Collateral Damage (16 page)

7

Sicily

T
he video was very poor quality, and expanding it to fill the fifty-five-inch screen in Zongchen's conference room further distorted it. But it wouldn't have been very pretty to look at under any circumstance.

Zen shook his head as the video continued, the camera running with the mob after the Osprey. He saw a glimpse of his wheelchair heading for the aircraft, then saw only the backs of heads and finally the ground. The last shot was the Osprey in the distance.

“They showed us,” said Zen sarcastically. The two men were alone; except for an aide watching the phones, the rest of the staff had quit for the night.

“My government has filed a protest,” said Zongchen. The Chinese general wore a deep frown. “This has been a great disgrace.”

“We should have expected it,” said Zen.

“We were assured complete security,” said Zongchen.

Zen kept his answer to himself. The general was a military man, with high standards and expectations. Like military professionals the world over, he placed a great deal on personal integrity and honor.

Noble assets certainly, traits that Zen shared, and traits one could depend on in the military world, and often in the world at large.

But the world of politics—geopolitics included—was different. Lofty values often held you back. Zen had learned the hard way that the knife in the back from a friend was more common than the frontal assault from an enemy.

“We will pursue our investigation,” said Zongchen. “We will continue.”

“Good.”

“The explanations of how the system works have been most useful,” Zongchen added, nodding to Zen. “We appreciate your candor.”

“And your discretion.” True to his word, Zongchen had not pressed for the technical aspects of the system. Given the animosity between China and the United States, they were working together remarkably well. Part of it was certainly personal—the two old pilots respected each other—but perhaps it was an indication that the two great powers in the world, one young, one not quite so young, might find a way to cooperate going forward.

Careful, Zen warned himself, you're getting all touchy-feely. Next thing you know, we'll be sitting around the campfire singing “Kumbaya”—and then Zongchen will knife me in the back like a proper ally.

“The pilot is not at fault,” said Zongchen. “This is clear. But from your discussion, the only possibility seems an error aboard the aircraft. Would you agree?”

“There's nothing that would contradict that,” said Zen. “Perhaps with a little more work we can identify it. But the teams working on it haven't succeeded yet.”

“Hmmm.” The general seemed temporarily lost in thought.

One of the general's aides approached quietly. Zen noticed him first, and glanced in his direction. Zongchen looked, and apparently saw something in the young man's face that told him it was urgent.

“Excuse me, Senator.”

“Of course.”

Zongchen spoke to the aide in Chinese, then turned to Zen in surprise.

“A member of the Libyan government is on the phone and wishes to talk to me. He speaks English—which is good since Cho here does not speak Arabic.” Zongchen smiled. “Come, you should listen as well.”

Zen wheeled himself from the large room to Zongchen's suite office. He stopped a few feet away, waiting as the Chinese general put the call on speakerphone.

“I have another member of our committee here with me,” Zongchen said before he even greeted the other man. “Senator Stockard, from the United States.”

“The man in the wheelchair,” said the Libyan. His English was good, with an accent somewhere between Tripoli and London.

“The senator lost the use of his legs in an air accident many years ago,” said Zongchen, glancing at Zen. “But he has had quite a career since then. He was an excellent pilot.”

“I am pleased to talk to him, or anyone else you designate. Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Colonel Abdel Bouri, and a few hours ago I have been designated to head the military portfolio of our government.”

“I am pleased to speak to you,” said Zongchen.

“The security breakdown was deeply regrettable,” said Bouri. “And a fault of the previous minister. Things have changed. The government has . . . reorganized. I have been asked . . . Let me find the proper words here.”

He paused, speaking to someone else in the office in soft but quick Arabic.

“I have been authorized to speak of a peace arrangement,” said the minister in English. “We are prepared to hold discussions with the rebels, if the proper conditions can be arranged. These talks would lead to a new government. Elections would be established.”

Zongchen and Zen exchanged a glance.

“The president himself cannot make this statement,” Bouri continued. “But I have full authority to conduct talks. This can only occur at the most confidential . . . under the most quiet circumstances.”

“Pardon my skepticism,” said Zen. “But given the events of yesterday, and much of what has been happening over the past week, how do we know that we can trust you?”

The minister began protesting, saying that he was a man of integrity and had not been involved with the leadership in the past. To Zen it seemed a clear case of someone protesting too much.

“We do want to trust you, but trust is something that is earned,” Zen told him. “You should declare a cease-fire—”

“If we stop, the rebels will continue,” said the new minister. “You have seen them. They are animals.”

Not exactly the sort of opinion that was going to pave the way for peace.

“Perhaps your government could begin with a very small gesture,” said Zongchen. “Perhaps you could begin with apologizing for the attack on the committee yesterday. That costs you nothing, yet is rich in symbolism.”

Bouri didn't answer.

“You have already apologized to me,” said Zongchen.

“Yes, but you are asking for something different. The president would have to apologize.”

“Since the government has already fired the defense minister, it's going to be clear that mistakes were made,” said Zen. “A public statement won't cost you anything.”

“And it will earn you a great deal,” added Zongchen.

“It will cost much,” said the Libyan. “But I will see what I can do. In the meantime, let us establish a proper procedure for these conversations. The talks between your committee and I. They will be strictest confidence, yes?”

“Of course,” said Zongchen.

“We'll have to talk to others in order for our work to mean anything,” added Zen. “We have to talk to the UN leaders, our government, and eventually the rebels.”

“Carefully,” said Bouri.

“Quietly, you mean?” asked Zen.

“Yes, both. Carefully and quietly.”

Zongchen agreed that would be wise. The two men spoke for a few moments more, deciding how they would contact each other, and establishing a routine of “regular” calls twice per day.

After Bouri hung up, Zongchen turned to Zen. “This is an interesting development. Perhaps our being attacked has had a positive result.”

“Maybe,” said Zen.

“You don't think this is genuine?”

Zen wheeled himself back a few feet. His substitute wheelchair was powered, something he didn't like. But it would do for now.

“I suppose our best option is to treat it as if it is genuine,” he told Zongchen. “The question will be more the rest of government—does he speak for it? Hard to tell.”

“Hmmm.” The general was silent for a few moments, thinking. “It is very late, and we have not eaten. Let us go and find something. Deep thought is better on a full stomach.”

He spoke to his aide in quick Chinese, then led Zen out into the hall.

“It is interesting,” said Zongchen as they waited for the elevator. “Two former men of war negotiating a peace.”

“Interesting, yes.”

“But peace was also our aim,” added the general, “even if not our profession.”

8

Sicily

T
urk fell asleep in Ginella's bed after they made love, but only for an hour. He slipped off the side onto the floor, trying to be quiet and not entirely sure what he was doing here. He hadn't forgotten what had happened; he just didn't believe it. Sleeping with another officer was one thing; sleeping with a colonel who was at least temporarily his boss . . .

Ginella lay with her head turned toward the wall, dozing peacefully. She had put on a T-shirt, but it was pulled halfway up her back, revealing her curved buttocks.

It was a nice curve. She was good in bed—a little more assertive than he was used to, but definitely a woman who knew how to please and be pleased.

But not quite his type. Older than he was.

And his boss.

What had he been thinking?

He hadn't been, was the answer. He grabbed his clothes and got dressed, then slipped out without waking her.

The bright lights of the hotel hallway stung his eyes. Turk walked quickly to the elevator, but as he pressed the button he realized someone might come out and see him waiting, or worse, be in the car when the doors opened. He didn't want to deal with any questions that might raise, so he used the stairs.

Outside, he realized it was too late to get a car. He had to go back to the desk and ask them to call a taxi.

By the time Turk got back to his own hotel, it was nearly three. He collapsed on the bed, even more tired than he had been the night before.

The next thing he knew, his phone was ringing. He had left it on the desk opposite the bed, and by the time he got there, the call had gone to voice mail.

It was Chahel Ratha.

“Didn't you get the text? We need you here by 0800. It's five minutes past.”

T
urk made it to the Sabre hangar a few minutes before nine.

“Need some O
2
?” asked one of the guards at the hangar. Pure oxygen was a common cure for a hangover among flight crews.

Turk shook his head and went inside. He found Ratha and one of the lead engineers fussing over a pot of coffee at the side bench.

“Sorry I'm late,” he told them.

Ratha shook his head. “It's just static tests anyway.”

Turk rushed to get into his gear. The Tigershark had been mostly placed back together. His job was to run the controls in a flight simulation mode while the technical people ran a bunch of tests on the interfaces with the Sabres. It was very routine, but it got his mind off the night before.

Some two hours of tests later, the engineers decided they had enough data and helped Turk from the cockpit.

“Figure it out?” he asked.

Ratha just shook his head. He didn't look particularly pleased.

“Just the man I'm looking for,” said Danny Freah, coming into the hangar. “How are you, Turk?”

“I'm good, Colonel. Yourself?”

“Fine. Step into my office here a second.” Freah motioned him to the side. Turk followed, bracing himself for questions about Ginella.

Deny, deny, deny,
whispered a little voice.

Why? He'd done nothing wrong. It was Ginella who would get in trouble, if anyone was going to get in trouble.

Right.

“I heard you did really well yesterday with the A–10s,” said Danny.

“Um, yeah.”

“You really made an impression on Colonel Ginella,” said Danny. “She was singing your praises this morning.”

Turk felt himself flush.

“It was good of you to step up,” said Danny.

“Thanks, I—”

“Colonel Ginella says you rate higher than most if not her whole squadron. She wants as much of you as she can get.”

Turk struggled to find his tongue.

“Hard getting used to the Warthog after flying the Tigershark?” asked Danny.

“Just about night and day,” said Turk.

Danny nodded. “You look like you had a rough night. You all right?”

“Oh, just a little . . . pilot stuff.”

“All done here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Don't get in any trouble, you hear?” Danny chucked his shoulder, then walked away.

T
he engineers told Turk he wouldn't be needed now for several days. He got changed and caught the bus over to the cafeteria to get some lunch. But once inside the serving area, he decided he wasn't particularly hungry, a decision reinforced by hearing laughter in the seating area that sounded very much like some members of Shooter Squadron. He grabbed two large bottles of water and went back out the way he came.

A small field sat across the road at the back of the building. There were some picnic tables there. He walked over and sat on the top of a table—the benches themselves had inexplicably disappeared. He took a long pull from the water bottle, then leaned back, arms behind him, inhaling and exhaling in long, deep breaths.

A flight of Eurofighters took off with a loud rush, roaring into the air. Turk watched their bodies glow silver as they climbed, melting into a white light as they turned in the sky. Rising into the mid-morning sun, they turned black, vanishing into tiny daggers as they turned once more, this time toward Africa.

As the sound of the jet engines faded, he gradually became aware of the shouts of children. Remembering his soccer game the other day, he got up off the table, hopped the short fence, and walked in that direction.

The day care building was on the other side of the road, just beyond a low-slung barracks type building that was temporarily unused. The shouts were coming from a small group playing tag in the corner of the yard. Turk watched them for a few seconds, deciphering the rules, which seemed unusually free-flowing.

“You have children yourself?”

The woman's voice startled him. Turk turned abruptly and saw Captain Li Pike, the Warthog pilot from Shooter Squadron. In her arms was a cardboard box so big her chin barely rose above it.

“No, I don't have any kids,” said Turk. “You?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

He took that to mean that she was married, but when he glanced at her hand, she didn't have a ring.

“When my career gets under control,” Li added. “Then maybe we'll see.”

“What's your husband think?”

“I'm not married.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I don't have a boyfriend. No time yet. Like I said, when my career gets under control.”

“Makes sense.”

She smiled, and he felt like a fool—it was the sort of indulgent smile you gave a simpleton.

“What's with the box?” he asked.

“Oh, we took up a little collection and got the kids a few puzzles and games,” said Li. “It was the colonel's suggestion. They're on a limited budget.”

“Really?”

“The shelves are kind of bare. They gave us a tour the first day—I think they saw women in the squadron and thought that's what we would be interested in. Italians.”

Her smile was so beautiful it was almost a weapon.

“Let me help you with the box,” he told her.

“Oh, it's not heavy.”

Turk took it anyway, then followed her around to the side of the building. There was no one at the door or in the hallway; they went along to the first classroom. Li knocked tentatively, then inched in.

Some of the children spotted her peeking in and began to laugh. She pushed the door open wide, greeting the teacher and explaining, in English, that they had brought the things they had promised the other day. The colonel, she added, was sorry that she couldn't come herself.

The teacher's English was limited and heavily accented, but she greeted Li warmly, and told the children in Italian that the American pilots had brought them some presents. Turk, meanwhile, went over to a table near the front and put the box down.

“Il Americano!”
said one of the children, running over. Within seconds Turk found himself surrounded by the soccer players, who were chattering in Italian.

“I don't understand a word you're saying,” he told the boys.

“We will play,” said one of the children. “Football.”

“Soccer,” said Turk.

“They were playing football with you the day two ago,” said the teacher. “You are good, no?”

“No,” said Turk. “They are very good.”

“They want to play with you now. It is almost time for their, how do you say?”

“Game?”

“Yes, game. That is a good word.”

Turk glanced at Li, who stood with her arms folded, a bemused expression on her face.

“You gonna play?” he asked her.

“I have work, Captain. I'm the maintenance officer. I'll see you later.”

“Sure.”

The boys had retrieved three soccer balls and were already urging him toward the door.

“Just a little while,” he told them. “Five minutes.”

“Cinque minuti,”
said the teacher.
“Cinque. Solamente.”

“What she said,” Turk told them. “Exactly.”