Collateral Damage

1

The vision unfolding before Turk Mako’s eyes was one part natural beauty and one part high-tech phenomenon. Flying over central Libya at just under the speed of sound, he had a 360-degree view of the desert and scrubland that made up the country’s interior. He could see every detail — leaves on low bushes starting to droop from the lack of water as the season turned dry, tumbled rocks that had been placed thousands of millennia ago by tectonic displacement, the parched side of an irrigation ditch abandoned to nature.

There were other things as well — the hull of an antiaircraft gun abandoned two years before, the picked bones of a body — not human — at the edge of a paved road that seemingly ran for miles to nowhere.

That was the ground. Turk had a similarly long and clear view of the sky as well — light blue, freckled with white in the distance, black retreating above as the sun edged upward in the east.

Turk saw all these things on a visor in his helmet. Though the images looked absolutely real, what he saw was actually synthesized from six different optical cameras placed around the fuselage of his aircraft. The image was supplemented by other sensors — infrared, radar — and augmented by interpretations from the computer that helped him fly the Tigershark II. The computer could provide useful information instantly, whether it was simply identifying captions for the aircraft flying with him — four small unmanned fighter-bombers known as Sabres — or analysis of objects that could be weapons.

For Turk, an Air Force test pilot assigned to the CIA — Department of Defense Office of Special Projects, the synthesized reality portrayed in his helmet was real. It was what war looked like.

He checked his instruments — an old-school habit for the young pilot, still in his early twenties. The computer would alert him to the slightest problem in the plane, or in his escorts.

Everything was “in the green”—operating at prime spec.

The planes he was guiding were two minutes from the start of their bombing run. Turk gestured with his hand, and instantly had a visual of the target.

“Zoom,” he told the computer.

As the screen began to change, a warning blared in his ears.

“Four aircraft, taking off from government airfield marked as A–3,” declared the computer. “Located at Ghat.”

Turk’s first thought was that it was a false alarm. He’d been flying the Tigershark and its accompanying Sabre unmanned attack planes over Libya for more than a week. Never in that time had he even gotten any indications of ground radar, let alone airplanes being scrambled. The alliance helping the rebel forces had established a strict no-fly zone in the northern portion of the country, and a challenge area in the rest of the country. The Libyan government air force had responded by keeping its planes on the ground practically everywhere, fearing they would be shot down.

When he realized it wasn’t a mistake, Turk’s next thought was that the planes weren’t coming for him — the Tigershark and the four UAVs she was guiding were relatively stealthy aircraft, difficult to detect even with the most modern radar. The Libyan government, which had inherited most of its equipment from Muammar Gaddafi’s regime, mostly relied on gear two decades old.

But the long-range scan in his helmet visor showed that the four Mirages taking off from the airfield were in fact headed in his direction.

All presumed hostile, declared the computer. It had automatically queried the planes’ friend or foe ID system and failed to find friendly matches. But even if that information hadn’t been available, it didn’t take much silicon to guess whose side they were on.

“Weapons ID on Bandits One through Four,” said Turk.

“All bandit aircraft similarly configured,” declared the computer. “Carrying four Matra Super 530F antiair radar missiles. Carrying two Sidewinder missiles. Sidewinder type not identified. Computing.”

The Matra Super missiles were medium-range, radar-guided antiaircraft weapons; while it wouldn’t be fair to call them impotent, they were many years old. Similar to American Sparrows, the missiles used a semiactive radar system, taking their initial target data from their launch ship. The missiles would then continue to home in on the reflected signal, following the radar to the kill.

There were several limitations with such a system, starting with the fact that the launch ship had to lock on its target and then stay in a flight pattern that would keep it illuminated for a fair amount of time. The latter often meant that it was making itself a target.

There was no indication yet that the enemy planes even knew the Tigershark and her four escorts were there. Finding the planes, let alone locking them up for missiles, was not easy. The Tigershark and the Sabres had radar profiles smaller than an F–35. In fact, Turk had a hard time believing that the Mirages even knew his flight was in the air — right up until the moment he got a missile launch warning.

He double-checked with the computer. The Mirages had not locked onto the Tigershark or any of the four attack planes flying with him. Nonetheless, the four missiles — one from each Mirage — were all heading in their direction.

While ostensibly under his control, the four robot aircraft took evasive maneuvers without waiting for him to react. They dove toward the ground, making it even harder for the enemy to track them. They also altered course slightly, further diminishing the radar profile the enemy might see.

While each Sabre had ECM capabilities — electronic countermeasures that could be used to confuse the enemy missiles — these remained off. Under some circumstances, using the ECMs would be counterproductive, tipping an opponent off to their presence and even showing him where the target aircraft was.

The Tigershark’s computer, meanwhile, began suggesting strategy for countering the attack. For Turk, this was the most annoying and intrusive aspect of the advanced flight system. He felt he was being lectured on what to do.

The fact that the computer was inevitably right only heightened the pain.

The computer suggested that he take a hard right turn, snapping onto a flight vector that would put his aircraft at a right angle to the incoming fighters. It then suggested another hard turn into them, where he would fire four AMRAAM-pluses. Missiles away, he would head back toward the UAVs.

He couldn’t have drawn it up better himself.

But was he allowed to shoot them down? His ROEs — rules for engagement — directed that he not fire until he found himself or other nearby allies “in imminent danger.”

Did this situation meet that standard?

If these guys couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, would any situation ever meet that standard?

Turk called in to the air controller aboard an AWACS over the Mediterranean. He was handed off immediately to his supervisor, the acting “air boss” for the allied command.

“Four hostile aircraft, they have fired,” said Turk. “Am I cleared to engage?”

“Cleared hot,” the controller replied. “We see the launch — you are in imminent danger.”

“Roger. Copy. Tigershark engaging.”

While keeping the missiles in mind, Turk cut west to begin his attack on the planes. The Mirages split into two groups, one staying close to the original course north and the other vectoring about thirty degrees farther east.

Turk told the controller that he was ready to fire. Before the man could answer, the Mirages suddenly accelerated and fired more missiles.

“No lock,” added the computer, telling him that the missiles had been fired. Turk guessed that the pilots in the Libyan jets had only a vague idea where he was, and were trying to bluff him away — a foolish strategy, though not entirely without precedent.

“Cleared hot to engage,” reiterated the controller, just in case Turk had any doubts.

He did — he’d never shot down a real plane before — but that concern was far from his mind. His training had taken hold.

“Lock targets Three and Four,” Turk told the computer. “Lock enemy missile one. Compute target course. Prepare to fire.”

“Targets are locked.” Red boxes closed in around each of the enemy aircraft depicted in his helmet. “Ready to fire.”

Lined up on Mirage Three, Turk pressed the trigger. Within a nanosecond the Tigershark’s rail gun threw a bolt at the lead Mirage.

The weapon emitted a high-pitched vwoop as it fired, and the aircraft shook like a platform when a high-speed train shot by. As soon as the shot was away, Turk moved the aircraft slightly, hitting the next mark lined up on his targeting screen, which was playing in the pseudo-HUD at the center of his helmet visor.

Vwoop!

He had to turn for the missile, but it was still an easy shot.

Vwoop!

All three shots were bull’s-eyes; the projectiles hit their targets with less than.0003 percent deviation.

The projectile fired by the gun was relatively small, with a mass of only.7 kilograms — approximately a pound and a half. But the gun accelerated it at something in excess of 5,000 meters per second, giving the tungsten slug an enormous amount of kinetic energy — more than enough, in fact, to whip through the armor of a main battle tank.

In a conventional air battle, the pilot of a targeted jet might have many seconds and even minutes to react to a missile shot. He might employ a range of evasive maneuvers and countermeasures to ward off the incoming blow. In a head-on encounter at high speed, he would have the added advantage of a wide margin of error — in other words, even luck would be on his side.

In this case, luck wasn’t part of the equation. The pilots had no warning that the weapon had been fired; there was no signal from the Tigershark or the missile for the Mirages to detect. Traveling at close to two miles per second, the projectile reached the closest plane in a little more than ten seconds.

In a conventional air fight, a pilot hit by a missile would generally have several seconds to react and eject; under the best circumstances, he might even have time to try and wrestle some sort of control over the aircraft. But the rail gun’s bullet took that away. Under optimum conditions, which these were, the targeting computer fired at the most sensitive part of the airplane — the pilot himself.

Turk’s first shot struck through the canopy, went through the pilot, his ejection seat, and the floor of the jet.

The second plane was dealt a similar blow. The missile was hit head-on as well, igniting it.

Turk had no time to celebrate, and in fact was only vaguely aware of the cues that showed his bullets had hit home. Aiming for the two surviving Mirages, he corrected his course twenty-eight degrees, following the dotted line marked on the display. This took him another eight seconds, an eternity in combat, but he knew from training that the key was to move as gently and deliberately as possible; rushing to the firing solution often made things take far longer.

He got a tone and saw the red boxes closing around the two Mirages. He was shooting these from behind, though the gun computer was still able to aim at the canopies and pilots because he had an altitude advantage.

“Lock targets One and Two,” he told the computer.

“Targets locked.”

He pushed his trigger for target One. The gun flashed. The rail gun generated enormous heat, and its dissipation presented a number of engineering problems for the men and women who had designed the Tigershark. These were complicated problems of math and physics, so complex that the solutions were still being refined and perfected — the rail gun could only be fired a limited number of times before it needed to be stripped down and overhauled.

Turk’s presence here was part of the shakedown process. As part of the safety protocol, he was only allowed to fire the weapon two dozen times within a five-minute interval, and the safety precautions built into the weapon overrode any commands he might give.

The protocols weren’t a problem now. He lined up for his second shot, and pressed the trigger.

Turk felt a twinge of regret for his opponents. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, he assumed they were brave men and skilled pilots; they had no idea what kind of power and enemy they were facing. From their perspective, the sky ahead was clear. Then suddenly their companions exploded. Before they could react, their own worlds turned painfully black.

“All enemy aircraft destroyed.”

In the space of some forty-eight seconds, Turk had shot down four enemy planes, and a missile for good measure. Few if any pilots could make a claim even close.

Not bad for his first encounter with manned planes, ever.

He had a few seconds to savor the victory. Then three different voices began talking over one another in his radio, all asking essentially the same thing — what was the situation?

The voices belonged to the AWACS controller, the flight boss, and the French leader of an interceptor squadron charged with providing air cover for any airplanes in the sector.

The flight boss took precedence, though Turk in effect addressed them all, calmly giving his perspective on what had happened. The French flight, which had been vectored to meet the threat, changed course and flew toward the airfield the Mirages had launched from, just in case any other planes came up to avenge their comrades.

An Italian flight of Harrier jump jets was diverted from another mission farther west and tasked to bomb the control tower and hangars at the airfield, partly in retaliation and partly to make it more difficult for other jets to join the fray. Lastly, the controller ordered an American Predator and a British reconnaissance flight to attempt to locate any survivors of the planes Turk had just shot out of the sky.

Turk asked the AWACS controller if he knew why the Mirages had scrambled in the first place. The controller’s supervisor, an American squadron leader who had rotated into the position from the combat line, indicated that the aircraft might have been spotted visually as they came south, something that had happened often in the very first week of the war. It was also possible they had been seen by a radar at sea, or by a supposedly neutral ship — the Russians had several in the Mediterranean that weren’t really neutral at all.

It was also possible, he added, that it was just bad luck — the planes took off, then happened to see an enemy.

Turk had his own theory: spies were watching the Sicily base and sending information back to Libya when different planes took off. It wouldn’t be too much more difficult for a spy to infiltrate the allied command responsible for targeting or scheduling the aircraft.

He had other worries at the moment. While he was engaging the Mirages, the Sabres had begun their programmed attack. Unlike older UAVs such as Predators and Raptors, or even the Dreamland-designed Flighthawks, the Sabres featured what the geeks called “distributed autonomous intelligence.” That actually involved two different features: first, the Sabres pooled resources (“distributed”), sharing not only their sensor data but their processing power; second, the Sabres were allowed to make their own battle decisions (“autonomous”). Not only did they decide the best route to battle, but they could pick their own targets.

This was highly controversial, even within the military. Robots were used all the time in battle, but a man ultimately pulled the trigger. While the aircraft were under Turk’s command and he could override at any point, they were every bit as capable a human pilot of fighting on their own.

The aircraft were targeting a government tank formation near Wadi al-Hayat. Located at the north side of a small cluster of hills, the camp looked out over a wide expanse of desert. There were several towns and villages in the area. These were claimed as loyal to the government, but that status was in doubt. If recent history was a guide, the inhabitants would join the rebels as soon as a sizable force got close. And that would happen once the tanks were destroyed.

The primary targets were T–72s, venerable Russian-made armor equipped with 125mm main guns. The tanks had not been used in either this war or the 2011 conflict, but were nonetheless operational; they had moved up to their present position only a few days before. The Libyan government had recently obtained a shipment of ammunition on the black market.

The attack plan was simple. The UAVs carried four antiarmor Hellfire missiles each, had been given four tanks as targets, and would attack much as a group of manned attack planes. The autonomous programming in the UAVs allowed them to do this without human guidance or input, though Turk could intervene and redirect the attack if he wished.

Turk had run a half-dozen missions along these very same lines, and with the exception of the Mirages, this looked to be as routine as all the others. Using a hand gesture — his flight suit was specially wired to interpret gestures in conjunction with the command context, or the screen displayed on his visor — he pulled up the overall sitrep map. This was a large area plot that superimposed the positions of all four Sabres as well as the Tigershark on a satellite image. The real-time sitrep showed the four UAVs coming in exactly as programmed, flying at about fifty feet over the sand dunes just northwest of the encampment.

That made it difficult for the mobile SA–6 antiaircraft battery protecting the camp to spot them, let alone target them. A pair of ZSU–23 four-barreled mobile antiaircraft weapons were parked in their path, but the radar-equipped weapons had apparently not found them either; all was quiet as the small UAVs approached.

Turk had taken the Tigershark some one hundred miles to the southwest as he engaged the Mirages. He now swung back to get a view of the attack. He was still about fifty miles away — well beyond the range even of the high-powered optical cameras the Tigershark carried — as the first aircraft reached its attack point.

“Visual preset two,” he told the computer. “Image screen B Sabre One.”

The command opened a new window on his virtual cockpit screen, displaying the feed from Sabre One.

Turk watched the aircraft launch a pair of missiles at the command and control vans for the SA–6 site. Launched from approximately five miles away, the Sabre’s missiles used an optical guidance system to find their targets: the small sensors in their head essentially looked at the terrain, identified their targets based on preprogrammed profiles — photos, in this case — and flew at them. This meant that there was no signal from the missiles or their launch planes to alert the defenses to their presence; the first thing the Libyans knew of the attack were the explosions, which occurred almost simultaneously.

The destruction of the two vans rendered the missile battery useless, but the enemy’s SA–6 missiles themselves were still relatively high-value targets, and as soon as the destruction was recorded, Sabre One’s combat computer pushed the plane into a second wave attack on the launchers, two tanklike chassis sporting three missiles instead of a turret.

The first strike created an enormous secondary explosion, shrapnel and powder shooting across the complex. The Sabre’s second missile disappeared into a cloud of smoke; a bright burst of flame confirmed that it, too, had hit its target.

Turk switched over to Sabre Two, which was aiming at one of the ZSU antiaircraft guns. It fired two missiles. Both hit. Still on the same approach, the aircraft dished out another pair of projectiles, this time at separate targets, having used the success of the first launch to decide it could go with just one shot per tank.

Meanwhile, Sabre Three initiated its own attack on the second ZSU gun and the nearby tanks. Using the data from Sabre One, it computed that one missile was all it needed to eliminate each target. It dished one at the gun, then fired three more in rapid succession, each aimed at a different tank.

By now Turk was close enough to see the battlefield through his own optical sensors. He closed the feed and expanded his screen, which duplicated in extremely high definition what he would have seen if the sleek Tigershark had a real canopy. Six plumes of black and gray smoke rose from the encampment, stark contrasts against the light blue sky and the gaudy yellow of the sand in the distance.

As he approached, Turk turned to get in line with a highway that ran through the area. The annual rains and an underground water supply combined to make the foothills suitable for agriculture, and a patchwork of tiny farm fields appeared under his nose. The squares were groves of citrus and olive trees, planted and tended by families that had lived here for generations. A little farther out were circles of green, round patches fed by pivot irrigation systems.

There was a flash of red in the far right corner of Turk’s screen. He pointed his hand and told the computer to magnify.

It was a house, suddenly burning in a hamlet about four miles from the tank base. A black shadow passed overhead.

Sabre Four.

“What the hell?” sputtered Turk.

He watched in disbelief as a missile was launched from under the wing of the aircraft. The missile flew level for a few hundred feet, then dove down into the roof of what looked like a large barn. The building imploded immediately, setting up a huge cloud of dust and debris.

“Abort, abort, abort!” said Turk. “Sabre command computer, abort all attacks. Return immediately to base. Repeat, abort!”

“Authorize?” Direct command confirmation was necessary to override the preset attack plan.

“Authorization Captain Turk Mako.”

Turk added a stream of curses even as the planes complied. He saw Sabre Four pull up and continue south, away from the settlement. Farther west, two other UAVs rose from their attack runs, missiles still clinging to their wings. The synthesized image included small tags under each, showing their IDs: SABRE 2 and SABRE 3.

He couldn’t see the other plane. Where was it?

“Sabre One, status,” said Turk.

“Optimal status,” responded the computer. “Responding to abort command.”

“Locate visually.”

“Grid A6.”

Turk glanced at the sitrep map in the left-hand corner of his screen. The aircraft was flying to the south.

“Sabre One, wingman mode,” Turk ordered, telling the aircraft to shadow the Tigershark.

“Sabre One acknowledges,” replied the computer.

He turned his attention back to Sabre Four, the aircraft that had fired its missiles on the village. The plane was rising in a wide arc to his south.

“Sabre Four, wingman mode,” Turk told the computer, making absolutely positive it was responding.

“Sabre Four acknowledges.”

Turk started to climb.

I hope to hell it doesn’t decide to take a shot at me, he thought. It’s a long walk home.

2

Senator Jeff “Zen” Stockard wheeled himself past the row of parked F–35As, admiring the creative nose art employed by the RAF. No traditional shark mouth or tiger jaws for them — the first, on an aircraft nicknamed, “Show Time,” featured a woman suggestively riding a bomb into battle, and they got less politically correct from there.

Zen was amused — though he also couldn’t help but think about his young daughter. She was still in grammar school, but the images convinced him she wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone from Great Britain until she was forty.

Pilots were completely out of bounds.

Zen pushed himself toward a pair of parked Gripen two-seat fighters. Their paint schemes were austere to a fault: the very respectable light gray at the nose faded to a slightly darker but still eminently respectable darker gray.

His interest was drawn to the forward canards, flexible winglets that increased the aircraft’s lift at takeoff and landing speeds, as well as increasing its payload. The airplanes had only just arrived on the island as part of the multination peacekeeping force; they had not seen combat yet.

“Peacekeeping” was something of a misnomer in practice, though the alliance was trying to get both sides to the negotiating table. A month before, several European nations had acted together to condemn attacks by the Libyan government on civilians, and in essence begun supporting the rebellion. The U.S. had been asked to assist. Publicly, its role was limited to support assets, more or less what it had said during the 2011 war to oust Gaddafi. And just like that conflict a few years before, the U.S. was heavily involved behind the scenes, providing the unmanned aircraft and sensors that were doing much of the work.

As Zen stared at the fighters, he was hailed by a short man in jeans and a leather flight jacket. Few people spotting the man on the runway would give him a second glance, but Zen immediately recognized him as Du Zongchen, formerly one of the most accomplished pilots in the Chinese air force.

Zongchen was a native of Shanghai, but spoke English with an accent somewhere between Hong Kong and Sydney, Australia.

“Senator Stockard, once more I meet you on a tarmac,” said Zongchen with a laugh. “I think perhaps you are considering flying one yourself.”

“Du! Not a chance with any of these,” said Zen brightly. “Though I wouldn’t mind sitting in the backseat of one of those Gripens. I’ve never been up in one.”

“Perhaps the UN can arrange for an inspection.”

“You’d pull strings for me?”

“For the greatest fighter pilot of all modern history, nothing would be too good.”

Zen smirked. Upon retiring as a general, Zongchen had entered government service as a representative to the United Nations. He had recently been asked by the UN General Assembly to inspect the allied air operation. As a neutral observer, Zongchen had considerable influence with just about everyone.

“If I were going to fly an airplane,” the retired general confessed, “I would ask to try one of those.”

He pointed across the way to a pair of F–22Gs, recently enhanced and updated versions of the original F–22 Raptor. The aircraft were single-seat fighters, which made it highly unlikely that Zongchen would get a chance to fly one — the Air Force wasn’t likely to entrust what remained the world’s most advanced interceptor to a member of a foreign government that still had occasions to act hostile toward the U.S.

“As soon as they get a two-seat version, I’ll personally recommend you get a flight,” said Zen.

“And then I will fly you in the backseat of a J–20,” laughed Zongchen. Not yet operational, the J–20 was a Chinese stealth aircraft, more bomber than fighter. It, too, was a single-seat only plane, at least as far as Zen knew.

“How goes your inspection tour?” he asked.

“Very interesting,” said Zongchen. “Much talk. Pilots are the same the world over, no matter who they fly for.” He smiled. “Very full of themselves.”

“Present company excepted.”

“You are not. I am another story,” said Zongchen. “I still think I am the best pilot in the world, no?” He patted his midsection, which though not fat was not as taut as it would have been a decade before. “The years affect us all. And the fine cooking. That is one thing I will say for NATO — good cooking. I hardly miss home.”

“This isn’t quite NATO,” said Zen. It was a sensitive issue, since for all intents and purposes it was NATO — NATO countries, NATO command structures, the squadrons NATO would call on in an emergency. But the complicated politics required that the countries use a separate command structure called the “alliance,” rather than admitting they were NATO.

“If you want to keep up the facade, that is fine with me,” said Zongchen. “But other than that, the air forces are very professional.”

“As good as Chinese pilots?”

“Chinese pilots are very good.”

“I can attest to that.”

“Senator?”

Zen turned and saw his aide, Jason Black, trotting toward him. Jason was his all-around assistant, in some ways more a son or nephew than a political aide.

“I think I’m being called back to work,” he told Zongchen.

“Senator, I hate to interrupt you, but, uh, your wife was looking to talk to you,” said Jason, huffing from the long run from the terminal buildings. “She has a limited time window. Your phone must be off.”

“Guilty,” said Zen. “Talk to you later, General.”

He turned and started wheeling himself toward the building with Jason. When they were out of earshot, his aide whispered to him, “It’s not Breanna. I’m sorry for lying. It was the only thing I could think of.”

“Not a problem,” Zen told the young man. “What’s up?”

“There’s been an accident with the Sabres. You need to talk to Colonel Freah.”

Zen wheeled a little faster toward the building.

Ten minutes later, after negotiating the difficult bumps at the rear entrance to the building and then to the main corridor leading inside, the senator and former lead pilot for Dreamland entered a secure communications suite that had been set up for the American teams supporting the alliance. The room was literally a room inside a room inside a room — a massive sheet of copper sat between two sections of wallboard, which in turn were isolated from the regular walls of the Italian building. The space between the original room and the American inset was filled with nitrogen. Outside, an array of jamming and detection devices made it even more difficult to eavesdrop.

Two rows of what looked like ordinary workstations sat inside the room. All were connected to a secure communications system back in the States. Despite the high-level encryption, the system was so fast that the users experienced no lag at all.

There were drawbacks, however. Despite two small portable air-conditioning units, the room was at least ten degrees hotter than the rest of the building, and Zen felt sweat starting to roll down his neck practically as soon as he wheeled himself in front of the far terminal.

Seconds later Danny Freah’s worried face appeared on the screen.

“Hey, buddy,” said Zen. “What’s up?”

“One of the Sabre unmanned aircraft went crazy,” said Danny.

“ ‘Crazy’ in what way?”

“It attacked civilians.”

“What?”

“I know, I know.” Danny looked grave. He was aboard an aircraft; Zen guessed he was on his way over from the States. “We’re still gathering the details. Turk Mako is due to land in about twenty minutes.”

Zen had helped develop the original Flighthawks some two decades before at Dreamland. It was another lifetime ago, though he still felt somewhat paternal toward the aircraft.

“You lost the aircraft?” he asked.

“Negative,” said Freah. “At least we have it to pull apart.”

“How is it possible?”

“I don’t know.” Danny shook his head. “We have an incident team already being assembled. There’s going to be a media shit storm. I figured you’d want a personal heads-up, especially since you’re in Sicily.”

“I appreciate that.” Zen was planning to leave in the morning for Rome, but the heads-up would at least help alleviate some embarrassment.

“I was also wondering…” Danny’s voice trailed off.

“What?” asked Zen.

“Could you meet Turk when he lands? I talked to him a few minutes ago over the Whiplash satellite system. He’s a little shook up.”

“Sure.”

“I already talked to the White House,” Danny added. “They suggested it.”

“All right.”

“I know it puts you in an awkward position. I know you’re not there in an official capacity.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“I’ve seen some footage of the attack from the Sabre,” added Danny. “It’s not pretty.”

“I’ll bet.”

“There’s more out,” he said. “Posted on YouTube within the last few minutes. Supposedly by an outraged citizen.”

“Supposedly?” asked Zen.

“Well, it was put up awful quick if you ask me. But it was definitely taken with a cell phone, so I guess it wasn’t a setup. We’re going to figure out what the hell happened, I promise.” Danny took a deep breath. His face looked tired, but intent. “The Tigershark and the Sabres will be grounded until we’re absolutely sure what happened. And until it’s fixed. We will fix it. We absolutely will.”

3

War had always been a complex calculation for Ray Rubeo, one more difficult to compute than the most complicated calculus.

Rubeo had devoted himself to science from the time he was twelve, precocious and full of excitement over the possibilities knowledge offered. He had indulged his various interests, from computers to electronics, from biology to aerodynamics, for most of his life, first as an employee, then as a contractor, and finally as a businessman. Directly and indirectly, he had worked for various arms of the government, starting with DARPA — the Defense Department’s research arm — then the Air Force at Dreamland, then the NSA and, briefly, the CIA. For the past decade he had run his own private company, with the government and its various agencies its primary customers.

The arrangements had allowed him to do a great deal. Unlike many scientists, he was able to turn the results of his pure research into practical things — computer systems, artificial intelligence programs, aircraft. Weapons.

And unlike many scientists, his work had made him an extremely rich man. Though he professed to have little use for wealth, he was not a fool. While science remained his passion, he was also very much an entrepreneur, and had no trouble reconciling capitalism with the supposedly more lofty goals of science that involved knowledge and mankind’s quest to better itself.

Nor did he feel that there was an inherent conflict between science and war; he knew from history that the two pursuits were often necessary collaborators. Da Vinci was a pertinent model, but then so were the scientists who had unleashed the power of the atom on the world, saving hundreds of thousands of lives while killing many others.

Ray Rubeo could be cynical and hardheaded. More than one of his former employees would certainly swear that he was heartless. And in many ways he was and had always been a loner — a fact attested to by his home on a ranch of several thousand acres in the remote high plains of New Mexico.

But Rubeo also believed that science was, ultimately, a force for good. He had seen evil many times over the years, and in his heart he believed that science must fight against it. Not only in the vague sense of defeating the confusion and chaos of the unknown, but directly and immediately: if science was a product of man’s better nature, then surely it found its greatest calling in fighting man’s worst nature.

That was, for him, the simple reason that science and war coexisted: science opposed evil.

It was true, he conceded, that occasionally science was misused. Such things were inevitable. But they did not negate the fact that he counted himself among the good. He was not a religious man — at least from a conventional point of view he was arguably the opposite — but he was nonetheless moral.

And so, looking at the images he had just been sent, he felt his stomach turn.

It was not the destruction, or even the body of the child burned so badly that it was barely recognizable as human.

It was the fact that this destruction had been caused by his own invention, the intelligence system that guided the Sabre UM/F–9S.

Rubeo reacted to the video uncharacteristically — he deleted it. Then he flipped his tablet computer onto the table, got up and walked across the kitchen to the coffee machine. As it began brewing a fresh pot, he went out on the patio behind his house.

The sun was just rising over the hills. It was a brilliant sunrise, casting a pink glow on the clouds. The landscape in front of the rays brightened, the rocks and tall trees popping out as if they had been painted.

Rubeo walked to the far end of the patio, breathing in the air. He thought of the many people he’d known over the years, thought of the campaigns he’d been involved in, thought of the few people he regarded as friends.

Faces of those who were gone came at him. Jennifer Gleason, his assistant, his protégée — the only scientist who was truly smarter than he was, one of the few he’d turn to for advice on a difficult problem.

Gone, way before her time.

Too much nostalgia. Nostalgia was a useless sentimentality, a waste of time.

Back inside the house, Rubeo went down to his workout room and went through his morning routine quickly. The phones were ringing — his encrypted satellite phone, the work line, the private house line, and even the cell phone no one supposedly knew about.

He showered.

In the kitchen, he picked up the tablet and was glad to see that he hadn’t broken it. He brought up his messaging program and retrieved the deleted file. He forced himself to look at it again. Finally, he took his private cell phone from the counter and called Levon Jons.

“Pack,” he told him. “I need to leave in an hour.”

“Uh, OK,” said the former Marine.

Jons headed security for Rubeo’s wholly owned company, Applied Intelligence, doubling as his personal bodyguard overseas. Rubeo knew that Jons was barely awake, but that was immaterial.

“What kinda clothes and how long?” asked Jons.

“It will be a few days at least,” said Rubeo. He tapped the face of the tablet and got a weather report for Sicily. “It’ll be warm during the day, cool at night. Thirty Celsius, down to twelve.”

“English?”

“You are looking for Fahrenheit, Levon,” said Rubeo dryly. “Roughly 85 degrees down to 54.”

“OK. Where are we going?”

“Sicily, for starters.”

4

After a seemingly endless series of debriefs and interviews with intelligence officers and command, Turk was “released,” in the words of the German colonel who was the chief of staff to the head operations officer, General Bernard Talekson. The colonel was not particularly adept at English, but the word choice struck Turk as unfortunately appropriate. More sessions were scheduled for the next day, and they would undoubtedly be more “rigorous”—another word used by the colonel with understated precision.

Turk was surprised when he left the headquarters building that it was only early afternoon; it felt as if he had been inside forever. Buses ran in a continuous loop between the various administrative buildings and the hangar areas. He hopped one and rode over to the area where the Tigershark and Sabres were kept. This was a secure area within the base; only personnel directly related to the mission were allowed beyond the cordon set up by the Italian security police.

All of the aircraft had been taken inside the hangars. The Tigershark sat alone, parked almost dead center in the wide-open expanse of Hangar AC–84a. The Tigershark was a small aircraft — it would have fit inside the wings of an F–35. It looked even smaller inside the hangar, which had been built to shelter a C–5A cargo aircraft. So small, in fact, that even Turk wondered how he fit in the damn thing.

Chahel Ratha, one of the lead engineers on the Sabre team, was kneeling under the belly of the plane, shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

“Hey Rath, what’s up?” asked Turk.

Ratha bolted upright so quickly Turk thought he was going to jump onto the plane.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” said Turk.

“Then you should not sneak up on peoples!” said the engineer sharply. Even though he was American — born and bred outside Chicago — Ratha spoke with an Indian accent when he was excited. He blamed this on his parents, both naturalized citizens.

“Sorry,” said Turk.

“Yeah, sorry, sorry. Yeah. Sorry.”

Ratha waved his hand dismissively, then walked away, heading toward one of the benches at the far side of the office.

“Jeez,” said Turk.

“Hasn’t had his herbal tea today,” said Gene Hurley, another of the maintainers. “Don’t take it personally.”

An Air Force contract worker, Hurley headed the maintenance team. Because of the advanced nature of the aircraft, the technical people were a mix of regular Air Force and private workers. Hurley had actually worked in the service for over twenty years before retiring. He claimed to be doing essentially what he had always done — but now got paid twice as much.

“He’s freaking about the investigation,” said Hurley. “And on top of that, all the janitors are on strike. Toilets are backed up and there’s no one around to fix them.”

“Really?”

“Italians are always on strike.” Hurley shook his head. “Even the ones from Africa. If you gotta use the john, your best bet is hiking all the way over to the admin building. Or taking your chances behind the hangar.”

“That sucks.”

Hurley shrugged. “Third strike since we got here. I don’t know why. The service people are always changing. And they’re pretty incompetent to begin with. But at least the toilets worked.”

“I just came by to see if you guys needed me,” said Turk.

“No, we’re good for now. Maybe tomorrow after we finish benchmarking everything we’ll get down to some tests.”

“Any clue what happened?”

Hurley shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to guess,” he said. “But if I did, I would start by saying that it almost surely didn’t have anything to do with the Tigershark. But, you know — if I could guess about things, I’d be making a fortune betting on baseball.”

“I’m going to knock off. Probably go back to the hotel,” Turk told him. “You need me, hit my sat phone.”

“Sure thing.”

Turk started away.

“We’ll get it eventually, Captain,” added Hurley. “We’ll get you back in the air. Eventually.”

Eventually.

The word stuck in Turk’s consciousness as he rode the bus back toward the admin buildings. In his experience, “eventually” meant one of two things: never, and the day after never.

It was sick how quickly everything had turned sour. By all rights he should be celebrating right now — he had kicked ass and shot down four enemy aircraft in quick succession.

Four. He was still tingling about it.

Or should be. He could hardly even think about it.

The shoot-downs had been almost entirely glossed over in the debriefs. All anyone wanted to know about was the Sabre screwup.

Naturally. Stinking robot planes were the curse of the world. UAVs were taking over military aviation. The Predator, Reaper, Global Hawk, Flighthawks, now the Sabres — in four or five years there wouldn’t be a manned combat plane in the sky.

The Tigershark was supposed to show that man was still needed. He was supposed to show that man was still needed.

And this accident showed…

Nothing, as far as Turk was concerned. Maybe it would demonstrate why UAVs were not to be trusted, but somehow he didn’t think that was going to happen. There was too much momentum, and too much money, for that to happen.

The bus stopped near the buildings used by the Italian base hosts, pausing for a few minutes because it was slightly ahead of schedule. Feeling antsy, Turk decided to get off and walk over to the lot where he had parked his car. It was a decent walk — about twenty minutes if he didn’t dally too much — but it was just the sort of thing he needed to clear his head.

“Ciao,” he told the driver, pretty much exhausting his store of Italian as he clambered down the steps.

They were miles from the sea, but the air was heavy with it today. The sun peeked in and out of the clouds, keeping the temperature pleasant. Sicily could be brutally hot, even in March.

Turk cut through the maze of admin buildings, zigging toward the lot. As he did, he heard something he’d rarely if ever heard on a military air base before — the sound of children playing. Curious, he took a sharp right between a pair of buildings and found himself at the back of a building used as a day care center by the Italian staff. A low chain-link fence separated a paved play area from the roadway.

A group of ten-year-olds playing a vigorous game of soccer caught Turk’s eye and he stopped to watch. The kids were good. He had played soccer himself through high school, making all-county at midfield. He admired the way the kids handled the ball, able to move up not only through a line of defenders but across dips and cracks in the pavement without tripping or looking down at the ball.

Suddenly, the ball shot over the fence. Turk leapt up and grabbed it, goalkeeper style, as it was about to sail over his head. He hammed it up, clutching the ball to his chest and then waving it, as if he’d just caught a penalty kick at the World Cup.

The kids stared at him. There wasn’t so much as a half smile among them.

“Here ya go,” he yelled, tossing it back.

The player closest to it ran over, tapped it up with his knee, then headed it back over the fence. This was a challenge Turk couldn’t turn down — he met it with his forehead, bouncing it back.

He was out of practice — the ball sailed far to the left rather than going back in the direction of the kid who had butted it to him. Another child caught it on his chest, let it drop and then booted a missile.

Turk jumped and caught it. He motioned with a mock angry face, pretended he was going to haul it back in the child’s direction, then meekly lobbed it over toward the kid who had headed it earlier.

The boy caught it on his knee, flipped it behind him, and tried juggling it on the heel of his foot. But that was too much, even for the little soccer star in the making: the ball dribbled away. One of his teammates grabbed it and flicked it back to Turk, who kicked it and managed to get it over to the kid who’d launched the missile earlier.

The back-and-forth continued for a while longer, and in fact might never have ended except for a van that pulled up at the head of the alleyway.

“Is that you, Turk?” called the man in the passenger seat.

It was Zen Stockard.

Turk bounced the ball back to the children and gave them a wave, then trotted over to the van.

“Bravo, il Americano,” yelled the kids. “Bravo!”

“You have a fan club,” said Zen.

“Just little kids — you see how good they are at soccer?”

“They look pretty good.”

“I wish I was half that good now, let alone at their age.”

“You seem to be holding up well,” Zen told him. “You want a lift to your hotel?”

“I have a car in the lot.”

“Rental?”

“There’s like a pool at the hotel. You sign for it. Some days there’s no cars, some days you have your pick.”

“Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.”

Turk reached to the rear passenger door and slid it open. Jason Black was behind the wheel.

“I’m not supposed to say anything to you,” Turk said. “Just, uh, just so you know.”

“Colonel Freah told you that?”

“No, uh, General Dalce, the Frenchman.”

“The intelligence chief, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zen chuckled at some private joke.

“Thanks for meeting my plane, Senator,” said Turk. “I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. I’ve been there.”

Turk liked Zen — a lot — and he liked his wife, Breanna Stockard, who as head of the Office of Special Technology was his ultimate boss. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he could or should say. Zen had been friendly and reassuring when he landed, but Turk hadn’t been in the mood to talk. And now the questions the investigators asked made him suspicious that they were going to try and find some way of blaming him for the accident.

If there was an inquiry, Congress would probably eventually get involved. Anything he said now might come back to haunt him.

“You flying tomorrow?” asked Zen.

“Planes are grounded. I don’t know — I’m sure I’ll have to answer a lot of questions.”

Zen was quiet for a moment. “I always tried to get right back in the air as soon as I could. Take a milk run or anything.”

“Yes, sir.” His options were pretty damn limited, Turk thought, but he didn’t say that.

“I can mention that you’re available, if you want,” said Zen. “I know General Pierce pretty well.”

“Sure.” Pierce was the head of the American flying contingent. He was a two-star general; Turk had met him exactly once, in a reception line.

“Nice flying in that encounter,” Zen continued. “Four shoot-downs in the space of what? Two minutes.”

“I think it might have been a little less, actually.”

“Damn good. Damn good.”

“Thanks.”

It was high praise coming from Zen, who had pioneered remote combat piloting with the Flighthawks and had several dozen kills to his credit.

“I just kind of, you know, hit my marks,” added Turk.

“I’m sure it was more than that.”

“Well. It’s what I did.”

Turk wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure exactly what it should be. And so the conversation died.

Turk directed the driver to the car, which was near the front of the lot.

“Thanks for the ride,” he told Zen as he got out.

“Any time,” replied Zen. “You have the rest of the day off?”

“Oh yeah. I figure I’ll catch something to eat. Maybe do some sightseeing or something later on. I’ll be around, though.”

“If you need anything, you should let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Zen watched the young officer walk to his car. He couldn’t blame Turk for being angry, even if he did hide it fairly well. The storm clouds were already thick and getting thicker. The Libyan government had picked up the images off YouTube and was circulating them far and wide. The casualty reports ranged from three to three dozen. A bevy of international journalists were en route, as evidenced by their Twitter feeds.

A tsunami of condemnation was sure to follow. Zen suspected that the matter would be brought before the UN General Assembly within twenty-four hours.

The only question was what effect it would have on the Western powers. Already there were rumors of a “pause” in the air campaign.

He turned to Jason. “We might as well go over to our hotel.”

“He’s pretty down,” said Jason.

“Yeah, I don’t blame him.”

“All hell’s going to break loose, huh?”

“Hopefully not on him,” said Zen. “He seems like a good kid.”

“Did he screw up?”

“Hard to say for sure, but I doubt it. Complicated systems.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s practically a modern ace. He got those shoot-downs. Nobody’s going to give him credit, though. They’ll think the computer did it.”

“But he was flying the plane.”

“Yeah, but they won’t think about that.”

As Zen knew from his own experience, there was a sometimes bitter divide between “traditional” pilots and remote pilots. Turk actually fit into neither camp, as he did both.

In fact, it wasn’t even easy to say where Turk fit in administratively. Technically, he was a test pilot assigned to the Office of Special Projects, doing temporary duty assigned to the allied flight command as part of a project to test the Sabres. He wasn’t even an official part of Whiplash — the DoD and CIA joint command, which temporarily “owned” the Sabre UAVs on behalf of Special Projects.

“I’m just glad I’m not in the middle of it,” said Zen. “What’s the latest on Rome?”

“Flight is still on tomorrow for ten,” said Jason. “You’ll get there just in time for the opening speeches.”

“Can’t arrange to miss that bit, huh?”

“I thought—”

“Just teasing. Come on, let’s go grab some dinner.”

“Did you call your wife?”

Zen answered by pulling out his cell phone. Breanna had sent him a text earlier that he’d forgotten to return.

“Well, speak of the devil,” she said, coming on the line.

“I’m the devil now? You must have been talking to the President.”

“She doesn’t think you’re the devil. Just not a dependable vote.”

“I wouldn’t want to be dependable.

Zen followed Jason toward the rented van. It didn’t have a lift; he had to crawl and climb into the front seat. It was undignified, but much preferable to being lifted, in his opinion at least.

“Danny told me you met Turk when he landed,” said Breanna.

“I did, but Air Force security shooed me away,” said Zen. “I tried to pull rank, but they said they were under orders from the Pentagon.”

“I didn’t issue any orders.”

“I wasn’t insulted,” said Zen. “I imagine you’re pretty busy, huh?”

“Up to my ears.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. We have some people heading out to see what happened. Ray Rubeo is going, too.”

“Ray himself?”

“He’s really concerned.”

Zen’s relationship with the scientist was a complicated one. While he admired his intelligence and his work, he found Ray an extremely difficult man to get to know, and an even harder one to like. He certainly wasn’t the type to hang out at the bar after work and have a few beers with.

“Congressman Swall is already calling for an inquiry,” continued Breanna. “He wants to know if U.S. assets were involved.”

“Well that’s pretty damn easy to answer.”

“Except that the general perception is that we’re not involved in this war at all. So it’ll be a firestorm one way or another.”

Breanna seemed worn-out. Zen wished he was there.

“Teri says hi,” she added, changing the subject. Her voice lifted a little. “You want to talk to her?”

“I thought you were at work.”

“I am. We’re having a video call. You want to talk to her?”

“Sure.”

Breanna punched some buttons, and Zen found himself on the line talking to his daughter.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“Superintendent conference.”

“What is that?”

“Day off,” said Breanna.

“Cousin Julie is babysitting,” Teri told him. “I’m doing my homework.”

She was having a little difficulty with triangles. They talked about them for a bit, then Breanna cut back in, muting their daughter.

“I’m afraid I have to get going here,” she said. “Are you still heading for Rome?”

“In the morning. Why don’t you meet me there?”

“Oh yeah, right.”

“Come on. You’re not doing anything.”

“Jeff.”

Zen smiled. If he had a nickel for every time he had heard his name with that particular inflection, he would be a rich man.

“All right. See you next weekend, then,” he told his wife.

“Love you.”

“Anche Io.”

“Huh?”

“Italian for me, too. At least that’s what they tell me.”

An hour later Zen was midway through a dish of grilled baby octopus when he was approached by Du Zongchen, the Chinese UN advisor, who happened to be staying in the same hotel.

“Pull up a chair,” said Zen. He gestured to his aide. “Jason, flag down a waiter and get General Zongchen a seat, would you?”

“Oh, no, no, thank you, Senator. Thank you very much.”

“Have a seat,” said Zen.

“I can only stay for a minute. I am on my way to an appointment. Very formal.”

Zen nodded at Jason, who pushed over his chair for Zongchen then went to get another.

“All of this business with the airplanes, I know you have heard of it,” he said to Zen. “What are your opinions?”

“No opinions.” Zen shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “I don’t have all the facts.”

“Very wise.” Zongchen nodded. “I wonder, Senator — would you participate in an investigation?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Members of the General Assembly want me to investigate this matter personally. There will be a resolution tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“It will require an international presence. You were the first I thought of.”

“I don’t know.” Zen wasn’t sure how much Zongchen knew about what had happened — the news reports did not yet identify the aircraft as an American UAV, but there were certain to be rumors.

“You would bring integrity to the process,” said Zongchen. “And expertise.”

“What if my government or its allies are involved?” Zen asked. “That might be embarrassing.”

“I would have to assume that if the event occurred, then one or more allied planes is involved.” Zongchen nodded. “And I have heard many rumors that an American plane was the one there.”

“I am fairly certain it was,” admitted Zen. He saw no reason to lie to Zongchen, or even hold back basic information that would soon be common knowledge.

Zongchen bowed his head slightly, clearly appreciating his candor.

“To have a respected American aviator who is an expert, this would help the investigation a great deal,” said the Chinese general. “We would be most enlightened. And things would be done in a cooperative manner.”

That was the Chinese way — investigations were cooperative, not antagonistic. But the world Zen operated in was much more the latter.

“Do not answer now. Think about it, please.” Zongchen rose. “It would add a great deal of integrity to the process.”

“What was that about?” asked Jason, returning with the now superfluous chair when Zongchen had left.

“He wants me to join the investigation.”

“Really? How would that work?”

“I doubt very well,” said Zen, picking at his octopus.

Two hours later Zen was getting ready to spend the rest of the evening in bed watching whatever Sicilian television had to offer when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and saw that the exchange was a familiar one.

He slid his thumb across the screen and said hello to the President’s operator.

“Please stand by for the President, Senator Stockard.”

Zen considered a joke about his inability to stand, but decided the poor secretary had enough to do without fending off his humor. President Christine Todd came on the line a few moments later.

“How is the weather in Italy, Jeff?” the President asked.

“Weather’s fine. How’s Washington?”

“Stormy as ever.”

While they were members of the same political party, Zen and the President had never gotten along particularly well. Their relationship had always been a bit of a puzzle, not just to them but to those around them; philosophically, they weren’t all that different, and certainly on the gravest national issues they thought very similarly. But their styles clashed — Zen was laid back and easygoing; the President was all calculation.

At least in his view.

“Let me get to the point,” said Todd. “I know you’ve been briefed on the accident in Libya today.”

“Somewhat.”

“The UN General Assembly is going to call for an investigation. They’re going to name a former Chinese air force general to head it.”

“Zongchen,” answered Zen. “Yes, I know him quite well.”

“Good.” The president paused. “I’d like you to be on the committee.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward?”

“How so?”

“For one thing, it involved airplanes that are under my wife’s department.”

“Actually, no,” said the President. “They were assigned to the Air Force. In fact, your wife is not at all involved in the chain of command there.”

Zen leaned his head back in his chair. What exactly was she up to?

“I think most people would see my involvement as a conflict of interest,” he said finally. “I mean, Whiplash—”

“First of all, I’d prefer that Whiplash not be mentioned if at all possible. And secondly, I want a full investigation by someone I trust to give me all of the facts. If we did this, and it does look like we’re the ones responsible, there’s no sense denying it. Therefore, I want someone who knows what he’s talking about giving me advice on how to fix it.”

“Still, some people might expect a cover-up,” said Zen. “People inside the government would know—”

“This isn’t a cover-up. On the contrary — we’ll have full disclosure. I’m going to give a press conference in a few hours. I want a thorough investigation. I want someone I can trust to do the right thing on the committee.”

“The right thing?”

“Make sure that the committee is telling the truth,” said the President, her voice even blunter than usual. “You know this is going to be a propaganda bonanza, Jeff. At least if you’re there, I can trust some of the findings.”

“Or be criticized for trying to hide them,” said Zen.

“No. People have a high opinion of you. Other leaders. And the general public. As well as myself.”

“I’m sure there’s someone better.”

“I’m not.”

“Let me think it over,” said Zen, fully intending on putting her off.

His voice must have made that obvious.

“Jeff, I know we’ve had a few personal difficulties in the past. I consider you my loyal opposition — and I mean that in a good sense. You’ve done our country, and this administration, a world of good. I know it’s a lot to ask. But I think we need someone of your caliber on the oversight committee. You weren’t involved in the operation, but you know as much about unmanned fighters as anyone in the world who’s not directly involved.”

“I know a lot about the Flighthawks,” he told her. “Sabres are different beasts.”

“Think it over. Please, Senator.”

“I will.”

“Best to your family.”

Zen had no sooner hung up than there was a knock at his door.

“Come on in,” he said, thinking it was Jason.

The second knock told him that it wasn’t — Jason had a key. But now he had announced that he was there, and couldn’t pretend not to be there.

“Who is it?” Zen asked.

“Mina Toumi, from al Jazeera news service,” answered a woman. “I would like to ask a few questions, Senator.”

“I’m in my pajamas.”

“It will only take a minute. And I don’t have a camera, only a voice recorder.”

Al Jazeera — the Islamic news service based in the Middle East — had been generally favorable to the uprising. But he knew that didn’t make any difference now. He didn’t know what she wanted to talk about, but he could easily guess.

Was there a way to duck out?

“Give me a second to get my robe.”

Zen fussed with his robe, pulling it tight. Then he realized that he really ought to have a witness — he sent a text to Jason and told him to come over to his room ASAP.

He rolled to the door, unlocked it, then moved back in the corridor.

“It’s open,” he said.

A young woman pushed open the door shyly. She was pretty — and young.

“I am sorry to bother you, Senator Stockard. I wanted a few questions about the incident.”

“Is that a French accent?” asked Zen.

“My mother was from Lyon,” she said. She was standing in the doorway.

“Tell you what — maybe I should get dressed and we can go somewhere a little more comfortable downstairs,” said Zen, feeling very awkward in his robe.

“Oh.”

“Could you just wait in the hall a moment? It won’t take too long.”

She stepped back. Zen rolled himself inside and grabbed his clothes. A few minutes later Jason knocked on the door.

“Senator?”

“Hang tight, Jay. Say hello to Ms.—”

“Toumi,” she said.

Zen dressed as quickly as he could. When he came out of the room, Jason and Mina Toumi were standing awkwardly on opposite walls, staring down at the carpet. For just a moment Zen forgot that the woman was a reporter — they looked like they would make a fine couple.

“Senator Stockard, thank you for your time,” said Toumi. She pulled out a voice recorder and held it toward him.

“Let’s go downstairs where we can have a little more privacy. And you can sit down.” He started wheeling himself toward the elevator.

“I didn’t know…”

Zen glanced at her and guessed what the problem was.

“You didn’t know I was in a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yup. For a long time.” He spun himself around and hit the button for the car. “It was during a flight accident. A plane went left when it was supposed to go right. They tell me I’m lucky to be alive.”

“But, I heard you were an ace—”

“An ace?” He laughed. “Oh. Yes, I guess I am.”

“An ace pilot,” she said. “That you had been, before you were elected.”

“Senator Stockard is an ace,” said Jason, finally finding his voice, albeit a little awkwardly. “Certified.”

“Jason’s my flack,” joked Zen, using an old term for a press agent.

She didn’t understand. “You need a nurse?”

“I’m not a nurse,” blurted Jason. “I’m his assistant.”

Mina flushed. So did Jason.

Zen laughed. Clearly he was going to have to coach Jason a bit on how to deal with reporters… and women.

When they arrived at the lobby floor, the door opened on a small crowd. Zen felt a flicker of trepidation — were all these people waiting to talk to him? But it was a tour group, queuing to get up to their rooms after dinner. He rolled around them, heading down the corridor to a small conference room. Meanwhile, Jason went over and found a hotel employee.

The man unlocked the door. It was set up for a small talk, with four dozen chairs facing a podium at the front. Zen rolled down the center aisle to the open space near the podium and turned around.

“Grab a chair and fire away,” he told Toumi.

She hesitated a moment — his slang had temporarily baffled her. Then she took her voice recorder out and began asking questions.

“So, you know about the accident?”

“I don’t know much about it at all,” said Zen. “I heard earlier that there was a bombing incident in Libya, and there are reports that civilians were hurt. This would be a tragedy, if true.”

“If true?”

“I don’t know whether it is true or not,” said Zen, trying not to sound defensive. “Certainly if it is true, it would be terrible. Anytime anyone is killed or even hurt in war, it’s tragic. Civilians especially.”

“Should the perpetrators be punished?”

“I doubt it was deliberate,” said Zen.

“But even mistakes should be punished, no?”

“I don’t know the facts, so we’ll have to see.”

“In your experience,” boomed a loud voice in American English from the back of the room, “are robot planes more apt to make this kind of mistake?”

Zen looked up. The man who had asked the question was wearing a sport coat and tie. Someone with a video camera was right behind him.

Several other people crowded in behind the two men as they came up the aisle.

“Are robot aircraft more prone to this sort of mistake?” repeated the reporter.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” said Zen.

“Tomas Renta, CNN.” The man stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Senator.”

I’m sure, thought Zen as he shook the man’s hand.

“First of all, I haven’t received any official word on what sort of planes were or weren’t involved,” Zen told the man.

It was an obvious fudge, and the reporter called him on it before Zen could continue.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors and saw the YouTube tape,” said Renta. “Everyone is saying it was a UAV.”

“Well, theoretically speaking, unmanned planes are no more likely to have accidents than any other aircraft,” said Zen. “The statistics are pretty close. Frankly, since people have been flying for so long, UAVs look a little better. Statistically.”

The reporter drew a breath, seemingly gearing up for another question. Zen decided to beat him to the punch.

“But that doesn’t meant that they can’t have accidents,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “It has to be investigated, obviously. I’m sure it will be. Speaking as a civilian—”

“And former pilot,” said another journalist.

“And former pilot, yes.” He gestured toward his useless legs. “My perception is, accidents can happen at any time. And they may be terrible ones. But I don’t know what happened here, and I don’t know that it would be of much value for anyone to pass judgment on anything until all of the facts are known.”

“Should the U.S. compensate victims?” said the journalist. Zen thought he remembered him from a conference somewhere — he was an American representing AP overseas.

“I don’t even know if it was a U.S. aircraft.”

“Does this delegitimize the entire coalition involvement?” asked a short, dark-haired woman who’d just joined the group.

“How would it do that?” asked Zen.

“So killing civilians is its goal?”

She was obviously trying to bait him, but Zen had plenty of practice dealing with that sort of thing. He simply ignored her, turning back to the reporter for CNN.

“I think the coalition has a lot of good people here,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll figure out what happened and fix it. If it needs to be fixed.”

“General Zongchen said that he wanted you on the investigating commission,” said the AP reporter. “Are you going to join it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” asked Toumi.

Mousetrapped. There was nothing else to do now but to sidestep, a maneuver best performed with a smile and a bit of a wink. Zen told them that he’d have to see what happened.

He proceeded to answer different variations of the same questions for the next ten minutes or so, until the reporters finally concluded that he wasn’t going to change what he was saying. The man from CNN thanked him, and the others promptly turned around and headed away to file their stories.

“Well, that went over well,” Zen said sarcastically to Jason. Following his aide’s glance, he saw that Mina Toumi was standing on the other side of him.

“I’m sorry — you were trying for an exclusive,” said Zen. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“It’s OK,” she said.

“Did you get everything you needed?”

“I’m OK. Thanks.” She gave him a tight smile, then left the room.

“Tongue back in your mouth,” Zen said to Jason, who was staring after her.

“I wasn’t — I didn’t…”

“Relax, Jay. If it was any more obvious I’d have to hose you down. Did you get her phone number at least?”

“E-mail.”

“You’re on your own,” Zen told him, wheeling from the room.

5

Alone as the doors closed, Neil Kharon stepped back against the wall of the elevator and took a long, slow breath as he emptied his mind. Talking to the rebel princess required a complete suspension of ethics and opinion. Idris al-Nussoi was a despicable creature, ignorant and willful.

But perhaps that’s why she had become the de facto head of the resistance.

Of course, it could be worse: he could be talking to the Libyan government officials.

His chest expanded slowly as he filled his lungs. He felt his muscles pushing outward, stretching the carbon-fiber vest he wore beneath his sweater as protection against a double cross. The vest would stop a Magnum round, and had even survived, intact, against a WinMag bullet in testing; otherwise he would not have put up with its constrictions. Kharon did not like to be constrained in any way. Tight spaces, like elevator cars, filled him with fear.

He could deal with it, as long as there was plenty of light. He had learned several tricks over the years.

He held his breath for a moment. The yoga guru he had learned the technique from emphasized the vibration one felt at this point, claiming that it put the adept practitioner in contact with the basic life force of the universe. Kharon had long ago dismissed this as bunk, but he savored the sensation nonetheless: a slight tingle through the muscles, relaxing against the nerve endings they intersected with.

A moment of calm preparation for the job ahead.

The elevator doors opened. Kharon stepped out and held up his arms as two men in tracksuits approached. They were bodyguards, though he wondered why anyone in their right mind would trust them. Disheveled, they smelled of fish and Moroccan hashish. They were several inches shorter than Kharon, and considerably heavier.

The one on the right frisked him quickly — it was so inefficient, Kharon could have smuggled an MP–5 in his pants — and then stepped back. The other growled in an indecipherable language — it wasn’t Arabic, Berber, English, or Italian, all languages Kharon could converse in. But he knew from experience it meant he could go.

He walked down the hall toward a pair of men dressed in faded army fatigues. Their clothes were old, but the AK–74s they flashed as a challenge were brand new. These had been supplied by Kharon’s sometime partner, a Russian spy-cum-arms dealer. The two men had been working together on and off now for several years, the Russian for profit, Kharon for something more satisfying and considerably darker.

The guards eyed him suspiciously even though they had just watched him being searched. Kharon ignored them as best he could, staring straight ahead at the door he was aiming for.

It opened before he reached it. His approach had been watched on a closed circuit television camera.

But there were no other sensors or bugs. A thin wire sensor in his shirt acted as an antenna, ferreting out transmissions. It would have buzzed gently to warn him.

“So, you have arrived. And on time,” said the short, fat man who appeared behind the door. He was Oscar Sifontes, a Venezuelan advisor to the rebels, the princess specifically. In theory he was independent, though everyone knew he was paid by Petróleos de Venezuela, S.A., the state oil company. He had a cigar in his left hand and he waved it expansively, as if he was happy to see Kharon.

In reality, Sifontes considered him a tool of the Russians, and therefore a rival for influence. He had tried to persuade the princess to have nothing to do with him — something Kharon would have suspected even if he had not bugged the suite.

The Venezuelan’s designer jeans were at least two sizes too small; with his white shirt, he looked like an ice cream cone, with a moustache on top.

And a very smelly cigar.

“We are having fine weather, do you not think?” said Sifontes, by way of making conversation. “It is more pleasant here than Sicily. The weather there was cloudy. In Libya, there is only sun.”

“Weather is too random to consider,” said Kharon.

While Sifontes struggled to translate the words into Spanish and then make some sense of them, Kharon strode from the small foyer into a large common room. The princess was sitting on a couch at the far end, watching a video feed on an iPad and talking on a cell phone at the same time. The iPad was a constant companion. It had been given to her by the Americans some months before as a present. It wasn’t bugged — there had been numerous checks, including Kharon’s own. Nonetheless, he suspected that the accounts it connected to were constantly monitored. The Americans never gave gifts without strings attached.

Kharon bowed slightly. It was an unnecessary flourish that the princess loved. She smiled, then in Arabic told whoever was on the phone that she would call back.

Her long black dress was baggy by Western standards, though here would be considered modern. The silk scarf that had slid back on her head had bright blue and green stripes on the deep black field, another straddle of old and new.

“Your trip back from Sicily was enjoyable?” Kharon asked in English. He preferred the language to Arabic because it was harder for her underlings to understand.

“Airplanes are not my favorite thing. But we made it in one piece.”

“They treated you well?”

“Always.” She dropped the iPad on the couch with a dramatic flourish. “But now we see that the Americans have bombed a city. That will set us back weeks.”

“I don’t think so,” said Kharon.

“Eh, always an optimist,” said the Venezuelan. He took a long pull from his cigar and exhaled. “You are good with science, but not with people’s opinions, I think.”

“Perhaps,” said Kharon. “You have the key for me?”

The princess rose from her couch and walked to the settee across the room. She was a real princess, the daughter of a tribal leader whose claim to some sort of local royalty extended back several centuries. But that claim aside, the real attraction for the rebels following her were her looks. At thirty-five, she had the body of a woman ten years younger. But assuming that she was just a pretty face being used by others would have been a dangerous underestimation. The presence of the Venezuelan was proof of that. He was clearly a counterbalance to the Europeans and especially the Americans, who strongly suspected that his government was trying to curry favor with the eventual winners of the power struggle here.

They were right, of course.

The princess returned with a small thumb drive. Kharon gave it only a precursory glance as he took it.

“The man who delivered it was very scruffy,” she said. “You really should deal with a better class of people.”

Kharon ignored the comment. “The rest of the money will be in the accounts by this evening,” he told her. “I appreciate your help.”

“Maybe you should stay until then,” suggested the Venezuelan.

Kharon turned his head and looked at the short, fat man.

“Señor Sifontes, are you suggesting I would cheat the princess?” he said coldly in Spanish.

“Oh, no, no, you misunderstand.” Sifontes smiled weakly and turned to the princess. “He’s worried that I think he’s going to cheat you.”

“Are you?” she asked Kharon.

“My integrity should be beyond doubt.”

“When you deal with Russians, one wonders.”

“The Russians have their pluses and minuses,” said Kharon. He put the thumb drive in his pocket.

“I had heard that there were government planes near the city that was attacked,” she said.

“I have heard that as well,” said Kharon. “Do you think they made the attack, or the allies?”

“It would be convenient if they did. But from what I have heard, this was not the case.”

“I see.”

“I was wondering if you knew why the government chose that time to attack.” The princess stared at him. “They have not flown their airplanes for several weeks, and now yesterday they come up. Perhaps they made the allied planes miss.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” said Kharon.

“You have many contacts.” The princess sat down on the couch, folding one of her legs beneath her. “I’m told you were south just recently.”

“Who said that? The Russians?”

“I hear things.” She waved her hand.

It had to be the Russian, he thought. Or had the Americans realized what he was doing?

Impossible. He would be dead by now. The fact that he could move around freely proved that they didn’t know he existed.

“I do my share of traveling,” Kharon told her.

“To both sides.”

“As I’ve said several times, I don’t care for either cause. Whatever advances my own goals are all I care about.”

“Some people think you’re a spy,” said the Venezuelan.

“Who?” Kharon glared at Sifontes.

“Some people,” said Sifontes. “I don’t doubt that you are loyal.”

“I am loyal to myself. That, I freely admit. In this case, our goals were similar.”

“Stealing information from the Americans did not necessarily help my people,” said the princess.

“But the money did.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him.

“I will stay if you wish.”

“Oh, it’s not necessary. Your payments have always arrived in the past.”

“This one will as well. Until we have the pleasure of seeing each other again, Princess.”

He nodded, smiled as evilly as possible at the Venezuelan, then left the suite.

Alone in the elevator, Kharon took the small USB key from his pocket. It looked like the right device, but he would not put it past the princess — or the Venezuelan — to try and cheat him somehow.

He smiled as he left the building, giving the surveillance cameras a big, toothy grin.

The princess was wrong. He was not trying to steal information about the American weapons. On the contrary. The USB key was one that his agents had used against them.

The Russian agents, to be more specific. Kharon didn’t trust them to dispose of it on their own and had insisted that he get it back. The princess had saved him the trip to Sicily — a necessary precaution, as he didn’t want to be linked to the “accident” in any way.

Not yet.

He crossed the street to a second hotel, the Awahi Sahara. Aimed primarily at businesspeople, the hotel had fallen on hard times since the start of the second revolution; it was less than a quarter full, and room rates had been slashed to thirty euros a night, nearly a tenth of what they had been before the war.

But Kharon hadn’t come for a room. He went straight to the business center at the rear of the lobby, slipped a key card into the door lock and went inside. An older Italian gentleman sat at the computer at the far end of the row, flipping slowly through e-mail.

Kharon pulled the chair out in front of a computer. He moved the mouse to bring up the system screen, then took the USB drive from his pocket. With a glance toward the old Italian — he appeared absorbed in his work — Kharon pushed the key into the USB slot at the rear of the CPU.

The key didn’t register as a drive.

So far so good.

He brought up the browser and typed the general address of Twitter. Entering an account name and password he had composed more or less at random, he did a search for #revoltinLibya.

The Tweet he needed was three screens deep. He copied the characters, then pasted them into the browser. That brought him to a Web page filled with numbers.

It was a self-test page, allowing him to ping the USB disk. A set of numbers appeared on the screen. He looked at the last seven: 8–23–1956.

Ray Rubeo’s birthday. It was the right key.

He backed out, then moved the mouse to the Windows icon at the lower left of the screen. He went to the search line and typed run, adding the address of a small program he had installed on the computer several days before.

When he was finished, the unedited video of the Sabre bombing mission had been uploaded to half a dozen sites.

After his mother died, Neil Kharon had gone east to live with an aunt and uncle. They were older, and not particularly warm people. Alone and isolated, he had concentrated on his schoolwork. It was an inverse acting out — his way of rebelling was to study harder and learn everything he could.

He soaked up knowledge. He loved math and science. Though not rich, his guardians had enough sense to get him into MIT for undergraduate work, and then, with the help of another relative, to Cambridge. From there, he studied on his own, making connections to labs in France, Germany, and Russia.

Russia especially. There, still barely twenty-one, he had been hired to work with a state research lab. At first he didn’t know, or at least could pretend that he didn’t know, that his real paymasters were officials in the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR. Within a few months it was obvious. By then he no longer cared.

He was a star for them, a hired gun capable of anything. He learned to steal, to sabotage, and to live in the shadows. Always with one goal — someday he would know enough to ruin the man he blamed for his mother’s death.

The Russians had been most helpful, paying him extremely well and, for the most part, allowing him to work where and when he wanted. They, too, were interested in Rubeo’s inventions, though obviously for different reasons. An entire team had been set up to target them. Kharon had largely abandoned the team once the Sabres were discovered headed for Libya; the Russians did not particularly like his independence, but he was too important to be crossed. They treated him as a petulant child to be indulged — a particularly useful attitude for Kharon.

Over the past several weeks the dream he’d had for years morphed into something practical. Bits and pieces were still being formed in his head, but the overall shape had been set years before.

Ray Rubeo would be disgraced, ruined, and finally killed.

A cool, moist breeze was blowing in off the Mediterranean, promising rain: a brief shower, surely, just a touch to take away the heat and keep the green spots of the city green.

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

Turk 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

“The 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.”

Their 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.”

8

Turk wanted to thank Rubeo for coming to his aid during the interview, but the scientist left the room before he got a chance; he was gone when he reached the hall.

He went over to the hangars and found out that the Tigershark and Sabres were still grounded, and would be for the foreseeable future. Unsure what else to do, Turk headed toward the base cafeteria to find something to eat.

Cafeterias on American military installations typically provided a wide variety of food; while the quality might vary somewhat, there was almost always plenty to choose from. The host kitchen here, run by the Italian air force, operated under a different philosophy. There were only two entrées.

On the other hand, either one could have been served in a first-class restaurant. The dishes looked so good, in fact, that Turk couldn’t decide between them.

“I would try the sautéed sea bass with the arancine and aubergine,” said a woman in an American uniform behind him. She was an Air Force colonel. “Or get both.”

“I think I will. Due,” he told the man. “Two?”

“Entrambi?” asked the server. “Si?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, he wants both,” said the colonel with a bright smile. Turk couldn’t remember seeing her before. “Tell him, Captain.”

The server smirked, but dished up two plates, one with the bass, the other with quail.

Turk took his plates and went into the next room. The tables were of varying sizes and shapes, round and square, with from four to twelve chairs. They were covered with thick white tablecloths — another thing you wouldn’t typically find in a base cafeteria.

He picked a small table near the window and sat down. The window looked out over the airfield, and while he couldn’t quite see the tarmac or taxiing area, he had a decent view of aircraft as they took off. A flight of RAF Tornados rose, each of the planes heavily laden with bombs — probably going to finish off the airfield the government planes had used the day before.

No one wanted to talk about that encounter, Turk thought to himself. The briefing had been little more than an afterthought.

Oh, you shot down four aircraft. Very nice. So tell us about this massive screwup.

By rights, Turk thought, he ought to be the toast of the base — he had shot down four enemy aircraft, after all.

“I see why you took two meals,” said the woman who’d been behind him in the line. “Hungry, huh?”

Turk glanced down at his plate. He was nearly three-fourths of the way through — he’d been eating tremendously fast.

“I didn’t have breakfast,” he said apologetically.

“Or dinner yesterday, I’ll bet. Mind if I join?”

“No, no, go ahead. Please,” said Turk. He rose in his chair, suddenly embarrassed by his poor manners.

She smiled at him, bemused.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, sitting.

“I, uh — no. I’m sorry.”

“Ginella Ernesto.”

“I’m Turk… Turk Mako.”

He extended his hand awkwardly. Ginella shook it.

“You were involved in the A–10E program at Dreamland,” she said. “You briefed us. My squadron took the planes over.”

“Oh.”

“Still think the Hogs should be flown by remote control?”

“Uh, well, actually I like the way they fly.”

Ginella laughed. The A–10Es were specially modified versions of the venerable Thunderbolt A–10, far better known to all as “Warthogs,” or usually simply “Hogs.” The aircraft had begun as A–10s, then received considerable improvements to emerge as A–1 °Cs shortly after the dawn of the twenty-first century.

The A–10Es were a special group of eight aircraft with an avionics suite that allowed them to be flown remotely. There were other improvements as well, including uprated engines.

“We had met before,” added Ginella. “I waxed your fanny at Red Flag last fall.”

“You did?”

“You were checking out a Tigershark. I was flying a Raptor. Masked Marauder.”

Turk had been at a Red Flag, but as far as he could remember, no one had gotten close to shooting him down — which was what Ginella’s slang implied. But she didn’t seem to be bragging and he let it slide.

Besides, though a good ten years older than he was, she was very easy on the eyes.

“How do you like Italy?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen that much of it.”

“You’ve been here a couple of weeks, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been pretty, uh, I’ve had a lot to do.”

“You should have time coming now with four kills, huh?”

Turk felt his cheeks redden. “Not exactly.”

“No? See now, if you were in my squadron, I’d make sure you had down time — and maybe a free stay at a fancy hotel of your choice.”

“Maybe I should ask for a transfer,” he blurted.

Ginella smiled, and started eating. Turk had lost his appetite and felt awkward and out of sorts, as if he’d just blown some major opportunity.

Suddenly he felt very thirsty.

“I’m going to go grab something to drink,” he told Ginella. “You want something?”

“Sure.”

“Uh, what?”

“Well, that wine would be nice, but since I have to fly later, just some of that sparkling water. The Ferrarelle. It’s the one in the green bottle that’s not Pellegrino.”

“Gotcha.”

Turk went back to the serving area and got two bottles of water, along with some glasses. When he returned, Ginella was texting something on her BlackBerry. He opened one of the bottles and poured some water for her, then filled his own. The water was fizzy, and a little heavy with minerals.

“Flu,” said Ginella, looking up from her phone. “Half my squadron is down with it.”

“What’s your squadron?”

“The 129th, Shooter Squadron.”

“That would be A–10Es.”

“You got it. Still flown by people.”

“It’s a great aircraft,” said Turk. “I was just, you know—”

“The hired monkey.”

It was a put-down he’d heard many times: Most of Turk’s work had been to sit in the cockpit while the remote control concept was tested. But he had done a lot more than that.

“It’s all right,” continued Ginella. “We staved off the geeks for now. We still have people in the cockpit.”

“The machines flew OK,” said Turk. “But, uh, it’s too nice a place not to have a man at the stick.”

“Or a woman.”

“Right.” He felt his cheeks redden at the faux pas, and hurriedly changed the subject. “When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

“The way you were talking, with the food and the water, I thought you’d been around.”

“With a name like Ernesto, you don’t think I’ve ever been to Sicily before?”

“I just… I don’t know.”

“Mako — that’s Italian?”

“My great-grandfather shortened it from Makolowejeski. This is the first time I’ve ever been in Italy.”

“Sicilians think they’re from a different country,” said Ginella. She started telling him a little about the island and Italy in general. Her great-grandparents had come from different parts of the “mainland,” as she called it. She still had some relatives living there.

Turk kept waiting for her to turn the conversation to the “incident,” but she didn’t. Instead, she regaled him with a veritable travelogue, detailing the beauties of Siena and Bologna, her two favorite cities in the whole world. Turk had never had much interest in visiting Italy, but now felt guilty about that.

“You don’t like to travel, do you?” she said to him finally. Then she got an impish grin. “Are you afraid of flying?”

“Very funny.”

“You should do more sightseeing.”

“Maybe I will. I guess you’ve probably heard about the, uh, accident.”

Her face became serious again. “Yes, I’m sorry. It must be a real ordeal.”

“It is,” said Turk. “It’s — the whole thing was weird. But… I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“So don’t.” She smiled, and took a sip of her water. “You know, this is naturally carbonated. Other waters have carbon dioxide pumped into them, like seltzer. Yuck.”

“I kinda like seltzer.”

“Oh, excuse me, Captain.” She laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Before Turk could answer, they were interrupted by two pilots in flight suits, bellowing across the room as they entered.

“Hey, Colonel, how’s it hanging?” said the taller one.

“Colonel, Colonel, we are here to brighten your day,” said the other man, much shorter — he looked perhaps five-four — and so broad-shouldered that Turk thought he must have a hard time fitting into the cockpit.

“Private party?” asked the taller pilot when they were closer.

“Turk Mako,” Ginella said, “let me introduce two of the worst pilots on the face of the earth. How they manage to stay off that face of the earth is beyond me. Captain Johnny Paulson.” The taller man bowed. “And Grizzly.”

“That’s Captain Grizzly to you,” said Grizzly, putting his plate down.

“I’m Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Paulson grinned. “Are we allowed to sit at the superstar’s table?”

“Careful, Pauly boy,” said Grizzly. “He’s liable to vaporize you with a death ray.”

“Don’t take them seriously, Captain,” said Ginella. “No one else does.”

“Because we are bad boys,” said Grizzly. “That’s why we fly Hogs.”

“As did Turk,” said Ginella. “He’s the guy who ran all the A–10E tests.”

“The monkey who sat in the seat for the geeks, right?” said Paulson after sitting down. “What do you think, Dreamland? Do we look like remote controllers?”

“I was just saying it’s such a great plane to fly that it would be a shame to do it by remote control.”

“Got that straight.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get some dessert.” Ginella rose. “Captain, would you like something?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“We hear you’re better than good,” said Grizzly as the colonel walked toward the serving area. “You fried four planes yesterday.”

“They kinda got in my way,” said Turk.

“Ha, that’s a good one,” said Grizzly, across the table. “What do you think of the Hog?”

“It’s good,” said Turk.

“You were a passenger,” said Paulson.

“No. I pretty much flew every day a couple of hours at least. The remotes tests were just a part of it.”

“How long?”

“Couple of months. It’s better than the A–1 °C, thanks to the engines, and the—”

“Thank God they didn’t go ahead and put remote controls in it,” said Paulson. “Then we’d all be working for Dreamland. Like you.”

“I don’t work for them. But what’s wrong with Dreamland?”

“Oh, Dreamland,” said Grizzly. Smiling, he jumped off his chair and fell to his knees. He extended his arms and lowered them as if worshipping Turk. Paulson followed suit.

“Good, you got them on their knees,” said Ginella, returning. “It’s a position they’re used to.”

“Only for our dominatrix leader,” said Grizzly in a loud stage whisper. “For her, anything.”

“Don’t look now,” said Paulson, “but here comes the Beast.”

“Oh, God,” said Grizzly.

“Are you degenerates eating off the floor again?” growled a black pilot, strolling over. He was tall and well-built, a linebacker in a flight suit. His smile changed to a frown as he turned to Ginella and in a mock-serious tone said, “I’m sorry you have to see this, Colonel. Perversion in the ranks.”

“We’re just worshipping at the altar of Dreamland,” said Grizzly, rising. “This is Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Beast held out his hand. Turk rose to shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Captain.”

“Turk.”

“There room for me here?” joked Beast. His name tag declared his last name was Robinson. “Or is this a segregated table?”

“It’s segregated all right,” said Grizzly. “Pauly boy was just leaving.”

“Hahaha.”

“Actually, I’m done,” said Turk, getting up. “You can have my place.”

“Don’t let them chase you away,” said Ginella.

“We can move to a larger table,” said Grizzly.

“No, I got some stuff I gotta do.”

“Look, I’m grabbing a chair and pulling it over,” said Beast.

“I gotta check my plane and do a million little things,” said Turk.

“Colonel, given that Turk here has flown Hogs,” said Grizzly, “maybe we can get him on board as a backup. We need subs.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Ginella. “What do you think, Captain?”

“Well, uh—”

“I understand your aircraft is grounded until they figure out what happened to the Sabres.”

“Something like that.”

“I am short of pilots,” said Ginella. “You want me to talk to your command?”

Turk hesitated. He did want to fly. Even Zen had suggested he should. He liked the A–10E, a predictable, steady aircraft. But it had been nearly a year since he’d been in a Hog cockpit.

“Does Dreamland have the stuff to be a Hog driver?” asked Paulson mockingly. “It’s a comedown from his sleek beast.”

“I could handle it,” said Turk.

“I’ll talk to some people,” said Ginella.

Turk shrugged. “Sure.”

Back at the Tigershark and Sabre hangars, Turk discovered that the guard had been doubled. The men were visibly tense, and not only asked for his ID card but examined it carefully.

“Hey, Billy, what’s up with all this?” Turk asked one of the security people he’d grown friendly with.

“Big honchos from D.C. are tearing apart the airplane,” said the sergeant. “How you holding up, Cap?”

“I’m good. What honchos?”

“Pinhead types.” The sergeant shrugged.

“Dr. Rubeo?”

“Couldn’t tell you. They drove up in a couple of SUVs, had attaché cases — kinda like the Men in Black movie. You ever see that?”

“Not in a long time.”

“We’re not supposed to go inside even because of the security.”

“No shit?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they think we’ll see that it’s put together with rubber bands.”

“It’s actually paper clips,” said Turk.

Inside AC–84a, the Tigershark had been stripped of much of the top of her skin. A large scaffolding ladder sat over her nose, and two mobile platforms extended over her wings. Several other ladders, ranging from four to sixteen feet, were arrayed next to various parts of the aircraft.

Gear was spread all around her. Men dressed in white suits dotted the aircraft. They looked like surgeons. Several others, wearing blue suits similar to the scrubs a hospital surgical team would use, manned a portable computer and other sensor screens at three different workbenches set up on the far side of the plane.

Another group of men and women were standing at the side of the hangar behind a velvet rope, as if the Tigershark were a nightclub and they were waiting to get in.

“Captain Mako,” said Ray Rubeo, walking over to him from behind the plane. He was wearing blue scrubs. “What can we do for you?”

“I just thought I’d see if the Tigershark was ready to fly.”

“It will be a few days,” said Rubeo. “I’m sorry, Captain. As I told the investigators this morning, this has nothing to do with you, or anything you did.”

“Thanks for that,” said Turk.

Rubeo stared at him.

“I just wanted to make sure the plane is OK,” said Turk.

“So do we,” said Rubeo.

“What do you think happened?”

Rubeo sighed. It was a loud sigh — Turk had heard it described by Breanna and others as a horse sigh.

“I cannot speculate,” said the scientist. “Even if I was given to speculation, which I am not, in this case, I simply can’t.”

“You think it was the Tigershark?”

“It must be ruled out.”

“Guess I’ll go take a nap,” he told Rubeo.

Turk wasn’t about to take a nap, though in truth he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He headed toward the headquarters building, thinking he might at least check in with the duty officer and see if there was an assignment he could rouse up. If not, maybe he would follow Ginella’s suggestion and check out some of Italy. She made it sound pretty alluring.

Maybe a nice tour of the country would divert him. Even better, maybe he’d find a nice Italian girl, one who’d whisper some sort of Italian come-on in his ear.

Ciao. Bene.

He was nearly at the building when he was flagged down by one of General Talekson’s aides. Talekson, an RAF officer, headed operations for the coalition; he was giving a briefing to the squadron leaders and wanted to know if Turk could detail his encounter with the four Mirages.

“Be glad to,” said Turk, happy to finally have something to do.

The session had already started by the time they got there. The general sat at the front of the large conference room, frowning. An RAF major on his staff — the intel officer, whom Turk had met only once — was giving an overall situation report. He flailed at a map projected on the large screen in front of him, waving his laser pointer around as he spoke of the government concentrations. The rebellion had started in the area of Benghazi, northern Libya, and slowly spread west and south. The government forces had done a good job moving their equipment down, and clearly had more of it ready to use than had been suspected.

“The airfields marked A3, A6, A7, and A8 have been hit this morning,” said the major. He used the laser pointer in his hand in a highly impressionistic way, barely pausing at the spots he referred to. A3 was the airfield at Ghat, where the Mirages had launched from the day before.

“The fields are only marginally usable. This is a double-edge sword,” added the major. “It means we will be delayed from making them usable when the rebels take them over.”

“Quite,” said the general.

The intelligence officer continued, saying that he didn’t believe the government could launch any more aircraft, as they were only in possession of two more airfields, neither of which was long enough for the fighters still in their possession. Nonetheless, the allies would have to be mindful, as he put it. The Libyan government still had upward of eighty fighters.

“Most are obsolete Mirages and older MiG–23s, –25s, and –27s,” said the general, interrupting. “But there are MiG–29s, and we have heard rumors of at least six Sukhoi Su–35s. We have not located them. Which frankly is more than a little worrisome. If they exist.”

The intel major smirked, and a few of the squadron leaders did as well. Clearly, they didn’t think the planes would materialize.

The general looked over at Turk.

“Captain Mako is here. Perhaps he can tell us about the Mirages he encountered.”

“Glad to.” Turk glanced around. “I don’t have the gun video — I’m kinda doing this off the top of my head. But there really wasn’t much to it, I guess.”

He ran through the encounter. It seemed pretty simple now that he recounted it.

Line ’em up and shoot ’em down.

Turk didn’t say that, but he certainly thought it. The squadron leaders asked about his aircraft and the weapon. The questions were mostly technical: how much was automated, how far away was he when the engagement began and ended. But one, from a German oberst, or colonel, completely surprised him.

“What did you feel when you shot the planes down?” asked the Luftwaffe commander.

“I don’t know that I felt anything,” said Turk truthfully. “I just, you know, went with my training.”

“Ah.” The officer was a member of Jagdgeshwader 73, the 73rd fighter wing, and headed a four-ship group of Eurofighters. The fighters had not yet been in combat. “So you feel nothing?”

“I just, uh, just didn’t think about it really.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Turk thought that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone seemed to stare at him.

He felt… good about getting the kills. He felt triumphant. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to feel? It was a win — a big one, four of them in fact. And each one of those bastards was trying to kill him.

Damn, of course he felt good. What else was he supposed to feel?

Bad because he’d won? That made no sense.

And then the Sabre had gone off course. How did he feel about that?

That was the real question, and the truth was, he couldn’t really answer.

It was terrible that the plane had gone off course and struck the wrong target. He felt bad that people had died. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

And there was a limit to how much he could feel. He didn’t cry or get sick or anything like that. Was that what was supposed to happen?

He certainly didn’t feel guilty — he hadn’t been responsible. Truly, it wasn’t his fault.

So he felt bad, but clearly not bad enough, as far as anyone seemed to think he should.

The briefing continued. Turk felt out of place, but it seemed too awkward to leave. The commanders recounted some of the basic protocols, some of the SAR arrangements in case things went wrong, and reiterated the need to call in for permission to blow your nose…

That got a laugh, at least.

As the briefing broke up, Turk slipped out of the room. He was halfway down the corridor when Ginella called after him.

“Hey, Turk, why are you running away?”

“Running?” Turk stopped and waited for her. “I was just walking.”

“That was a weird question.” Ginella started walking with him toward the door at the end of the hallway.

“What?”

“How did you feel about gunning down four fighters trying to kill you?” said Ginella, paraphrasing the German’s remark. “That was a weird question to ask.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I would have said ‘kick-ass.’ ”

“Well, uh—”

“Isn’t that how you felt?”

“Kinda,” he admitted.

“You feel bad because of the accident,” said Ginella. “We all get that. But that has nothing to do with the dogfight. You nailed those bastards. You oughta be proud of that.”

“Thanks,” said Turk.

“So you really want to drive Hogs, huh?”

“Well, I like them—”

“They’re a lot different than that pretty li’l thing you’ve been tooling around in,” she told him. “Stick and rudder. Meat and potatoes.”

“I remember,” said Turk.

They reached the door. Turk reached to open it, but Ginella got there first, slapping her hand on the crash bar and holding it for him in a reversal of etiquette, chivalry, and rank.

“I need another check pilot for a flight this afternoon,” she told him. “You’re welcome to apply. We’ll see how good you are.”

“You’ll let me fly?”

“If you won’t break it.”

“Well, I—”

“It’s already cleared.”

“Really? But I’d be bumping somebody—”

“I told you, three-quarters of my people are down with the flu,” said Ginella. “You saw who I have left at lunch. If I use their hours for the check flights, we won’t be able to take a mission. At least not if I obey the alliance flight rules.”

“Hell, I’d love to do it,” said Turk.

“Report to Hangar B–7 at 1600 hours,” she said, her voice suddenly all business.

“I will,” said Turk.

She smacked his back. “See you then, Captain.”

9

When she was running for President, Christine Mary Todd was asked how she would respond if woken up at 6:00 A.M. for a national emergency. She had responded that anyone looking for her at 6:00 A.M. would find her at her desk.

Or in this case, in the secure conference room in the White House basement, where she’d arrived to review the situation in Libya with her national security team.

“Good morning, Mr. Blitz,” she said to the National Security Advisor. She nodded to the secretary of state, Alistair Newhaven. “Mr. Newhaven.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with several Air Force officers, were at the Pentagon, displayed on the large video screen at the front of the room. Breanna Stockard, who headed the Defense Department’s Office of Special Projects, was also participating via a link to her office on the CIA campus. NATO liaison General Daniel Yourish and Air Force Special Warfare Command Chief of Staff James Branson were in Belgium and Florida, respectively.

“I assume that you have all read the latest bulletins,” said the President. “The preliminary reports that I’ve seen indicate that the aircraft made the attack on its own.”

“It’s pretty clear that the pilot did not initiate it,” said Breanna. She had been working much of the night, and didn’t seem to have bothered much with makeup beyond a small dab of lipstick. Yet she looked as well put together as ever.

The President admired that. Smart, good-looking, virtually unflappable — Breanna would do well in politics. Except of course that her husband had that covered.

Todd would have preferred Breanna to Zen, actually. He was a crucial ally, but often a difficult one.

“There are two problems here,” continued Todd. “One obviously is the media fallout. But just as important, in my mind, is the implication of the technology failure. What went wrong?”

“We have to find that out,” said Breanna. “That obviously is our focus here. Ray Rubeo has already volunteered to go personally and assist in the examination.”

“How close is this to Raven?” asked the National Security Director. The loss of the Raven drone two months before had caused considerable consternation — and an attempt on the President’s life.

“We don’t believe it’s related at all,” said Breanna. “The UAVs use a different protocol, different systems entirely. They are unrelated.”

“The Sabres are autonomous as well, though,” said Branson. “They make their own decisions.”

“I think we want to keep that under wraps as much as possible,” said Blitz. “As a matter of national security.”

And as an important public relations measure, the President thought. It wouldn’t do to have stories to the effect that U.S. robots were killing people on their own.

Yet, that was what they were doing. The technology employed in the UAVs, now used for the first time in combat, allowed the machines to decide who their enemies were. There were a large number of parameters, but in the end the decision was the computer’s.

Was it a remarkable and necessary extension of a weapon? Or was it the beginning of the end for the human race?

It was a question straight out of a 1950s sci-fi flick, and yet one Todd had wrestled with carefully before authorizing the deployment of the Sabres to Libya.

There were plenty of precedents for computers being involved in the decision-making process. The Navy’s Aegis system, far back in the 1980s, computed firing solutions on its own — though these were always under the supervision of crew. The Flighthawks developed by Dreamland in the mid- and late 1990s chose their own course and tactics when dealing with enemy fighters.

From one perspective, the Sabre missions were hardly different. The targets were specified by humans, and the feeds from the sensors aboard the aircraft could be constantly monitored.

Could be, not were.

That was one difference. Another was the fact that the Sabres plotted their own courses, and chose their own strategies for approaching targets. They didn’t need humans at all. They were capable of switching off prime targets, and even secondary targets. They could decide how to handle threats.

They’d done an excellent job in all the tests so far. They seemed ready for the next step.

And now this. A humanitarian disaster.

“Taking people out of the loop was a definite mistake,” said Branson, who though he had welcomed the Sabres was now clearly having second thoughts. “I was under the impression that they would be controlled by the Tigershark pilot at all times. I’d like to review why he diverted.”

“He diverted because he came under fire,” said Breanna.

“I think we’re drifting into an area of debate that will be unfruitful at the moment,” said Blitz. “We all know the issues involved long-term. The ability of robots on the battlefield is something to be discussed another day.”

“You prejudice the argument by using the word ‘ability,’ ” countered the general.

“Dr. Blitz is right,” interrupted the President. “This will be a valuable discussion for another time. Right now, we need to sequester those aircraft and find out what went wrong.”

“We’re working on that,” said Breanna.

“Good. Now, for the diplomatic fallout. I assume you’ve all seen the gun camera video.”

“We’re working on who leaked that,” said Yourish. “Unfortunately, there’s a large list of people who had access.”

“Why?” asked the President.

“Well, the investigation…”

There was no satisfactory answer. Well over a hundred staffers had access to the computers where the information was being gathered for review, and dossiers had been prepared for all the members in the alliance. There were any number of people who wouldn’t mind embarrassing the United States, or perhaps making a little extra money by selling the video.

President Todd assumed that the investigation would go on for months without coming to any real conclusion.

In a sense it didn’t matter. The gun tape wasn’t particularly revealing: a building targeted, the missile launch, then on to the next target before the missile hit. The images on the ground were much more devastating, in terms of public relations.

But they did mean blame couldn’t be shifted away from the Sabre project, if anyone was so inclined.

The President was not. She had already directed a statement to be issued with the bare facts — the attack had been misdirected and was under investigation. The U.S. deeply regretted the loss of life. The victims would be compensated in accordance with past precedent.

“What do we do when people ask how it happened?” asked General Yourish, returning to a question that had been nagging at them since the incident first occurred.

“The truth,” said Blitz. “It’s still being investigated. We don’t want to prejudice the investigation. And we don’t know.”

“I think Senator Stockard’s presence on the committee has helped defer some of the questions,” said General Branson. “I just hope it doesn’t backfire.”

“I talked to the senator personally,” said Ms. Todd. “I think he’ll do an excellent job.”

“For us,” added Blitz.

“For everyone.”

The President glanced at Breanna. She had a vaguely worried look on her face.

“I don’t expect Jeff to mince any words,” the President added. “I know that he’ll be a straight shooter. But really, that’s the best we can hope for. And we will fix the problem.”

“We will,” said Breanna.

“All right, very good,” she told them, rising. “We all have a lot to do. Keep me up to date on this.”

The deputy chief of staff was waiting in the hall with her news briefing as she went out.

“How are the reports?” she asked.

“You want the good ones or the bad ones?”

“Good ones first.”

“There’s a headline from the New York Post: American killer drone wipes out village.”

“That’s a good one?”

“Wait to you see what al Jazeera has.”

“I think I’ll save that for after lunch,” said Todd, stepping into the elevator.

10

To know why something had failed, one first had to know exactly what had happened.

This was not necessarily easy. In the case of the Sabre UAV, for example, hundreds of subsystems contributed to the aircraft’s flight behavior, and while the main focus was on the flight computers and AI sections, the systems that it interacted with had to be investigated on their own. It was a laborious and time-consuming project.

Despite a well-earned reputation for being exacting to the point of overbearing, Ray Rubeo no longer had the patience to oversee the myriad mundane details that needed to be attended to as the investigation proceeded. Instead, he turned to Robert Marcum, the vice president of his main American company, Applied Intelligence, tapping him to head the investigation. Marcum was among the most anal retentive people he employed.

Which was saying quite a lot.

Traveling from Paris, where he had been overseeing another project, Marcum arrived in Sicily shortly after Rubeo, but already had an impressive investigative team in place. They were given a small facility at the air base, and rented much larger quarters about five miles away. These quarters consisted of the top three floors of an eight-story building perched above a series of hills that cascaded down toward the seacoast some ten miles away.

The executive suite on the eastern side of the top floor had a gorgeous view, and even Rubeo had a difficult time concentrating on the video projection as Marcum briefed him on what was known so far about the accident.

“Pilot action from the Tigershark can now be one hundred percent ruled out,” said Marcum. He had worked as an engineer for many years before going into administration. “The flight records have been carefully reviewed. He gave no command that altered their flight.”

“You’ve looked at the logs yourself?” asked Rubeo. The two men were alone in the large, sparsely furnished room. Levon Jons had gone into town to arrange for more transportation and backup, in case they went to Africa.

“Of course,” said Marcum. “The pilot was Captain Mako. He’s been flying for Special Projects for a few months. I don’t know too much about him personally. I’m told he’s an excellent pilot. Young.”

“Very young, yes,” said Rubeo.

“Additionally, we are fifty-eight percent through with our checks on the Tigershark. It would appear unlikely that it was involved in any way.”

“I wonder if it’s a coincidence that the fighters were scrambled,” said Rubeo.

“In what way?”

Rubeo folded his arms. The office chairs that had come with the rooms were deep leather contraptions that would be very easy to fall asleep in. This would have to be fixed.

“I understand that the government hasn’t flown against allied coalition planes until this mission,” said Rubeo.

Marcum shook his head. “An exaggeration. This is what I mean when I say there has been much misinformation about the entire intervention. I don’t blame anyone, not even the media. It’s a very difficult situation, and NATO command has been less than forthcoming with them. We have already identified half a dozen flights by the government in the past five days. This was the largest, and the only time they engaged a plane. My bet is they won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

“Nonetheless, it is an interesting coincidence,” said Rubeo. “If it were significant, how so?”

Marcum frowned. Engineers didn’t believe in coincidences. But then again neither did Rubeo.

“The pilot would not be paying attention to the Sabres, not fully,” said Marcum. “He admits this.”

“Yes.”

“But the government would have to know about the attack in advance. A possibility not yet ruled out, but a far-fetched one.”

Rubeo wasn’t so sure. His attention drifted as Marcum continued, reviewing the preliminary data from the Sabres.

“All of the system profiles are absolutely within spec,” said Marcum. “There are no anomalies. Sabre Four believes it struck the coordinates it was told to strike.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No. Exactly.”

“The visual ID package should have checked off,” said Rubeo, referring to a section of the system that compared the preflight target data with information gathered by the aircraft before it fired. “It should have seen that it wasn’t hitting the proper target.”

“One of our problems. Or mysteries, I should say.”

Marcum went through a few slides, showing the designated target and then the village that had been hit. The devastation was fairly awful, as would be expected.

“Were the coordinates entered incorrectly?” asked Rubeo.

“If they were incorrect, how are they right now?”

“Hmmmph.”

“We are checking, of course, for viruses and the like. But at this point we have nothing firm.”

“Understood.”

Marcum turned to administrative matters, briefing Rubeo on the different team members he wanted and the procedures he would follow as he proceeded. NATO and the Air Force were conducting their own investigations; there was also to be a UN probe. Marcum had assigned liaisons to all, but expected little in the way of real cooperation. These were more like spies to tell him what the others were thinking.

Rubeo listened as attentively as he could, but his mind was racing miles away. He was thinking of what the attack would have looked like from the ground.

There would have been no warning until the first missile was nearly at the ground. A person nearby would hear a high whistle — Rubeo had heard it himself on the test range — and then what would seem like a rush of air.

Then nothing. If you were within the fatal range of the explosion, the warhead would kill you before the sound got to you.

That would be merciful. If you could consider any death merciful.

“Brad Keeler is on his way from the States,” said Marcum. Keeler had headed the team that developed the control software. “Once he’s here, we should be able to move quickly.”

“Good,” said Rubeo, still thinking of the missile strike. He saw the fires and the explosions. Bodies were pulled from the wreckage before his eyes.

Was I responsible for all that?

My inventions make war more precise, so that innocent people aren’t killed. But there is always some chance of error, however small that chance is.

Little consolation if you’re the victim.

“Something wrong?” asked Marcum.

Rubeo looked over at him. Marcum had turned off the projector.

“Just tired,” Rubeo told him. “Keep at it.”

11

Any aircraft would have felt a little strange to Turk after the Tigershark, but the A–10 was nearly as far removed from the F–40 as a warplane got.

The A–10A Thunderbolt had been something of a poor stepchild to the Air Force from the day of its conception. With straight wings and a cannon in its nose, the aircraft was the antithesis of the go-fast, push-button philosophy that ruled the U.S. Air Force in the late 1960s — and in fact, still largely ruled it today.

The Hog was born out of a need for a close-in, ground attack aircraft. While the country at the time was fighting in Vietnam, the perceived enemy was the Soviet Union, and the early design specs anticipated an aircraft that could be used to stop a massive tank invasion across the European plains. The plane was inspired partly by the success of the A–1 Skyraider — a highly effective throwback used to great effect in Vietnam, despite its alleged obsolescence. The “Spad,” as the A–1 was often nicknamed, was powered by a piston engine. Its primary asset — beyond the tough resourcefulness and skill of its pilots — was its ability to carry a large variety of ordnance under its wings. Clean, the Spad was comparatively fast for a piston-powered plane, but it was slow compared to jets. As a ground support aircraft, however, the lack of speed was something of an asset. In the days before complicated sensors and constantly updating satellite imagery, ground support relied heavily on the so-called Mk–1 Eyeball. Human pilots flying low and slow had a much better chance of putting the era’s unguided ordnance on target than fast-movers rocketing over the terrain.

The A-X project produced two aircraft sharing the same philosophy, both designed essentially around an armor-pounding, 30mm Gatling. The A–10 by Republic eventually won out. (The loser, the YA–9 built by Northrop, became the answer to a trivia question rarely asked of anyone, including plane buffs.)

The A–10 was designed and built in an era of tight budgets, and some say that the penny pinching hurt the plane from the very beginning. It was strictly a daytime, good-weather aircraft, with effectively no ability to fight at night: a critical oversight given the evolution of war-fighting doctrine in the years that followed, not to mention the fact that war generally takes place in all sorts of weather. And many critics pointed out that its engines were somewhat underpowered from the beginning. This was important not so much because it lowered the aircraft’s speed — speed wasn’t a real factor for the A–10A — but because the power of the engines limited the weight it could carry into the sky and the endurance of the aircraft.

A series of improvements in the last decade addressed the first set of drawbacks, adding enough modern sensors to the A–10A airframe that the planes had been redesignated the A–1 °C by the Air Force. While the plane remained essentially the same from the outside, inside the pilot’s “office” there were new displays and a data link that gave the Hog driver access to real-time combat information. The updated Hogs could also carry more modern “smart” weapons, including JDAM, or Joint Direct Attack Munitions.

Ginella’s eight planes were a further evolution. The upgraded avionics systems were tied to smart helmets, which functioned similarly to Turk’s — the pilots could use those helmets rather than the glass cockpit. There were certain subtle improvements — there was now a full-blown autopilot, separate from the remote link — and more obvious ones: uprated power plants that allowed the planes to carry even heavier bomb loads. The Hogs were still subsonic, but they had noticeably more giddy-up when accelerating. According to the stats, they had approximately forty percent more power, but used about a third less fuel under normal conditions.

The stats reminded Turk of EPA estimates on cars — always to be taken with a grain of salt — but there was no denying that the A–10E was a more powerful beast than its cousins.

At the same time, the plane remained an easy aircraft to fly. She just loved being in the air.

Sitting at the end of the runway, Turk got clearance and ramped the engine. The Hog galloped forward, gently rising off the concrete after he had gone only 1,200 feet — a better rollout than most other aircraft he’d flown.

He cleaned his landing gear, then following the controller’s directions, flew north over the Mediterranean to an airspace cleared of traffic.

Turk’s A–10E helmet duplicated the glass cockpit a pilot saw in an A–1 °C, and though it didn’t have quite the customization he was used to, it was nonetheless easy to deal with. The center of the board had the familiar attitude indicator, a large floating ball that told the pilot where his wings were in relation to the world — not always something that came intuitively, especially in battle. The heading indicator just below showed where the nose was going — again, an all-important check for the senses. To their right and slightly above, the climb indicator and altimeter did the obvious; a row of clock-style gauges at the lower right showed the aircraft’s vitals.

Ironically, the least familiar parts of the pseudocockpit for Turk were the most modern. The multiuse displays had a number of different modes, which he stumbled through slowly as he made sure he was familiar with the aircraft. The data transfer system, the embedded GPS navigation, and even the status page — a computer screen detailing system problems — were far different than what he was used to in the Tigershark. He had only to say a few words to get a response in the sleek F–40; here, he had to punch buttons and think about what he was doing.

But even hitting those buttons and occasionally pausing over the screens couldn’t detract from the solid feel of the aircraft around him.

Planes had a definite soul, basic flight characteristics that they seemed to come back to no matter the circumstances. The Tigershark moved quickly. She turned quickly, and she went forward quickly. Given her head, she accelerated. This could certainly get her in trouble — a quick flick of the wrist on the stick, and the plane could pull more g’s than Turk could stand.

The Hog’s nature was completely different. She was more a solid middle linebacker than a fleet receiver. Not to say she wasn’t nimble: she could dance back and forth, even sideways, as a few minutes of experimentation with her rudder pedals showed him. But her true nature was stability. Beat her into a turn, abuse her into a dive, jab her into a sharp climb — she came back gentle and solid.

The original A–10s were designed to be reliable, predictable weapons platforms, and the changes had left that completely alone. Try as Turk did to abuse it, the plane kept coming back for more. It went exactly where he pointed it, never overreacting to his control inputs.

In fact, Turk had so much fun putting the aircraft through its basic paces that he felt almost disappointed when it was time to land. The only consolation was that another Hog was sitting on the tarmac near the hangar waiting for him.

“All your controls solid, Captain?” asked Ginella, who walked over to the plane as he descended the ladder.

“They were kick-ass,” he told her, hopping down.

“Good. Don’t break this next one. They had a little trouble with the indicators on the starboard engine,” she added, her voice instantly serious. “Be gentle, all right? We don’t want to give the SAR people too much work this afternoon.”

“Gentle is my middle name,” he told her.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the women,” bellowed Beast, who walked over from behind the plane.

“Play nice now,” said Ginella. “Captain Mako, Beast is going to check out Shooter Four while you’re in Six. Don’t let him trip you up.”

“I’ll try to stay out of his way,” said Turk.

A few hours later Turk tested the engines on the ramp, his brakes set to hold him in place. If there had been an actual problem with the jet, there was no sign of it now. The instruments said the power plants were smooth and ready, and his gut agreed.

With Beast following in his trail, Turk took the aircraft skyward. All of the indicators were pegged at showroom stats, systems as green as green could be.

When they reached their testing area, Turk took a long circle around his airspace. He told Beast to stand by, then spooled the starboard engine down. The Hog didn’t entirely welcome flying on one engine, but she complied, reacting like a calm, indulgent workhorse. The plane jumped a bit when he brought the engine back on line, but there was no drama, no emergency. Nor did anything untoward happen when he flew on only the starboard motor.

“I think we’re good,” he told Beast.

“Hey yeah, roger that,” replied the other pilot. “How do you like the Hog?”

“It’s nice. I like it a lot.”

“As good as that little go-cart you fly?”

“The Tigershark is a special plane,” said Turk.

Beast laughed. “Fly with us enough and you’ll think the Hog is, too.”

“Shooter Four, Shooter Six, be advised you have two aircraft heading toward Box Area Three,” said the controller, alerting them to an approaching flight. “Call sign is Provence.”

A few seconds later Provence leader checked in. The planes were a pair of Rafale C multirole fighters. The Frenchmen had just arrived in Sicily.

“What are you up to, Provence leader?” asked Beast.

“Just getting some flight time and checking our systems,” responded the flight leader.

Turk saw the two planes approaching from the southwest. The Rafales were delta-wing fighters, developed by France in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Originally conceived as air superiority fighters, they had retained those genes as they matured to handle a variety of other roles. While the aircraft might not match American F–22s, they were nonetheless extremely capable dogfighters. In fact, in a close-range knife fight against a Raptor, the smart money would be on the Frenchmen; much smaller than the F–22, they could turn tighter and fly extremely slow: a little appreciated value in an old-fashioned fur ball.

Of course, any Raptor pilot worth his salt would have shot them down at beyond-visual range, but where was the fun in that?

“You boys looking for a little practice?” asked Beast.

“Pardon? Excusez?” said the French leader. “What is it you are asking?”

“Let’s see what you can do,” said Beast. He pushed his throttle and pointed the nose of the A–10E upward, in effect daring the Rafale to follow.

An “ordinary” Hog would have more than a little difficulty going nose up in the sky, but the enhanced power plants in Shooter Four brought her into a ninety degree climb almost instantly. Turk watched as the Rafales swung over to follow. Though caught a little flat-footed — a challenge from the ungainly Hogs must have been the last thing they expected — the two French fighters soon began to catch up, angling toward the A–10’s path. Then, just as it looked as if they would complete an intercept and put themselves in a position to wax Beast’s fanny, the Hog fell off hard to the right, diving down toward the purple-blue of the ocean.

Again the Frenchmen were caught off-guard. By the time they started to react, cutting off the climb and circling to the east, Beast had recovered and was looping underneath them.

From where Turk was flying, it was hard for him to see if Beast ended up on one of the Frenchman’s tails, but Beast’s laughter over the radio sure made it seem as if he had.

“Ya gotta watch out,” he told the Frenchman. “This is not your daddy’s Warthog.”

Turk turned his plane toward the others, waiting as the Rafales broke away. There was no way Beast could keep up, and so he didn’t, climbing merrily and then circling back to the south as they spun away.

The two French fighters regrouped at the north end of the box they had been given to fly in, then banked back toward the Warthog in a coordinated attack. The truth was, a radar missile at this range would have meant the end of the Hog and its guffawing pilot, but that wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of the encounter. As the Rafales moved in, they separated nicely, one high, one low, one to the east and one to the west, basically positioning themselves to cover anything Beast tried to do.

But that left the trailing wingman vulnerable to Turk, assuming he could accelerate quickly enough to make an attack. A “stock” A–10A couldn’t have managed it, but with the uprated engines, the refurbished Warthog had just enough giddy-up to pull it off. Turk jammed his throttle and pointed the A–10E’s nose at the Rafale’s tail, pulling close enough to have spit a dozen pellets of depleted uranium into the Frenchman’s backside before Provence Two realized where he was.

The Armée de l’Air pilot’s first reaction was to try to turn — he was hoping to throw the Warthog in front of him, essentially turning the tables. But the Hog was at least as good at slow-speed flying as the Rafale was, and Turk was able to dial back his gas just enough to stay behind the other plane. Only when the Rafale put the pedal to the metal and accelerated was he able to shake his sticky antagonist.

Beast was having a bit of difficulty shaking the other pilot, who wisely kept just enough distance to shadow the Hog without getting too close. The front canards on the Rafale — small winglets that added greatly to its maneuverability — worked overtime as the French flight leader remained figuratively on Beast’s shoulder. The two planes’ speed dropped down toward 100 knots — extremely slow, even for the straight-winged Hog. Still, the French-built fighter was able to hang in the air, a tribute both to the man at the stick and the gentlemen who had designed her.

Turk cut in their direction, making sure to clear over them by several thousand feet. A few touches on his trigger and the Frenchman would have had his pain buttered.

“OK, OK,” said the French flight leader. “Knock it off.”

“You owe us drinks,” laughed Beast.

The Frenchmen were good sports, promising that they would pay off at their earliest opportunity. They also added that they would have beaten the two Americans in anything approaching a fair fight.

“That’s your first mistake,” said Beast. “Never, ever fight fair.”

Ginella was waiting for them at their parking area when they returned.

She was not happy.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” she said to Beast as he stepped onto the tarmac. “Where do you think you were, kindergarten? That action was dangerous and unauthorized. It was completely against regulations and, damn it, common sense!”

“I, uh—”

“Don’t speak,” she snapped. She turned to Turk. “And you — you! You’re a test pilot. An engineer.”

“Well, no, I—”

“Is this what they teach you at Dreamland? I’m really disappointed in you, Captain. Really disappointed. I’ve seen your record — you’re supposed to be a mature pilot with a good set of decision-making skills. Quote, end quote.”

Turk wanted to shrink into the macadam below his feet. She was absolutely right to bawl him out, and he knew it. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground as she continued, giving him one of the sternest lectures he had ever received.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked finally.

“I was stupid,” he said. “I lost my head and acted like a jerk.”

“Get out of here before I do something rash,” she said. “Report to the maintenance officer.”

Beast took a step to leave. Ginella whirled toward him. “You and I are not done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Beast softly.

Turk didn’t hang around to hear the rest. He practically ran to get out of his flight gear, then quickly made his way to the squadron’s offices.

“Colonel talked to you?” asked the major sitting at the desk when he came in.

Turk nodded.

“I assume the plane checked out.”

“Yes.”

They went over the flight quickly. Turk wanted to finish as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid seeing Ginella again.

No such luck, though. She was standing in the doorway when he finished.

“Give us a minute, Major?” she snapped. It wasn’t a question.

“Wanted to grab a coffee,” said the officer, who quickly slipped past her.

“I’m sorry,” said Turk, sitting back in his seat. “I know I was out of line. I know it.”

She frowned, but the quick admission of guilt seemed to take a little of her anger away. She went over to the desk the major had been using and sat behind it.

“I realize that I run things a little loose at times,” she told him. “On the ground. Yes. But that doesn’t mean it’s OK to act like a cowboy in my squadron. In the air, we are all business. Do you understand that?”

“I know. I was totally out of line.”

She stared at him. Her eyes were a light blue with small wrinkles of brown in them, as if the blue were tiny pages of a book arranged one on top of the other around the pupil.

“You’re a good pilot, at least,” said Ginella finally.

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t grin.”

“No.” Turk shook his head.

“All right, Captain. You can go.”

Turk rose and started to leave.

“Thank you for helping us,” said Ginella.

Turk turned around.

“It was my pleasure,” he said.

“Good.”

He left the room chastened, but unbroken.

12

“It’s not possible that the Sabre didn’t know where it was.” Brad Keeler thumped his hand against the wall, tapping the map image projected there. “We have the GPS data all the way through.”

“And it functioned optimally?” asked Rubeo. “You’re positive of that?”

“As positive as we can be.”

“Was there interference through the control channel?”

Keeler pursed his lips. The one vulnerability of all unmanned aircraft systems was their reliance on external radio signals, for control and navigation. Much progress had been made in the area over the past decade but it remained at least a theoretical vulnerability.

“We don’t believe so,” said Keeler, weighing his words. “It would fail-safe out. Even if it were done very well, we should have a trace somewhere in the system.”

“The GPS?”

“GPS is trickier to track,” admitted Keeler. The Sabre got reads on where it was by querying the global position satellite system. In theory, the system could be fooled or even infiltrated. But it was difficult to do technically.

“Harder to catch,” noted Marcum.

“Absolutely,” admitted Keeler. “But there should be some trace of that.”

“Simple interference?” asked Rubeo.

“Again — it’s theoretically possible. But if so, they’re doing it in a way that we haven’t seen before. And the NATO sensors didn’t pick up any direct interference.”

“They hardly know what to look for,” said Rubeo. Interference in this case meant some sort of radio jamming, which generally was fairly obvious but could be done very selectively. In fact, Rubeo’s companies were working on a system that jammed only select aircraft — in theory, one could confuse a single UAV in a flight, turning it against its fellows.

Only in theory, so far. The Libyans naturally would be unable to do this on their own. But there were plenty of people who might want to take the chance to test their systems in the field.

Rubeo couldn’t control his agitation. He rose. “A virus?” he asked.

“So far, no trace. And it would have to be introduced physically. Which means by someone on the team.”

“Or someone who has access to the hangar,” said Rubeo. “Or the transports. Or one of the bases where they stopped. Or—”

“Point taken.”

“I want to know exactly what happened,” he said. “We need to know.”

“We are working on it,” said Marcum, rescuing Keeler. “We haven’t been at it all that long. Barely twenty-four hours.”

“I’ve been here less than twelve,” said Keeler.

Rubeo pressed his hands together. “The government planes? What’s the connection there?”

“At best, a diversion,” said Marcum. “More likely a coincidence.”

“Did they jam?”

“No,” said Keeler. “No jamming was recorded by any of the aircraft, including the Tigershark.”

“But there were ECMs,” said Rubeo. “They might have covered it. That would explain why the government attacked in the first place.”

Marcum looked as if he had just sucked a lemon.

“We’ve mapped all of the radars in the area,” said Keeler. “It’s possible there was another one. But if it was interfered with, we can’t figure out what the interference form would have been.”

“These are early days, Ray,” said Marcum. “We will get there. We have to build up slowly.”

“How well are you sleeping?” Rubeo snapped.

Marcum didn’t answer.

“We all want to figure out what happened, Dr. Rubeo,” said Keeler gently. “We will figure it out.”

“I can’t sleep at all,” said Rubeo.

13

Though he headed Whiplash, the high-tech Department of Defense and CIA’s covert action team, Danny Freah was not in Sicily on a Whiplash mission per se. Officially, he was only here to work with the locals and Air Force and secure the Sabres and the Tigershark, which were Office of Technology assets on temporary “loan” to the alliance. He wasn’t even supposed to provide actual security, just make sure that the people who were charged with doing that did it.

Unofficially, he was here to find out what the hell had happened and to make sure that no one associated with the Office of Technology got railroaded.

Politics was a wonderful thing, especially in the military.

Danny had brought his figurative right arm, Chief Master Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland, along with two troopers, John “Flash” Gordon and Chris “Shorty” Bradley. He had a pair of Ospreys as well — one had come over with him on the Whiplash M–17, and the other had been part of a demonstration that Flash and Bradley were conducting in Germany when Danny got the word to get over to Sicily in a hurry. The Ospreys were available as transportation in the unlikely event he had to go over to Libya.

He doubted he’d need them. Nor did he anticipate needing more people. Most of his team was in the States on a training mission with U.S. Special Operations Command, and he decided to let them be for the time being.

“Pretty island,” said Boston, surveying the suite they’d been assigned at the NATO base. “Piece of shit command post, though. Barely fit a desk in either of these rooms.”

Boston wasn’t exaggerating. Space at the facility was at a premium, as were simple auxiliary services like getting the floor washed — the ones in front of them were brutal.

“We’ll have to make due,” said Danny. “You sent Flash over to the security?”

“Yeah, he’s talking to the NATO people now. They have our Air Force guys, an assigned team from DoD working for OT, and Eye-tralians.” Boston had a smug grin as he mispronounced the word. “You going to call Nuri back from vay-kay?”

“I think we’ll survive without him.”

“Probably be help ordering dinner.”

“We’ll survive.”

Nuri was Nuri Abaajmed Lupo, the lead CIA officer with Whiplash. As an Italian-American who’d spent part of his childhood in Italy, Nuri spoke excellent Italian. He also had a decent amount of experience in the Middle East. But he was on his first leave in two years, and Danny saw no need to interrupt it.

“Probably knows where all the hot babes are, too,” added Boston.

“Find someone to clean the floor, Chief,” growled Danny. “I have work to do.”

14

The high of his A–10E flight having been punctured by Ginella’s scolding, Turk took his bruised ego back to his own small office on the base. He found it locked, with a guard in front of the door.

The Italian MP did not know what was going on or even why he was there, specifically. But he did know that his orders were that no one was to enter. And Turk fit the qualifications of “no one,” even though his name was handwritten on the door.

He went over to the hangar where the team was working over the Tigershark and Sabres, but no one there seemed to know anything about it. Turk was on his way to General Talekson’s office when his satellite phone rang; it was Colonel Freah.

“Colonel, am I glad you called,” he said as the connection went through. “I’ve been locked out of my office.”

“Yeah, it’s routine,” Danny told him. “Part of the investigation, Turk. Don’t worry about it. How are you holding up?”

“OK, I guess.”

“Did Colonel Ginella hook up with you?”

“Uh, yes sir. I, uh, checked out two planes for her.”

“Two? Great.”

“I didn’t think to check with you. I—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Technically, Danny wasn’t in Turk’s chain of command anyway. “She talked to me about it, then went through channels. I think it’s a good idea for you to be, uh, useful if you can. Assuming you want to be. Do you want to fly with her?”

“Yeah, I will. Good squadron. I don’t know how short-handed they are.”

“You’re familiar with the planes?”

“Yes, sir. I flew them before they did, actually.”

“Well, good. Keep checking with the team to see if they need you for testing, but otherwise, as far as I’m concerned, you’re good to go.”

“Thanks,” Turk told him, even though he figured the odds of getting back into one of Ginella’s planes were infinitesimal now. He was thankful that she hadn’t told Danny what had happened.

Not yet, anyway.

Danny told him about his office, suggesting he stop by “once we’ve gotten some furniture and figured out where the restrooms are.”

“I will.”

“If you want time off—”

“Actually, I’d prefer to keep busy,” said Turk.

Turk eventually found his way back to the hotel, exhausted from the day and in need of a serious change of scenery. Once again he thought of Ginella’s travelogue. But arranging a trip to the mainland seemed like too much of a hassle.

He went down to the bar and bought two beers, then smuggled them back upstairs to his room, feeling more than a little like a felon, though all he was doing was cheating the self-pay refrigerator out of a sale.

He flipped through the channels for a while. Most of the programs were in Italian, naturally, though after a few spins he found a movie in English with Italian subtitles. It was one of the early Terminators, the first, he thought, with Arnold Schwarzenegger before he became governor material.

Turk hadn’t seen the movie in years and years. It was nice how the storylines in movies were always so clear: good versus evil. Good did good. Evil did evil.

You might have one flip around, or in a complicated movie, two or three. But in the end, you knew who was good.

Real life was always trickier. You might be a hero one second, then literally in the middle of a disaster the next.

He couldn’t help but think about the Sabre attack. He’d seen a few screwups in his time, a couple of crashes, though never with anyone getting hurt. One time he’d come close to having to bail out of an aircraft. Ironically, it was an F/A–18, not an Air Force jet — he had been taking it up for NASA on an instrument run, testing a recording device — they had a new instrument to measure vortices off the wings. He was out over the Pacific when one of the engines decided it didn’t want to work for some reason. Then the other one quit.

Fortunately, he had plenty of altitude and options. Among them was trying for a miraculous restart, as he called it now — he got the first engine to relight somehow, then hung on long enough to get into Miramar, the Marine air station in San Diego.

On final approach the engine quit again.

That caused him a little consternation. He’d been a little high and fast in his approach, perhaps unconsciously thinking the engine would blow, and that helped. Still, he barely managed to get the wheels onto the edge of the strip.

A lucky day. He might have plunged into the bay.

Or really gone off, and hit houses in the city.

He hadn’t thought about either possibility at the time. You didn’t — you just flew the plane, went down your checklist. Do this, do this; try this, now this, now this. Contemplating consequences was a luxury you didn’t have.

So much so that when people congratulated him later, Turk wasn’t even sure what the hell they were talking about. As far as he was concerned, the incident was a tremendous pain. He had to find another way back to Nellis, where he’d started the flight. And talk to a dozen scientists, most of whom were actually interested in the instrument the plane had carried, not the engine system.

For some reason, he’d never drawn a NASA assignment again. Coincidence?

The Terminator ended — or didn’t end, as it would go on to spawn a huge string of sequels. Turk went back to flipping through channels.

He stopped on the scene of a fire. He watched a row of houses burning, fascinated. They were in a small city. The sky behind them was dotted with black smoke, swirls rising like thick tree trunks in the distance.

Only gradually did he realize that he was watching an account of the Sabre accident. There were shots of ambulances coming and going. Then a close-up of a victim on a stretcher.

A woman, eyes closed, head covered with a bandage already soaked through with blood.

A small child, already dead…

He flipped the TV off and went to see what was in the minifridge.

15

Kharon never ceased to be amazed at the power of money. It was both corruptor and motivator, an incredible genie with almost unlimited ability. A hundred euros could influence a man to take incredible risks, like flying from the safety of Benghazi to the open city of Tripoli.

“Open” meant claimed by neither side, but not entirely neutral — it would lean to whomever had the most power nearby, which at the moment was the rebels. Nor did it mean completely without risk — gangs from both sides fought openly in the streets several nights out of the week, and occasionally at the airport as well. A portion of the terrain southwest of the city was held by government forces, which had repulsed several attempts by rebels to clear them away.

A hundred euros, plus the regular fees of fuel and airplane rental. That was all it took to enter the outer ring of hell.

Kharon was taking the same risks, flying through a war zone, in an area where theoretically anything flying could be shot down. The fact that the allied air forces had not yet fired on civilian planes did not necessarily mean they would continue to hold their fire.

But the risk was nothing for him, a necessary part of his plan: twenty minutes along the water, a beautiful flight in the dusk.

Kharon knew he would be followed from the airport — everyone was — and so he went straight to a hotel, using the alias he had established two weeks before. The room he’d rented had been bugged by two different agencies. He gave it a quick look and saw that the bugs were still in place before changing and heading back downstairs.

Things were going well, but hubris was a killer. Kharon reminded himself of this as he walked down the steps to the Western-style lounge. He was a little early for his appointment, but this was as planned — he always liked to survey the environment at leisure.

It was a swamp. Besides the mixture of journalists — Kharon was masquerading as one himself — there was a thick mix of foreign agents and men who euphemistically referred to themselves as “businessmen.” Most were arms dealers, eager to strike an arrangement with the rebels who did business in the open city, or arrange transport south to the government-held territory.

There were women businesspeople, too. Their business was older than war.

“There is my friend!” declared Foma Mitreski as he approached the long bar. “Tired from his long journey and in need of scotch.”

“Foma.”

Kharon was not particularly surprised to see the Russian spy; while this was not Foma’s normal hangout, he often made the rounds of the hotel bars in the city. His presence was inconvenient, but Kharon knew he could not afford to alienate him. The Russians were important partners, and Foma personally oversaw much of the relationship.

“How is the reporting going?” asked Foma. He knew of course that Kharon was not a reporter, but then Kharon knew that Foma was something more than the lower level embassy employee Foma pretended to be.

“The usual pronouncements of victory from both sides.” Kharon spoke just loud enough to be overheard. He pushed away the stool that was next to the Russian and leaned against the bar. He liked to move around easily, something that wasn’t possible while perched on the stools here.

A few inches shorter than Kharon, the Russian was nearly twice as wide. He was a good decade and a half older, with hair so black, Kharon assumed it must have been dyed. He had a very red face, the sort associated with heavy drinking.

As always, Foma was dressed a little formally for Tripoli, with well-tailored trousers and a collared pullover shirt. His hands seemed too stubby for his body, thick, as if pumped with air or fluid. He had a small signet ring on his left pinky, and a larger black opal inset in gold on his ring finger.

A wedding ring as well. On the right hand, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. But in the two years they had known each other, Foma had never spoken of his wife, or of any children. He did his best to present a blank slate to Kharon and the rest of the world.

“Scotch?” asked Foma. His English had a double accent — southern Russia and London, where according to his classified résumé he had both gone to school and served as a spy at the embassy. “They have some very old Glencadam,” he said. “Here, we will share a few sips.”

A few sips typically meant half a bottle. Kharon nodded indulgently, then waited as the bartender came over with a decanter of 1978 Sherry Cask Glencadam — a rarity even outside the Muslim world.

Foma took the glass after the whiskey was poured and held it to the light.

“Amber,” he said in English. Then he said a few words in Russian that further defined the color. Though adequate, Kharon’s Russian was not quite good enough to capture the nuances of the words.

“It never fails to surprise me that I am drinking scotch with a Russian,” said Kharon, holding up the glass.

“Za vas!” said Foma, offering a toast.

“Your health as well.”

Kharon drained the tumbler and returned it to the bar. Foma immediately asked for a refill. Kharon knew his own limits; he would sip from now on.

“So, a good scotch, yes?” asked Foma as they waited for the bartender.

“Good, yes,” agreed Kharon. “Very good.”

“It is complex.” He took the refilled glass and held it up, knowing from experience that Kharon would not have another. “Someday they will have good vodka in Tripoli. Until then…”

He drank.

“So, you have had a successful trip?” asked the Russian after he drained his drink.

“It was interesting.”

“Benghazi is peaceful?”

“More or less.”

“The princess? She is back from Sicily?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you gave her my regards.”

Kharon hadn’t told Foma that he was seeing the princess, but he merely shrugged.

“You see, my friend, I am always gathering little details,” said Foma.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about anything,” said Kharon. “Eventually, you will get what you wanted.”

“What has been paid for.”

“Not in full. And you already have quite a lot of information, thanks to me.”

Foma pushed his glass forward, silently requesting a refill from the bartender. “When will the delivery be made?”

“I’m working on it,” said Kharon. “Soon.”

“A man such as yourself with many contacts, back and forth—”

“I know where my best interests are,” said Kharon.

“I heard that a Chinese man was looking for you.”

Kharon didn’t bother to answer. He would never do business with the Chinese — they were too apt to turn on their helpers. Say whatever else you wanted about the Russians, they honored their commitments.

“You’re not drinking.” Foma gestured at Kharon’s glass, still half full, as his own glass was refilled once more. “You are going to have a way to catch up.”

“I could never keep up with you, Foma.”

The Russian smiled, as if this was a great compliment.

“You are going south?”

Kharon shrugged.

“I assume that is necessary, no?” said Foma. “But being on both sides is difficult for you.”

“No more difficult for me than you,” said Kharon.

Kharon saw his contact coming through the door. Their eyes met briefly. Then the man saw Foma and slipped to the left, going over to the other end of the bar.

“So, we will meet again very soon?” asked Foma, putting down his glass.

“I’ll call.”

“I must go. Much business today.”

“Naturally.”

“Enjoy your meeting.”

Kharon smiled tightly. Foma left a pair of large bills on the counter to cover his drinks, then left.

Fezzan barely looked up when Kharon came over and sat down at his table. Though he was Muslim, Fezzan had two beers in front of him, both German Holstens.

“What did the fat Russian want?” asked Fezzan in Arabic as Kharon pulled the chair in. Between the local accent and Libyan idioms, Kharon sometimes had difficulty deciphering what the man said, but his disdain for Foma had always been obvious.

“He wanted to say hello,” Kharon told him.

“You talked long for people exchanging greetings.”

“It’s polite to spend time with people who buy me drinks,” he told the Libyan. “Including you, Ahmed.”

Fezzan had used the name Ahmed when they first met. Kharon knew it was not his real name, but it was convenient to continue the fiction. In fact, it felt almost delicious to do so, a kind of proof to himself that he was far superior to the people he was dealing with.

Hubris is a killer, he reminded himself.

“You wish transport south again?” asked Fezzan.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“As soon as it can be arranged.”

“Tomorrow then. At four.”

“In the morning?”

“Afternoon.”

Kharon shook his head. “Too late. I want to be there before noon.”

“Noon.” Fezzan made a dismissive sound and picked up one of the beer bottles. He emptied it into his glass. “Who would even be awake then?”

“If you can’t do it, I can find someone else.”

Fezzan scowled at him. “I have other business.”

“That’s not my problem.” Kharon started to get up. He noticed a young woman in a silk dress eyeing him at the end of the bar. She might be useful.

“All right.” Fezzan thumped the empty bottle on the table. “You know, you are not always a welcome person behind the lines.”

“No?” Kharon glanced over at the woman, studying her. It was difficult to tell her age in the bar. She could be anywhere from fourteen to thirty.

Most likely on the younger end of the scale, he decided.

Fezzan followed his gaze.

“You should be careful,” warned the Libyan. “Some fruit has terrible surprises inside.”

“Best pick it before it rots, then.”

The girl was gone by the time Kharon finished with Fezzan, but that was just as well; he had much work to do. He went upstairs and caught a taxi to the Tula, a tourist-class hotel on the ocean about a half mile away. The hotel had a spectacular view of the ocean, and a restaurant on the roof some thirty-five stories high. But for Kharon, the attraction was the computer in the alcove just off the lobby.

There were two there, generally used by patrons to confirm airline reservations and print out boarding passes. But the Internet connection was not limited to this, and within a few moments Kharon had disabled the timer as well.

He went to Yahoo News and did a quick recap of the stories on the bombing attacks on the government city.

Two hundred thirty-eight stories had been published in the past twelve hours. But none included the video he had uploaded the night before.

All of that work — not to mention expense — for nothing?

That was not true. The same man who procured the video had also introduced the worm; it was a package deal. But still, it was disappointing that the video had not been used.

Most of the stories were vague about what had happened. Kharon decided he would have to help things along. Choosing one at random, he went to the comments section. He created an account and then began typing:

He liked the typos. They would stay.

Kharon wrote a few more lines, then posted it. After repeating the process on a dozen other news sites, he turned to his real work.

Opening the text editor, he began pounding the keys:

Kharon added the slight inaccuracies in Rubeo’s biography — he did not create Dreamland, nor did he profit there, as Kharon wrote further down in his missive — out of design rather than spite; they would provoke questions about the scientist. The fact that Rubeo was no longer associated with Dreamland — the project was now under another arm of the Department of Defense — was immaterial. The press knew what Dreamland was. Saying the name gave them a bit of red meat to chew on.

Kharon signed the e-mail with the letter F, then sent it to the address of the New York Times national security reporter. He retrieved the text, made a few small changes, and sent it to the Washington Post.

He sent it three other newspapers, and to reporters at several blogs. Then he backed out, erased all of the local memory, and rebooted the computer.

Work done for the day, Kharon looked at his watch. It was well past midnight — too late to bother trying to sleep. He thought of the girl he had spotted earlier in the bar. Perhaps she would have returned by now.

He made sure the computer screen was back to the hotel’s front page, then went out to find a taxi.

16

Turk’s fourth beer of the night finally got him off to sleep. He dozed fitfully, curled up at the side of the king-size mattress, huddled around one of his pillows. His dreams were gnarled images that made no sense — an A–10, an F/A–18, Ginella, Zen, buildings, and endless sky.

His phone woke him up, buzzing incessantly.

He had no idea where it was, or where he was. He pushed around in the bed, disoriented. His head hurt and his legs were stiff.

The phone continued to ring. Its face blinked red.

“Turk,” he said, finally grabbing it.

“Captain Mako, I’m sorry I woke you.”

It was Ginella. Her voice was officious, almost quiet.

“Not a problem,” Turk managed.

“I’m down two pilots, Grizzly and Turner. I’m told you’re available, if you choose to volunteer.”

“Yeah, uh, well uh—”

“I just spoke both with your Colonel Freah and Operations. It’s entirely voluntary.”

“When do you, uh — when do you need me there?”

“We’ll be briefing the mission at 0600,” she told him.

“Um, sure. I guess.”

“That’s a half hour from now, Captain. Can you make it?”

“Yeah, um, I’m at the hotel,” he said.

Her voice softened a little. “I realize that, Captain. Would you like me to send a driver?”

“Man, if you could do that, it would be super.”

“Be in the lobby in ten minutes,” she told him. “He’ll have coffee.”

“Ten minutes?”

“He’s already on the way. I knew you’d say yes.”

17

It was absurd and ridiculous to think that he was responsible in any way for the dozen deaths and the other casualties at al-Hayat. And yet Ray Rubeo couldn’t help it.

The images he had seen of the strike tortured him. The fact that his people had no luck finding what went wrong bothered him even more. Surely it wasn’t just a mistake — the enemy must have done this for propaganda purposes. And yet his people found no evidence of that.

Something had gone wrong. But what?

Working over his secure laptop in his hotel room, Rubeo worked as he had never worked before. He pulled up schematics and data dumps, looked at past accidents and systems failures, reviewed the different aspects of the mission until he practically had it memorized. And still the cause remained as much a mystery to him as it did to his people.

There was nothing wrong with the system that he could tell. The systems in the Sabre that had made the attack were exactly the same as those in the others.

So the attack hadn’t happened. It was all a bad dream.

Rubeo had presided over disasters before. He had stood in the Dreamland control center as the entire world fell apart. He’d never felt a twinge of guilt. Fear, yes — he worried that his people would be hurt, or perhaps that his ideas and inventions would fall short. But he never felt guilty about what he did.

And he didn’t feel guilty now. Not exactly. He saw wars as a very regrettable but unfortunately necessary aspect of reality. This war was a righteous one, to stop the abuse of the people who were being persecuted by Gaddafi’s heirs. It was justifiable.

Accidents happened in wars.

He knew all this. He had thought about these things, lived with all of these things, for his entire life. And yet now, for the first time, he was upended by them.

Rubeo worked for hours. If he could just figure out what had happened, then he would be able to deal with it. He could fix the machines — his people would fix the machines — and this sort of thing wouldn’t happen again.

If it was a virus, how would it have worked? It would have had to be extremely sophisticated to erase itself.

Not necessarily, he thought. The aircraft recycled its memory when it transitioned off the mission. It had to do that so it had enough space for data.

But where would it be before you took off?

The only empty positions were the video memory.

Actually, you could easily slot it there — it would be erased naturally, as the aircraft engaged its targets and recorded what happened.

Impossible, though — who among his people would do this?

So interference from outside? A radar signal they couldn’t track?

That NATO couldn’t track. He could easily believe that. Certainly.

But it could interfere with just one aircraft, not the others? Did that make sense?

Need to know more about the source.

Need to know more…

I have to have this checked out. This and a dozen other things. A hundred…

Twelve lives. Was that all it took to unhinge him?

Weren’t his contributions greater than that? Without being boastful, couldn’t he say that he had done more for mankind than all of the people killed?

But it didn’t work that way, did it? And guilt — or responsibility — were concepts that went beyond addition and subtraction.

He was focused on a virus because he didn’t want to take responsibility. He didn’t want it to be a mistake he had made.

Same with the interference.

Maybe he had just screwed up somewhere.

Rubeo pounded the keys furiously.

It might be possible to throw the mapping unit off by varying the current induced in the system…

Hitting another stone wall as his theory was shot down by the data, Rubeo slammed the cover of the computer down in disgust.

He was a fool, tired and empty.

But he had to solve this. More — he had to know why it bothered him so badly. It paralyzed him. He couldn’t do anything else but this…

Rising from the hotel desk, the scientist paced the room anxiously. Finally, he took out his sat phone and called a number he dialed only two or three times a year, but one he knew by heart.

The phone was answered by the second ring.

“Yes?” said a deep voice. It was hollow and far away, the voice of a hermit, of a man deeply wounded.

“I am stumped,” said Rubeo, trusting his listener would know what he was talking about. “It’s just impossible.”

“Someone once told me nothing is impossible.”

“Using my words against me. Fair game, I suppose.”

“There was a beautiful sunset tonight.”

“It’s night there,” said Rubeo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You know I seldom sleep, Ray. I wasn’t sleeping.”

“The problem is… I… the thing is that I feel responsible. That something we overlooked — that I overlooked — caused this. And I have to fix it. But I don’t know how.”

“Maybe it wasn’t anything you did. I don’t really have many details, just what I saw on the news. I don’t trust those lies.”

“What they’ve reported was true enough, Colonel.”

“They made me a general before they kicked me out.”

“One day I’ll get it right.”

“I think it would sound strange coming from you, Ray.” The other man laughed. “Besides, they did take that away. Along with everything else.”

“I don’t know what to do,” confessed Rubeo.

“Go there. Go there and see it with your own eyes.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“What other choice do you have?”

“It’s not going to tell me what happened. The failure — or accident or attack, whatever it was — happened in the aircraft. Not on the ground. There may have been interference. It’s possible — it is possible — but it’s a real long shot. I think—”

“Ray, you’re not going there to find out why it happened. You’re going there to see. For yourself. So you can understand it, and deal with it. Otherwise, it will haunt you forever. Trust me.”

Rubeo said nothing.

“You saw my daughter recently?” asked the other man.

“I spoke to her yesterday. She’s in Washington. You should call her. Or better yet, visit. Let her visit.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re very good at giving advice. If you were in my position—” Rubeo stopped, realizing he was wasting his breath. Dog — the former Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian — was in fact excellent at giving advice, perhaps the only person in the world that Ray Rubeo respected enough to take advice from. But Dog was terrible at following it, and there was no sense trying to push him; they had been over this ground many times.

“Your son-in-law is over here,” Rubeo told him instead. “He’s looking as fit as ever.”

“Good,” said Bastian, with evident affection. “Take care of yourself, Ray.”

“I will.”

“Take my advice.”

“I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t intend to.”

18

Visor up, Turk leaned against his restraints, peering through the A–10E’s bubble canopy toward the ground. Dirty brown desert stretched before him, soft folds of a blanket thrown hastily over a bed. He could hear his own breathing in his oxygen mask, louder and faster than he wanted. Chatter from another flight played in the background of his radio, a distant distraction.

The target was a government tank depot near Murzuq. Eight tanks were concealed there beneath desert camouflage, netting and brown tarps. Shooter Squadron would take them out.

“Ten minutes,” said Ginella in Shooter One. Paulson was her wingman, flying in Shooter Two.

“Roger that,” said Beast in Shooter Three.

Turk acknowledged in turn. The planes were flying in a loose trail, slightly offset and strung out more or less behind one another. Turk was at the rear, flying wing for Beast.

He swiveled his head to check his six, then pulled the visor down, automatically activating his smart helmet.

Ginella directed them to take a course correction and then split into twos for the final run to the target. The first element — Shooter One and Two — would make their attack first. Beast and Turk would move to the north, watching for any signs of resistance from another camp about two miles in that direction. Depending on how well the initial attack on the tanks went, they would either finish the job or look for targets of opportunity before saddling up to go home.

Turk found the new heading, checked his six, then nudged his Warthog a little closer to Shooter Three as the lead plane ran through a cluster of clouds.

“Shooter Four, let’s bring it below the clouds,” said Beast. All laughs on the ground, he was nothing but business in the sky. “We need to be low enough to get an ID on anything we hit.”

“You see something?” Turk asked.

“Negative. I just want to be ready.”

Turk slid his hand forward on the stick. The threat radar began bleeping.

“We have an SA–6 battery,” said Ginella calmly. “Beast, you see that?”

“Looking for it,” said the pilot.

The detector had spotted the radar associated with the mobile missile launchers, and gave an approximate direction — south, just off the nose of Shooter Three. The radar had been switched on and off quickly — most likely to avoid being detected.

Turk hunted for the launcher, zooming the optical sensors. The center crosshair hovered over a gray and very empty desert.

“I see it,” said Beast. He pushed his nose ten degrees east, cutting in Turk’s direction as he gave him the location. Turk, nearly two miles behind Beast and a little higher, couldn’t see it.

“Two launchers. One up farther east just getting into position,” said Beast. “I’ll take the one with the van — Turk, take the missiles.”

“Roger that.”

Turk didn’t see the truck. In the Tigershark it would be labeled neatly for him, and the computer would prompt him if directed. But adapting wasn’t a hardship — he took his cue from Beast’s course and pushed toward the closer target.

He’d rehearsed the weapons procedures several times before taking off, and had of course used them many times during his earlier stint testing the A–10E. But as he closed in and got ready to pickle his weapons, his mind blanked. Fingers hovering over the buttons that controlled the Tactical Awareness Display, he momentarily couldn’t recall how to set it up.

Just like the A–1 °C. Slew the target by using the control on the throttle.

The cursor started moving. He edged it into position, “hooking” or zeroing in on the tanklike launcher on the ground.

Digital Weapons Stores. Move quickly. Let’s go!

He brought up the screen on the display. Turk felt the sweat pouring down the sides of his neck. His hands were wet and sticky inside his gloves. He thought of taking them off but there was no time. Time in fact was disappearing, galloping away.

The firing cue was rock solid in the HUD.

Big breath, he reminded himself. Big, slow, very slow, breath.

Someone on the ground was firing at him with a machine gun. He could see tracers.

Far away. Ignore them.

Both the cue and the launcher seemed to shrink.

Shoot the bastard.

The target was dead on in his sights. Turk pressed the trigger, pickling an AGM–65E2/L laser-guided Maverick missile.

The missile popped off the A–10E’s wing. The infrared seeker on the missile homed in on the laser target designated by the A–10. A little under four seconds later, 136 pounds of shaped explosive burrowed through the body of the middle SA–6, igniting inside the chassis of the launcher. A ball of fire leapt skyward. Turk shuddered involuntarily, banking to his right and starting to look for whatever had been firing at him earlier.

“There’s another radar unit flashing on to the south,” said Beast. “Straight Flush. Has to be pretty close.”

The Straight Flush radar was used to control the SA–6s. Turk pulled back on his stick and started to climb in Shooter Three’s direction, covering his back while he hunted for the radar.

The radar flicked off.

Beast cursed.

“Still there somewhere,” said Turk.

“They have an optical mode. Be careful.”

The surface-to-air missiles could be launched and guided by camera. In that case the range was some eighteen miles.

“Gotta be down there behind that hill,” said Beast. “On the right. See it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Probably just the radar. But watch yourself. We’ll swing in from the south,” added Beast, already starting to bank. He didn’t want to come straight over the hill; if there was a launcher set up in its shadow, it could fire before he saw it.

Turk closed the gap with his leader as he came around north with him. A cluster of houses appeared off his right wing as he turned.

A lump grew in his throat.

“Oh yeah. I see him,” said Beast. “All mine.”

By the time Turk spotted the launcher, Beast had already fired. Turk watched the missile hit, a geyser of smoke, vapor, and pulverized metal erupting upward. A half second later there was a flash of white and then orange, then little flicks of red in a black cloud that seemed to materialize above the launcher.

“Scratch one SA–6 launcher,” said Beast, recovering to the west. “You want to get that radar van?”

“I see it on my left,” said Turk, finally spotting the telltale antennas.

“All yours.”

Turk steered gently to his mark, fired on the truck, then came back to join Beast. The A–10E trucked along contentedly.

“Let’s do a racetrack here,” said Beast, suggesting that they circle in an orbit above the desert. “Come up to twelve thousand.”

They were at 5,000 feet. The climb to twelve in a laden A–10A could take a while, but with the uprated engines it was easy for the A–10E. Turk spun upward while Beast called in the kills to both the controller and Ginella, who was still working with her wingman on the tanks.

Ginella and Paulson had discovered another group of tanks just to the south. She told Beast to stand by while they went and checked them out.

“We can be down there in a flash,” said Beast.

“Just hold your horses. You’ve done enough for now.”

“Got plenty of arrows left.”

“Stand by.”

“Roger that, boss lady.”

Beast was now in an almost jaunty mood, his tone much more animated. The strike on the radar and missiles had been his first ever hits in combat. He called out the altitude markers as they rose, clearly enjoying himself.

“So did this feel as good as taking down those Mirages the other day?” he asked as they circled.

“It was OK.”

“Just OK? I’d think better than this even.”

“This was good. Doing a job. I’m a little unfamiliar with the plane,” admitted Turk. “I kept thinking I was going to screw up the weapons system. So it was good to kind of get past that.”

“Just about foolproof,” said Beast. “But I bet it’s easier in your Tiger, huh?”

“The Tigershark can target by voice,” said Turk. “Or by pointing.”

“See, that’s not flying.” Beast was almost gleeful. “That’s push button. Don’t even need a pilot. This is flying. This is fighting. Right?”

“They’re both good.”

Traffic on the channel spiked as another group of aircraft came nearby. Beast switched over to a different radio channel so they could talk plane-to-plane. The Hog pilots spun out a little wider to survey the area, making sure there were no further threats. Everything looked clean.

“I’ll bet those Frenchies we met yesterday are eating their hearts out about now,” said Beast. “We just made the skies safe for them.”

“So I guess we’re out of the doghouse, huh?”

“Oh, that’s the thing with G. Her bark is worse than her bite. You take care of business, she’ll give you a long leash.”

“She was right. We kinda got carried away.”

“Ah, don’t let her fool you. I bet she was pleased as hell. Hearing that a pair of zipped-do-my-dah fancy French whiz jets got their fannies smacked by two of the ugliest planes in the Air Force? She loved it. Especially since one of ’em was flown by a nugget and the other by a retard? Ha.”

“I guess I should be glad I’m not the retard, huh?”

“Oh, you’ll like G eventually,” said Beast, laughing. “She’s a good leader.”

A few minutes later Ginella hailed them on the main squadron frequency, telling them to come north.

“All tanks splashed,” she added.

“We still got some missiles here,” said Beast. “What do you want us to do with them?”

“Oh, I have something you could do with them,” answered Paulson.

“Settle down, munchkins.” Ginella called into their airborne controller, telling him that they had accomplished their task.

“If you have nothing for us, we’re going to fly the prebriefed course home,” she told him. “And per our brief, we’ll strike any—”

“Standby Shooter One. Standby,” interrupted the controller.

“That’s a good sign,” said Beast. “He’s looking up some trouble for us in a hurry.”

The controller came back a few seconds later, asking what their fuel and weapons situation was. Ginella had already given him that information, but she replied evenly; they had six missiles between them and a full store of gun ammo. The fuel was fine, with more than twenty minutes left before they would have to head home.

“Rebels are reporting a mortar crew working out of a pair of Hi Liners on Highway designated A3 on your maps,” said the controller. “Can you check that out?”

“Roger that.”

“Stand by for download.”

Before the Hogs had been upgraded, the controller would have delivered what was known as a nine-line brief — the mission set in a nutshell, beginning with an IP or initial point for them to navigate to, elevation of the target, its description, and other related matter. Now the nine-line brief came to the plane digitally; the target was ID’ed on the Tactical Awareness Display. The moving map on the TAD gave a top view of the tactical situation, showing Turk’s location in the center. An A–1 °C would have gotten this as well, but in the A–10E it came directly to Turk’s helmet.

It wasn’t the Tigershark, but it was a lot better than writing the instructions down on the Perspex canopy — the method used in the original A–10A.

The target area was roughly 150 miles due north. Cruising a few knots north of 300, it took roughly twenty-five minutes to get close. But because it was almost on their way home, they would have plenty of time to complete the mission without getting close to their fuel reserves.

Coming north took them past the town where the Sabre accident had occurred. It was some miles to the west, well out of sight, but Turk couldn’t help glancing in that direction as they drew parallel.

The images from the news video came back. All of the action today — getting up, getting ready, flying, fighting — had made him temporarily forget the images. He tried not to think about them now but it was impossible. They were horrific, all the more so because they were unintentional accidents.

Killing an enemy wasn’t a problem. Killing someone who was just there, in their own house…

“Shooter One to Three. Beast, can you see those trucks out ahead?”

“Yeah, copy. I’m eyes on.”

“They have guns?”

“Stand by.”

The trucks were on a side road almost directly ahead of Shooter Three. Turk watched as he tucked on his wing to lose altitude.

Damn, I’m his wingman, he thought to himself belatedly. He pushed down to follow.

The trucks were Toyotas, ubiquitous throughout the Middle East. They had four-door crew cabs. Whatever was in their beds was covered by tarps.

“Stay behind me,” Beast told Turk. “I’m going to buzz them.”

“I’m with you.”

Beast took Shooter Three down to treetop level — or what would have been treetop level if there were any trees. The attack jet winged right next to them, flew out ahead, then rose suddenly. Turk, flying above as well as behind, tensed as he watched the trucks for a flash.

Nothing happened.

“Got something in the back, that’s for sure,” said Beast. “But I’d need X-ray eyes to tell you what’s going on.”

“All right. Let me talk to Penthouse,” said Ginella, referring to the air controller by his call sign.

“We should just splash them on general principles,” said Beast.

“Don’t even kid around on an open circuit,” snapped Paulson.

“Oh, Lordy, I got a hall monitor along with us today.”

Paulson couldn’t think of something witty enough to respond before Ginella told them she was going to take a run at the trucks to see if she could spot anything out of place.

“Otherwise they’re clean and we have to let them go,” she told them.

“I don’t think so, Colonel,” objected Beast.

“What you think does not count, Captain. Pauly, you’re on my six.”

“The place everyone wants to be,” said Paulson.

Beast and Turk climbed and circled above while the squadron leader took another two passes at the trucks. The vehicles were moving slowly, but it couldn’t be said suspiciously. They didn’t react to either pass, not even shaking their fists.

As Turk turned in his orbit north, he saw a dust cloud in the distance.

“I’m going to get a better look,” he told Beast.

“Go ahead, little brother. I’m right behind you.”

Turk nudged the nose of the hog earthward. The more he flew the plane, the more he liked it. It was definitely more physical than the Tigershark. While the hydraulic controls had been augmented with electric motors to aid the radio-controlled mode, the plane still had an old school feel. He knew what older pilots meant when they talked about stick and rudder aircraft and working a plane. You got close to the Hog when you used your body. She was like another being, rather than a computer terminal.

The cloud of smoke separated into three distinct furls. They were made of dust, coming from the rear of a trio of pickups, speeding across the desert.

Now that seemed suspicious. Turk reported it.

“Weapons on them?” Ginella asked.

“Don’t see anything.”

Turk felt himself starting to sweat again as he got closer. He pushed the plane down closer to the ground, through 500 feet, then hesitated, looked at the altimeter clock to make sure he was right. The dial agreed with the HUD.

His airspeed had been bleeding off, and now he was dropping through 150 knots — very slow with weapons on the wings. But the Hog didn’t object. She went exactly where he pointed her, nice and steady.

Turk came over the trucks at barely 200 feet. Sensing that he was pushing his luck, he gunned his engines, rising away.

“Nothing in the back, not even tarps,” he told Ginella and the others.

His thumb had just left the mike button when a launch warning blared — someone had just fired a missile at him.