Purpose of Evasion Read Online Free Page A

ago.”
    “Ireland,” Shepherd answered hesitantly.
    “Not bad. . . . The American who had a long association with the Soviet Union as businessman and ambassador?”
    “Armand Hammer.”
    “Averill Harriman. Hammer was never ambassador.”
    “You going to do this all the way to the U.K.?”
    “Just for that, which famous composer poured ice water over his head to stimulate his brain?”
    “Elton John,” Shepherd cracked, as they stowed their luggage on a rack in the weapons bay, empty because the plane was flown “clean,” without ordnance, on deployment flights. The crew chief, who for three years had overseen 179’s maintenance with customary fervor, hadn’t been transferred to England and he watched wistfully as the two aviators did their inspection, then slipped beneath the gullwing canopies into side-by-side red leather couches.
    After forty-five minutes of systems checks and engine warm-up procedures, Shepherd radioed for clearance. “Andrews tower, Viper-Two ready to roll.”
    “Viper?” Stephanie had asked when they first dated, thinking there was nothing at all venomous about him. “It certainly doesn’t suit you.”
    “Well,” he replied, glancing skyward, “you have to understand I’m different up there.”
    She hadn’t understood; indeed, she still didn’t. Despite being blessed with that rare combination of guts, skill, and judgment found in the best fighter jocks, killing was out of character for Walt Shepherd; conversely, call sign Viper had no trouble handling it.
    Shepherd started the F-111 down the west runway; 30 seconds later, the sleek F model, hottest of the 111 series, was banking over Chesapeake Bay. Soon it was at 30,000 feet, streaking through the atmosphere at 750 MPH. The wings were at 16 degrees, standard for takeoff and climb. Shepherd set the indicator stop at 52, advanced the throttles, and eased back the handle in the sidewall; the wings swept at a rate of 10 degrees per second and the F-111 bolted forward.
    “Yeah,” Brancato hooted as the acceleration slammed him back into his seat; it was a kick every time.
    Speed was now Mach 1.75; precisely 1,250 MPH.
    Shepherd guided the plane into a GAT-assigned commercial air corridor and engaged the autopilot; then he and Brancato settled in for the long haul.
    Two hours later, the sleek bomber was 2,400 miles out over the Atlantic, 1,300 miles from its destination. Unlike practice missions, deployment flights had no tactical objective. Once on autopilot, aviators were essentially passengers in a supersonic taxi. Brancato passed the time reading, his nose buried in a biography of Churchill. Shepherd monitored the avionics.
    “Mind watching the store for a while?” Shepherd asked, as he removed a palm-sized cassette recorder from a pocket in the leg of his flight suit and clicked it on. Years ago, the first time he and Stephanie were apart, he had wooed her via cassette, and he had been using it to keep in touch with home ever since: from Vietnam, the Philippines, wherever he was stationed without her.
    “Thursday, three April,” he began in his easy drawl. “Real pretty up here, babe. We left the Grand Banks behind about an hourago. Advance report for touchdown is rain and more rain. Sounds like we’re talking weather for ducks. Speaking of water, Al thought you should know that Beethoven used to pour ice water over his—” He paused, catching Brancato signaling to the multi systems display. “He’s waving at me like a matador. Not Beethoven, Al. Be talking to you soon.”
    “Three bogies coming off the deck at a hundred miles,” Brancato said, eyes riveted to the MSD screen, where three blips had penetrated the radar envelope.
    Far below and to the northeast, a Redfleet Surface Action Group was cruising the waters of the North Atlantic: four submarines, three cruisers, and six destroyers in escort of the Kiev-class carrier Minsk.
    A radar operator in the Minsk ’sattack center had picked up the F-111’s signal.