Collateral Damage (6 page)

Those spots were few and far between. The city had not yet recovered from the scars it had received during the first Libyan civil war, let alone the one it was fighting now. As he came out of the hotel, Kharon dodged a poorly laid asphalt patch on the sidewalk where a shell had fallen a month before, just as the uprising began.

War was a constant in mankind's history, more so in the areas that could least afford it. When he was a young man, Kharon had contemplated such thoughts for days on end. Though trained as both an engineer and a scientist, his mind had a philosophical bent, and on his own he read all of the great Western philosophers, from Plato and Aristotle to Derrida and Julia Kristeva. But in all that reading, he had failed to find an answer to the most basic questions of life and death. Or at least find one that satisfied him.

Now he had little use for philosophy, at least in so much as it related to the question of war. War was useful to him; that was as far as he needed to ponder.

Kharon walked to the end of the block, passing the car he had used to get here, and continued across the street. There, he turned right and walked down an alley to a small shop that once rented bicycles to tourists, but now eked out a living repairing and selling them.

Ten euros bought a Chinese bike only a few years old. Kharon pedaled a bit uncertainly as he started, his balance wobbly. But before going a hundred yards he had mastered it, and joined the light traffic heading toward the sea.

A few minutes of pedaling brought him to the big lot at the base of the harbor. He rode the bike to one of the old-fashioned light poles, then hopped off gingerly. Propping it against the post, he walked between the cement benches toward the water.

The beachfront had been restored after the first war. But it was empty today, as on most days, its austere beauty a reproach to the haphazard and dirty city behind it.

Kharon stared at the water as if he were a tourist or perhaps a poet, contemplating his place in the universe. He turned to his right and began walking parallel to the water lapping against the stones. Glancing casually to his right, he made sure he hadn't been followed. Then he stopped again, and dropped the USB memory key on the ground.

He stooped to pick it up, started to rise, then stooped down again to tie his shoe. As he did, he ground the key under his heel, breaking it in two.

Rising with the device in his hand, he ripped it apart, exposing the chip. He snapped the memory chip from the rest of the device and walked closer to the water.

Over the rail, he went down onto the scrabble of rocks and sand and walked to the edge of the water. He bent, picked up a flat stone, then skipped it and the chip out across the surface of the nearby sea. The stone popped against the water, rose, flew farther, popped again, then plunked down with a tiny splash.

The chip had gone only halfway to the first large wave, but it was far enough. The saltwater would quickly deteriorate it.

Satisfied, Kharon turned and walked back to the promenade that lined the water. He glanced at his watch. Things had gone well, but he was behind schedule. He needed to leave for Tripoli as soon as possible.

6

Sicily

T
urk rested his elbows on the table at the center of the ready room, then cradled his face, reviewing in his mind what had happened. He was starting to think he should get a lawyer.

“I went to intercept the fighters,” he told the three men who'd been interviewing him since 0600 that morning. “That's why I was off-course. I wasn't off-course at all,” he added, realizing that he had inadvertently used his interrogator's language. “I set my own course. The course that was programmed into the Tigershark's computer was my plan. Plans change.”

He raised his face, letting the whiskers of his unshaven chin scrape against his fingertips. His interviewers were French, Greek, and British, left to right, all members of their respective countries' air forces. They had been talking to him now for over three hours.

“When you change your course from the program,” asked the Frenchman, “this then reprograms the fighters?”

“It doesn't necessarily affect them,” said Turk. He glanced to his right toward Major Redstone, an Air Force security officer who was supposed to prevent any classified information from being discussed. Redstone said nothing, nor had he said anything the entire time they'd been in the room. “The UM/F–9Ss are autonomous until overridden. As I said before, they control themselves.”

“Explain how that works,” said the British RAF officer.

“I don't think I can.”

“Because it is classified?”

“Because I don't know exactly how things work on that level,” said Turk. “I'm not a programmer or an engineer. I'm a pilot. I fly the plane. I'm trained to be able to deal with the UAVs, but without the system itself, I would have no idea how they work.”

The Frenchman leaned toward the others and whispered something. Turk turned to Redstone. “I'd really like some coffee.”

“Let's take a break,” suggested Redstone, finally finding his voice.

“A few more questions and we'll be done for the day,” said the Greek.

“Let's get some coffee first,” said Turk, who'd heard the “few more questions” line a half hour before.

“The captain should remain sequestered while we get the coffee,” said the Frenchman. “No offense.”

“Fine,” said Turk.

Redstone nodded. “Black, no sugar for me.”

Just as the Frenchman reached for the door, a tall, thin man opened it and came in. Turk recognized him immediately—it was Ray Rubeo, the scientist who headed the team that had developed the artificial intelligence controlling the Sabres. Rubeo looked at the foreign air force officers—it was more a glare than a greeting—then stood against the wall.

“Excuse me, chap,” said the RAF officer. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Rubeo. I am reviewing the incident.”

“We're conducting an interview.”

“I understand,” said Rubeo.

The men seemed puzzled by his answer, but didn't follow up. Rubeo remained, silent, standing against the wall. Turk thought he was full of contempt toward the foreign officers, yet if the pilot had been pressed to explain where this impression came from, he would have been at a loss. It was in his posture, his stance, his silence—subtle and evident, though somehow inscrutable.

Redstone came back and the officers began questioning Turk again, starting off with the most basic questions.

“You are twenty-three years old?” asked the Greek.

“Uh, yeah.”

“And already an accomplished test pilot.”

“I was in the right place at the right time,” said Turk.

“But also very good, no?” The Greek smiled. Obviously the others had designated him Mr. Nice Guy, peppering Turk with softball questions.

Yes, said Turk, he had done well throughout his career. Part of the explanation for his young age was the fact that he'd gone to college two years earlier than most people, and graduated in three. But yes, he had been very lucky to be blessed with good instructors, and above all hand-eye coordination that was off the charts.

Not that it mattered so much when flying a remote plane.

And then he had been assigned to Dreamland?

Actually, he worked at Dreamland for only a short period. Some of his work, as a test pilot, was highly classified.

He needn't supply the details. Just give a general impression.

The Brit took over. How was the mission planned, who had authority to call it off, at what point had he known there was a problem?

Turk tried to answer the questions patiently, though he'd answered them all several times, including twice now for the men in the room.

“The autonomous control,” said the Frenchman, finally returning to the point they really wanted to know. “How does it work?”

“Specifically, I don't know.”

“In a general way.”

“The computer works to achieve goals that have been laid out,” said Turk.

“Always?”

“It has certain parameters that it can work within. In this case, let's say there's twenty tanks or whatever it was. It has priorities to hit certain tanks. But if a more important target is discovered, or let's say one of the tanks turns out to be fake, the computer can reprogram itself. The units communicate back and forth, and the priority is set.”

“So the computer selects the target?” said the RAF officer.

“Yes and no. It works just the way I described it.”

“How can that be?” asked the Greek. “The computer can decide.”

“It works precisely as the captain has described,” said Rubeo. “I'm sure you have used a common map program to find directions to a destination. Think of that as a metaphor.”

“Excuse me,” snapped the Frenchman. “We are questioning the captain.”

Rubeo took a step away from the wall. His face looked drawn, even more severe than usual—and that was saying quite a bit in his case. “I'm sure the mission tapes can be reviewed. The pilot is blameless. You're wasting his time. There's no sense persecuting him like this.”

Though appreciative, Turk was surprised by Rubeo's defense. Not because it wasn't true—it absolutely was—but because it was the opposite of what he expected. While he had no experience in any sort of high level investigation, let alone something as grave as this, he'd been in the military long enough to know that the number one rule in any controversial situation was CYA—cover your ass.

The others were baffled as well, though for different reasons. The RAF officer asked Rubeo how he knew all this.

“The team that designed the computer system worked for me,” said Rubeo. “And much of the work is based on my own personal efforts. The distributed intelligence system, specifically.” He looked over at Redstone. “I don't believe the exact details are necessary to the investigation.”

“Uh, no,” said Redstone. He sounded a little like a student caught napping in class. “Specifics would be classified.”

“Precisely.” Rubeo turned back to Turk. “The aircraft responded to verbal commands once you overrode, didn't they, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was no indication that there was a malfunction, either while you were dealing with the government planes or later on, was there?”

“No, sir.”

“At no point did you give an order to the planes to deviate from their mission, or their programming, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“You can ask if he took any aggressive actions following the shoot-down of the Mirages,” Rubeo told the other officers. “But I don't think you'll get any more useful information from the pilot. As I said, he's quite correct—he had nothing to do with the malfunction.”

“It was a malfunction?” asked the RAF officer.

“You don't think the aircraft are programmed to kill civilians, do you?” snapped Rubeo.

Judging from their frowns, Turk wasn't entirely sure that they didn't.

7

Sicily

“T
he concept of conflict of interest—it is a very American idea,” Du Zongchen told Zen. “The fact that you are familiar with the program for many reasons—that is why I requested you. I am sure no one would object.”

“People will object to anything,” replied Zen. He glanced around the large suite room; two of Zongchen's assistants were speaking into cell phones in a quiet hush at the side. Another was working in one of the bedrooms, which had temporarily been converted into an office. “That's one thing that I've learned the hard way. They always object.”

“But you will help me,” said Zongchen happily. “You will assist.”

“I will, but I want you to know that it's likely to be—that there may be controversy. Other members of the committee may object.”

“I have spoken with them. They are all impressed and wish your assistance.”

“Even so, the general public—”

Zongchen waved his hand. Zen wondered if Chinese officials were really so far removed from popular opinion and criticism that they didn't have to worry about accusations that they had unfairly influenced events.

If so, he was envious.

“Our first order of business,” said Zongchen, “after the others join us, is to arrange for an inspection of the area. I am to speak to the government officials by videophone at the half hour. Do you wish to join me?”

“Sure.”

“And then, to be balanced, we speak to the rebels. This is a more difficult project.”

Zongchen rose from the chair. It was a boxy, stylish affair, but it didn't look particularly comfortable. The Chinese general walked over to the small console table and poured tea into a small porcelain cup.

“Are you sure you would not like tea or coffee, Senator?”

“No, thanks.”

“In China, there would be scandal if people knew that I poured my own tea,” said Zongchen. “It is customary for aides to do everything. To hire more people—in a big country such as mine, everyone must work.”

“Sure.”

“The little jobs. Important to the people who do them.” Zongchen glanced toward his aides at the side of the room, then came back over to the chair where he had been sitting. The suite was decorated in an updated Pop Modern style, a Sicilian decorator's take on what the 1960s should have looked like. “These rebel groups—there are simply too many of them.”

“There are a lot,” said Zen.

“Some of them.” Zongchen shook his head. “I do not like the government, but some of these rebels are many times worse. This woman, Idris al-Nussoi.”

Zongchen made an exasperated gesture with his hand. Idris al-Nussoi—generally known as “the princess” because of her allegedly royal roots—was the figurehead of the largest rebel group, but she was by no means the only rebel they had to speak with. Zongchen hoped to get an agreement for safe passage of the investigators. This was not necessarily the same thing as a guarantee for their safety, but it was the best they could do.

“Coordinating the air campaign with the rebels must be a matter of great difficulty,” said Zongchen.

“I don't know,” said Zen truthfully. “But I imagine it must be.”

“Shall we call for some lunch?”

“Sure.”

T
heir food had only just arrived when the conference call with the government began. By now several more members of the international committee assigned by the UN to investigate the matter had joined them in the suite. They included an Egyptian army general, a Thai bureaucrat, and an Iranian named Ali Jafari. As a former member of the Republican Guard, Ali Jafari was not particularly inclined to view Zen or any American with anything approaching favor. But he was nonetheless polite, telling Zen how very grateful he was for his decision to join the committee.

Which of course made Zen doubly suspicious.

The video connection was made through Skype, the commercial video service. As such, they all assumed it was insecure, being monitored in capitals around the globe—and probably by the rebels as well. But this suited Zongchen's purposes. He wanted everyone to know exactly what the committee was doing.

Beamed wirelessly from one of the aide's laptops onto the suite's large television, the feed looked slightly washed out. But the connection was good.

The deputy interior minister was speaking for the government. Zen saw that this annoyed Zongchen; he had clearly expected a higher ranking official, most likely the minister himself. The mood worsened when the deputy minister began with a ten minute harangue about how the allies were being allowed to murder innocent Libyan people.

Zen watched Zongchen struggle to be patient. It didn't help that the deputy minister's English, though fluent, was heavily accented, making it hard for the Chinese general to understand. Zongchen turned occasionally to two aides for translations into Chinese. The men, too, were struggling with the accent, asking Zen several times for clarifications.

Finally, the Libyan allowed Zongchen to tell him that the commission wanted to inspect the sites.

“This will be arranged,” replied the deputy minister. “We will need identities—we do not want any spies.”

“We expect safe conduct for the entire party,” said Zongchen. “And we will choose our own personnel.”

“You will submit the names.”

“We will not,” insisted Zongchen. It was a small point, thought Zen—surely giving the names was not a big deal—but the general was holding his ground for larger reasons, establishing his independence. “We are operating under the authority of the United Nations to investigate this matter, and we will be granted safe passage. If you do not wish us to investigate it under those terms, you may say so.”

The deputy minister frowned. “No Americans,” he said.

“There will be Americans,” said Zongchen. His voice was calm but firm. “There will be whomever I decide I need to accompany me. This investigation is in your interests. But you will not dictate the terms. We will undertake it on our terms, within the precepts of international law, or we will not undertake it at all.”

The Libyan finally conceded.

“I will make the arrangements,” he told Zongchen. “But you had best get safe conduct from the criminals as well. We cannot guarantee your safety with those apes.”

“We will deal with them on the same terms we have dealt with you,” said Zongchen.

The feed died before Zongchen finished. The Chinese general glanced around the room.

“I believe that went well,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile. “And now, let us talk to the rebels.”