“I agree. We have you on radar; we’ll put up an A-six to talk you down.”
“That’s a copy, sir. Thank you.”
A short time later the Intruder came up in the lane off the F-111’s left wing. “Okay, Air Force, I’ll take you all the way in,” the pilot said in a calm, reassuring tone. “The name of the game here is overshoot. You can always bolt, get back in the pattern, and make another approach. Copy?”
“Copy.”
“If fuel permits,” Brancato chimed in, grimly.
“You’ll pick up the glide slope at two miles, six hundred feet. We usually beam up a computer graphic as a guide. Since you’re not equipped to pick it up, you’ll have to eyeball it. What’s your air speed?”
“Two three zero,” Shepherd replied as the carrier’s lights rose at the edge of blackness far below.
“You want to be at one four five when you get there; flaps should be in take off, slats extended, gear down, hook down…”
Shepherd called out the moves as he made them. A hard pull on the yellow and black handle dropped the arrester hook from the fairing beneath the tail.
“Okay, there’s an optical landing system on the port side of the runway area. That’s the left for you Aardvark drivers. It has three lights: a yellow one called the ball and two green ones.”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Good. The idea is to keep the ball centered between the greens. That keeps you in proper orientation to the glide path. The landing signal officer on deck is going to ask you to call the ball — if you can see it.”
“Copy that.”
“Okay. Keep the angle of attack indexer on-speed and stay on center-line. Soon as you see the drop lights dive for the deck.”
“That’s a copy,” Shepherd replied.
“I got him,” the LSO said over the radio. “Three-quarters of mile, you’re on the glide, Viper-Two, just right of the line. Call the ball.”
Shepherd dipped the left wing slightly and aligned the plane with the center of the carrier’s runway, trying to time his approach to the rise and fall of the deck. “Ball,” he said sharply, as the yellow light popped into view between the greens; but just as suddenly it was gone; all the lights were gone! He and Brancato were staring at an onrushing wall of black steel.
“Too low, too low, Viper-Two,” the LSO cautioned evenly. “More throttle.”
Shepherd hit the gas and clicked the nose up.
Still the wall of blackness.
“That’s it,” the pilot of the Intruder said. “Now time it; time the heave — better, much better.”
“Concur,” the LSO said. “Looking good.”
Shepherd and Brancato were convinced they were about to fly headlong into the carrier’s foot-thick hull when the ship fell into a valley between two swells, revealing the drop lights and deck beyond.
Shepherd pulled the stick back, slammed the throttles to the wall, and hit the speed brake.
The sleek bomber slammed onto the 700-foot runway in a controlled crash, missing the first two cables. Shepherd got the nose down on the deck just as it bounced over the third and went careening toward the sea; finally the arrester hook snagged the fourth cable and the plane jerked to a neck-snapping stop at the end of the runway, within spitting distance of the edge.
Shepherd and Brancato were thrown forward, harnesses digging into their shoulders against the sudden deceleration, then back as the plane settled down. They sat there in stunned silence watching the deck crew running toward them; then they started to laugh.
51
That evening in the United States, network news programs reported the story of the hostages’ rescue, crediting CIA with discovering their whereabouts and revealing that the rescue operation was carried out by submarine-based Navy SEALs; no mention was made of the Casino du Liban bombing. Indeed only the fleet admiral on the America, Brancato, and Shepherd had knowledge of the vital role it had played in the rescue. The following morning, newspapers the world over carried similar stories. The headline of the Washington Post read:
AMERICAN HOSTAGES RESCUED.
Two other stories on the front page were relevant and worthy of attention. One was headlined:
CIA DIRECTOR KILEY COMMITS SUICIDE
The body of Director of Central Intelligence William Kiley was found in his Langley office early last night by a security guard making rounds. Reliable sources have told the Post that death was caused by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. A suicide note found on Kiley’s desk revealed that he wrongfully believed a mission to rescue Americans held hostage in the Middle East had failed, causing him to become despondent over their execution, which he deemed inevitable under the circumstances.
The second story, a smaller one at the bottom of the page, was headlined:
LIBYAN BOMBER DESTROYS PLO STRONGHOLD.
52
After landing on the carrier, Shepherd’s F-111 had been towed to one of the America’s elevators, taken below decks, and concealed beneath a shroud. There was no thought given to refueling and flying on to England due to the plane’s gross weight, which made catapulting off impossible. While the carrier steamed for Naples, an F-111 crew chief and team of technicians were flown in from England. They retracted the bomber’s pivot pins and removed the wings. The evening that the America made port, the disassembled aircraft was trucked to a nearby air base, loaded aboard a military transport, and flown to Lakenheath for refurbishing.
In the meantime, at the fleet admiral’s request, Brancato and Shepherd were discreetly flown back to Washington, D.C., for military debriefing.
The Joint Chiefs were stunned by Shepherd’s story.
He explained that after bombing Casino du Liban, he and Brancato had realized nothing would be gained by making the arms-sanctuary-hostage conspiracy public. The Chiefs agreed. Before adjourning, a decision as to how Shepherd’s re-emergence would be explained was made.
Immediately thereafter, the Tunisian government was informed via diplomatic channels that the charges against Shepherd had been proven false and dropped, and Stephanie was allowed to leave D’Jerba.
A week later, at Andrews Air Force Base, inside the gray brick house on Ashwood Circle, the Shepherds were packing for the move to England when the door bell rang.
Stephanie answered it.
“Congressman Gutherie,” she said, a little taken aback at the sight of him towering over her on the porch. “Come on in. Good to see you.”
“You too. I hope you won’t be offended when I tell you I’m here to see your husband.”
“He’s in the den,” she said with a smile, leading the way between the shipping cartons. “Excuse the mess.”
Shepherd was removing the military memorabilia from the walls and packing it for shipment. Laura was helping him, Jeffrey playing amid the cartons.
“I want to thank you for your help,” Shepherd said after the introductions had been made and the children directed outside. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, after all you’ve been through, maybe there’s something I can do for you,” Gutherie began. “As chairman of the Intelligence Oversight Committee, I see a lot of reports, hear a lot of rumors, and lately, well, there’s been a lot of speculation on the Hill that you had a hand in the hostage rescue.”
“Thanks. That’s very generous of you,” Shepherd replied, smiling, “but people in Washington are always speculating.”
“Not true?”
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t.”