Collateral Damage, page 15
“How do you know?”
Zen controlled his anger. He had enough experience with reporters to know that they often tried to provoke people to get an extreme reaction.
“NATO doesn’t go around targeting civilians. We hope to get to the bottom of what happened, and then fix it so it doesn’t happen again. That’s the committee’s aim.”
Seeing that Zen was taking questions, the other reporters quickly gathered nearby and asked a few of their own. The government minder ran over, but by the time he arrived there were so many other people around that he had a difficult time pushing through the crowd and was in no position to reshape the conversation.
A few of the questions were things Zen couldn’t answer in any detail—what exact aircraft had been in the raid was one he just ignored. But most were thoughtful, and he answered as fully and honestly as he could.
The U.S. was not controlling the investigation. He was an honorary member, willing to help as much as possible. Zongchen, a respected Chinese air force officer as well as diplomat, was a careful man and would sift through the evidence. It was unfortunate that the government of Libya had chosen to take a hard line against the rebels. There was room for a negotiated peace, if the sides would come to the negotiating table.
Zen admitted that he didn’t know the exact ins and outs of the local politics, and would have to defer to others on specific grievances. He was interested in finding out why things had gone wrong with the air attack.
“Was it because the planes were UAVs?” asked the American reporter.
“Assuming that they were—I’m not sure that’s one hundred percent yet—there’s no reason to think the tragedy would have been avoided with a manned plane,” said Zen.
“Really, Senator?”
“Obviously, we have to see the circumstances of the accident,” he said. “But manned planes make mistakes, too. Unfortunately.”
“UAVs seem more dangerous.”
“Not really. UAVs have helped reduce casualties,” Zen answered. “Now some people—pilots especially—long for what are thought of as the good ol’ days, when every aircraft was manned. But remember, back in the very old days, collateral damage was a serious problem. World War Two saw horrendous civilian deaths. We’ve come a long way.”
A voice from the back shouted a question. “Why are robots making the decisions now?”
Zen tried to ignore the question, turning to the right, but the reporter he glanced at asked the same thing.
“I don’t know that they are,” said Zen.
“There have been anonymous reports to that effect,” said the first reporter. “Several news organizations have gotten leaks.”
“I don’t have information on that, so I guess I can’t address it,” said Zen.
“Are the UAVs acting on their own?” asked Storey.
“It’s not a robot rebellion, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Zen. “Men are in the loop.”
“I’ve heard from sources that they are not,” said the reporter in the back.
“I’ve given you pretty much the details I know and can give,” said Zen. He noticed Zongchen standing nearby. “We’re looking into everything. Probably the person you really want to talk to about the committee would be General Zongchen.”
Zongchen gave him a look that said, Thanks a lot.
The reporters began peppering him with questions. Before Zongchen could answer, a rock sailed overhead. Zen looked up and saw several more flying from the direction of the ruins.
Suddenly, there were many rocks in the air.
The riot took Kharon by surprise. He moved to his left, looking for a way out of the crowd.
People surged from the edge of the ruins, pushing toward the thin line of UN soldiers. Clearly, the action had been planned by the government. A foolish, stupid move.
But then, what did they do that wasn’t foolish?
The cameras shifted their aim from the dignitaries to the crowd. The people yelled about killers and murderers, and threw more rocks—they couldn’t quite see the irony.
The journalists moved toward the rock throwers, most thinking they were immune to the violence. Kharon realized they were just as much the target as the dignitaries were—and they didn’t have anyone to protect them.
It was time to leave.
He pocketed his ID and moved quickly back through the ruins, walking at first, then running back to his truck.
Zen made it to the Osprey just as the UN soldiers fired warning shots into the air. He wheeled himself toward the platform but was intercepted by two of the plainclothes security people who had traveled with them but stayed in the background.
“Sorry, Senator. We’re getting you out of here,” said one of the men gruffly. He grabbed him under the arm.
Zen started to protest but realized it was too late—he was half carried, half thrown into the Osprey. The props were already spinning.
“My chair!” he yelled.
No one heard him in the confusion. The door closed and the aircraft veered upward.
Zen crawled to the nearest seat and pulled himself up. Someone helped him turn around.
It was Zongchen.
“This did not go as well as I hoped,” said the Chinese general. He was sweating profusely. His pants were torn and his knee was bleeding.
“No, I would say it didn’t go well at all,” said Zen, wondering how long it would take to find a wheelchair as good as the one he had left behind.
5
Tripoli
The fact that the government thought staging a riot at al-Hayat would have any beneficial effect toward their cause showed just how far removed from reality the leaders were.
Kharon brooded about this on the drive back to the city, worried that the government would collapse before he was able to exact his revenge. If so, years of effort would have been wasted; he would have to begin fresh.
He was so distracted that when they arrived in Tripoli he agreed to pay Fezzan an extra hundred euros to help him carry the box of drives and CPUs up the stairs of the small house he had rented in the western quarter. Taped shut in a cardboard box that had held bags of cashews, the components were neither large nor particularly heavy. Fezzan left as happy as Kharon had ever seen him.
A few minutes after he left, Kharon took the devices from the box and put them in a large, padded suitcase. He went downstairs—he used the building only for his sporadic contacts with Fezzan and other locals—and found his small motorcycle in the alley at the back. He tied the suitcase to the rear fender with a pair of bungee cords, put on a helmet to obscure his face, then set out on a zigzag trail through the city.
His paranoia poked at him a few blocks later, when he came to an intersection blocked by police vehicles. Officially neutral like the city, the Tripoli police were generally considered pro-rebel, though you could never tell whose side they were on. And given Kharon’s situation, either could instantly decide he was their enemy.
But the police were investigating a routine traffic accident, and waved him past as he approached.
Kharon drove to the dense residential districts north of Third Ring Road. After making sure he wasn’t being followed, he pulled down an alley and raced toward a building at the far end. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a garage door opener and pressed the button in the middle. Then he hit the brakes, skidding under the thick branches of several trees as he turned into a bay whose door was just opening. He took the turn so hard that he had to steady himself with his foot on the cement floor, half crashing to a halt.
He jerked his head back and forth, making sure he was alone. Then he hopped away from the bike and went to the empty workbench a few feet away. Reaching under it, he found a key taped to the underside. He used it to open the circuit breaker box above the bench just as the door opener’s automatic lights turned off. With his fingers, he hunted until he found the switch at the very bottom of the panel. He threw it to off, and then, still in the dark, walked to the side of the room and found the light switch.
When the lights came on, he glanced to the right, looking for the red light connected to his security system. The light stayed off. No one had been inside since his last visit.
Kharon went to the door to the garage and opened it. He glanced around the small room, making sure it was empty. Then he went back outside to the garage and the power panel, turned the breaker back on, and went inside.
The garage was the side end of a small workshop used as a sewing factory some years before. All of the machinery had been removed, a perfect place for Kharon to set up shop had he wanted. But he had decided it could be too easily surrounded; he used it only as a temporary staging area.
Inside the large room, he retrieved a touchscreen computer hidden in a small compartment beneath the tile floor. He activated it, then used it to interface with the security system, running a second check to make sure it had not been compromised. Satisfied, he pulled a large duffel bag from the compartment, replaced the tile, and went back to the garage, where he put the CPU drives in the bag. Then he locked down the building and went out through a side door.
An hour later Kharon carried the duffel bag down the steps of a lab building at Tripoli University to the subbasement where the utilities were kept. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, listening to hear if anyone was following. Then he slipped a thin plastic shim into the doorjamb to get around the lock. He stepped into a corridor lined with large pipes. Closing the door, he found himself completely in the dark.
The confined space stoked his claustrophobia. His hand began to shake as he reached for the small flashlight in his pocket.
It’s nothing, he told himself. Nothing.
But that didn’t stop his hand from shaking. Kharon’s fingers finally found the light. He switched it on and played it across the space in front of him.
Breathe.
He took a step forward, then turned back and made sure the door was locked. Lifting the duffel onto his shoulder, he walked swiftly to the end of the hall, where he found a set of steps leading off to his right. He went down cautiously, one hand tight on the rail. Then he ducked under another set of large pipes and electrical conduits and walked through an open space to another door. This one led to a second hallway, lit by a dull yellow light at the far end.
There was a door near the light, guarded by a combination lock. Kharon pounded the numbers quickly, pushing inside as the lock snapped open. Still breathing hard, he reached for the two switches to the left. One killed the light outside; the other turned on a set of daylight fluorescents that lined the ceiling.
The light helped him relax. He was inside a hidden lab complex that was once part of the Libyan effort to build a nuclear weapon. It had been abandoned for years when Kharon stumbled upon it.
He walked through what had been a large security/reception area. There was a lab room at the far end, guarded by another coded lock. Inside, he found his two workstations in sleep mode just as he had left them.
After making sure that his security had not been breached, Kharon unpacked his boxes and began downloading the information from the hard drives into his native system. While the drives spun, he booted a third computer that was tied into the university’s mainframes. He used it to get onto the Internet and scan the news relating to Libya.
Most of the stories about the riot either hinted that it had been staged or said so outright.
Idiot government.
The commission had returned to Tripoli. They said all the right things—the accident had been inexcusable, the loss of life was horrible.
And the questions he had asked about the autonomous drones?
Not even mentioned. The reporters were too stupid to understand what was going on.
Frustrated, Kharon began scanning stories from several days before, looking to see if the tips he’d planted had borne fruit. Rubio’s name didn’t even come up in the stories related to the incident.
Kharon leaned his elbow on the bench in front of the keyboard. He put his chin against his hand, then bit his index finger. He bit it so hard and so long that when he finally let go, his finger was white.
Embarrass Rubeo? Ruin him?
Hardly.
He was going to have to just kill him and be done with it.
6
Sicily
Following their return to base and the formal debrief, Turk joined Shooter Squadron at their second ready room—the hotel lounge at the Sicilian Inn a few miles from the base. The seaside resort had been taken over by the allies, and the bar was filled with fliers from several member countries: Greece, France, a few Brits, and even some Germans. The pilots from Shooter Squadron commandeered a table on the terrace overlooking the beach and the sea. It was a brilliant night, with the stars twinkling and the moon so massive and yellow it looked as if it had been PhotoShopped in.
Grizzly and most of the others were still sick, but two pilots Turk had never met before came down to join them, Captain Frank Gordon from San Francisco, and the squadron’s junior pilot, Lieutenant Li Pike, a woman who had joined the Hog squadron just a few weeks before.
There was plenty of the usual joking around, but there was also a serious conversation on the rebel movement and the role of the allies as well. Pike, who had a degree in international relations, pointed out that this was the second time around for the allies—the first intervention, almost universally hailed when it ousted Gaddafi, had resulted in a terrible regime that was now itself being contested. In her opinion, intervention of any sort was futile; the locals should have been left to fend for themselves.
Paulson countered that just because things hadn’t worked out in the first place, there was no reason to give up—try, try again was more or less his motto.
“Ah, waste ’em all,” groused Beast, reaching for his beer. “Shoot ’em up and go home.”
“Do you really feel that way?” asked Pike. She had a sweet, almost innocent face—pretty, thought Turk.
“That’s how I feel, shit yeah. Doin’ good? Almost got us killed today. Turk had to blow a missile off his back.”
“Almost flew his Hog into the dirt,” said Paulson. “That would have been embarrassing. Dreamland hotshot kicks in the desert because he oversticks his plane.”
Turk was starting not to like Paulson very much, but he tried taking the ribbing good-naturedly. Objecting was the easiest way to guarantee it would continue.
“I have to say, the Hog goes where you point it,” he told the others. “Very nice aircraft.”
“Sure your muscles haven’t atrophied?” asked Paulson.
“I can still make a fist,” said Turk.
“I’m just jokin’ with ya, Captain,” sneered Paulson, getting up and heading toward the bar.
“Do you believe in intervention?” asked Pike.
“I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest,” Turk told her, grateful for the chance to change the subject.
“So what’s the F–40 like?” asked Beast.
“It’s interesting. Some days you forget you’re really in an airplane. It’s real smooth.”
“I don’t think I’d like that,” said Li.
“You get used to it.”
“They blame you for the accident?” asked Beast.
“No. That’s one good thing about all the systems they have in place for monitoring everything. They can see exactly what I did.”
“You think they’ll figure it out?” asked Li. “Soon, I mean.”
“I hope they don’t,” said Ginella, returning to the table after speaking with one of the French fliers. “Because it means we have our friend Turk here for a little bit.”
“You’re staying?” Li asked.
“Well . . .”
“Captain Mako can stay until we have our full complement back,” said Ginella. “As far as I’m concerned, he can stay forever.”
“I’m glad to be here,” said Turk.
The mood lightened as Ginella told a story she’d just heard from the Frenchmen. Turk watched Li, whose expression remained serious the whole time.
The more he watched her, the more beautiful she seemed to become. Her light tan skin was smooth and exotic in the dim light of the club. Her eyes sparkled.
Turk looked away whenever he suspected she was going to turn in his direction. She caught him once and smiled.
He tried to smile back, but he was sure that he must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Paulson returned with a fresh round of drinks. He started bragging about how well he’d done in some Gunsmoke competition a year before. He seemed to be playing to Li, who sipped her drink coolly and avoided looking in his direction.
Turk got up and went over to the window, looking out at the sea. He was starting to feel tired. Everything that had happened over the past few days had worn him down. He decided he ought to find a ride back to his own hotel.
A pair of French pilots came over and introduced themselves. It turned out they’d been nearby when Turk shot down the Mirages, and asked him to recount the engagement. He did so gladly, using his hands to show the different paths the antagonists had taken.
“It was over in less than two minutes,” he said. “I had to be lined up perfectly.”
“He is quite a pilot, isn’t he?” said Ginella, coming over. She threw her hand around his shoulder. “A real ace.”
“Well, not so much an ace,” said Turk.
“You need five planes to be an ace,” said one of the Frenchmen, citing the traditional tally for the honor.
His companion mentioned Célestin Adolphe Pégoud, the French World War One pilot who had first earned the title. Turk confessed that while he had heard of the pilot, he didn’t know much about him. The other man described him as an early test pilot—Pégoud had looped a Blériot monoplane before the war, by legend and common agreement the first man to do so.
