Purpose of Evasion Read Free Page B

sternly warned, referring to the state-of-the-art system that allows a pilot to locate his target at supersonic speed in total darkness and destroy it with bombs that home on a laser frequency.
    “It’s called Pave Tack,” Moncrieff replied.

2
    THE GENERAL DYNAMICS F-111 had Pave Tack. It had APQ 144 forward-looking attack radar, ASQ 133 digital fire control, and APQ 138 terrain-following radar.
    The F-111 had everything; and Major Walter Shepherd, United States Air Force, lived to fly it.
    An airborne stiletto, Shepherd thought, the first time he saw the bomber’s crisp edges, long, pointed snout, and swept-back wings. He knew it was a hot aircraft, one whose performance far outstripped its nickname; sure, the Aardvark was a bomber—a bomber with the speed and agility of a supersonic fighter.
    The instrumentation was dazzling: navigation computer screen at left, Pave Tack radar at right joined by rows of flight systems gauges, topped by HUD, the heads up display system that projects data onto the canopy, allowing the pilot to keep his eye on the target while the weapons systems officer destroys it.
    Walt Shepherd knew every square inch of his plane, every rivet, wire, computer chip, and data readout; his name was stenciled on the nose gear door. The United States government may have paid General Dynamics $67 million for it—but it was his plane.
    Sixteen years ago, he was a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant fresh out of flight school when he started flying them. Assigned to a special squadron during the last years of the Vietnam War, Shepherd flew dozens of F-111 missions. Indeed, while many protested and avoided service, Walt Shepherd was flying an untested bomber in combat, and counted himself lucky to have the opportunity. Military service was a family tradition—God, love of country, a strong national defense were its guiding principles. An Eagle Scout by age fourteen, he delivered newspapers with dedication and sang with the Friendship Church choir. Like many towns in the southwestern pocket of Oklahoma, towns with names like Granite, Sentinel, and Victory, Friendship’s economy was dependent on nearby Altus Air Force Base. As a teenager, Shepherdspent many afternoons watching military jets taking off; and despite his gentle nature, their thundering roar stirred something in him, something primal and raw that bonded with his unquestioning sense of duty, giving rise to a powerful yearning for combat.
    Officially, Major Shepherd flew with the 253rd squadron of the 27th Tactical Fighter Wing at Cannon AFB in New Mexico. Three years ago in a TAC reshuffle, he came east to fly a routine operational readiness inspection. A clever and resourceful thinker with a flair for tactical innovation, Shepherd proved so adept at playing the enemy and penetrating radar defenses with his F-111 that he was assigned to the Pentagon to document his expertise and develop training programs. He had since been temporarily stationed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, just outside Washington, D.C.
    On this cold, crystal clear morning, he was in the kitchen of his home on Ashwood Circle, a wooded cul-de-sac in the officers’ family housing sector, helping his two-year-old into a snowsuit.
    “Come on, Jeffrey, hold still,” Shepherd admonished in his easy drawl, finally getting it zipped up.
    “Bathroom,” the squirming child protested, clutching his crotch with mittened hands. “Bathroom.”
    Shepherd let out a sigh. “Take him, will you?” he asked Laura, who had bounded into the kitchen, donning a parka.
    The thirteen-year-old took one look at her heavily bundled brother and presented Shepherd with an open palm.
    “Two bucks,” she said with a grin.
    “Fifty cents.”
    “Hold out for a dollar,” her mother chimed in, fighting a roll of plastic wrap, one eye on the small television atop the counter tuned to the “Today Show.”
    “Steph,” Shepherd protested.
    The phone rang. Shepherd answered it. “Congressman