Collateral Damage, page 14
Kharon wasn’t here to admire it. He took a small LED flashlight from his pocket and moved quickly to a console at the far end of the trailer.
Two hard drive enclosures sat atop metal gridwork just below a radar console. The drives were held in place by a small plastic bracket at the side. He pushed the long handle in, swung the arm out of the way, and then picked up the first drive.
Wires at the back stopped him after a foot and a half. He undid the wires—the connections were the same as those used on Ethernet cables—then scooped out the second drive and did the same.
The trailer was extremely hot. So much sweat poured down his hands that he thought he was going to drop the two boxes. He went over to the door, leaning out to catch his breath. He dropped to his knees, resting for a few moments. Then he backed into the trailer, moving on all fours.
There was a small tool kit on the second console on the right side. He found it, removed it, then made his way to the back.
There was a CPU unit under the bench against the back wall. He couldn’t see one of the bolts holding it to the floor and had to squirrel around with his hand to get the wrench on it. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the one bolt off. By the time he was done he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He dragged the CPU out, yanking the cords out of the panel. They were superfluous at this point anyway.
He was so exhausted when he put the gear into the Jeep that he considered leaving the other drives in the second trailer. But he needed all the data, and so he pulled himself together. He went back to his vehicle and drank half of his bottle of water. Feeling a little better, he went to the other trailer.
This time the lock was easy. He pulled it off the latch, then jerked the door open. As he did, he turned and saw the eastern horizon had turned gray. White clouds furrowed above.
A sandstorm was approaching.
He pushed into the trailer and closed the door. A howl rose in the distance.
The drives were located in the opposite side in the trailer, along with a small flash memory box he also needed to retrieve. He had them ready within a few minutes.
Back at the door, Kharon stopped when he heard what sounded like pebbles slapping against it. The storm had arrived, and it was a fierce one.
Going out in the sandstorm was not advisable. Kharon put the devices down and sat in the center aisle, listening to the wind as it whipped the sides of the trailer. He played the flashlight’s narrow beam around the interior of the trailer, trying to trick himself into thinking it was massive.
He hated dark, confined places. They reminded him of the closet he hid in the night they came to tell him that his mother had died.
His hands shook.
Kharon turned off the light and tucked his head down. He was well protected from the storm, and yet felt that it was enveloping him, as if he was its prisoner and there was no escape.
He’d known who they were and what they wanted. At nine years old, he was precocious in many ways. And it didn’t take much to guess something was very wrong.
His mother never left him for long without calling. That night, she was already several hours late, without any word, without even a note.
Home from school, he had done his homework and waited. When it was an hour past dinner time, he fed himself a sandwich, the only thing he knew how to make. He watched the cartoon channel after that—a special privilege ordinarily reserved only for days like his birthday or holidays or times when he was sick.
Then he spent an hour at the window, his fears and worries becoming so strong he could no longer keep them away.
Another hour. Two more.
A dark blue sedan pulled up. Two men in uniform got out.
He ran to the closet, knowing what had happened, hoping that if he didn’t let them in the house, everything would be all right.
But it wasn’t. His mother had died, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Until now.
Huddled in the dark, Kharon tried to clear his mind of the memories. He put his head down on his knees, eyes closed. He believed in science, not God, but even he felt the moment as something like a prayer—let it stop.
When it didn’t, he thought of Ray Rubeo.
He saw Rubeo’s thin face, his ascetic frame. He saw the sneer in his eyes—Kharon loathed that sneer.
I will do you in.
Whatever it takes. I will ruin you.
It took a half hour for the storm to pass. Grit covered everything outside.
Kharon, back to himself, put the drives in the jeep and headed back to the city.
He called Fezzan and told him to have the car waiting near the Red Sand Hotel, a place where they had stayed before.
“You want to drive north tonight?” asked Fezzan. Clearly, he didn’t want to.
“That would be ideal.” Driving at night through the desert did entail some risk, but in Kharon’s experience it wasn’t much more than during the day.
“There are many reporters in town,” said the Libyan idly. “They are all talking about going to al-Hayat tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“The commission investigating the bombing accident will be there. They have experts coming along. Americans and French.”
“Americans? Who?”
“I can ask. It didn’t come up.”
“Interesting,” said Kharon.
“Should I get rooms?”
“I don’t know that al-Hayat would be of any interest to me.”
“Most reporters are going. If you want people to think you are a reporter—”
“Thank you, Ahmed. When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”
“Just a suggestion.”
Of course he was right. There was no sense being pigheaded—this was an opportunity.
“Get the rooms,” Kharon told Fezzan. “Two of them. Make sure you get a good rate.”
“I’ll be in the bar when you get back,” said Fezzan.
Like a good Muslim, thought Kharon, hanging up.
3
Sicily
Danny Freah rubbed his tired eyes, trying to clear the fatigue away. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to Africa,” he told Rubeo. “Nobody can guarantee your safety.”
“People go back and forth between Libya all the time. Westerners generally aren’t harmed.” Rubeo rocked back and forth, as if he was having a hard time keeping himself contained in the small office. Danny couldn’t remember seeing the scientist more animated. “I don’t really need your permission, Colonel.”
“I don’t know about that. I am in charge of Whiplash,” said Danny.
“Really, Colonel, you have no rank to pull over me. If you’re not going to help me, I’ll go on my own. I have Jons, and other people to call on. Really, Colonel, I have given this some thought. I need to see the crash site and the environs if I’m to figure out what happened.”
“All right, listen. Give me a little time. I’ll figure something out, something that gives you some protection. Beyond your own team,” Danny added. “It won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest. I’ll have to arrange an escort.”
“I think it would be better to travel without the UN people.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. We’ll have more of our people here tomorrow,” Danny said. “Right now, it’s just me and Boston.”
“I don’t need an entourage.”
“Two troopers and an Osprey to get you around quickly. You can’t argue with that.”
Rubeo looked as if he could, but he pressed his lips together and said nothing. Danny half expected him to ask for the Osprey now, but he had a ready answer—he had loaned both to the UN commission investigating the bomb strike.
“Do you really think you’re the best one to go?” he asked Rubeo. “You have a dozen people over here looking into the incident—”
“Two dozen,” corrected Rubeo. “Plus the team that was here to begin with. But yes, I do think it’s a good use of my time. If one of your people had been involved in an accident or something similar, you’d want to investigate firsthand, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Conceding, Danny leaned back in the seat and changed the subject.
“You know, Doc, I think sometimes accidents like this—and even blue-on-blue incidents . . .” He stumbled for the right words. “These things are terrible, but you know, you have to put them in perspective.”
“I’m trying to,” said Rubeo, rising to leave.
4
al-Hayat
The black scorches on the walls looked as if they had been painted on, a kind of postmodern expressionism as interpreted by the god of fire.
The rubble in front of them was less poetic. What had once been a row of houses was now flattened stone, wood, and scraps of material too charred to recognize. The stench of death still hung in the air. The government could not have arranged a better scene if they had staged it.
Kharon was amazed at the damage the missiles had done. He had seen the results of the war firsthand before, but everything else paled compared to this.
The government said sixteen people had been killed and another twenty wounded. If anything, the number seemed miraculously low.
He curled his arms around his chest, suddenly cold. The slightest, very slightest, hint of grief poked at the very edge of his conscience. But it was more a rumor of remorse, less actual guilt or regret than an unease. It was easily ignored.
Two dozen reporters, most of them Western freelancers, had been admitted to the area by the government troops in anticipation of the special UN investigation commission’s arrival. Kharon’s phony credentials were more than enough to get him past the guards. They hadn’t even bothered to search him, though he had thought it prudent to leave his weapon back with Fezzan in the truck at the edge of town.
He’d seen a few of the reporters in Tripoli. He nodded at anyone who said hello, but kept to himself as much as possible. There was always the possibility that someone might start asking too many questions about his credentials. If necessary, he could mention the German and the Australian Web sites which he had legitimately sold stories to, but anyone who really dug would come up with questions.
Even a simple one could be devastating: What did you do before Libya?
When he first arrived in Libya, he was surprised at how few of the reporters actually spoke Arabic. He was also surprised at how little they knew of the actual conflict. And he was stunned at how lazy most of them actually were. Not that they weren’t willing to risk their lives—that, most had no trouble with. But nearly all settled for the first answer they got. And most would sooner walk barefoot in the desert than question the simple dichotomy they had arrived with: rebels good, government bad.
This story, at least, promised to make things a little more complicated.
The government had posted “facilitators” at different spots around the ruins. While their function was essentially that of press agents, Kharon suspected that they were high-ranking officers in the army or other government officials, well-trusted and dependable. He listened as one detailed the lives of the three people who had been killed in the building a few yards away. The man, a middle-aged Libyan, handed out glossy photos of the dead bodies with an enthusiasm that would have seemed more appropriate at a movie preview.
The government’s interior minister was overseeing the press briefing, preening for the cameras as he talked about how the civilians were going about their everyday lives when the American plane struck.
Almost on cue, a pair of aircraft appeared in the distance. They sounded a bit like helicopters, but as Kharon stared he realized they were American V–22 Ospreys, tilt-rotor aircraft that flew like planes but landed like helicopters.
“The UN commission is arriving,” said the minister in his heavily accented English. “They are going to land in the field across the way. Please give them room to arrive. We assume that they are unarmed.”
Some of the reporters sniggered.
Kharon’s heart began pumping hard in his chest. Some of the reports he had seen overnight indicated that the Americans had assigned technical experts to accompany the investigators.
Was Rubeo among them?
He thought it was very possible. The scientist was a control freak. He would insist on seeing something like this firsthand.
If Rubeo came himself, Kharon would stay back and avoid the temptation to confront him. It would be difficult, though, extremely difficult.
Kharon wanted to see the pain on his face.
Then, he would kill him. But first he needed to know that he had suffered.
Zen glanced at Zongchen as the Osprey settled. The former Chinese air force general had seemed visibly nervous the entire flight. Now as the rotors swung upward and the aircraft descended he clutched the armrests at the side of his seat for dear life.
It was funny what made some people nervous.
“A little different than flying in a J–20, eh, General?” Zen asked as they gently touched down.
“Very different,” said Zongchen, with evident relief. “There, I am in control. Here, very different.”
As the crewmen headed for the door, Zen unstrapped his wheelchair and pushed it into the aisle. The maneuver into the seat was tricky, but Zongchen held the back of the wheelchair for him.
“You notice that my chair just fits down the aisle at the front,” Zen told the general.
“Yes, very convenient.”
“They did that especially for me.”
It was a white lie, actually, but it amused the general. Zen rolled over to the door. A lift had been tasked to get him down; it rolled up, and after a bit of maneuvering and a few shouts back and forth, the plane crew turned him over to the lift operator.
Zen held himself steady as the ramp descended. It was the sort of thing workmen used while working on buildings, and it had only a single safety rail at the front. It moved down unsteadily—truly, it was scarier than almost anything he’d experienced in an airplane for quite a while.
“Do you get tired of being in a wheelchair?” Zongchen asked when they were both on the ground.
“Always,” admitted Zen.
The crowd of news people seemed to have tripled since the Ospreys first appeared in the sky. Kharon wondered about the security—there were plenty of government soldiers around, but they seemed more focused on holding back the local villagers than watching the reporters.
Kharon slipped toward the front of the group. His heart thumped in his throat. He regretted leaving the gun.
Relax, he told himself. Just relax.
The UN team had brought security with them—a dozen soldiers, all with blue helmets, fanned out from the first Osprey, along with a few plainclothes agents. All of the dignitaries seemed to be in the second aircraft.
There was one in a wheelchair.
Kharon wasn’t quite close enough to see his face, but he guessed that it must be Jeff Stockard, the former Dreamland pilot who was now a United States senator.
Zen.
His mother had told him stories about Zen. He was “just” a star pilot then, before his accident and struggle turned him into something approaching a national hero.
A real hero, whom even Kharon admired. Not a phony legend like Rubeo.
A wave of damp sadness settled over Kharon. Zen had been at his mother’s funeral. He remembered shaking the pilot’s hand.
“We all loved your mom,” he said.
Rubeo hadn’t even spoken to him.
Kharon craned his neck, trying to see if the scientist was with the UN committee. He spotted someone of about the right height and moved up in the line, bumping against one of the armed guards before realizing that it wasn’t Rubeo.
“Back,” said the soldier. He was Pakistani, wearing his regular uniform below the blue helmet and armband.
“Sorry.”
Kharon shifted back, joining the throng of reporters as they followed the commission walking up the road to the ruins. There was a light breeze; every so often a burst of wind would send grit in their faces.
As a fighter pilot, Zen had the luxury of distancing himself from the effects of ground war. Rarely had he seen firsthand damage to anything other than an airplane.
Now it was all around him.
It was horrific. While the government guide was a bit heavy-handed, there was no question that the bombs sent by the Sabre had inflicted a terrible toll.
Zen reminded himself that the government, too, was to blame. It was inflicting a heavy toll on the populace, robbing and stealing from the people. In the roughly two years it had been in power, thousands of people were imprisoned without trial. The new leaders were repeating many of the outrages that had flourished under Gaddafi.
But that didn’t make this any less tragic.
He wheeled slowly along, gradually falling behind the main pack as they moved along the sides of the battered buildings.
“Excuse me, are you Senator Stockard?” shouted one of the journalists trailing them.
The man had an American accent. Zen debated whether to ignore him, but finally decided it was better to speak.
“Yes, I am,” Zen told him.
“I’m Greg Storey from AP. I’m interested, Senator—what’s your impression?”
“It’s terrible,” said Zen. “A horrible accident.”
“The government is claiming that it was done on purpose, as a terrorist act.”
“That’s clearly not what happened,” said Zen.
