Free Purpose of Evasion by Greg Dinallo Page A

Chiefs said, “the La Belle Club is a hangout for black servicemen. Libya has never targeted minorities. Pick off a cable going in the other direction—an order from Qaddafi saying, ‘Bomb a disco tonight’—then come talk to me.”
    “Dammit,” Kiley snapped. “Why do you people always need a Pearl Harbor as an excuse to go to work?”
    “Mr. President,” the secretary of state began in his ponderous cadence, “we’ve tried diplomacy, public condemnation, a show of military strength. None have worked. It’s time for military action. ”
    “We have an interservice strike force on alert,” the defense secretary chimed in. “It can be launched on short notice to drop a few hot ones right in Qaddafi’s lap.”
    “Not from any of my aircraft,” the CJC retorted. “Not without a smoking gun.”
    “You already have one,” Kiley said emotionally. “Hundreds of them. Two hundred and fifty-three marines! A navy diver murdered in cold blood! A man in a wheelchair thrown into the sea! Innocent travelers gunned down in airports! Blown out of planes! College professors, journalists, one of my own people kidnapped and tortured by these animals! Two soldiers blown to bits in a nightclub! How many more? The wrong guns are doing all the smoking! And I’m damned sick of it!”
    Kiley’s passion drew a taut silence over the room. Twenty seconds passed before the president broke it. “So am I,” he said in a voice hoarse from tension. “It’s time to make the world smaller for terrorists.”
    THAT AFTERNOON a heavy rain was still falling at Mildenhall as a military transport, which had taken off from Berlin’s Templehoff an hour and forty minutes earlier, landed.
    Colonel Larkin deplaned, cleared customs, and strode in a precisecadence to a gray government sedan parked adjacent to the MAC terminal. He tossed his two-suiter into the backseat and got in next to Major Applegate, who was behind the wheel.
    “I hear business in Germany is booming,” Applegate said in his high-pitched rasp as he pulled away from the arrivals gate.
    “So did the president,” Larkin replied with an intensity that set him apart from his affable colleague. “Talk to me about these crews, A.G.”
    “ Pilots ,” Applegate corrected smartly, handing him a file card with two names, one of which was Shepherd. “No wizzos. I figure the fewer personnel involved the better,” he went on, explaining he had purposely selected two pilots, assigned to fly the raid on Libya, who had unexpectedly lost their weapons systems officers.
    “Assigned to the raid . . .”
    “That’s the beauty of it.”
    “What do you have in mind?” Larkin prompted warily. “I mean, have you talked to them about this?”
    “Not yet. But it might be worth a shot.”
    Larkin’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. There isn’t a pilot alive who’d turn his plane over to the enemy without asking a lot of questions.”
    “We’ve got some damn good answers.”
    “What if they don’t agree? What if one of them takes his military oath too seriously; refuses to carry out an order that’s wrong? That’s illegal ?”
    Applegate’s prominent brows arched. “Good point. We’d be in deep shit if one of them turned out to be a whistle-blower.”
    “Bet your ass. This cat gets out of the bag, it makes a beeline right for the oval office.”
    “There are ways to make sure it doesn’t.”
    “Just one,” Larkin said ominously. “Separate these guys from their planes and fly the mission ourselves.”
    “Sounds like we’re talking hardball,” Applegate said, the stone-cold expression in Larkin’s eyes leaving no doubt as to his intent.
    “You have a problem with that?”
    “You know better,” Applegate replied; then, hunching his bear-like shoulders with uncertainty, he added, “It’s just that these guys are air force.”
    “I don’t need to be reminded, A.G.,” Larkin said firmly. “The problem is, if we’re going to sell the idea that two