Collateral Damage (26 page)

8

al-Hayat

R
ubeo hadn't known exactly what to expect from the families hurt in the attack, but he thought he would see some outer sign of grief or at least chaos; if not direct mourning, then some sadness or grim resolve. But the family the boys took him to see were cheerful, happy, and grateful to have visitors.

Which was strange, because there were eight of them crammed into what looked like a 1960s travel trailer, the sort that would be used back in the States only as a derelict hunting shack, if not the target on a shooting range.

Two of the family members—the mother and a girl about three years old—had been wounded in the bombing, which damaged one wall of their house. The mother had a cast on her arm and her head was bandaged. The little girl's leg was in a cast. They spoke freely about the accident, telling Lawson—he had instantly made friends, with the help of the boys—about the disaster.

Rubeo listened attentively, interested in every detail. The sudden explosion, the darkness from the cloud, the grit falling down, the surge of fire—listening somehow made the strike more scientific to him, more real. If it was real, it could be understood more readily.

Curious neighbors began gathering outside. Jons was getting more and more agitated. He'd posted Abas and the Filipinos a short distance away, with their guns out, but the team would be very easily overcome if a large crowd gathered and became hostile.

“What about the other day?” Rubeo asked the woman. He made Halit translate. “Ask her about the riot.”

“Thieves hired by the government. Many of them soldiers,” said Halit.

Rubeo looked at Lawson. “More or less, I think,” he told him.

“Find out if they have a bank account,” said Rubeo.

“I can tell you without asking, they don't,” said Halit.

“Look around,” said Jons. “These people don't have anything.”

Rubeo dug into his pocket for his roll. He unfolded ten ten-euro notes.

“See if you can find some contact information,” he told Halit. Then he bent toward the grandmother and slipped the money into her hand.

“I have to go,” he said as she stared wide-eyed at the bills.

“W
hat are you going to do?” Jons asked a few minutes later in the truck as they left the village, heading west in the direction of the missile site.

“We'll find the people who were victims,” said Rubeo, “and get them new homes.”

“The allies will handle compensation.”

“What I do is independent of the government.”

“Ray, this is not a good place.”

“I'm not going to stay here and do it myself, Levon. You needn't worry.”

“Yeah, OK, good. It's not a horrible idea.”

Jons, clearly relieved, checked his mirrors quickly. They were in the lead, their escorts a few dozen yards behind.

“It's just going to be tough to figure out who truly deserves it, you know?” added Jons. “Once word gets out. Especially here, with the government crumbling. Everybody's going to have their hand out.”

“It doesn't look particularly endangered to me,” said Rubeo.

“Don't fool yourself. They don't have much of a grip. Things can turn around in an instant.”

Rubeo looked out at the countryside, a vast roll of undulating sand. The encounter with the families had taken his mind off the problem of the UAV and what had gone wrong.

He wondered why he hadn't thought of helping the people before. It was an obvious thing to do.

Dog was right. That was why he suggested I come. He didn't say it, because he knew I would only appreciate it if I reached the conclusion myself.

So good at giving others advice, at balancing their problems against the world's. But he couldn't overcome his own demon.

His loss was far greater than theirs.

“I want to go back to the radar site,” Rubeo told Jons. “There are two other structures I need to look at. I want to see what's in there.”

“Inside them?”

“Yes. I need to know if they have equipment in them.”

Jons frowned.

“You think that's a problem?” asked Rubeo.

“It's a big problem. We'll never get inside there. I don't even want to go close—they'll be on their guard after finding the two UAVs. We can't, Ray. Absolutely not.”

“I wasn't considering marching up to the gate and demanding access,” Rubeo told him.

What he had in mind, however, was every bit as dangerous—they would sneak in from the south side of the facility, go to the building, and inspect it firsthand. Ten minutes inside each should be enough to eliminate the possibility of anything having been beamed from it. Once that was done, he could pursue what he saw as the more promising theory. But interference had to be ruled out first.

“You're not going in,” said Jons. “If I have to physically hold you back, you're not going in.”

“Of course not. And I'm not going to risk you either. I intend to send a pair of bots in,” Rubeo told him. “All we need is someone to get them past the fence.”

“I don't know.”

“Please—there are dozens of people who live in that little hamlet. None of them can be bribed to change places with someone?”

“Well, that we might be able to arrange.”

“Good.” Rubeo took out his phone and called up a satellite map. “There's a road ahead to the right that gets lost in the desert about two hundred yards north. If you are careful, we can drive across the desert and completely miss the gate. It'll save us considerable time.”

“I don't think we need to be in a hurry.”

“I do. The plane with the bots will land in Tripoli in four hours. We don't need to be there, but I don't want to wait too long before we retrieve them. Besides, if we get there quickly, we can get back in time to finish the probe by first light tomorrow. I'm sure you'll agree that the sooner we're out of this hellhole the better.”

9

al-Hayat

H
e'd missed him.

Kharon thumped his fist against the dashboard. He was tempted to yell at Fezzan, who'd taken so long getting them here, but he held his anger in check, not least of all because the two men in the back of the SUV were the driver's friends. He barely trusted them with weapons under the best of circumstances.

Meanwhile, the boy who told him that the Americans had left stood trembling by the car window, frozen in place by Kharon's retort at hearing the news.

“Are they coming back?” Kharon managed to ask.

The boy quickly shook his head.

“Go,” said Kharon, dropping a few coins in front of the boy. “Go.”

He rolled up the window. Rubeo had moved much more quickly than he had expected. But of course—this wasn't a fantasy anymore, this was reality. And the reality was that Rubeo was very, very good. Kharon couldn't afford to be sloppy, to play the child. He was a man and needed to act and think that way.

“What should I do?” asked Fezzan. “Where are we to go?”

“Find a place for them to eat,” said Kharon, jerking his thumb. “Not too expensive.”

The car bumped along to the north end of town. Fezzan drove as if he knew exactly where he was going, but Kharon could never really tell with him. Like many of the people he dealt with, the Libyan was an excellent bluffer.

Kharon had hoped to catch Rubeo in the ruins—it would have been easy to separate him from his bodyguards, especially with the others to help. The plan to embarrass him had been abandoned. It was too ambitious, and he had lost his patience besides. At this point he wanted only to kill and be done with life completely.

His anger had grown exponentially since the chance meeting in the hotel. Why was that? What alchemy had caused his anger to become so insane?

He was capable of recognizing that it wasn't rational, yet powerless to do anything about it. He couldn't blame it on any fresh insults or indignities; nothing compared to the death of his mother.

The restaurant was located in the ground floor of a small office building. There was a small crowd of people outside, perhaps a dozen, waiting to get in.

“Very popular place,” said Fezzan. “Come. We will get in.”

“You know the owner?” Kharon asked.

“I know what he likes.”

Yes, of course, thought Kharon. Money. For enough, the man would undoubtedly kick out his own mother.

Kharon's phone buzzed as he got out of the car. It was Foma.

“Go ahead,” he told the others. “I have to take this.”

Kharon handed Fezzan a few bills, then walked a few steps away and held the phone to his ear.

“This is Kharon.”

“Where are you?” asked Foma.

“Running an errand in the south.”

“Are you still interested in what we spoke of?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It happens that I know where your man is going.”

Kharon felt his throat catch. He hadn't mentioned Rubeo specifically. The Russian was a step ahead of him.

“Where?” asked Kharon.

“He has a cargo flight landing at Tripoli very shortly,” said Foma. “I would imagine he or his people will be there.”

“No. He doesn't do that sort of thing himself.”

“I would imagine that whatever is landing will reach him eventually,” said Foma. “So even if he is not there, it is a way to find him. Unless that is what you are already up to.”

“You can't just follow him,” said Kharon. “He's clever. He has surveillance gear.”

“I'm sure he has many things. Do you want to get him or not?”

“How do you know I'm looking for him?”

“I should have realized it long ago,” admitted Foma. “But only when I thought of whom your parents had been did it become obvious.”

Kharon glanced up at the empty street. All these preparations, and still he was blindsided at every turn. To work with Foma—truly the Russian was the devil.

But this was devil's work.

“Do you want to get him, or not?” asked Foma.

“Tell me how.”

10

Sicily

D
anny Freah turned from the credenza at the side of his office and held out the fresh cup of coffee to Zen. The two men had been friends since their Dreamland days, through a variety of ups and downs. Something about serving in combat together made for a deep relationship despite surface differences.

“I get the sense there's something going on between Turk and Ginella,” said Danny. “But the kid won't say.”

Zen took the coffee. “You sure he's just not blaming himself for the shoot-down?”

“Well, he seems pretty convinced that he wasn't at fault.”

“What's that saying, ‘protest too much'?”

“Maybe. I don't know.” Freah poured himself a cup. Boston had managed to commandeer all the comforts of home: a working coffee machine, a minifridge, and two padded desk chairs. The place was still cramped, but it was habitable. “He's had a pretty stressful few days.”

“He shot down four enemy fighters,” said Zen. “That oughta have earned him some time off.”

“I know.” Danny took a sip of his coffee, then sat down. “We had to keep him around to help test the aircraft systems—I should have sent him home. He wanted to fly.”

“Pilots
always
want to fly, Danny.”

“He seemed to do pretty well with the Hogs. Ginella loved him—until this.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“Don't you have to fly to Libya with Zongchen?”

“I have a little time.”

“Well.” Danny wasn't sure what good, if any, that would do. But maybe Turk would open up to another pilot. “If you want to take a shot—I might be making too much of it. He just seemed, bothered, you know?”

“Uncle Zen has his shingle out.” He adopted a fake Viennese accent. “But sometimes, Colonel, a banana is just a banana.”

“I don't get the joke.”

“Never mind. Probably there's nothing there. I'll talk to him and see.”

“Thanks.”

A
half hour later Zen found Turk at the Tigershark's hangar. He paused for a moment, sitting near the door, watching the young pilot gaze contemplatively at the aircraft. Zen thought of himself doing the same thing, though under vastly different circumstances.

“Pretty plane,” he said loudly as he rolled forward. He still wasn't comfortable with the chair. It seemed to steer a little harshly and pulled to one side.

“Um, hi, Senator.”

“Fly as sweetly as they say?” asked Zen.

“It's pretty smooth, yeah,” said Turk. “Once you're used to it. It's very quick. Doesn't have the brute thrust of the F–22, but it's fast enough. Because it's so small and light.”

“You like lying down to fly?”

“It's more a tilt, really,” said Turk. “Closer to the F–16 than you'd think.”

“Cockpit looks pretty tight,” said Zen. “Almost an afterthought.”

“It was, pretty much. Just there to help them test it.”

“You think you could just sit on the ground and fly it?”

“No.” Turk scowled, his brow furrowing. He was thinking about the plane, Zen realized, gathering his actual impressions. “It's different being in the air, you know?”

Zen knew very well. “It's not easy to explain, is it? People always asked me about flying the Flighthawks. It was . . . hard to tell them, actually. Because you don't think about it when you're doing it. You just do it.”

“Yeah.”

“And you're not really separated from the plane. You don't
think
of yourself as separated,” added Zen, correcting himself. “Because if you thought of it that way, you'd have less control.”

Turk nodded. Zen turned and looked at the aircraft. It was rounded and thin, a beauty queen or model.

“Big difference between this and the A–10,” he said.

“Oh yeah.”

“What's that like?” asked Zen. “I never flew one.”

“Oh. Uh, well, it's a really steady aircraft. It, um, pretty much will go exactly where you want. Very physical—compared to the Tigershark. In a way, for me, it's kind of closer to flying the Texan.”

“The T–6 trainer? The prop plane?”

“Yeah, I know. But for me, that's kind of the parallel.”

“I learned on a Tweet—the T–37. Great aircraft.”

They traded a few stories about flying the trainers, solid and sturdy aircraft, perfect for learning the basics of flight. The planes were more forgiving than the flight instructors.

“There's nothing like feeling the plane move where you want it to move,” said Zen finally. “Truth is, I could never look at a Flighthawk without feeling just a little bit of anger.”

“Because of the accident?”

“Yeah.”

Zen wheeled toward the Tigershark. “Flying was different once I lost my legs,” he said, talking more to himself than to Turk. “At first, I did it more or less out of spite—I had to prove to the Air Force, to everyone, that I was still worth something. They didn't want me to come back. But they couldn't exactly bar me. They could keep me out of a cockpit, obviously, because I couldn't fly an F–15 or an F–22, or any real fighter. But the Flighthawks were different. My hands were still good. And my reflexes.”

“It must have been tough,” said Turk.

Zen slid his chair back to look at Turk. “Truth is, I was really, really angry. That helped. It gave me something to overcome. I like a fight.” He laughed gently, making fun of himself, though he wasn't sure Turk would realize that. “How about you?”

“Like to fight? Well, I shot down those airplanes.”

“Not that kind of fighting.”

Turk pressed his lips together. He knew what Zen meant—dealing with the bureaucracy, with your superiors when they were being unfair or stubborn or both.

“Whatever you say is between you and me.” Zen nudged his wheelchair a little closer. “Doesn't go out of this hangar. Nothing to your superiors.”

“You're investigating the Sabres—”

“But not what happened with Shooter Squadron. What did happen?”

“I didn't see anything on the hill,” said Turk. The words started slowly, then picked up speed. “I came across the ridge, checking. I had a good view of the kids there—”

“Kids?” asked Zen.

“They were definitely kids. There were all sorts of references on the ground. I could tell they were short—there was a bush, some vegetation. They were definitely kids.”

“You were moving at a hundred and fifty knots?”

“A little slower.”

“But you know what you saw.”

“It's burned in my brain. If it was the Tigershark . . .”

Turk's voice trailed off, but Zen knew what he was thinking: the Tigershark's sensors were far wider than the A–10E's, and would have captured a full 360 degrees. The computer would have examined the figures for weapons. There'd be no doubt.

Something else was bothering Turk. Zen didn't know him very well, but he knew pilots, and he knew test pilots especially.

They were always sure of themselves. Granted, Turk was still pretty young. And back-to-back incidents like the ones Turk had been involved in had a way of shaking even the steadiest personality. But Turk was pretty damn positive about what he had seen.

So what else was troubling him?

T
urk looked at the expression on the older man's face. He was serious, contemplative, maybe playing the engagement over in his mind. The recorded images from the A–10 had been inconclusive. That didn't help Turk.

Still, he knew what he had seen.

Didn't he? He couldn't repicture it in his mind now. With all this talk . . . maybe they were right.

No. No, it was just Ginella undermining him, trying to get him back.

Or had he really missed it? Had his eyes and mind played tricks?

“You think they're right?” Turk asked Zen. “You think I chickened out?”

“Chickened out? Who said that?”

“It's implied. Like I was too scared to fire at enemy soldiers because of everything else that had happened.”

“I don't think that would be a fair assessment, do you?”

“It'd be bull.”

Zen studied him. “What did Colonel Ernesto say?” he asked.

Turk frowned. “She . . .” He shrugged.

“She what?”

Turk shook his head.

“What's the personal thing going on here, Turk?” asked Zen sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“What is it with you and Ginella? One day she's singing your praises, now she's tossing you under the bus. What did you do to her?”

Zen couldn't have surprised him more if he'd risen from the wheelchair and begun to walk on his own.

“What do you mean?” asked Turk.

“It's written all over your face. There's something personal here. What exactly is going on?”

“It's nothing bad.”

“Whole story.” Zen had the tone of a father interrogating a child sent home from school by the principal. “Now.”

Reluctantly, Turk told Zen everything that had happened between him and Ginella, including her reaction to Li.

“There was never a quid pro quo, or anything like that,” he added. “But it was, uh, awkward.”

“Is that what's really bothering you?”

“I did
not
see a missile on that hill. She can say anything she wants, but I didn't see it. And I wasn't affected by the Sabres. I mean, it was bad and everything—it's terrible, but that wasn't my fault either.”

I
f Turk had been a woman, the affair would clearly be a problem for Ginella. A commanding officer couldn't have an affair with a subordinate, even one temporarily assigned.

But the role reversal blurred everything. Maybe it shouldn't—from a purely theoretical sense, a colonel was a colonel, and a captain was a captain. But in real life, old prejudices died hard. A man simply wasn't viewed as a victim of sexual harassment, no matter what the circumstances.

And in truth, that wasn't necessarily the case—not legally, at least. Ginella hadn't explicitly threatened Turk's career.

The real problem wasn't Ginella, it was Turk. Maybe he hadn't blamed himself for the Sabre accident, but Zen remembered him being troubled when he landed. Maybe he'd just missed the missile on the hill—at that speed and height, it wouldn't be surprising at all. But whatever had happened, he was definitely second guessing himself now.

Fighter pilots couldn't have that. In the darkest moment, you needed to know you could trust yourself. You needed to be able to just
do
, not think.

“Are you afraid Colonel Ernesto's going to screw up your career?” Zen asked.

“I don't know,” admitted Turk. “I guess what I'm really—what really bugs me is somebody saying I'm a coward.”

“If you missed a missile, that wouldn't make you a coward. That idea shouldn't even enter your mind.”

“Well.”

“Seriously. It's bull. And I don't think you missed it.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't worry about Ginella,” Zen told the pilot.

“You're not going to say anything to her, are you?”

“Nothing that doesn't need to be said.”