Collateral Damage (33 page)

23

Libya

D
anny Freah grabbed for a handhold as the Osprey pirouetted above the road, the chain gun in its nose tearing up the road in front of the approaching vehicles. The two trucks veered off to the side but the armored car kept moving forward.

“Stop the bastard,” said Danny.

The Osprey spun back quickly. The gun under its chin swiveled, and a steady
rat-rat-rat
followed. Danny leaned forward, watching through the windscreen as the gun's bullets chewed through the rear quarter of the lightly armored vehicle. Steam shot up from the armored car. The right rear wheel seemed to fall away, sliding from the cloud of smoke and disintegrating metal. The rest of the vehicle morphed into a red oblong, fire consuming it in an unnaturally symmetrical shape. The red flared, then changed to black as the symmetry dissolved in a rage.

“People on the ground, coming up along the road,” said the copilot.

“Where are our guys?” asked Danny.

“Going for them now.”

R
ubeo fell face-first into the side of the hill. His face felt as if it had caught fire and had been ripped downward at the same time; his head pounded with pain. He pushed back with his hand, then fell to the side, exhausted and spent.

What had Bastian's advice been? What was his old colonel telling him?

Find out why it happened. For yourself.

He'd done that—Kharon had caused it, with the help of the Russians. He'd closed the circle of a crime committed years before. A crime Rubeo knew he had been completely innocent of, yet one he'd always felt guilty about.

How did he benefit from knowing that?

He should feel relief knowing he wasn't responsible for the accident, and more important, for the civilian deaths. And yet he didn't. He should feel horror at Kharon's crime—he'd committed murder. Anger. Rage. But all he felt was pity, pity and sorrow. Useless emotions.

Was that what knowledge brought you? Impotent sadness?

The man who had built his life around the idea that intelligence could solve every problem lay in the dirt and rubble, body battered and exhausted. He knew many things, but what he knew most of all now was pain.

Up,
he told himself.
Up.

You know what happened. And what of it? Knowledge itself is useless. It's how it's put to use, if it can be used at all.

Diomedes idled behind him. He could feel the soft vibration of its engine.

Time to get up. Time to move on.

“Follow me,” he said, starting to move on his hands and knees.

The bot moved behind him, carrying Kharon and nipping at Rubeo's heels.

His ears pounded. Rubeo realized belatedly that he couldn't hear properly. The ground vibrated with something, but whether it was far or close, he had no idea.

Gradually his strength returned. He pushed up to his knees, then to his feet, walking unsteadily up the slope. The world had shaded yellow, blurring at the edges. Rubeo pushed himself forward, trudging across the side of a hill, then down to his right, in the direction of the road. The loose dirt and sand moved under the soles of his feet, and he felt himself sliding. He began to glide down the hill, legs bent slightly and arms out for balance; a snowboarder couldn't have done it better.

The bot followed. Rubeo glanced at it, making sure Kharon was still on the back. Then he began moving parallel to the road. He passed the disabled trucks, continuing toward a flat area he remembered from earlier.

K
haron's leg had gone numb, but he actually felt better. The shock had passed; his head was clear. He felt stronger—still injured, of course, but no longer paralyzed.

He clung to the crane arm of the bot as they rumbled across the terrain, the vehicle bobbing and weaving like a canoe shooting rapids. It settled somewhat as it moved off the hill onto the level shoulder alongside the road.

An Osprey, black and loud, approached from the south. Kharon stared as it grew larger. His eyes, irritated by the grit in the wind, seemed to burn with the image. The ground shook. The wings seemed to move upward, the control surfaces sliding down as the rotors at the tips tilted. Dirt flew everywhere.

The world began to close around him, becoming dark. He was a child, trapped in the closet, waiting for something that would never happen.

All these years, and he had never really moved beyond those long, terrible moments. Everything he had done, his achievements, his studies, paled compared to that dreadful time. Life had failed to lift him beyond the sinkhole he'd crawled into that night.

Such a failure. Such a waste. Even the one thing I lived for, revenge, proved unreachable. Rubeo wasn't even the culprit. Rubeo wasn't even the villain. The people who helped me were. They probably knew it from the start.

Nothing is left.

D
anny moved to the door as the Osprey started to settle toward the earth. Boston was already there, gun in hand, ready to leap out. They had to move quickly; the Osprey was extremely vulnerable when landing and taking off.

Not to mention on the ground.

Something shrieked. The aircraft jerked upward.

“Incoming shells,” said the pilot over the interphone. “Evading—hang on.”

R
ubeo saw the aircraft as it swept overhead. Dirt swirled from the wash of the propellers spinning. He put his head down, shielding it with his hands.

“Into the aircraft,” he said, speaking into the microphone for the bot. He still couldn't hear; his voice in his head sounded hollow and strange. “Go to the ramp at the rear.”

The wind increased. Rubeo bent almost double and stopped moving forward. All he had to do now was wait.

They were out of this damn hellhole.

Diomedes poked him in the back. Rubeo turned, then fell as the wind peaked. He rolled onto his back, eyes and face covered by his hands. He spread his fingers hesitantly, then saw something black fleeing above.

The Osprey was scooting away.

“What the hell?” he yelled in anguish.

The ground shook. Rubeo jerked back to his feet and began shouting at the aircraft. A geyser of sand and dirt rose from the road about a hundred yards away.

“We're being fired at,” Rubeo yelled to Kharon. He turned and saw Diomedes, which had stopped about twenty yards away, waiting in the spot where the Osprey would have landed. A fresh geyser rose just beyond the bot.

The explosions were smaller than before—a mortar or maybe two or three.

“This way,” Rubeo told the bot. He fingered the microphone cord and started south. The bot quickly followed. He heard something, a growl in the air—his hearing was returning.

“M
ortar team behind those two trucks,” the pilot told Danny.

“Eliminate it.”

“With pleasure.”

The Osprey's tail rose, tilting the gun in its nose toward the trucks. A chain of bullets began spitting from the aircraft, chewing the ground just behind the vehicle. The Osprey danced right. The bullets disappeared in a stream of debris. A cloud rose where they landed, growing quickly until it mushroomed over the trucks and everything within fifty yards.

The mortar fire stopped. But there were more vehicles coming out from the city. And the people who had come from the village were gathering along the road about two miles away. Whiplash had blundered into the middle of an uprising—troops who had deserted earlier interpreted the military action as an attack from the loyal troops, and were coming out to fight. The government forces, meanwhile, had seen the action as a rebel attack. And in the middle was the scientist they were trying to rescue.

“Colonel, the air commander is reporting that there's activity at that army base to the west,” said the Osprey pilot. “This place is getting damn busy.”

“I thought these bastards were negotiating a cease-fire,” cursed Danny.

24

Tripoli

T
he defense minister's aide leaned over and whispered something in his boss's ear. The two spoke quickly.

“I have a report that I must hear,” the minister told Zongchen and the others. “There is a confrontation—American aircraft are involved.”

“Which American aircraft?” asked Zen.

“Several. A black aircraft like a helicopter. And A–10 fighters—”

“You mean an Osprey?” said Zen.

“There is a major fight with rebels,” said the minister. “A rebellion in Mizdah. I must take this call.”

The aide handed him a phone. Zongchen looked at Zen.

“Excuse me a second.” Zen wheeled backward from the table. There was only one unit operating a black Osprey in Libya—Whiplash. He took out his satellite phone, hesitated a moment, then hit the quick dial for Danny.

Instead of getting Danny directly, the call was rerouted through the Whiplash system to a desk operative at Whiplash's headquarters in the U.S. on the CIA campus. The officer was assigned to monitor and assist Danny and the team during operations; he was in effect a secretary, though no one would ever call him that. “Colonel Freah's line.”

“This is Zen Stockard. I need to talk to Danny right now.”

“Senator, he is in Libya right now, in the middle of a firefight.”

“I know exactly where he is. I have battle information for him,” said Zen.

“Stand by, Senator.”

The line cleared, seemingly empty. Then Danny came on, as loud and clear as if he were in the same room.

“Zen, we're in the middle of heavy shit here. Rubeo is on the ground and we're trying to get to him. I got government and rebel forces on both sides.”

“I have the Libyan government minister here. I'm going to get a cease-fire.”

“That would be damn timely.”

“Give me your location. Then keep the line to me open if you can.”

“Near Mizdah.”

Zen put the phone in his lap and wheeled back to the table.

“If you want a negotiated peace,” he told the minister loudly, “call your forces off the Osprey at Mizdah they're telling you about.”

Zen turned to Zongchen. “We need to tell the princess to get her people down there to stop as well.”

25

Libya

T
he Osprey roared overhead. Rubeo could hear almost perfectly now—the engines sounded like a pair of diesel trucks that had lost their mufflers.

The aircraft circled around, checking the nearby terrain as it came down to land.

“Follow,” Rubeo told Diomedes. He looked at Kharon, still gripping the crane spar. Kharon looked haunted, shocked into another dimension. “It'll be all right,” Rubeo yelled at him. “We're getting out this time.”

The aircraft settled down thirty yards away. Troopers leapt from the door at the side. Rubeo tried to run toward them but his legs wouldn't carry him any faster than a walk.

Someone grabbed him. It was Sergeant Rockland—Boston.

“Come on, Doc,” yelled the sergeant, hooking his arm around so he supported Rubeo on one side. “Let's get you the hell out of here.”

“The bot.”

“Yeah, yeah, the mechanical marvel.”

“Kharon, get Kharon.”

“We're getting him,” said Boston. “Let's go, let's go. There are all sorts of people heading this way.”

K
haron curled his body down as the wind swirled around him and the robot rolled to the rear of the Osprey. One of the troopers ran beside him, gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and waved his gun back and forth, making sure there was no one there.

God, help me.

The bot continued inside the hull of the aircraft, moving forward. The side door was open, a trooper leaning through the open space, a safety belt holding him as the aircraft pitched upward. Kharon was a foot or two away.

The roar began to quiet. For a moment Kharon felt safe, untouchable. But then he noticed the darkness around him, the walls close by.

The closet.

Someone was yelling outside.

“Neil! Neil!”

His mother.

Kharon unfolded his fingers and then his arm. He took a tentative step. Someone grabbed for him. He pushed away.

Leave me alone!

Leave me!

“Neil!”

The sides closed in. He couldn't breathe. He was going to be smothered.

The door was open in front of him.

With all his strength, he leapt for safety, ignoring the surge of pain in his leg, ignoring all the pain, ducking his head and driving ahead for the light.

B
y the time Rubeo realized what Kharon was doing it was too late. The Whiplash trooper at the door dove at him, but Kharon moved too fast: He leapt through the open hatchway at the side of the aircraft, tumbling down some one hundred feet to the rocks.

“Damn,” muttered Rubeo, sinking back onto the web bench at the side of the aircraft. “Oh damn.”

26

Over Libya

T
he Tigershark spit its slugs in a computer-controlled spurt, current and metal flashing in a dance of force and counterforce.

The rail gun had originally been conceived as an antiballistic missile weapon, and the computer program controlling it still bore that DNA, able to handle the complicated coefficients of speed, mass, and trajectory with quick ease. From a mathematical point of view, the fact that the warheads it was aiming at were comparatively small did not present a great difficulty; the formula always aimed at a single point in space, and as with any point, it had no dimension whatsoever. It was simply there.

But on the practical level, the predictable margin of error increased dramatically in an inverse proportion to the suitable target area; in other words, the smaller the target, the more likely the slug was to miss. To compensate, the computer spit out more slugs as Turk fired. While he could override this, it wasn't advisable in an engagement with missiles, especially given that each individual encounter lasted only a few seconds at most.

But this did mean that the gun needed additional time to cool down between engagements, and even if the time was measured in fractions of seconds, each delay meant he might not reach Li in time. For the pilot stubbornly insisted to himself that he would in fact save her; that he would finally end in position to shoot down the last missile before it got her.

The Hogs completed their attacks and ducked away, firing chaff and working their electronic countermeasures. The Russian missiles were sticky beasts, staying tight to the trail of the planes they had targeted.

To the west, one of the MiGs had already been shot down, but that didn't change anything for Turk—there were eight missiles in the air, and every one of them was homing in on the back of someone he needed to protect.

Danny's voice came out of the buzz around his head. “Whiplash is away.”

Turk didn't bother acknowledging. The only thing that mattered now were these eight missiles.

A tone sounded in Turk's headset and his screen's pipper flashed black—the computer had calculated that the first target was “dead.” There was no time to linger over the kill, or even watch the missile explode; Turk immediately turned to the next course, following the line laid out in his virtual HUD.

By the time the computer reported “Target destroyed,” he was already firing at the nose of the second missile, pushing the plane down at the last instant to keep with the missile's sudden lurch. The maneuver probably meant that the missile had been sucked off by one of the countermeasures, but Turk was too intent on his mission to break at that moment. Once again he got a kill tone; once again he came to a new course.

He saw Li's plane out of the corner of his eye. Had she gotten away? Would she?

Tempted to make sure, he started to fire too soon. The computer tacitly scolded him, elevating the course icon and flashing its pipper yellow, indicating he was no longer on target. He willed himself back to course as he continued to fire, pressing the attack until the tone. Then he pushed hard right, looking for the last missile, looking for Li.

He saw her plane, then saw the missile closing.

God, why didn't I save her instead of Ginella?

The computer set up solutions for the remaining missiles, but all Turk could see was Li's plane. He turned hard, still with her, then saw something flashing next to her.

By the time he cringed, it had passed. The Hog went on its wing to the left; the missile exploded right.

She was OK. Her ECMs had managed to bluff the missile away.

Turk turned hard to the computer's suggested course, aiming for the next missile.