All sonar contacts were stored on magnetic tape. A high-speed search found the one in question. Cooperman put it up on the oscilloscope, then accessed the BC-10 computer. Its magnetic bubble memory contained the acoustic signatures of all Soviet Navy vessels. He retrieved the basic Romeo profile and ran it through the oscilloscope, comparing its pattern of frequencies to that of the recorded contact. Save for minor harmonic idiosyncrasies due to the signatures’ being made by different sets of propeller blades, they matched.
It was just after noon when Larkin’s flight touched down on the long runway adjacent to 6th Fleet headquarters outside Naples, Italy.
A CIA driver was waiting when the colonel deplaned with his carry-on and attaché. “We’re over here, sir,” he said, leading the way to a gray government sedan. “We’ve arranged a ride in the backseat of an A-six that’s being delivered to the America.”
The Intruder’s pilot was ready to go when they arrived on the flight line. Larkin pulled a jumpsuit over his clothing, donned a helmet, and climbed into the seat behind him. Barely an hour later they had covered the 420 miles from Naples to the USS America on station just southeast of Malta.
“Ever landed on a carrier before, sir?”
“First time,” Larkin replied, unimpressed by the hair-raising tales of landing at 145 knots on a postage stamp pitching in a rolling sea. On the contrary, now that he was out of the DCI’s doghouse, he was feeling rather cocky; but he quickly paled, knuckles whitening, as the pilot skillfully brought the Intruder in over the America’s fantail. It slammed onto the short runway in a controlled crash and was jerked to a neck-snapping stop by the arrester cable, forever ending any controversy over who had bragging rights among pilots.
Commander Chris Duryea had been ferried from the Cavalla a short time earlier. His boat was classified as a hunter-killer submarine and, knowing he would soon be playing underwater hide-and-seek with the Romeo, Duryea had brought his chief hunter and killer along.
“Good to see you again, Colonel,” the commander said when Larkin was ushered into the secure compartment in the America’s communication bay. He latched onto Larkin’s hand, then introduced Cooperman and Reyes.
“As you probably know,” Larkin began after the coffee had been served and preliminaries dispensed with, “this is the old man’s operational priority; a personal obsession. I made him a promise I’d have some traveling companions when I returned; seven of them to be exact. Any ideas how I keep it?”
“Well, we’ve been kicking a few around,” Duryea replied, signaling Cooperman with a nod.
The sonarman brought Larkin up to speed on the mysterious contact. “Turns out it was a Romeo,” he concluded. “Cross referencing location and time of contact with Keyhole data, odds are it’s our boy.”
“In other words, Colonel,” Duryea said, “we can separate the target from any other ship in the Mediterranean; hell, in the world for that matter.”
“Then what?”
“Intercept and board,” Reyes said in his cocky manner. “We foul the props; force her to surface—”
“Easy does it,” Duryea cautioned. “Remember we’re talking about a dived boat here. The trick is to incapacitate her without spooking the crew.”
“We’ll need deck plans,” Reyes declared.
“We have them,” Larkin replied. He set the attaché on the table and removed a set of drawings, construction drawings that went well beyond deck plans to delineate every rivet, hatch, electrical chase, air duct, snorkel vent, and mast. “Compliments of the director.”
The group scoured the drawings, determining where the hostages would most likely be quartered; then they searched unsuccessfully for a way to disable and board the Romeo without endangering them.
Duryea was prowling the room, deep in thought. “I think we’re coming at this backwards,” he finally offered.
“Which means?” Larkin wondered.
“Incapacitate the people, not the boat.”
“The people…”
Duryea nodded; a growing smile left no doubt he knew exactly how he would go about it.
32
The Thames lay long and flat, like a black liquid mirror unstirred yet by the morning’s barge traffic.
Stephanie watched as Shepherd dressed and packed his things into the travel bag. A week ago she thought he was dead; now, barely more than forty-eight hours after getting him back, she was losing him again.
“Wish me luck, babe,” Shepherd said, embracing her.
“I’ll bring you luck,” she replied, her eyes leaving no doubt she intended to accompany him. She had been up half the night listening to the creak of old timbers, thinking about it, and her mind was made up.
“I thought we said you were—”
“The children will be fine,” she interrupted knowingly. “I’m going with you, Walt. I’m going to be with you every minute I possibly can.”
Shepherd smiled, clearly pleased by her spirit, which had always captivated him.
The sun was still below the horizon when they left the barge and took the Underground to Victoria Station, just east of Belgravia near Westminister Cathedral, where they caught the 7:10 express to Brighton, the quaint seaside resort south of London.
Just over an hour later they were in a taxi traveling the winding coast to the town of Hove, to a small general aviation airport on the bluffs above the sea. It was well known to American pilots because private planes could be rented there — planes registered in the United States, which meant British flying certification wasn’t required.
The rental clerk was a chatty, methodical fellow who, to Shepherd’s dismay, moved at a snail’s pace.
“Well, that just about covers the formalities, Major Applegate,” he said, as he ran the credit card through the magnetic reader and glanced at the display, waiting for an approval code.
Shepherd’s heart rate began racing. Had they canceled Applegate’s credit card? Was there a code to signify the bearer was a fugitive? Was the computer printer, which had just unnervingly come to life, pumping out an alert? He flicked a nervous glance to Stephanie, who forced an encouraging smile.
Shepherd wasn’t keen on using a dead man’s credit card but had no doubt it would be more dangerous to use one of Stephanie’s, which had his name on it. Applegate had been dead for two days; the chances that the issuing company had been notified and had broadcast a global warning were unlikely. Finally, the clerk jotted the approval code on the form and pushed it to Shepherd.
“Thanks for your help,” Shepherd said as he signed Applegate’s name.
“My pleasure, Major. Have a lovely holiday,” the clerk replied, dropping a set of keys into Shepherd’s palm. “Space thirty-eight.”
Shepherd and Stephanie hurried from the rental office, following numbers stenciled on the tarmac to a Mooney 252. The four-passenger, single-engine aircraft had unusual stability, crisp sportscar handling, easy to read instrumentation, and was an excellent IFR plane. Cruising comfortably at 200-plus MPH, it burned an economical 12 gallons of fuel per hour, giving it a range in excess of 1,000 miles. It was well suited for the 1,250-mile journey to Tunisia.
Shepherd did a walk-around and soon had the Mooney zipping down the runway, flaps at 10 degrees, throttle wide open, air speed indicator climbing. A sense of relief, of exhilaration came over him as he eased back the yoke. While law enforcement authorities were blanketing airports in London, Manchester, Norwich, Birmingham, and Edinburgh, the plane lifted off, banking south over the English Channel onto a heading for the coast of Brittany.