in his tracks, recognizing one of the ambulance attendants at the nurse’s station. It was the SP he had bashed with his flight helmet the night he escaped from Upper Heyford.
Shepherd had no doubt they had come to kill him; nor that Applegate had sent them. Indeed, as Applegate had ordered, Shepherd had told no one else where he was, not even Stephanie, and now he knew why Applegate had wanted it that way. He leaned back behind the half-open door, closed it slowly, and returned to the ward, his mind racing in search of a way to elude them.
A few minutes later, the agent finished filling out the transfer form and signed it. The nurse was still on the phone. “Be all right if we get Major Shepherd ourselves?” he prompted.
“If you don’t mind?” the nurse whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “The patients’ names are on the beds. They’re fast asleep. Go about it quietly, if you will?”
“No problem.”
“Oh, lovely,” she said, relieved, gesturing to the set of battered double doors at the end of the corridor. “I’m sorry, doctor. Could you repeat that?”
The agents had no trouble finding Shepherd’s bed. One of them removed Shepherd’s flight suit from the open locker and folded it. The other positioned the gurney to make the transfer, then peeled back the bed covers and slipped a pistol from his shoulder holster. He had the butt poised to render the sleeping occupant unconscious when he noticed the ponytail flopped across the pillow and recoiled at the sight of the comatose derelict.