Collateral Damage

1

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go!

The voice screaming in Kharon’s head refused to be quiet. He pressed his arms over his head, trying to run away, even though he was held tight in his seat as the SUV tumbled over.

It was the closet, cramped and dark, the hiding place he had run to years before.

No. I’m not a child anymore!

The truck’s engine revved. There was another explosion nearby.

Time to get out! Get out! Go!

He was upside down. Kharon managed to undo his seat belt and push to the right. His window was still open and he half fell, half crawled out.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go!

The fresh air relieved his claustrophobia and his head began to clear. He went back to the SUV and struggled with the front door, finally pulling it open. Rubeo dropped out of the truck. The scientist was coughing, only semiconscious. Kharon took hold of him under his arms and pulled him away from the wreck.

For a few seconds his animosity disappeared. In the confusion and chaos, Kharon sought to get them both to safety.

Guns were firing. Cars screeched. Something had gone wrong, completely wrong — the kidnapping was supposed to take place after he gave the signal at the hotel.

Why the hell had they tried to blow them up?

Rubeo crawled up the side of the road, away from the SUV. He tried to fight through the mental fog, focusing his thoughts on what he saw before him.

Dirt. Sky.

Kharon pulling him away.

Rubeo coughed. Jons was back by the vehicle, firing his weapon.

Rubeo pushed at Kharon. The young man released him and Rubeo got to his feet, pulling his gun out from under his jacket. Two men were running toward him. They had rifles.

On his side?

They were wearing brown fatigues. His men wore Western clothes.

Rubeo pointed and fired twice. Both fell.

“Neil — Neil stay with me!” Rubeo shouted. He rose to his feet. A dozen men swarmed from the other side of the road. Jons was firing ferociously.

Rubeo spun around. There was no one nearby. He could see a wall with houses behind it some forty or fifty yards away.

“We can retreat to cover!” he yelled to Jons. “Let’s go!”

A fusillade of bullets sent him diving for cover. Kharon crawled next to him.

“Stay near me,” said Rubeo. He began to run. He sensed Kharon near him, but temporarily lost track of Jons. He threw himself down as he reached the wall.

Jons ran to him. “Over the wall, over the wall!” yelled the bodyguard. As he yelled, he picked Rubeo up and boosted him over the wall. Rubeo tried to land on his feet but stumbled, his legs giving way. He fell onto his back, momentarily stunned.

Kharon scrambled over the wall next to him.

“Guns!” yelled Kharon.

Rubeo pushed over, trying to get up. He couldn’t see what Kharon was pointing at, but raised his weapon anyway. Then he turned back to see Jons jumping over the wall.

“Our other SUV is coming,” yelled the bodyguard. “Go right.”

Rubeo started in that direction, then realized that Kharon was still behind him. “Come on.”

They began running toward a dirt alleyway twenty yards away. They cut up it to the left, Jons trailing behind to watch their backs. Rubeo ran toward a cemetery filled with mausoleums and surrounded by a low wall. Winded, he collapsed against the wall.

Kharon helped him to his feet. Clambering over the wall, Rubeo steadied himself against a nearby tomb, taking stock.

I’m a scientist, not a soldier. Can I do this?

You can do anything you need to, to survive.

Jons came over after them.

“If we go up this way there’s another street,” he told them. “Our other truck will meet us there. I have the helicopter coming in case.”

“Who attacked us?” asked Rubeo.

“I don’t know.”

“Were we hit by a missile?”

“May have been a grenade. Or maybe an IED,” said Jons. “God damn place is going all to shit.”

“What about Joker?” asked Rubeo. The Filipino had been in the back with Kharon.

Jons shook his head. “Can you run?” he asked Rubeo.

“Yes.”

Jons turned to Kharon. “You?”

“Yup.”

They sprinted for a hundred yards or so, running up the hill to the knoll at the center of the cemetery. But once more Rubeo began to tire, and after another ten yards his pace was nearly a walk.

“The helo is coming,” Jons told him. “Come on. We’ll wait out by the street.”

They ran under a row of trees and stopped at the edge of a walled yard. Rubeo dropped to his knees, holding the gun. Kharon moved back next to him. He wore an angry expression.

“It’s all right,” Rubeo told him.

“Truck is coming up,” said Jons. “Let’s move to it. Helo can shadow us.”

They rose together and began running toward the road. As they did, there was more gunfire. Rubeo ducked back and turned. A gunman wielding a pistol jumped over a low wall in the alley behind them. Rubeo zeroed his pistol and fired.

The man fell. Kharon took off, running to him despite Rubeo’s shout. The young man scooped up the gun and returned. Rubeo pushed his legs in the direction of the helicopter’s heavy beat. After he’d gone about twenty yards, he looked behind him, but couldn’t see Jons.

Kharon caught up. He pointed his gun at Rubeo.

“Careful where you’re pointing that,” Rubeo told him. He took a step back against the wall. There was a flash above — Rubeo glanced toward the sky in time to see a red fireball flash and turn into a black fist above him. Then metal began raining down.

The helicopter had just been shot down.

“You’re mine,” Kharon said, jumping on him.

Stunned, Rubeo raised his gun. Kharon hit him in the temple, then stepped on his wrist. Rubeo squirmed to get away, but Kharon hit him again. This time Rubeo’s eyes closed for a moment.

When they opened, two men were next to him, AK–47s in their hands.

2

Being a senator had a number of advantages, and one of them was immediate access to any military officer who had even the faintest dream of making general — by law and long tradition, promotion to the star rank required approval by the Senate.

Colonels tended to be very aware of this. So when Ginella’s aide in the outer office told Zen that he didn’t think the colonel was available, Zen told him to pick up the phone and try anyway.

The colonel appeared so quickly Zen wondered if she had even bothered to hang up.

“Senator, I’m pleased that you’re interested in our squadron,” she told him. “Won’t you come in?”

“Glad to.”

Zen couldn’t remember meeting Ginella when he was in the service, but he nodded agreeably as she mentioned several generals he knew, deciding he had nothing to lose by letting her drop names.

“Would you like to see the aircraft?” she said finally, running out of names.

“I’d like to, but unfortunately I’m pressed for time tonight,” said Zen. “I have to catch a flight in ten minutes.”

“I see.”

“I’m interested in the incident yesterday, when your squadron was covering the retrieval of the allied commando unit.”

“Yes, the SAS troops. We were up for quite a while,” said Ginella.

“And then you lost one of your planes.”

Ginella’s face clouded. “I did.”

“Why was Captain Mako flying in your squadron?”

“Captain Mako? He was a substitute pilot,” she said defensively. “He… came to the squadron at my request.”

“That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re undermanned. I think he was an excellent pilot. He had experience in the A–10E before any of my pilots, or myself. And I think he’s clearly a good combat pilot.”

“So do I,” said Zen. “So what happened on the mission?”

“Are you here in an official capacity, Senator? Your tone seems a little formal.”

“I’m interested in knowing what happened,” said Zen. “I’m interested in making sure that Captain Mako gets a fair shake.”

“He’s not in any trouble that I know of,” said Ginella.

“Good.”

“I assume you’re referring to the fact that he passed over the area the missile was fired from just prior to the shoot-down,” said Ginella.

“I understand he did.”

“He missed the missile launcher. Whether he would have seen it in time or not, I don’t know.”

“You’re sure he missed it?”

“I have to tell you, Senator, it’s difficult to believe the missile wasn’t launched from that point. So by definition, if he didn’t see it—”

“What do the reconnaissance videos show?”

“Unfortunately, the closest UAV was not in a position to capture that portion of the battlefield. The others show just the general area. And the images from his plane are inclusive as well.”

“I think any account of the incident should indicate that,” said Zen. “But it should also indicate what he said.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“None of your other pilots saw the missile.”

“We weren’t close enough.”

Zen nodded. “As for personal feelings, I hope none will enter into any of your reports, or actions. One way or another.”

Ginella stared at him but said nothing.

“Great,” said Zen finally. “I’m glad that will be the case.”

He started to wheel away.

“Personal feelings have no place in battle,” said Ginella.

“Agreed, Colonel,” said Zen, not bothering to look back. “Though in my experience, they often seem to intrude.”

3

Kharon kicked the gun away from Rubeo, then pulled the scientist to his feet. His arms were shaking.

The revenge he’d dreamed about since he was a child was in front of him now. The only question was how to take it.

The two thugs who’d run up from the highway shouted at him in Arabic to put the gun down.

“You idiots. I hired you,” Kharon answered. “Fezzan works for me.”

“But they don’t work for Fezzan,” said a voice from up on the hill, back in the cemetery. He was speaking English, with a Russian accent.

Foma Mitreski.

“You are a foolish young man. Put the gun down or they will shoot you,” said Foma.

“What are you doing?”

“Gun down,” said Foma. He told the others to take aim.

Kharon thought of pointing the gun at the Russian, then, dejected, he let it drop.

As the gun fell, Rubeo saw his chance. He dove after it, planning to grab it and shoot the man who’d come down the hill — he was sure Jons would be up the alley and take care of the men with rifles. But as his fingers touched the cold metal, the butt stock of one of the guns smacked him in the side of the head.

He felt the air rushing through his mouth, then slid forward in the dirt, scraping his chin as he lost consciousness.

I’m a scientist, not a soldier…

“What are you doing? Why did you blow up the truck?” Kharon asked Foma as the goons trussed Rubeo.

“Ah, the idiot Libyans are too enthusiastic. But, eh, things happen. We have what we want.”

“You’re lucky he’s alive.”

“I want the robot and the sensors,” said Foma. “The scientist is a bonus. But I don’t know. Maybe we kill him anyway.”

“Let me.”

Foma laughed. “You are an idiot. You should be begging for your life.”

“Why?”

“You think that I was such a fool that I didn’t know your plan? Do you think that I would let you use my operation for some petty goal? You think the SVR is stupid? Something to be used by a child whom we employ? You are clever, Kharon, but not experienced. We have helped you many times, and you didn’t even know — how do you think you found the shelter under the university? Do you think you could have broken into the computer systems there without our help?”

“I did that myself.”

“Yes, yes, of course you did. You are a very brilliant man. You have an IQ of one hundred and eighty, almost twice as much as mine, eh? But I am the one with the guns.”

“Bullshit.” Kharon raised his fist to swing at the fat Russian. As he did, something hit him across the back of the head and he fell forward, limp.

4

Danny Freah was not particularly superstitious, but a second before the phone rang he had a premonition that it was about something bad. It was a vague and inexact feeling, but as soon as he heard Breanna Stockard’s voice, he knew he was right.

“Something has happened to Ray,” she told him. “We have an alert on our system — the computer is tracking him moving south of Tripoli, but he hasn’t answered his sat phone.”

“Tripoli?” Danny stifled a flood of curses. “I told him not to go to Africa. Did you approve that?”

“Ray is not under my command,” said Breanna. “This isn’t Dreamland anymore, Danny. We can’t tell him what to do.”

“Damn it.” It was all he could say. “We talked about it — I talked to him, I told him not to go. His people here haven’t said a word — they claimed he was busy. Damn.”

“We’re tracking him on the MY-PID system,” she told him. “There was a spike in his heartbeat that alerted the system monitor. His people tried to get ahold of him, and then the security team with him. It looks like his bodyguards were killed. There’s apparently some high-tech equipment that may have been taken as well. We’re still getting details — this all only happened a few minutes ago.”

“We’ll get him back.”

“Obviously, this has top priority.”

“Damn.” Danny didn’t know what else to say.

“What the hell was he thinking?” Breanna asked. “You told him not to go to Africa? What was he thinking?”

“That he’s omnipotent. The arrogant SOB.”

Not more than a minute later a man named Clinton Chase sent a message to Danny on the MY-PID system’s secure line, asking for a video conference. Danny flicked the laptop screen and opened the com window. The round, slightly reddish face of a man in his late fifties appeared, practically filling the entire square.

Chase, a former CIA agent, was the security director for one of Rubeo’s European companies, Intelligence Appliquée. Danny had never heard of Intelligence Appliquée, though he knew Rubeo operated through a veritable spiderweb of companies and partnerships.

“I’m assuming you’re tracking his whereabouts on the system,” said Chase.

“He’s ten miles south of Tripoli,” said Danny.

“When are you launching the assault?”

“Hold your horses,” said Danny. “I literally just found out about this. I can’t just snap my fingers and charge across three hundred miles of water and another hundred miles of sand without a plan in place. I’m not even sure what resources I have yet.”

“You’re Whiplash,” said Chase. “You’re supposed to be able to deal with things like this.”

“I was here in a different capacity,” said Danny, practically grating his teeth. “I have team members, but we’re not prepared for a rescue at a moment’s notice.”

“Well who is?”

Danny decided it was better not to answer. Chase might prove useful, and it was best to avoid alienating him to the extent possible.

“I’ll be in Tripoli by noon,” added Chase. “If you care to coordinate with me, contact me.”

“I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to jeopardize our getting him back,” said Danny.

“That makes two of us,” said Chase sarcastically. He killed his connection.

“What’s up with that asshole?” asked Boston, who’d come into the office during the conversation.

“Don’t you knock, Chief?”

“I did and you didn’t hear.” Boston smirked. “Chief’s knock.”

Boston’s expression changed quickly as Danny explained what had happened.

“We’ve got Shorty and we got Flash,” said the Air Force chief master sergeant. “That’s it on personnel. Unless you want to start borrowing Eye-tralians. Two Ospreys for transport and firepower. That’s not a lot if they were able to grab Rubeo in broad daylight. What the hell was he thinking?”

Danny shook his head. Arrogance was a difficult thing to explain.

“How soon can you get the Ospreys airborne?” he asked.

“Gotta talk to the maintainers,” said Boston. “Probably pretty quick, though. Half hour? Twenty minutes? Whatever it takes to get fuel into them.”

“All right, let’s get moving. We’ll do this on the fly.”

“Say, Cap?”

Danny winced at the old nickname.

“Sorry — Colonel,” Boston corrected himself. “What about having the Tigershark fly cover? Come in pretty handy.”

“I don’t know.”

“The aircraft’s all checked out.”

“I wish I could say the same for the pilot.”

But it was a good idea. Danny picked up his phone and dialed Turk’s cell.

5

Rubeo regained consciousness on the floor of a panel truck, his arms and legs bound. It was dark, but he could tell he wasn’t alone. He pushed to the side, rolling over halfway until he hit something.

Another body.

Jons, maybe.

Whoever it was, he didn’t move or speak. His shallow breaths sounded like groans.

Rubeo pushed in the opposite direction, moving a foot and a half until he got to the wall. He maneuvered himself upright and sat, back to the wall of the truck.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he examined the other person in the truck with him. He looked too thin to be Jons.

Lawson? He’d been in the second vehicle.

Rubeo scooted over and leaned close.

It was Kharon, tied as he was.

Rubeo pushed back to the wall.

Kharon’s animosity had shocked him. But Rubeo understood exactly where it must be coming from — Kharon blamed him for his mother’s death.

“Neil. Neil?”

“What?” groaned Kharon. “What happened?”

“I believe you are in a far better position to explain than I am.”

Kharon, apparently realizing where he was, struggled to free himself. He jerked and rolled, but it was no use — the bonds were strong and well-tied. He flopped around like a prize brook trout confined to a canoe.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Rubeo told him.

“I hate you,” said Kharon. “I hate you.”

“Why?”

“My mother.” Short on breath, Kharon began to choke, then wheezed and finally cried. He screamed, and banged his head on the floor of the van.

Rubeo closed his eyes. The manic display of grief continued for more than a minute, until finally Kharon collapsed, completely spent.

“I’ve blamed myself as well,” said Rubeo softly when the other man was still. “I told her not to work that night, but I should have made her go home. I shouldn’t have let her work. I am tremendously sorry for it.”

“I don’t believe you,” whispered Kharon. The words were barely audible.

“It wasn’t an accident,” said Rubeo. “I know they didn’t tell you the whole story. It’s still classified.”

Kharon didn’t react.

“The accident was actually sabotage,” Rubeo continued. “We had a Russian agent at the base. It was the tail end of the Cold War.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.” Rubeo closed his eyes, remembering Dreamland. Kharon’s mother’s death was just one of several incidents that had eventually led to the shake-up, the threats of closing, and finally the coming of Tecumseh Bastian.

So good did come of it. Though it was impossible to explain that to Kharon. Nothing would ever compensate the ten-year-old who had lost his mother.

“I don’t blame you for not believing me.” Rubeo leaned his head forward, trying to undo the terrible muscle knot forming at the back of his neck. “I think if you ask Breanna Stockard, she’ll tell you. She knew your mother.”

Kharon didn’t answer. Rubeo wondered if he had passed out again, until finally he realized the young man was crying uncontrollably.

6

Danny jumped from the Hummer and trotted toward the waiting Osprey. Boston was hanging out the door, waving him on.

The huge propellers, which rotated on their nacelles at the wingtips, whipped overhead, anxious to pull the craft into the air. Danny ran behind the wing to the door, shading his eyes against the dust kicked up by the rotors. Boston grabbed him by the forearm and helped him up. Not a half second later, the Osprey leapt forward, pushing into the stiff Sicilian wind.

“Body armor over there,” said Boston, pointing to the side bench as the hatchway closed behind them. “Gear and weapons.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, going over to suit up.

Across the tarmac from the Osprey, Turk sat at the controls of the Tigershark II, waiting as a long queue of NATO fighter-bombers moved up the taxi ramp to the runway. The com section bleeped; he cleared it, and the image of Danny Freah appeared in front of him.

“Turk?”

“I’m here, Colonel. Just waiting for clearance to take off.”

“Thank you for getting ready so quickly.”

“My pleasure,” said Turk. He meant it — he wanted nothing better than a chance to get back in the air and prove himself.

Again. Which he shouldn’t have to do.

“Dr. Rubeo wears a locating device that tracks his location continually,” said Danny. “The information has been tied into MY-PID, and we’re uploading into your connection now.”

Turk was sitting behind a transport and a tanker, waiting for clearance. As the aircraft in front of him moved forward, he nudged the Tigershark to follow.

The tower gave clearances and directions to a pair of other planes, the controller’s voice drowning out Danny’s.

“You got that?” asked Danny.

“Stand by. I’m queuing to take off,” Turk told him. He reached his arm up and touched the virtual switch to open the map panel. “MY-PID interface.” The computer blinked. “Find Rubeo,” he told his computer.

The map panel flickered. Turk used his fingers to zoom out a bit, getting some perspective — the indicator dot was some eighty miles south of Tripoli. According to the computer, the vehicle was moving at roughly fifty miles an hour on a paved highway toward the city of Mizdah.

“Plot intercept at maximum speed,” he told the computer.

“Nineteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds from takeoff,” said the flight computer. The distance was a little over four hundred miles.

“We can do better than that,” Turk told it.

“Command not recognized.”

“You’re a slowpoke.”

“Command not recognized.”

“Turk?”

“I see it. It’s going to take me about twenty minutes to get there.”

The plane in front of him jerked forward. He was now next in line.

“I need you to get there as fast as you can,” Danny told.

“Yeah, roger that, Colonel.” That was the funny thing about ground officers — they always assumed jets could simply get to where they needed instantly. “ROEs?”

“Avoid contact with the enemy. You’re just scouting.”

“What if they come for me?”

“Let’s play it by ear. We’re authorized to use deadly force to get Rubeo back, if it comes to that.”

“Roger that. Understood.”

The space in front of him was empty. It was his turn to fly.

“Whiplash, I’m clear for takeoff — talk to you in a few.”

Aboard the Osprey, Danny studied the same map that Turk was viewing, using a portable touch computer that accessed MY-PID. It was hard to like anything that he saw. Rubeo was being taken toward a city ostensibly still held by the government.

There was a small army base to the west. A large number of soldiers there had deserted, and the latest intelligence estimated that no more than three thousand were still in uniform and willing to fight. But three thousand was still far more than the Whiplash team was prepared to deal with.

Danny didn’t have enough people to take down a well-guarded house in the city — and guarantee that Rubeo would be alive. If he went into the city, he would have to call for backup. He’d already alerted the U.S. Special Operations Command, or SOCCOM, which had placed a platoon of SEALs at his disposal. They were on a carrier in the Mediterranean; he could send one of the Ospreys back to pick them up if necessary.

Turk would get there in twenty minutes. That would put the truck just outside the city. The Osprey would be roughly an hour away.

He went up to the cockpit.

“Tell Whiplash Osprey Two to double back and rendezvous with the SEAL platoon,” Danny told the copilot. “I’ll talk to the SEALs.”

“We’re still heading south?” asked the pilot.

“As fast you can.”

7

Rubeo knew his people would be tracking them by now. The best thing to do was to stay alive until they were rescued.

But that was far too passive.

It was true, he wasn’t a soldier. But he wasn’t a wimp either.

Searching the back of the van for something to cut the ropes, he hit on the idea of using the hinge edge. It wasn’t quite sharp enough to cut the rope, but by wiggling the rope against it, he was able to stretch the strands. The pressure on his wrists hurt, cutting off his circulation to the point where his fingers felt numb, but when he stopped, the restraints were loosened. He worked them back and forth, finally getting one free.

He pulled the other out, then went over to Kharon, facedown on the floor.

“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching to the young man’s hands, which were tied behind his back.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to untie you.”

“Why?”

“So we can get the hell out of here.”

“I still hate you.”

“Should I just leave you?”

Kharon didn’t answer. The knot was difficult, but Rubeo kept at it. Finally it came undone. Rubeo slid back, unsure what the other man would do.

Kharon’s arms felt as if they were paralyzed. They’d been behind his back so long that the muscles were stiff and his nerves were tingling, making them feel almost limp. He flexed them, trying to get some circulation back, trying to get control of them.

The strange thing was, he believed Rubeo.

But he still hated him.

He had so much anger and emotion, it needed to focus on someone. He hated that his mother had died, that her death had destroyed his father, that he had been left on his own, abandoned.

Angry at his mother? How could he be mad at her?

The faceless saboteur? Even if that was true, how could he hate someone he didn’t know?

“Come on,” said Rubeo, standing up. He had to duck so he wouldn’t hit his head. “Undo your legs.”

“We can’t just jump out of the truck,” said Kharon.

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill us.”

“I doubt staying in the vehicle will decrease those chances,” said Rubeo. “We can roll out. It should be dark by now. They may not see us. My people will rescue us soon.”

“We need weapons.”

“If you find any, let me know.”

Rubeo went to the back door. The truck rattled, but it was impossible to judge even their speed from what he heard or felt.

Surely they were in the desert somewhere. Getting out made more sense — it would be easier in the open space than in a city. Rubeo knew that from Dreamland.

“They’ll kill us,” said Kharon as Rubeo felt around for the lock. It was in a small pocket at the door and impossible to see in the dim light.

“Are you coming or what?” asked Rubeo.

“I don’t know.”

Rubeo went back to him.

“I wear a device that lets the people who work for me track me. They won’t be far behind. Come on. We just have to get a little way in the dark.”

He reached down and began undoing Kharon’s feet. Kharon pushed him away and then started untying them himself.

“Who helped you do this?” Rubeo asked.

“A Russian spy.”

“Name?”

“Like you’ll know him?”

“I might.”

“Foma Mitreski,” said Kharon. “He was interested in the technology you flew in. And in the transmission from your aircraft. As soon as your aircraft arrived, they contacted me and asked me to help them. We cooperated. I—”

Kharon suddenly felt ashamed and stopped speaking. He’d been wrong — so wrong he could never make it right.

“The Sabres?” asked Rubeo. “How did you track—”

“No, the other one. The manned plane. The Tigershark. We recorded them. They wanted the transmission in different circumstances — they wanted to try and look at the data flow under circumstances they knew. If a radar came on—”

“You recorded them — or you interfered with them?” asked Rubeo.

“We didn’t interfere. The encryption and fail-safes are too good. You know yourself — if you can start to see patterns, known reactions—”

“Then how did you order the Sabre attack?”

Kharon felt his throat clutching.

“You were behind the attack, weren’t you? Why did the Russians want that?”

“I wanted it,” he mumbled. “To discredit you. To ruin you.”

Rubeo stayed silent for a moment. “You killed innocent people to ruin me?” he asked finally, his throat dry.

Tears flooded from Kharon’s eyes.

“Yes!” Kharon yelled. “Yes. Yes, damn it. Yes. It was easy to insert the virus in the hangars. As soon as the aircraft were located there, I knew it would be easy.”

“Come on,” Rubeo said. “Let’s get out of here. You’ll tell me what you did later.”

Hand on the latch, Rubeo pressed his ear against the door and strained to listen. But it was useless. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the low hum of the motor and the rattle of the truck.

He glanced back at Kharon. He should have felt anger at what Kharon had done, but instead he felt something closer to relief — he wasn’t the one responsible for the deaths.

He also felt an odd compassion. Kharon was a tormented and twisted soul, worthy of pity.

“Come on,” Rubeo told him. “Get up and let’s go.”

Kharon got to his feet. Rubeo took a deep breath, then pushed himself out the door.

8

Turk spotted the two trucks moving through the desert foothills north of Mizdah just fifteen minutes after lifting off the runway in Sicily. They were nondescript cargo vans, heavy duty extended versions. He zoomed the optical camera, then uploaded the image to Danny aboard the Osprey.

“Whiplash, this is Tigershark,” said Turk. “I have our trucks.”

“Roger that. Seeing them now,” responded Danny.

“How do you want me to proceed?” he asked. He started cutting back on his throttle, preparing to set up in a wide orbit around the vehicles — the Tigershark couldn’t cut back its speed slow enough to stay directly above the vehicles.

“Just stay with them for now,” responded Danny. “We are about forty-five minutes from your location.”

“Gonna reach the city by then,” said Turk. “Want me to slow them down?”

“Negative. We want no chance of harming our package.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Check the city and the army base. See if there’s activity.”

“On it.”

Turk moved west, gliding over the hills at roughly 20,000 feet. He nudged the plane into an easy circle, banking over Mizdah. There were no air defenses there that could threaten him, but the computer did spot and mark out a pair of ancient ZSU–23–4 antiaircraft weapons parked near the soccer field at the center of town.

A pair of helicopters sat in a field adjacent to a compound at the southern end of the city. They were an odd pair — an Mi–35V Hind, Russian attack/transport, and an American-made CH–47C Chinook.

The 47 was a powerful aircraft whose speed and cargo carrying capability belied the fact that she had been built some forty years before; her sisters were still mainstays in the U.S. armed forces. The Hind wasn’t as big, but it could carry guns and missiles, combining attack with transport.

Turk assumed they were government aircraft, though the computer couldn’t link them with an existing unit. The computer identified the compound where they were parked as the home of a regional governor. There was no further data.

He guessed that a small contingent was in the compound. The building wasn’t particularly large; it might hold a dozen troops.

“Observe helicopters in grid D–3,” he told the computer. “Alert me if they power up.”

“Observing helicopters in grid D–3. Helicopters are inert.”

More ominous than the city were the army barracks Danny had mentioned. These were located several miles to the west, in an open area separated from the city by another group of low hills and open desert.

Turk glanced at the threat indicator. Technically this was unnecessary since the computer would warn him verbally, but there were certain things that no self-respecting pilot could completely trust the machine to do — even if the source of the information was exactly the same set of sensors.

The scope was clear.

He had the camera zoom as he approached. The complex of low-slung buildings looked deserted.

“Computer, how many individuals at the complex in grid A–6?” Turk asked.

“Scanning.” The system took a few seconds to analyze infrared data, comparing it to information from the normal and ground-penetrating radar.

“Complex includes Class One shelter system,” said the computer, telling Turk in advance that its estimate might not be accurate — though far better than anything aboard most aircraft, the radar aboard the Tigershark could not penetrate bunkers designed to withstand nuclear strikes. “Infrared scan determines 319 bodies within complex area. Size of underground shelter would indicate possibility of two hundred additional at nominal capacity.”

“Three hundred is good enough for government work,” Turk told the machine.

“Rephrase.”

“Ignore,” Turk told the machine. The estimate was lower than the intel he’d gotten earlier, a good sign — the troops were deserting.

He turned his attention to a large area of shelters to the northwest of the complex. These looked like long tents, half buried in the sand.

“Identify military complex in grid B–1,” he told the computer.

“Missile storage complex,” said the computer immediately. “NATO Scud B variant. One hundred seventy-three units identified in bunkers. Do you require technical information?”

“Negative. Are there launch vehicles?”

“Missiles are stored on TEL erectors. No activity noted.”

“Personnel?”

“No personnel in Missile Storage Complex.”

“No guards?”

“No personnel in Missile Storage Complex.”

“That’s great,” said Turk. Enough missiles sitting out in the desert to destroy a dozen small cities, and no one was watching them.

Turk told the computer to identify other large weapons in the general area. There was an abandoned antiaircraft facility about two miles northeast of the missile storage area, back in the direction of the highway that led to the city. Though defunct since the 1990s, six tanks were parked there, along with a number of tents and enough personnel to crew the vehicles.

“Vehicles are identified as T–72, Libyan export variants,” said the computer. “Vehicles had moved within the last seventy-two hours.”

“Observe tanks,” Turk told the computer. “If they move, alert me.”

“Tanks will be observed.”

Turk swung back over the hills, moving toward the trucks carrying Rubeo. The scientist was in the lead truck.

“Zoom on target truck one,” directed Turk.

Flying the Tigershark and Hogs was like night and day. He loved both, but the tools here — you couldn’t knock the computer’s help.

As he pulled to within two miles, Turk saw something flapping at the back of the vehicle. Dust flew up and something fell at the side of the road.

“Focus on object,” said Turk. “Identify.”

“Two males. Subject One is Dr. Rubeo.”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Turk, flicking onto the Whiplash channel to tell Danny.

9

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

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

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

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

Go! Go!

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

“Neil?” he grunted.

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

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

Something flew up near him, a puff of dirt.

It was a miniature volcano.

A gunshot.

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

10

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

“Hashish,” whispered Zen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” said Zongchen.

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

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

This was the most powerful leader in the rebel movement?

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

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

“Long time ago,” said Zen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sifontes was beaming by her side.

Zen tried hard to keep a neutral face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11

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

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

“Gladly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they showing weapons?” asked Danny.

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

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

“Hold off. Can you disable the vehicles?”

“Yeah, roger, OK. Stand by.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No weapons.”

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

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

“Keep them there.”

12

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

Action was always the best alternative.

But they weren’t in the clear yet.

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

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

“The trucks blew up,” said Kharon.

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

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

“Let them go.”

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

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

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

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

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

Just the sabotage alone would condemn him.

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

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

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

Kharon, to his shame, sensed it was.

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

13

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

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

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

“You see that, huh?”

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

“What are they?”

“Robots.”

“What type?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is the individual?”

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

“Thanks,” said Danny.

The Tigershark’s computer warned Turk that four aircraft were coming off the runway at Ghat.

“Identify.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand by,” Danny told him.

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

14

Rubeo stared after Kharon in disbelief as the other man ran down the hill.

What the hell was he doing?

“Neil!” yelled Rubeo. “Neil!”

There was no answer or acknowledgment. Cursing, he followed.

“Where are you going?” yelled Rubeo. “We have to wait — we’ll be rescued shortly. I’m sure of it. Stop. Just stop!”

Kharon either didn’t hear him or didn’t want to pay attention. He kept running toward the trucks.

“Damn,” muttered Rubeo, his pace slowing to a walk. “Stop!”***

Kharon ran toward the truck they’d been in. From the rear, it looked undamaged, and he began to hope that he might actually be able to escape — he could drive into the city and find someone, anyone in charge. Eventually, he’d find a way to sell his services in exchange for passage out of the country.

To where? Not to Russia, obviously, as Foma would easily find him there. And there was no going to the States.

Venezuela — the fat bastard Sifontes might actually be useful. But Sifontes was in Tripoli, or somewhere with the rebels. This was government territory.

Just barely.

He could buy his way out to freedom. Maybe South Africa.

Kharon collapsed against the side of the truck. He pushed himself up, then worked his way over to the front with a sideways shuffle, aiming to get in on the passenger side and jump over.

As he reached the door, he saw that the hood had a large hole in it. He stared at it, unsure what he was seeing — something had blown clear through the sheet metal and the engine, and plunged deep into the earth.

The engine had been destroyed. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Desperate, he ran to the other vehicle.

Rubeo walked the last two hundred yards, his legs drained, his lungs heaving. By the time he got to the trucks, Kharon had collapsed between them.

“Stay away!” he yelled at Rubeo, getting up when Rubeo was only a few feet away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What are you doing?” asked Rubeo.

“I’m getting the hell out of here. I’m going to the city.”

“It’s miles from here.”

“I have no choice.”

“Neil—”

“What do you think? You think they’ll let me go when they find out what I did? Do you really think I should hang around to be rescued by the allies?”

Rubeo realized that he was right — surely the allies would treat him harshly once they realized what he had done.

Kharon had tried to ruin him and kill him. There was no way in the world that he should feel anything but disgust and hatred toward him, Rubeo thought.

And yet it seemed he had to do something to help Kharon. Was it the fact that he had loved Kharon’s mother? Did he in fact still feel guilty over her death?

It was a death he had no fault in. And yet he did feel remorse — guilt. There was no other way to express it.

Why should he feel guilty for something a criminal had done?

And why did he feel bad, terribly bad, for Kharon, another victim of the crime?

Most people would say that Ray Rubeo was the last person on the face of the earth who would feel an emotion toward someone, let alone toward someone who had tried to harm him so badly. And yet, he felt emotion, a deep emotion, as if he had to save a son.

As if he could, if only he could think of something. If only he could find the right equation to solve things.

“Neil, if you go into that town, the Russian agent is going to be looking for you. Your only hope is to stay with me.”

“No.” Kharon shook his head. “Listen — they’re already coming.”

Rubeo did hear the sound — a pair of helicopters in the distance. He strained for a moment, trying to identify them. They weren’t Ospreys, which would be what Whiplash would use. But perhaps they were other allied aircraft.

Then he realized something else was wrong.

“They’re coming from the city,” he told Kharon. “Come on. We better take cover.”

15

The allied no-fly zone extended only over northern Libya, and under the standing rules of engagement, jets elsewhere could be shot down without prior approval from the alliance command only if they were a direct threat to civilians or allied aircraft. Danny had been instructed to notify the allies “if reasonable” before engaging any aircraft, and he dutifully did so, talking directly to the air commander aboard the AWACS aircraft surveying the airspace.

The commander had already vectored two French jets south, and was in the process of alerting another flight as backup.

“Your aircraft is clear to engage if necessary,” said the air commander. “We’re establishing direct coms now.”

“I’d like to keep him over my operation area,” said Danny.

“That’s all right with us. Colonel — we’re seeing two helicopters taking off nearby. We’re not sure if they’re hostile.”

“Can we shoot them down?”

“Have they taken hostile action?”

“I’d rather not wait for that.”

“Stand by.”

Danny clicked into Turk’s frequency.

“I’m talking to the allied command about the helicopters,” he told him. “Stand by and be ready.”

“They’re getting close.”

“Are they armed?”

“The Hind has a chin gun,” said Turk.

“Understood. Anything hostile, take them out. We’re a few minutes away.”

“Yup,” snapped Turk, clearly irritated that he had to wait. The helicopters could get right next to Rubeo without doing anything hostile, and then shoot. Turk knew there would be no way to protect him.

“Whiplash, be advised, those helicopters are part of the rebel alliance,” said the air commander, coming back on the line.

“They came out of a government city,” said Danny.

“City leadership has gone over to the rebels.”

“When?”

“It’s in progress,” said the controller. “The helicopters are not hostile. We have spoken to one of their ground commanders.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Affirmative.”

“They’re moving into an area where my guy on the ground may be threatened,” answered Danny. “Tell them to get the hell out of there.”

“We’re working on it. Do not engage.”

“Tell them to change course,” Danny said.

“I am not in direct communications with them at this time. We’re trying to establish a direct link. Suggest your aircraft attempt to contact them as well on Guard.”

“If they continue, they will be shot down,” Danny warned. He went back to Turk. “Turk, command is saying the aircraft are considered friendly. Try contacting them directly. If they look like a threat, nail them.”

“I want them to stay back.”

“Understood and agreed. Warn them off. Don’t fire unless you have to, but keep Rubeo safe.”

“What about the MiGs?”

“Air command allegedly is taking care of them,” said Danny. “But same thing there.”

“Yeah, roger, I got it. Easier if we were just running this on our own.”

“But we’re not.”

“Tigershark copies.”

16

Kharon hesitated, unsure what to do. Finally he decided to follow Rubeo, who was heading back up to the hills where they had been. After the first tentative steps, he put his head down and began running in earnest.

Whatever happens, I’ll stay with him. I’m as good as dead now anyway.

He caught up with Rubeo and trotted alongside him for a few steps. Then he decided to go ahead.

“I’m going to see if I can see anything from the top of the hill,” said Kharon.

“OK,” wheezed Rubeo.

Kharon started to run again. He cut left, up the steep side of the hill. Several large rocks blocked his way. He veered right, then felt the side of his foot giving way in the loose dirt. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, the left side of his face burning.

Rubeo was about ten yards from Kharon when he went down. He changed direction, huffing with every step.

The young man lay curled up, in obvious pain. His face had hit the rocks and blood streamed down the side to his chin and the ground. As Rubeo started to inspect the wounds, he saw that Kharon’s pants leg was soaked red as well. He reached over and started to examine it.

Kharon yelped as Rubeo touched the leg. His bone had punctured the surface; he had a compound fracture.

“H-Help me,” muttered Kharon.

“You’re going to be OK,” said Rubeo.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re going into shock,” said Rubeo. “You broke your bone. It’s a compound fracture.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“We’re going to be OK. My people are coming for me.”

The helicopters were getting very loud. They were exposed here, easily seen.

“I’m going to get one of the guns from the van,” Rubeo told him. “Just in case we have to hold out for a few minutes.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

17

The three vans carrying General Zongchen’s committee and their security team were met at the airport by a pair of NATO armored personnel carriers that had just arrived. The alliance had also added more ground troops — two companies’ worth of Spanish infantrymen, who fanned out around the far section of the airport.

Another ring of security had been established near the hangar where they were to meet the Libyan defense minister. Here, members of GROM — roughly the Polish equivalent of American SEALs — stood guard. The committee’s own security team was instructed to stay outside the building; no guns were to be allowed inside the walls.

Zongchen looked at Zen as the Polish GROM commander, through a translator, informed him of the ground rules, which he seemed uncomfortable with.

Zen shrugged. “I don’t think we’re in any more danger here than anywhere else,” he told the general. “Assuming you trust the minister.”

“I trust no one,” said Zongchen. “But let us proceed.”

The minister’s presence at the airport was supposed to be a secret, but with all these troops, it was obvious to even the dullest human being that something important was going on. It wouldn’t take much to guess what that was.

Zongchen’s energy level had increased during the short trip to the airport; he practically sprang ahead toward the terminal. Even Zen, with his powered wheelchair, had trouble keeping up.

The interior of the hangar was empty except for a ring of Polish guards around the walls. A pair of folding tables had been placed end to end near the center of the large space. There were a dozen chairs arranged somewhat haphazardly around them. Three were occupied — one by the new Libyan defense minister, one by his translator, and one by an army general.

Zongchen greeted them enthusiastically. The bearing of the Libyan delegation was clearly more to his liking than that of the rebels, and he seemed more relaxed than he had been in the city. Introductions were made, and as the committee members began sorting themselves into seats, Zongchen began saying that he had just come from a meeting with one of the rebel leaders and they were very eager for a settlement.

“They will have to lay their weapons aside,” said the defense minister. “When they have done that, then we will have a talk.”

“That wasn’t the impression you had given us earlier,” said Zen.

“There is much eagerness,” added Zongchen. “But it might behoove the government to make a sufficient gesture — perhaps a public announcement of a cease-fire.”

The defense minister turned to the general. The two spoke in quick but soft Arabic.

“We need something from the alliance,” said the defense minister. “A sign that you will cooperate with us. A temporary cease-fire. From the alliance, and the rebels.”

Technically, the alliance wasn’t at war with the government, merely enforcing the no-fly zone and protecting interests declared “international” by the UN. So agreeing to a mutual cease-fire was not a big deal. Zongchen told the minister that an agreement might be reached quickly for a cease-fire.

“And from the rebels?”

“They would have to take their own action. But if you had declared the cease-fire, then they would respond to that, I’m sure. Within a matter of—”

“It cannot be unilateral! We cannot just declare the cease-fire ourselves. They won’t observe it. You see what dogs we deal with. They lie and cheat at every turn.”

We’re off to a great start, thought Zen.

18

It seemed as if all Libya was descending on the two wrecked vans. Not only were the helicopters only a few minutes away, but now trucks were heading out from the city as well. A small group of people — apparently civilians, though a few had AKs — had left a hamlet about a half mile to the east of the road and were coming up, probably to see what the commotion was about. Meanwhile, the four MiGs were flying northeast on afterburners, taking no heed of the two French Mirages coming in their direction.

The computer calculated that the Mirages had about a sixty-forty percent chance of shooting down the MiGs if they engaged within the next sixty seconds.

Turk didn’t particularly like those odds. He had a good opinion of the French pilots, but they were still pretty far north, and since they had to contact the MiGs to warn them off, no chance of surprising the enemy.

“Whiplash, what’s your ETA?” Turk asked Danny.

“We’ll be overhead in ten minutes.”

“I have people on the ground who are going to get there first.”

“Hostile?”

“Unknown. They look mostly like civilians, but a couple have rifles. Hard here to tell the difference sometimes.” Many people carried rifles for self-protection; Turk certainly would have.

“See if you can scare them off,” said Danny.

“You want me to buzz them?” asked Turk.

“Yes, but don’t use your weapons if you don’t have to. If you’re in danger, screw the ROEs. I’ll take the heat.”

“Roger that.”

It was nice to say, but Turk knew he would be court-martialed along with Danny. Still, better to go to prison than live with the death of his guys on his conscience.

“Helicopters have not responded to my hails,” Turk answered. “What about them?”

“We’ll try raising them on the radio.”

“They’re getting awful close. I’ll buzz them, too,” added Turk.

“Copy.”

Turk banked to get closer to the people. He wanted to do a loud run to show them he was there.

The problem would be judging their reaction — if they kept coming, did that mean they were on his side?

“Tanks are moving,” said the computer as he came out of the turn.

“Computer — which tanks?” asked Turk.

“Tanks in Grid A–3.” The area flashed on his sitrep map. “Additional vehicles are under way.”

“Why not,” muttered Turk. “Just one frickin’ open house picnic in beautiful suburban Libya.”

19

Rubeo walked back toward the trucks, conserving his energy. His leg muscles had tightened, but adrenaline was surging through his body, and he knew if he could just pace himself, he’d last the ten minutes or so until his people arrived.

He was sure they were close. Ten minutes, he told himself.

About fifty yards from the first truck the sky exploded above him. He threw himself down, sure that a missile was streaking at his head.

Gradually he realized it wasn’t a missile but the Tigershark, descending at high speed in the direction of the helicopters.

Rubeo got up and continued toward the van, half running, half trotting. One of his dead captors lay in the dirt about thirty feet away. He saw the rifle nearby and ran to grab it. Winded, he paused to catch his breath and examine the gun, making sure it was loaded and ready to fire.

The helicopters were directly south along the road. One was a large Chinook, the other a Russian-made Hind. The Tigershark flew across their path twice, apparently trying to warn them off, but neither helicopter changed direction.

Rubeo thought about the bots, sitting in the back of the nearby van. Diomedes wasn’t particularly exotic; it was basically a personalized version of robots Rubeo’s company sold to the government. But Arachne was at least a generation and a half beyond what anyone else in the world was using, including the U.S.

He went over to the back of the van, thinking he would put a few bullets through the bots’ sensors and intelligence sections. But as he opened the door to the vehicle, he realized he might be able to use the larger bot to get Kharon to safety. And if he was going to save that bot, he might just as well save the other, especially since Arachne was still attached to Diomedes.

He climbed up into the truck. Deciding the laptop-sized controller would be awkward to run with, he removed the smaller handheld mobility controller attached to Diomedes that worked on voice commands. This was a transmitter about the size of a television remote, intended as an aid to workers when moving the bot. Its limited command set could not control any sensors, but that wasn’t important now.

Rubeo took the controller and unwound the small headset, which looked like a slightly heavier-duty version than the stereo and microphone headsets used for many mobile phones. The machine took a few moments to boot itself up, checking subsystems and sending current to its motors and limbs. The bot then authenticated Rubeo’s voice, checking it against the patterns stored in its memory.

“Exit truck,” Rubeo told it as soon as it was ready.

The machine began backing from the vehicle. Six small video and IR cameras and a sonar suite allowed the bot to orient itself.

“External imagery unavailable,” declared the machine, telling Rubeo that there was no feed from an overhead source such as a UAV. This was actually an artifact of the combat control program, which was configured to assume that a full combat situation awareness suite was present. The machine also had a GPS locator and could download area data into its temporary memory if necessary.

“Understood. Proceed.”

As Diomedes came to the edge of the truck bed, the sonar unit detected the drop-off. It measured the terrain and decided it could handle the drop. It pushed off quickly, adjusting its arms to balance its weight; it looked almost human, if something with the profile of a sawed-off vacuum cleaner could be said to resemble a person.

It landed flat and drove itself toward Rubeo.

“Follow me,” he said, and as he did, something whizzed over his head.

“Gunfire detected,” warned the bot. The warning was another attribute of the combat program.

“Move faster,” yelled Rubeo, scrambling for the rocks.

20

“Ground fire detected,” the computer told Turk.

“Locate.”

“Highlighted.”

“From that group of civilians?”

“Rephrase.”

“Disregard.” Turk clicked into the Whiplash circuit. “Danny, I have gunfire on the ground. Rubeo is under attack. Somebody in that group of people is firing.”

“See if you can scatter the group and isolate the people with guns,” said Danny. “Take them down.”

Turk turned the plane northeast so he could swing down and attempt to scatter the group.

From his perspective, the gunners were using women and children to shield themselves, making it difficult for them to be attacked without killing innocent lives. Of course, that was the idea. They figured they couldn’t lose: if he didn’t shoot, they’d get Rubeo. If they were shot at, the odds were the civilians would be hurt as well, undoubtedly giving them some sort of propaganda victory.

Had something like that happened with the kids? Were they actually trained to use MANPADs? Was one hidden somewhere nearby?

But if so, what could he have done?

As Turk approached the group, he lit off IR decoy flares, showering the area. At the same time, he pulled the Tigershark onto her back and hit the throttle full blast, jerking the aircraft upward. The noise was deafening — not quite a sonic boom, but more than a little distracting. One or two of the people began to run, then everyone started to follow, fleeing to the east.

He tilted on his wing, trying to get back into a position to find the people who had fired. But they’d thrown down their weapons in panic, and when he asked the computer to identify them, it responded that none of the people were armed.

“Who threw the guns down?” said Turk.

“Rephrase.”

Turk decided to concentrate on the helicopters instead. They were almost at the trucks.

He fell back toward the earth, spinning the wings level and sending off another shower of flares, this time directly in the helicopters’ path. They diverted east.

Turk zoomed out the map and took a look at the tanks, which were now moving on a road in the direction of the highway and Rubeo.

“People ran. Helicopters going east. Tanks are still moving,” he told Danny. “Can I take them out?”

“Stand by.”

“They’re close enough to fire,” warned Turk.

“I know — hold on. I have allied command.”

Danny’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t happy about what he was hearing on the line.

“I have people under fire,” Danny repeated for the French colonel who’d contacted him directly from the command staff. “I have to be permitted to protect them. We’re in the middle of a rescue operation.”

“We have been told that there is active negotiation between forces, and all forces require an immediate cease-fire,” said the colonel, whose English was so-so. “I have these orders, which have come from the general himself to me. All allied aircraft and forces are to stand back.”

“Listen, Colonel, with all due respect, I am going to protect my people.”

“You must follow the order.”

“Yup, that’s what I’m doing,” snapped Danny, closing the line. A few seconds later the combat air controller came back on.

“We’re seeing those tanks moving,” said the controller. “You want some help to watch them?”

“I want clearance to blow them up.”

“I can’t give that to you,” said the colonel. He spoke quickly. “I have a flight of A–10Es that I’m going to divert south.”

“Are they cleared hot on the tanks?” Danny asked.

“Negative at this time.”

The controller gave Danny the contact frequency and call sign — it was Ginella’s squadron, which of course made sense, since they were the only Hogs in the theater. Danny quickly made contact with Ginella, who was leading the flight.

“We are en route to you,” she told him, without the slightest hint in her voice that they had ever spoken or met. “We should be there in about zero-six minutes.”

“Appreciate your help.”

“Be advised, I have been ordered to restrain from using weapons at this time,” added Ginella.

“Copy that.”

“Colonel, just so you know: I do not intend on allowing any American to be harmed in this operation.”

“You and I agree one hundred and ten percent,” said Danny.

21

By the time Rubeo reached the first rock and started up the incline, the bot had caught up. It moved to the right of him and began trudging up the hill, moving at a slow but steady pace. The gunfire had stopped, and the helicopters appeared to have moved off.

Rubeo told the bot to pause as it crested the summit of the second hilltop. He reached it a few moments later, caught his breath, and then had it follow as he climbed over the last hill separating him and Kharon.

The young man blinked at him as he came down the slope. Pain lined his face.

“They’ll be here any minute,” said Rubeo.

“Don’t shoot me.”

“I’m not going to. Don’t worry,” said Rubeo. He glanced self-consciously at the gun, which was pointed at the ground.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll go to the hospital.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Rubeo shook his head. “I’ll help you.”

“Why?”

Rubeo couldn’t answer the question, not even for himself. He had only a sense that it was the right thing to do — not because of logic, but because of emotion. And even that was vague.

Something shrieked overhead. Rubeo turned his eyes upward, sure it must be the Tigershark. Then there was a loud clap nearby, and the ground seemed to shatter.

“Something is firing at us,” he told Kharon.

A second shell whistled nearby. This one was even closer; dirt and debris rained across his back.

“We have to get out of here.”

“Tanks are firing!” Turk told Danny.

“Take them.”

“Yeah. I’m on it.”

He was already on a direct line for one of the tanks, roughly three miles to the west. He zeroed it in his targeting screen, corrected slightly, and fired.

A slug sped from the aircraft, hurtling into the fat turret of the tank. Unsure of the result, Turk fired twice more, then pulled off.

The bullets put three large holes in the top of the tank, disabling its main gun and the engine. The T–72 jerked to an abrupt stop, disabled though not in fact destroyed. The almost surgical gunfire had left the crew hatches undamaged, and within a few seconds the three men who had been manning the tank scrambled away from it, undoubtedly stunned and unsure what would happen next.

“Tigershark, this is Shooter One. Are you engaging the tanks?”

“Affirmative Shooter. They have commenced firing.”

The sitrep map showed Turk all four Hogs, IDing them by their call signs and squadron identifications. Ginella was flying lead.

Her wingman was Li.

“We can engage,” said Ginella. “We’re just coming into range.”

“I have the one to the north, that one leading on the road,” said Turk. “You can have the rest.”

“Roger, Tigershark, we copy. We’re going to take the others.”

“Copy.”

Turk swung north to line up his shot. As he did, the RWR began to sound — the MiGs that were supposed to be intercepted by the French planes had turned in his direction. But it wasn’t him they were targeting; it was the A–10s.

Danny Freah took a long, slow breath, ignoring the cacophony of protests in his headset. He leaned forward between the two Osprey pilots, trying to spot the trucks in the distance.

“I’m being told to turn back north,” the pilot told him. “The air commander is trying to reach you.”

“You’re under my direct orders,” Danny told him calmly. “You have no responsibility.”

“Sir, I’m going to save our guys, too. Screw everything else.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“We have more vehicles coming up the road,” he told Danny. “Looks like a scout car, and a couple of pickups. Those pickups usually have fifty cals on the back. I’d like to engage them.”

Even without the allied order to stand down and avoid combat, engaging the vehicles was highly questionable. They had not fired at either the Osprey or Rubeo, and in fact had done nothing overtly threatening. But the situation now was simply too chaotic, and their mere presence was a threat. The Osprey couldn’t land close to a fifty caliber, let alone three of them.

“Fire some warning shots and see if they stop,” Danny told the pilot.

“If they don’t?”

“Then splash them.”

Rubeo heard the roar of the Osprey’s engines in the distance, but the shells were still raining down, passing overhead. He guessed they were being aimed at the road, but that was hardly a consolation — any second now he expected one to land short and wipe them out.

“I can’t carry you,” he told Kharon.

“Leave me!”

“That’s not what I meant. Come on.” Rubeo hooked his arms under the other man’s shoulder’s. “I have to get you on the bot.”

Kharon screamed in anguish. Rubeo hesitated, but the whistle of another shell going overhead convinced him to continue. He half lifted, half dragged Kharon to the nearby bot, cringing as the younger man howled in pain.

“We’re getting out of here,” Rubeo told him, putting him down as gently as he could manage on the rear bed of the bot. Kharon twisted, grabbing hold of the spar.

“Diomedes, follow me,” Rubeo told the bot, starting out of the small hollow where he’d taken shelter.

He’d taken exactly three steps when he felt himself pushed from behind, thrown forward by a force he couldn’t fathom.

22

Turk zeroed his gun on the tank and fired six bursts, the bolts leaping from the gun in a sharp, staccato rhythm that seemed to suspend the Tigershark in midair. The line of his bullets was tighter this time, and there was no escape for the men inside — the first slug ignited one of the tank’s shells, and secondary explosions ripped through the tight quarters of the armored vehicle, mincing its occupants. The rest of the bullets simply sliced through the fireballs.

As soon as he let off the trigger, Turk turned his attention to the MiGs. They had separated into two groups, one duo diverting toward the French interceptors and the other coming at the Hogs.

The A–10s were easy targets for the MiGs, but to their credit they remained in their attack patterns, closing in on the tanks.

“Shooter, I’m on those MiGs,” Turk told Ginella. “I have them.”

“We appreciate it.”

There was a launch warning — the MiGs were firing.

“Four missiles,” reported the computer. “AA–10 Alamo. Semiactive radar.”

“Plot an intercept to missiles,” said Turk. He could line up and shoot at the missiles with the rail gun.

“Impossible to intercept all four.”

“Best solution.”

A plot flashed up on the screen.

Three targets. Two were heading for Ginella’s aircraft, Shooter One. The other was going for Beast in Shooter Three.

“Identify target of remaining missile,” Turk said.

“Missile is targeted at Shooter Four.”

Li’s plane, on Ginella’s wing.

“Recalculate to include missile targeting Shooter Four.”

The computer presented a new solution, striking one of the missiles on Ginella as well as Li’s sole missile. But Beast was completely unprotected. Before Turk could decide what to do, four more missiles launched. The computer began running a variety of solutions, but Turk realized that none were going to completely protect the Hogs.

“Choose Solution One,” he said, moving to the course queue as it snapped into his heads-up. “Shooter squadron, you have missiles inbound.”

“We’re aware of that, Tigershark.”

“I can get some, not all.”

“Whatever you can do for us,” said Ginella. Her voice was cold and flat, without effect. “Tanks will be down in a second.”

23

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

“Stop the bastard,” said Danny.

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

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

“Where are our guys?” asked Danny.

“Going for them now.”

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

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

Find out why it happened. For yourself.

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

How did he benefit from knowing that?

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

Was that what knowledge brought you? Impotent sadness?

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

Up, he told himself. Up.

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

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

Time to get up. Time to move on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing is left.

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

Not to mention on the ground.

Something shrieked. The aircraft jerked upward.

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

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

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

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

They were out of this damn hellhole.

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

The Osprey was scooting away.

“What the hell?” he yelled in anguish.

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

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

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

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

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

“Eliminate it.”

“With pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

24

The defense minister’s aide leaned over and whispered something in his boss’s ear. The two spoke quickly.

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

“Which American aircraft?” asked Zen.

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

“You mean an Osprey?” said Zen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand by, Senator.”

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

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

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

“That would be damn timely.”

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

“Near Mizdah.”

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

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

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

25

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

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

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

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

Someone grabbed him. It was Sergeant Rockland — Boston.

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

“The bot.”

“Yeah, yeah, the mechanical marvel.”

“Kharon, get Kharon.”

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

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

God, help me.

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

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

The closet.

Someone was yelling outside.

“Neil! Neil!”

His mother.

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

Leave me alone!

Leave me!

“Neil!”

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

The door was open in front of him.

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

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

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

26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He saw her plane, then saw the missile closing.

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

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

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

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

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

27

As far as Danny Freah was concerned, Neil Kharon’s body wasn’t important enough to risk going back for.

It was a cold decision, but one he had no trouble making. There was still sporadic fire in the area, and he had Rubeo and the robots aboard.

“We’ll get him if things calm down,” Danny told Rubeo, kneeling on the deck of the Osprey as the aircraft sped northward. “Zen is working on it.”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” said Rubeo blankly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Antiair battery to the east activating radar,” warned the copilot. “Radar — we have a lot of radars. Everything they got.”

Danny got up and grabbed his phone. He was still dialed into Zen’s private line.

“Zen, are you there?”

“I’m here, Danny.”

“We could really use that cease-fire you promised,” he said as the aircraft tucked down toward the ground. They would attempt to bypass the radar by staying close to the earth, where it would have trouble seeing them.

“The defense minister is on the phone with the air force right now,” Zen told him.

“There’s an antiair battery north of us. It—”

“All right, hold on.” Zen said something Danny couldn’t hear, then came back on the line. “Give me a GPS reading.”

“Every goddamn radar in the country is lighting up,” said Danny. “Get them all.”

Zen didn’t answer. Danny could hear someone speaking sharply on the other side of the line but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Radars are turning off,” said the pilot.

Danny waited. Zen came on the line a few minutes later.

“Danny?”

“I’m here. The radars are off. Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said we’d blow them up if they weren’t off in sixty seconds,” said Zen. “I wish every negotiation was that easy.”

28

Thoroughly confused by the electronic countermeasures and now at the far end of their range, the last two missiles blew themselves up several miles from their targets, destroying themselves in a futile hope that their shrapnel might take out something nearby.

Turk pulled the Tigershark higher as he got his bearings. The A–10s were forming up to the north, taking stock and preparing for the flight back home.

All except Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

At first Turk assumed that Ginella was checking on the tanks, making sure they had been destroyed. He left her, and checked in with Danny, who said they had recovered Rubeo and his gear and were on their way back to Sicily. Then he talked to the air controller, who said frostily that there were no longer any Libyan aircraft in the skies.

“State your intentions,” added the controller, sounding as if he were challenging a potentially hostile aircraft.

“I’m going to escort Whiplash Osprey back to Sicily,” said Turk, setting up a course.

“Acknowledged.”

I bet you’ll be testifying at my court-martial, thought Turk.

He radioed the Osprey pilot. With the Libyan radars now silent, the aircraft was climbing, aiming to get high enough to escape any stray ground fire.

“Stay on your present course and I’ll be with you in zero-five,” said Turk.

The computer estimated he would catch up in two minutes. He checked his instruments, working systematically as he took stock.

The Tigershark had performed well, and according to her indicators was in prime condition, none the worse for having fired more slugs in anger in five minutes than in her entire life.

They could say or do what they wanted about Turk; the aircraft had passed every real-life test thrown at it. As for the Sabres — once whatever had screwed them up was fixed, they too were ready for front-line duty.

He’d proven himself. Whatever he had missed the other day with Grizzly — if he’d missed anything — it wasn’t because he was afraid to fire. He wasn’t a coward or a shirker or anything else.

He was sure he hadn’t missed the weapon. But one way or another, he was sure of his ability to fly and fight.

Turk felt himself start to relax. He tried to resist — it was dangerous to ease up before you landed.

He checked the sitrep map. The French Mirages had shot down one MiG and now, ironically, were helping guide an allied rescue helicopter in. The other government planes had fled south — not to their base, but to Chad.

The pilots were getting out while the getting out was good, Turk thought.

He zoomed the sitrep to check on the Hogs. They had separated. Shooter Two and Three were flying north, heading on a straight line back toward Sicily. Four, meanwhile, was flying west toward Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

Which seemed odd to Turk.

Given his history with Ginella, he hesitated to ask what was going on. Still, her flight path was almost directly across the Osprey’s.

“Shooter One, this is Tigershark. Wondering if you’re setting up on a threat in Whiplash Osprey’s direction,” he said lightly.

There was no response. Turk tried again.

OK, he thought when she didn’t answer. Be that way. He checked his location; he was about a minute and a half behind the Osprey, catching up fast. Ginella was going to pass just to the north, but would clear the MV–22 by a good distance — she was at 30,000 feet and climbing.

Turk remembered an old joke about the Hogs, to the effect that the pilots climbing to altitude packed a lunch. The new engines took a lot of the punch out of the joke.

He told the Osprey he was coming up on his six. The Osprey pilot asked him what was up with the A–10; there had been no communication from Shooter One.

“I’m adjusting course to the west just to widen the distance,” said the pilot, giving himself an even wider margin for error. “Are you in contact?”

“Negative.”

Not acknowledging his hails was one thing, but not acknowledging the Osprey pilot’s was, at best, extremely unprofessional — so much so that Turk realized something must be wrong with Ginella. He was just about to try hailing her again when Li called on his frequency.

“Tigershark, this is Shooter Four. Are you in contact with Shooter One?”

“Negative, Shooter Four. I have been trying to hail her.”

“Same here. There’s got to be some sort of problem with her aircraft,” added Li. “Can you assist?”

“Stand by.”

Turk talked to Danny and the Osprey pilot, telling them that he thought the Hog was having some sort of emergency. Both assured him that the flight could get back on its own if necessary. A few moments later the flight controller came on, requesting that he help make contact with the Hog.

Turk acknowledged and changed course, accelerating to catch up quickly with the A–10. The aircraft had continued to climb, and was now at nearly 35,000 feet.

“Was Shooter One damaged in the fight?” Turk asked Li.

“She said she got a shrapnel hit but that it wasn’t much. Her last transmission said she was in good shape and going to check on the tanks.”

“Sound giddy?”

“Hard to say. You think she’s OK?”

“I’d say no. I’m guessing hypoxia.”

“Yeah. Or worse.”

Hypoxia was the medical term for lack of oxygen. There was a whole range of symptoms, the most critical in this case being loss of consciousness. Turk suspected that Ginella’s plane was flying itself. With no one at the controls, it would keep going until it crashed.

She might in fact already be dead.

He tried hailing her several times, using both her squadron frequency and the international emergency channel. A pair of F/A–18s were coming southwest from a carrier in the eastern Mediterranean, but Turk was much closer, and within a minute saw the distinctive tail of the aircraft dead ahead.

“Shooter Four, I’m coming up on her six.”

“Four acknowledges.”

Turk backed off the throttle, easing the Tigershark into position over the Hog’s right wing. He zoomed the camera covering that direction so he could look into the bubble canopy of the A–10E. At first glance there seemed to be nothing wrong beyond a few shrapnel nicks in the aircraft’s skin. But when he zoomed on Ginella, he saw her helmet slumped to the side.

Turk radioed Li and the controller, giving his position and heading, then telling them what he saw.

“She’s gotta be out of it,” he added. “Autopilot has to be flying the plane. I don’t know if we can rouse her.”

“Maybe if you buzz nearby,” suggested Li. “Maybe the buffet will wake her up.”

It was a long shot, but worth a try. Turk took a deep breath, then moved his hand forward on the simulated throttle.

Some twenty miles west, Danny Freah listened to the pilots as they attempted to rouse the Hog squadron commander. He’d heard of some similar incidents in the past, including one that had involved an A–10A that was lost over the U.S.

Any pilot flying above 12,000 or so could easily succumb to hypoxia, even in an ostensibly pressurized aircraft, if he wasn’t receiving the proper mix of oxygen, or if something otherwise impeded the body’s absorption of that oxygen.

How ironic, he thought, for a pilot to survive combat only to succumb to a run-of-the-mill problem.

“I knew his mother,” said Rubeo, who was sitting on the bench next to him.

“Who?” Danny lifted the visor on his helmet and turned to Rubeo. “Who are you talking about?”

“Neil Kharon. The man who jumped. His mother worked at Dreamland. It was before your time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rubeo nodded.

“I was listening to a transmission,” said Danny. “One of the aircraft that was helping us is having a flight emergency. They can’t raise the pilot.”

“I see.”

“Turk thinks she lost oxygen.”

Rubeo stared at him. Danny was about to turn away when the scientist asked what type of airplane it was.

“An A–10E. One of the Hogs I mentioned earlier.”

“Have the Tigershark take it over,” suggested Rubeo.

“How?”

“Give me your com set.”

“It’s in the helmet.”

“Then give me the helmet.”

Turk pulled the Tigershark back parallel to the A–10, this time on its left side. Three swoops and Ginella had not woken.

The plane, however, had moved into a circular pattern, apparently responding to a slight shift of pressure on the controls.

“She’s going to be bingo fuel soon,” said Li, begging the question of how her own fuel was.

“I’m not sure what else we can do,” Turk said. “Maybe as she starts to run out of fuel the plane will descend. Once she’s below twelve thousand feet, she’ll regain consciousness and she can bail.”

Li didn’t answer. The odds of that scenario coming true, let alone having a good outcome, were incalculable.

“Tigershark, this is Ray Rubeo.” The transmission came from Danny’s helmet, but Rubeo’s ID flashed on the screen, the Whiplash system automatically recognizing his voice. “Are you on the line?”

“Affirmative, Dr. Rubeo.”

“You are following an A–10E. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. The plane is flying in a circular pattern. I’m guessing she has a very slight input on the stick because—”

“No response from the pilot?”

“Copy that. No response.”

“The A–10E is equipped with a remote suite that can be controlled from your aircraft by tuning to the proper frequency and using the coded command sequence, just as if it was Flighthawk or Sabre.”

“Yeah, roger,” said Turk. “I did some of the testing. But the pilots told me the circuitry is inactive in these planes.”

“Inactive but not nonexistent, Captain. Stand by, please. I need to consult one of my people.”

The dilemma invigorated Rubeo, giving him something to focus on other than Neil Kharon and his horrendously wasted talent and life.

The A–10E system had been adopted from one of the control setups developed for the early Flighthawks. It wasn’t quite cutting edge, but that was by design, since the Air Force specs called for a system that was both “compact and robust”—service-ese for a small but well-proven unit.

One of the primary requirements — and one of the things that had caused the main contractor on the project serious headaches — was the need to make the remote flight system entirely secondary to the “ordinary” pilot system. Unlike the Tigershark, which had been built from the ground up as a remote aircraft, the A–10E had to include legacy systems, most significantly in this case the autopilot, which had only been added to the plane in the A–1 °C conversions. Because of that, one of Rubeo’s companies had worked closely with the main contractor, developing a system that allowed both to coexist in the aircraft.

The head of that project was Rick Terci, an engineer based in Seattle. Rubeo’s call woke him up.

“The system won’t dead start in the air if it’s been under human control,” said Terci when Rubeo explained what was happening. “Not without her permission. The only way I can think of to get the remote on would be to turn the autopilot on first. Then you could cut in with the command. That would work. But you have to get the autopilot on.”

“Yes.” Rubeo saw the unit in his head, a black box located at the right side of the fuselage just in front of the canopy. For a normal aircraft, the shot would be almost impossible. But the Tigershark’s rail gun could hit the spot with precision.

How, then, would they get the remote control to engage?

“I’m thinking if we could jolt the plane electronically,” Rubeo told Terci. “If we could surge the power, and the computer would reset. At that point we can contact it and take over.”

“You mean reboot the entire electrical system? In the air? Sure, but how do we do that? And still have something left?”

“Well how would you do it?” Rubeo asked. He let his mind wander, trying to visualize the system.

“Can’t think of a way,” said Terci. “Not while it’s flying. Not and still have the plane able to fly.”

“If we shoot out the generators?”

“Then you have no power at all. Not going to work.” Terci made a strange sound with his mouth. Rubeo realized the engineer was biting his thumbnail.

A good sign; he only did that when he was on the verge of an idea.

“No, it’s simpler,” said Terci. “Just have a flight condition where the autopilot takes over. Then sign in from there. But you have to get the autopilot on… Say there’s a sudden dip so the airplane loses altitude.”

“The safety protocol won’t allow the system to take over if it went into autopilot while under pilot control,” said Rubeo. “We still need to have the system reboot somehow.”

“Yes,” said Terci, repeating Rubeo’s point. “You need an electric shock to delete what was originally programmed, or it will just return to the pilot. It just has to reboot — no, wait — you could just delete that part of the memory. No, just make the computer think there’s an anomaly. You don’t need a massive event, just a reset.”

“How?”

“Hmmph.”

“What if we overload a data collector circuit so the computer reads it as a fault and has to reset? If the circuit no longer exists, it will reset into test mode.”

“Yes. You take over in retest. Sure, because it’s resetting the program registers.”

“Will that work?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. But what circuit would be the right one to blow out?”

“There must be a dozen. Can you access the schematics?”

“I don’t know if my computer is on. Then I have to get into the company mainframes.”

“You have less than ten minutes to discover the proper circuit,” said Rubeo. “Please do not waste them by saying how difficult the task is.”

Turk heard Li contact the tanker. He could tell from the tone in her voice that she thought Ginella was gone.

And maybe he did, too.

There was no reason for him to want to save her. On the contrary, he was sure his life would be easier if she were dead.

But it was his duty to try.

“Captain Mako, this is Ray Rubeo.”

“Go ahead, Doc.”

“I have a sequence of events that I believe if followed very minutely will result in the aircraft’s remote control apparatus starting up. At that point, you will be able to issue the proper commands and fly the plane from the Tigershark.”

“Really?”

“There is an element of doubt,” added Rubeo. “But I am of the mind that it is better than nothing. I think it does have a chance of working.”

“I’m game.”

“I am going to add one of my specialists to the line. Your first shot must be very precise. The second even more so.”

Turk listened as the engineer described the locations on the Hog that had to be struck. Fortunately, the engineer was able to upload the targeting data to him through the Whiplash system, and within a few seconds the Tigershark’s computer marked the location.

Making the first shot was simply a matter of climbing 5,000 feet, then ramming straight down to an intercept course at exactly 632 knots and firing.

That was tough, but the second shot involved an even more difficult problem. It had to be made at a box housed near the plane’s right wing root within thirty seconds of the first.

“Thirty seconds?” Turk asked.

“Has to do with the monitors that control the emergency system check-in,” replied Terci. “The battery will—”

“All right, all right,” said Turk. “Getting into position for the first shot.”

Turk hit his mark 5,000 feet over the Hog and pushed down so he would be on the intercept point. As he reached the target speed, the computer gave him the shooting cue and he fired.

Perfect shot.

But as he swung into position for the second shot, the A–10E turned on its wing and began to dive straight down.

“There’s a problem,” he told Rubeo. He pushed his plane to follow. “I think we’re going to lose her.”

Since the helmet was tied into the Whiplash system, Rubeo could command the screen to show him what the Tigershark saw. He did so, then immediately began to regret it — the A–10A was in what looked like a slow motion downward spiral, heading for the ground.

They had not calculated this possibility.

Why?

“The pilot must be semiconscious,” said Terci. “She’s fighting the controls.”

“Yes.”

“If she can level off at ten thousand feet or so, she’ll be fine.”

“What about the second shot?”

“You won’t get it now. Get her to level off.”

“I doubt that will be easy for her to do. How else can we override that system?”

“That’s the only circuit possible, and even that’s iffy.”

Turk looked at the airplane. He had to strike a glancing blow on a plane that was very close to entering a spin. Even lining up to get to the right parameter for the computer to calculate the shot was going to be tough.

There was no other choice.

“I don’t know that I can make the shot, even with the computer’s help,” said Turk.

They were now at 25,000 feet, moving downward in a large but gradually tightening circle. If Ginella was trying to regain control — a theory Turk was dubious about — she wasn’t having any particular success.

The computer’s solution was for the Tigershark to exactly duplicate the Hog’s flight. It was the sort of solution a computer would propose — it saw nothing out of the ordinary, since the impossibility of doing that hadn’t been programmed.

“I can’t follow this course and keep my plane,” Turk told Rubeo. “She’s going to end up in a spin. It’ll get faster and faster. I have to try to stop it, then take the shot.”

“How exactly do you propose to do that?”

“I come in along the wing and tap it. It’ll knock the plane out of the course she’s on.”

“Will it stabilize it?”

“No way — but if I can just get the flight path to straighten out a little, I can take that shot.”

“How do you propose to do this?” said Rubeo sarcastically. “Are you going to reach your hands out?”

“No. I use my wings. It’ll work if I’m careful. I just have to do enough to disrupt the plane.”

“You’re sure?”

It was as much of a long shot as Rubeo’s original solution, even more so. It was very possible he might throw it into an even worse situation. But it was the only thing he could think of to save her. And he knew he had to try.

“Yes,” he told Rubeo, trying to put steel in his voice. “It will work.”

Turk dropped the Tigershark closer to the Hog, ignoring the proximity warning.

Every novice flier has to demonstrate that he or she can recover from an incipient spin before being allowed to do anything very fancy in an airplane. The first few times, the experience is fairly scary, as the sensation of vertigo — and worse, the feeling that you aren’t moving at all — tends to completely unnerve someone new to the cockpit. There is actually considerable time to correct the problem, but only if you go about things methodically, with a clear mind.

Mastering this and other emergency situations isn’t important just because of the danger they represent. Being able to control the aircraft through them instills a critical level of confidence in a novice pilot.

Turk felt like a newbie now. He remembered the leading edge of his first incipient spin. He’d almost panicked — almost, almost, lost it.

The trick had been to let go. Not literally, but mentally — to let go of his fear and self-doubt and trust himself, what he had been taught, what he knew he had to do.

To trust the plane.

It was an important lesson — one you always needed to relearn, especially in the face of mistakes.

But did that lesson really apply here? This was something very different. He trusted himself and his plane — but the A–10E wasn’t his to trust.

Instinct told him to try. There was no other choice.

“Tigershark, we don’t think that’s going to work,” said Rubeo.

“Too late, Doc. I’m already on it.”

He nudged the aircraft closer, trying to merge with the other plane. Turk told the computer to stop its proximity warnings, but his own sense of space held him back. He had to fight against his instincts as he lifted the wing to the left, coming up against the Hog’s.

The Tigershark jerked down as the force of slipstream off the other plane’s wing pushed it away. Turk struggled to control the plane but lost altitude too quickly to stay close. He saw the Hog moving overhead and tried to adjust, shifting to the right for another try.

Do it, he told himself. Do it.

Tap the wing. Throw it off course. Take your shot.

“What?” asked a disembodied voice. “What?”

A woman’s voice… Ginella’s, as if coming out of a dream.

“You’re going into a spin,” he said over the radio, trying to push the Tigershark closer.

“What?” asked the other pilot.

“You need to recover,” said Turk. “You’re at twelve thousand feet and dropping.”

“I… can’t.”

“You can,” said Turk. He backed the Tigershark off. “Your O-two is screwed up.”

“My… oxygen.”

“Recover!”

“I—”

“Do it!”

Turk started to move back, desperate now — he had done so much, to the point of sacrificing his own plane in a desperate attempt to save her.

He had to succeed.

He started to come back.

“Where are you?” Ginella asked.

“I’m nearby. Can you eject?”

“I… eject.”

“Eject.”

“I… I have it. I have it.”

The Hog’s wing steadied. The plane was still moving in a circle, but the flight was sturdier, more under control. Turk took the Tigershark out wider.

“I’m at — I have control,” said Ginella. “I have… control.”

The A–10 recovered, pulling out ahead, then swooping straight and level.

“Do you think you can handle a refuel?” Turk asked. “If we set a course to the tanker?”

“Yes.” Ginella’s voice was still a little shaky.

“You sure?”

“I am not walking home from here, Captain,” she snapped, her voice nasty.

Good, thought Turk. She’s back.

“I need a vector to the tanker,” said Turk, talking to the controller. “I need a vector and a tanker. And get rescue assets.”

The Hog began to climb.

“Stay under eight thousand feet,” he told Ginella. “The lower the better.”

“Copy that. You can rejoin your flight. I have it from here.”

“Just follow me,” Turk told her. “We’re going home.”