Private and business aviation was as prevalent in Europe as the United States. Countless aircraft crisscrossed Common Market borders, refueling on foreign soil en route to their destinations. Their passengers were treated no differently than commercial travelers who had disembarked at an airport to make a connecting flight, never officially entering the country or undergoing passport control procedures.
Shepherd’s flight plan — basically the same route the F-111 bombers would have flown if France had approved use of her airspace for the raid on Libya — took them on a southeast course past Paris and Lyon to Nice on the French Riviera, where they landed and refueled, then across the Mediterranean, skirting the eastern coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, and Lampedusa to southeastern Tunisia. All but 300 miles of the flight were made over, or in sight of, land.
They spent the time discussing ways to get Shepherd into Libya: renting a boat in one of D’Jerba’s fishing villages and making port immediately adjacent to Okba ben Nafi Air Base topped their list, but that area of coastline would undoubtedly be heavily guarded by Libyan patrol boats; an extremely low-altitude flight to a desert landing was a close second, but that would leave him stranded miles from the air base without any transportation; renting a four-wheel drive vehicle and crossing somewhere along the miles of desolate border solved the problem; but in these scenarios and others they had considered, once inside Libya, Shepherd would still not only have to gain access to a high-security air base, but also locate his F-111, and steal it without any guarantee it would be fueled or in flying condition — all without speaking a word of Arabic.
Now, barely more than eight hours after takeoff, the domed mosques and beehive-shaped houses of D’Jerba shimmered above the Gulf of Bougara like clusters of golden pearls in the late afternoon light. The tiny island’s mild climate and proximity to the capitals of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East made it ideal for a vacation or business convention.
“There it is, babe,” Shepherd said, dipping a wing to give Stephanie a better view. The 197 square miles of palm and olive groves were split down the middle by MC-117, the arrow-straight road connecting Houmt Souk in the north to el-Kantara in the south, where a 5-mile-long causeway linked D’Jerba to the mainland. “An hour’s drive to the Libyan border,” he went on. “A hundred and fifty miles to Tripoli.”
Shepherd came onto a heading for Melita International Airport and radioed the tower. Many private aircraft arrived and departed daily and he received routine landing clearance. He brought the Mooney down to a smooth landing and taxied to a parking area. After tying down, he and Stephanie presented themselves as tourists and cleared passport control without incident.
They took a taxi to the Dar Jerba Hotel, the pride of the island’s burgeoning tourist industry. Set on pristine beaches amid swaying palms, it was a sprawling complex: four hotels, convention hall, casino, cinemas, several radio stations, and accommodations for 2,400; a place where two Westerners wouldn’t stand out, which was why Shepherd had selected it.
He left Stephanie outside and went to the check-in desk in the lobby with their bags, registering under the name Paul Applegate. He used Applegate’s credit card and reluctantly presented the altered passport at the clerk’s request. The impeccably uniformed fellow recorded the number in a register, then returned it.
Shepherd didn’t like it but he had little choice. He had traveled extensively and knew it was standard procedure in hotels throughout the world to forward the name and passport number of each guest to local authorities. He took some solace in the knowledge that by using Applegate’s name and avoiding having Stephanie register, he had prevented the name Shepherd from appearing in either hotel or police records.
The bellman led Shepherd through a courtyard to a domed waterfront cottage that resembled a miniature mosque. Stephanie followed at a casual pace a short distance behind; she waited until the bellman had departed, then joined Shepherd in the cottage.
The blazing white interior was bathed in golden light and alive with the delicate scent of lemons and pomegranates carried by sea breezes from nearby groves. They left their bags where the bellman had dropped them and exited via a private deck to the beach.
For about an hour, they walked D’Jerba’s sugar-fine sands, reviewing the ways they had devised to get Shepherd into Libya; then, feeling gloomy about his prospects, they sat on a windswept bluff and watched the sun falling swiftly toward the horizon. Shepherd was tracing a fingertip through the sand, examining the possibilities over and over, when his eyes brightened with a recollection. “Steph,” he finally said, breaking the long silence, “didn’t the congressman say there was a Libyan Embassy here somewhere?”
“Uh huh. I recall him mentioning it. He wasn’t really sure. Why?”
“Let’s hope he was right,” Shepherd said, a chill going through him at the idea that had surfaced. “If he was, I think I know how I’m going to do it.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” he replied, becoming more convinced that he had not only found a way into Libya but also into the cockpit of his F-111, he added, “Applegate said the Libyans don’t have ANITA, which means they’ve got a couple of useless bombers. I’m betting they’d like nothing better than to get their hands on an expert.”
“They sure would,” Stephanie replied; then, her enthusiasm tempered by concern, she said, “But you can’t just walk into the embassy and say you know they have them; they’re going to ask how you know.”
“And the minute I tell them, they’ll know exactly what I’m up to,” Shepherd said, finishing her thought.
Stephanie nodded glumly.
Shepherd ran a hand over his bearded face. “Maybe we’re missing something here,” he said pensively. “Maybe the key to pulling this off is to just play the hand I’ve been dealt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone who reads the papers knows I’m a fugitive; they also know I’m a one-eleven pilot.”
“True.”
“So all I have to do is let the Libyans know I’m available; they’ll figure out the rest.”
“You’re still taking a chance by coming forward.”
“I’m not coming forward,” he said with a smile, as the details solidified. “You are.”
She didn’t know exactly what he had in mind, but she knew he had found the answer. He had that look, she thought, the look that always came over him before a mission, the one that transformed Walt Shepherd to call sign Viper, to that person she didn’t really know.
The Libyan Embassy was closed by the time they located it in a colonnade of offices adjacent to the Dar Jerba’s convention center, a vaulted building on the far side of the sprawling complex.
Beneath the multicolored Libyan flag in the window was a sign that in several languages proclaimed: LIBYAN PEOPLE’S BUREAU.
Despite years of tension and strict border control, Libya and Tunisia had maintained diplomatic relations. The Libyan People’s Bureau, as Qaddafi called his embassies, was located in the capital city of Tunis, but ever anxious to acquire military and industrial technology, he had also established a bureau on D’Jerba to generate contacts with the international businessmen who frequented the island. Hence, the bureau’s multilanguage sign and posh interior, elegantly furnished in chrome, leather, and glass, which had been designed to resemble the offices of Western corporations, right down to the personnel.