“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.