Collateral Damage (30 page)

9

Libya, north of Mizdah

R
ubeo had calculated that his armored vest would absorb some of the impact as he fell. But whatever buffer it provided was negligible at best. The ground poked his ribs so hard he lost his breath. Rolling and wheezing, he scrambled desperately to get up and get to the side of the road.

It was lighter than he thought, still daytime. Things had happened much faster than he'd realized. He'd counted on it being night, and now saw there were hours before the sun would set.

He caught a glimpse of another vehicle—the one with the bots, he guessed.

His only goal was to get far away before whoever was in the truck could react.

Go! Go!

Rubeo struggled to his knees. His breath came back in a spurt. He pushed forward, head down, then remembered Kharon.

“Neil?” he grunted.

The young man was on the ground nearby. Rubeo went and grabbed his shirt. He tugged. Kharon bolted to his feet and began running. Rubeo followed.

“That hill,” yelled Rubeo, pointing westward. “We'll get behind it.”

Something flew up near him, a puff of dirt.

It was a miniature volcano.

A gunshot.

“They're firing at us!” yelled Kharon.

10

Tripoli

Z
en's nose rebelled at the heavy whiff of Moroccan hashish he smelled as they entered the hotel suite. He glanced at Zongchen, who seemed puzzled by the odor.

“Hashish,” whispered Zen.

The Chinese general didn't understand, and there was no time to explain. One of Princess Idris al-Nussoi's aides came out to welcome them.

“The princess is expecting you,” said the aide, with a hint of annoyance. They were about an hour late, though given the conditions in the city, that should have been expected.

“We're glad she could see us,” said Zongchen diplomatically. They were using English, as it was a common language for most of the people on the committee, and the rebel leader knew it as well.

A thick bump loomed at the doorway. Zen grit his teeth and blustered his way over it. He was glad to get through—despite everything he'd accomplished in his life, an inch and a half of wood could still stop him cold.

Even though they were in territory that at worst could be deemed neutral, Zongchen had taken three times as many security people as before. Besides the plainclothes UN team, he had two dozen British SAS commandos. To a man, they looked ready to snap necks and eat livers; Zen was a little scared of them himself. A good portion crowded into the suite with the committee members; there was hardly room for the rebels to move, let alone attack.

“Gentlemen—so many of you,” said Idris al-Nussoi. She was lounging on a couch, her head leaning back on a pile of pillows, an iPad in her hand. She waved them to the chairs with her free hand. “I just have to send this message, if you don't mind.”

“Of course,” said Zongchen.

Zen glanced around. The princess's suite was a mess, with jackets flung across the furniture, newspapers on the floor, a pair of suitcases on their sides. Pushed against the wall were trays of half-eaten room service food.

Not to mention the light scent of hash, still wafting from the hall.

This was the most powerful leader in the rebel movement?

“Senator Stockard. It is my pleasure to meet you, sir.” A portly man with a South American accent approached Zen and held out his hand. Zen shook it.

“I am Oscar Sifontes, a friend and advisor to the princess. We have heard very much about you, Senator, and your exploits with Dreamland.”

“Long time ago,” said Zen.

“Very important. We honor you even in my country. Venezuela,” added Sifontes, guessing correctly that Zen had no idea where he was from. “And you are General Zong.”

“Zongchen,” said the committee chairman, bending his head.

The princess finished what she was doing. Introductions were made all around.

“So, you have come with a message?” said the princess.

“We have come with something that may be of great interest to you,” said Zongchen. “We have an offer from the government to negotiate peace. One of their ministers will meet with you, and some other representative of the movement, personally. The aim would be to have new elections—”

“We have won!” The princess leapt from the couch. “If they are suing for peace—”

“They are not,” said Zongchen carefully. “They wish to talk. They have offered discussions only.”

“Oh, don't be naive, General. They have refused to talk all this time. Now, obviously, we have them where we want them.”

Sifontes was beaming by her side.

Zen tried hard to keep a neutral face.

“So you are open to talks?” asked Zongchen.

“I will have to discuss this with my supporters.”

“Why talk when they are ready to surrender?” asked Sifontes. “They must be on their last legs to be making an offer like this. There's no more fight left in them.”

“I wouldn't overreach,” said Zen. “I wouldn't underestimate the force they have left.”

“I will take this under advisement,” said the princess firmly. “Thank you, General. Thank you all. This is very important news.”

Wheeling out of the suite, Zen couldn't help but wonder if the allies had supported the wrong side. The government had certainly been horrible, but if Idris al-Nussoi was an example, the rebels didn't look like they would turn out much better.

The other members of the committee appeared to have similar feelings, chattering among themselves as soon as they got into the elevator.

“Best to withhold judgment,” said Zongchen as they started downward. “Peace has many handmaidens.”

“Or something like that,” muttered Zen under his breath.

11

Over Libya

“V
ehicles have stopped,” Turk told Danny, watching from above. “We have two guys getting out of the second truck—they're armed. Request permission to—”

“Fry them,” said Danny before he could complete the sentence.

“Gladly.”

Turk leaned the Tigershark on her right wing, lining up the rail gun. The targeting computer did the math—the pipper glowed red and hot on the two men.

He pushed down on the trigger control, firing a single slug at ultrahigh speed.

“Slug” made the round sound like a brick, but in fact it was a highly engineered and aerodynamically shaped piece of metal. The tail end looked somewhat like a stubby magnet. It contained the electronics to propel the projectile, and was discarded as the round came out of the gun. The payload holder was a cylinder with a pair of four-fingered arms that rode the bullet down the rail. Friction from the air forced it to drop away as the rocket-shaped bullet sped toward its target at over Mach 5. Fins stabilized the projectile.

None of this was visible to the naked eye, and even the sophisticated sensors aboard the Tigershark would have had a hard time focusing on the crisply moving arrow. The slug obliterated the gunman it had been aimed at, slicing through his weapon and his chest.

A half a second later Turk fired again. The force of the bullet disintegrated the target's skull before burying itself deep into the earth.

Turk pulled up, sailing past Rubeo and whoever was with him on the ground. Meanwhile, the rail gun's enormous heat—the most problematic part of the weapon—was dissipated by the air and liquid cooling system.

“Rubeo and a second individual are running in the hills,” Turk reported. “I have two more guys, back by the first truck. They're examining the rear of the vehicle. Can I engage?”

“Are they showing weapons?” asked Danny.

“Negative.” Turk glanced to the right, where information on the two figures had been compiled by the computer.

NO WEAPONS
flashed in the legend. The computer didn't detect any.

“Hold off. Can you disable the vehicles?”

“Yeah, roger, OK. Stand by.”

Piece of cake, Turk thought to himself, swinging around to line up his shots.

W
atching the feed from the Tigershark, Danny saw the stopped trucks and the men near the rear of the first vehicle. The Tigershark pivoted above, then seemed to settle over the front of the second truck. It was descending almost straight down.

There was a burst of steam from the vehicle. The truck jerked backward, propelled by the impact of the rail gun's shell striking into the ground. Dirt flew upward, obscuring the van.

The view rotated, Turk slowly turning the aircraft to take the second shot. Danny selected the global ground-facing view—an image caught by a camera back on the belly of the Tigershark with a wide angle lens.

The image was a curved panorama some 160 degrees wide. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the truck jerked backward and to the side, a puff of smoke engulfing the front.

The men who'd been behind the first truck started to run along the highway south, undoubtedly for their lives.

“Splash two trucks,” reported Turk. “Uh, two runners on the ground, going up the road, away from the vehicles.”

“I see them,” answered Danny. “They any danger to Rubeo?”

“No weapons.”

Danny clicked into the interphone circuit, connecting with the pilots. “How long to the target area?”

“Thirty-five minutes, Colonel. We've got the pedals to the metal.”

“Keep them there.”

12

Libya, north of Mizdah

T
he earth shook a second time as the sky cracked behind them. Rubeo recognized the distinctive sound immediately—the Tigershark had fired its rail gun. Whiplash was nearby.

Action was
always
the best alternative.

But they weren't in the clear yet.

“Up over there, onto the peak of that hill,” Rubeo told Kharon, pointing to the left. “Come on, come on.”

But it was Rubeo who lagged, tiring after only a few steps. While he was in reasonable shape for his age, he had never been an athlete, and on the far side of fifty he wasn't about to win any sprints, let alone a marathon. He went down to his knees as he reached the peak, struggling for breath.

“The trucks blew up,” said Kharon.

“It's the Tigershark—it's a Whiplash—aircraft. We're going to be—rescued,” said Rubeo, hunting for his breath. “It's just a matter—of time.”

“There are two men, running up the road,” said Kharon.

“Let them go.”

Rubeo pushed up to his feet, steadying himself. They'd run about four hundred yards, not quite a quarter mile.

If the Tigershark was above them, a rescue team wouldn't be too far off. All they had to do now was sit and wait.

K
haron looked across the sandy hilltops, orienting himself in the landscape. There was a town or city to the south, on his right. Behind them, to the west, were more hills. The ground was dry, but small trees and shrubs grew in rows in the valleys. These were the few spots where water remained from the wet season. While the area was not quite as barren and inhospitable as western Libya, where the Sahara's dunes and moonlike extremes ruled, it was neither a breadbasket nor vacation spot.

Should he stay with Rubeo and be rescued? There was no alternative—even if he reached whatever city was to the south, it was a good bet that Foma would find him there.

But surely he couldn't return with Rubeo—he'd be prosecuted for the murder of the villagers. And while he hadn't told Rubeo everything about his work with the Russians, he'd certainly told him enough to warrant an arrest.

Just the sabotage alone would condemn him.

The men with the guns had been killed. Maybe he could get their guns, arm himself, and get to the city. At least then he would have a chance.

He looked at Rubeo. The scientist was thin, older, not frail but certainly not the tall and powerful man in his imagination. Not the monster.

If he could be believed. If what he had said were true?

Kharon, to his shame, sensed it was.

“I forgive you,” he told Rubeo. “I was wrong about you.” And then he set out on a dead run toward the trucks.

13

Over Libya

D
anny Freah tapped his helmet to let the incoming communication pass through to his screen.

It was Chase, the security director of Rubeo's European company.

“Colonel Freah, I see that you have located Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase. He sounded as huffy as ever.

“You see that, huh?”

“We've just a few minutes ago intercepted telephone communications between a Russian individual in Tripoli and the Libyan government. He has asked them to scramble forces to retrieve Dr. Rubeo, or kill him if necessary.” Chase cleared his throat so loudly that the antinoise dampers in Danny's helmet—designed to filter out the sound of an explosion over the radio—kicked in. “They are also intending to retrieve two items that we have in the second van. Those items are our property, and we want them back.”

“What are they?”

“Robots.”

“What type?”

“I do not have the details. Both are experimental and highly valuable.”

Danny doubted that Chase didn't have the details, but let it pass. “I'll take that into consideration.”

“Colonel, I would greatly prefer that the items are recovered intact,” said Chase quickly. “I'm sure Dr. Rubeo would agree. However, if that is not possible, one of the items contains equipment that is extremely sensitive. If the situation warrants, you may have to blow it up.”

“You don't know what they are, but you think we should destroy them?”

“An ounce of prevention—wouldn't you agree?”

“How exactly do you know about the communication?” asked Danny. “Are you bugging their telephones?”

“We have taken steps to protect Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase smugly. “Some of those are not available to you, for a number of reasons.”

“Who is the individual?”

“He's a Russian officer with the SVR. I will transfer the information to you anonymously.”

“Thanks,” said Danny.

T
he Tigershark's computer warned Turk that four aircraft were coming off the runway at Ghat.

“Identify.”

“Aircraft are MiG–25 NATO reporting code name ‘Foxbat,' variant unidentified.”

The MiGs were rocket fast—and about as maneuverable as a refrigerator. They were no match for the Tigershark: easier prey than the Mirages, though they could certainly run away faster.

Their airfield was some four hundred miles south. Assuming they went to their afterburners, they could be in firing range within twenty minutes, perhaps even sooner. That didn't make them an immediate threat, but it could potentially complicate the pickup, as the Osprey would be easy prey.

“Danny, I have four government aircraft getting airborne in a hurry,” he radioed. “Not sure yet where they're headed. They could be a threat.”

“I doubt they're heading in your direction,” said Danny.

“Acknowledged. If they do, can I engage?”

“Hold your present position, Tigershark. I have to sort this out.”

Turk understood that getting clearance would be a problem—the aircraft were not yet considered hostile. And in fact they might not be until the Osprey was in serious danger.

“I say we warn them off,” suggested Turk. “Tell them to stay clear.”

“I'd rather not advertise the fact that we're in the middle of a rescue operation,” said Danny. “My pilot says we're about fifteen minutes from touchdown.”

“That's still going to cut it close,” said Turk. “Your aircraft will be in range of their missiles if they go all out.” He pointed at the detail panel, showing what the computer interpreted the MiGs were carrying.

“Computer says they have an Apex variety, R27 missiles. That's a decent medium range missile, Colonel,” Turk reported. “Could take out your aircraft.”

“Stand by,” Danny told him.

“Yeah, roger that,” said Turk. He recalculated an orbit that would take him south, putting him in a better position to intercept the planes. As he did, the computer gave him a fresh warning—the Mi–35V Hind and the Chinook in town were revving their rotors.