Collateral Damage, page 26
7
Sicily
Turk was on his way to the base when Danny Freah called him on his cell phone and told him to report to him ASAP.
“What’s up, Colonel?” asked Turk.
“We’ll discuss it when you get here.”
Danny’s tone made it clear that he should expect trouble, so when Turk walked into his office, he wasn’t surprised by the colonel’s stoic face—Freah’s standard expression when things were going sour. The colonel wasn’t a shouter—Turk couldn’t remember him ever raising his voice. But in many ways his silent, unspoken disapproval was far worse.
“Have a seat, Captain,” said Danny. He was sitting at a computer screen, and after giving Turk a brief but meaningful glare, turned back and resumed typing.
The wait was excruciating, but Turk knew the best thing to do was wait for the colonel to speak. Danny’s keystrokes seemed to become harsher as he typed. Finally he was done. He sat back from the computer, crossed his arms, and swiveled in his seat.
“Half the NATO command thinks you are an irresponsible pilot willing to fire on civilians—” started Danny.
Turk cut him off. “No way.”
“You had to be ordered several times not to open fire on civilian vehicles.”
“I—I didn’t shoot.”
“And then there are people who think you withheld fire because you’re afraid of hitting anything.”
“What?”
Unfolding his arms, Danny reached across his desk for a piece of paper.
Turk took it and started to read. It was an e-mail detailing part of an after-action report about the A–10E “incident.”
. . . despite having been cleared because of the earlier engagement, Captain Mako erroneously held fire. A few moments later there was a flash from the ground. The flash was the launch of an SA–14, fired from the group Captain Mako had passed. The missile or its shrapnel struck Shooter Three on the right side, disabling the engine and much of the control surfaces . . .
“That’s bullshit,” said Turk. “That’s total bullshit. Who’s saying this?”
“Check the heading.”
The e-mail was from Colonel Ernesto.
“Ginella said this? No, no way. No way,” sputtered Turk. “I couldn’t assume that I was cleared to fire—that’s totally missing the intent of the ROEs. Even if I saw a weapon—”
“Did you see a weapon?”
“No,” Turk insisted. “No. If I had seen a weapon, then—”
He stopped short. If he had seen a weapon, he would have fired. Even if it was a kid.
He would have, wouldn’t he?
“She’s giving me a heads-up as a courtesy,” said Danny. “She said there may be an explanation, and she’s not putting anything in writing until she talks to you.”
Turk felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He had a feeling this had nothing to do with the incident itself, but rather Li.
Damn.
“Colonel, I swear. No one in that group was armed. I would have seen a missile launcher. I looked. I really looked.”
“How fast were you going?” Danny asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Three hundred knots?”
“No.” Turk shook his head. “It would have been a lot slower than that.”
“A hundred?”
“That’s stall speed. A little faster.” Turk shook his head. “Colonel, I know what I saw.”
Danny frowned.
“You can’t let her say that. It makes me look like . . . a coward.”
“It’s not up to me what she says.”
Turk knew the e-mail was meant as blackmail. But he couldn’t tell Danny that.
“You have to believe me. That’s not what happened,” he said. “They’re saying crap about me because I’m not a member of the squadron. And for the record—I told Grizzly to break the other way. He turned right into it. It was dumb, not his fault, but . . . I mean—”
Danny put up his hand. “She’s the one you have to talk to.”
Turk shook his head.
“Are you saying you don’t want to talk to her?” asked Danny.
“No—I’ll talk to her. I’ll talk to her.”
“You want me to come with you?”
That wasn’t going to work.
“It’s all right. Thanks.”
“In the meantime, you’re not flying for anybody but Whiplash. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. That’s fine.”
Danny watched Turk leave the office. He felt bad for the kid—Ginella’s e-mail was extremely harsh, even without the very strict rules of engagement they were operating under.
Technically, she was within her rights to go through with a report criticizing Turk. If she did, Danny would make sure it was countered somehow.
Still, the damage would be done. Better for Turk to talk her out of it himself.
On the other hand, was her implication correct—had Turk missed the weapon? Had he seen it and dismissed it? It couldn’t have just appeared suddenly.
Between that and the incident with the trucks, which the air commander had mentioned to him earlier, it seemed like the pilot was unduly stressed.
Understandable, he thought. He’d been there himself.
Paulson was standing in the outer office when Turk came in.
“Here’s the Dreamland hotshot who nearly got Grizzly killed,” said Paulson when he saw Turk in the hall. “Thanks a lot.”
“Fuck you,” snapped Turk.
“You gonna slug me?” asked Paulson.
Turk was sorely tempted.
“Mr. Paulson, that will do,” said Ginella, coming to the doorway.
“We’re all grounded, you know,” Paulson told Turk. “Nice going, hotshot.”
Turk felt his face warm.
“We’re taking a breather, Captain,” Ginella told Paulson. “Captain Mako, why don’t you step into my office?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Turk went to the chair quickly and sat down. He watched Ginella close her door, then walk over to her desk.
She was all business. That was a relief.
Or was it?
“I understand you were out with Captain Pike last night,” said Ginella, sitting down.
“We went to dinner.”
“Had a good meal?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
“Listen—”
“I just spoke to Colonel Freah on the phone,” said Ginella. “He showed you the e-mail, I understand.”
“Yes, and it’s bullshit,” said Turk.
“Is it, Captain?”
“Absolutely. I told you what happened.”
“If you didn’t miss the missile, where did it come from?”
“I don’t know.” Turk clenched his fists, then struggled to unknot them. “I—it wasn’t on that hill when I passed. There’s no way it came from that hill.”
“No way?”
“No. Maybe somebody climbed up there after I passed,” said Turk. “I don’t think so—it wasn’t with the kids.”
“You don’t think they might have hidden the missile launcher somewhere?”
She was pushing this ridiculously hard. Turk wondered when she would drop the charade.
And what would he do then?
“Well? Could it have been hidden?” she asked.
“Maybe,” said Turk reluctantly.
“I see.”
Ginella’s eyes bored into him. Turk tried to hold her stare but found he just couldn’t. He blinked, looked down at the floor, then back up.
“You’re worried that if the report is written this way, it’ll hurt your career,” said Ginella.
“It’s not the truth. That’s my concern.”
“Understood. You can go, Captain.”
“Are you going to change it?”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”
“But—”
“Dismissed, Captain. I don’t need you in the squadron anymore. Thank you for your help.”
“Listen, this is all—”
Ginella stared at him. What was she thinking? Was she actually trying to blackmail him? Or was she just being a tough commander? Grizzly thought he’d screwed up—maybe she was just taking his word over his own.
Most squadron leaders would let it go. On the other hand, if she really thought he had messed up, she did have a duty to press him on it.
But . . .
“What is it you want to say, Turk?” Ginella asked.
“I—I just want to say that I know what I saw.”
“I’ll take it into consideration.”
Unsure what else to do, Turk started to leave.
“One last thing, Turk,” said Ginella as he opened the door. “It’s always best to answer your phone.”
It took every ounce of his self-control not to slam the door on the way out.
8
al-Hayat
Rubeo hadn’t known exactly what to expect from the families hurt in the attack, but he thought he would see some outer sign of grief or at least chaos; if not direct mourning, then some sadness or grim resolve. But the family the boys took him to see were cheerful, happy, and grateful to have visitors.
Which was strange, because there were eight of them crammed into what looked like a 1960s travel trailer, the sort that would be used back in the States only as a derelict hunting shack, if not the target on a shooting range.
Two of the family members—the mother and a girl about three years old—had been wounded in the bombing, which damaged one wall of their house. The mother had a cast on her arm and her head was bandaged. The little girl’s leg was in a cast. They spoke freely about the accident, telling Lawson—he had instantly made friends, with the help of the boys—about the disaster.
Rubeo listened attentively, interested in every detail. The sudden explosion, the darkness from the cloud, the grit falling down, the surge of fire—listening somehow made the strike more scientific to him, more real. If it was real, it could be understood more readily.
Curious neighbors began gathering outside. Jons was getting more and more agitated. He’d posted Abas and the Filipinos a short distance away, with their guns out, but the team would be very easily overcome if a large crowd gathered and became hostile.
“What about the other day?” Rubeo asked the woman. He made Halit translate. “Ask her about the riot.”
“Thieves hired by the government. Many of them soldiers,” said Halit.
Rubeo looked at Lawson. “More or less, I think,” he told him.
“Find out if they have a bank account,” said Rubeo.
“I can tell you without asking, they don’t,” said Halit.
“Look around,” said Jons. “These people don’t have anything.”
Rubeo dug into his pocket for his roll. He unfolded ten ten-euro notes.
“See if you can find some contact information,” he told Halit. Then he bent toward the grandmother and slipped the money into her hand.
“I have to go,” he said as she stared wide-eyed at the bills.
“What are you going to do?” Jons asked a few minutes later in the truck as they left the village, heading west in the direction of the missile site.
“We’ll find the people who were victims,” said Rubeo, “and get them new homes.”
“The allies will handle compensation.”
“What I do is independent of the government.”
“Ray, this is not a good place.”
“I’m not going to stay here and do it myself, Levon. You needn’t worry.”
“Yeah, OK, good. It’s not a horrible idea.”
Jons, clearly relieved, checked his mirrors quickly. They were in the lead, their escorts a few dozen yards behind.
“It’s just going to be tough to figure out who truly deserves it, you know?” added Jons. “Once word gets out. Especially here, with the government crumbling. Everybody’s going to have their hand out.”
“It doesn’t look particularly endangered to me,” said Rubeo.
“Don’t fool yourself. They don’t have much of a grip. Things can turn around in an instant.”
Rubeo looked out at the countryside, a vast roll of undulating sand. The encounter with the families had taken his mind off the problem of the UAV and what had gone wrong.
He wondered why he hadn’t thought of helping the people before. It was an obvious thing to do.
Dog was right. That was why he suggested I come. He didn’t say it, because he knew I would only appreciate it if I reached the conclusion myself.
So good at giving others advice, at balancing their problems against the world’s. But he couldn’t overcome his own demon.
His loss was far greater than theirs.
“I want to go back to the radar site,” Rubeo told Jons. “There are two other structures I need to look at. I want to see what’s in there.”
“Inside them?”
“Yes. I need to know if they have equipment in them.”
Jons frowned.
“You think that’s a problem?” asked Rubeo.
“It’s a big problem. We’ll never get inside there. I don’t even want to go close—they’ll be on their guard after finding the two UAVs. We can’t, Ray. Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t considering marching up to the gate and demanding access,” Rubeo told him.
What he had in mind, however, was every bit as dangerous—they would sneak in from the south side of the facility, go to the building, and inspect it firsthand. Ten minutes inside each should be enough to eliminate the possibility of anything having been beamed from it. Once that was done, he could pursue what he saw as the more promising theory. But interference had to be ruled out first.
“You’re not going in,” said Jons. “If I have to physically hold you back, you’re not going in.”
“Of course not. And I’m not going to risk you either. I intend to send a pair of bots in,” Rubeo told him. “All we need is someone to get them past the fence.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please—there are dozens of people who live in that little hamlet. None of them can be bribed to change places with someone?”
“Well, that we might be able to arrange.”
“Good.” Rubeo took out his phone and called up a satellite map. “There’s a road ahead to the right that gets lost in the desert about two hundred yards north. If you are careful, we can drive across the desert and completely miss the gate. It’ll save us considerable time.”
“I don’t think we need to be in a hurry.”
“I do. The plane with the bots will land in Tripoli in four hours. We don’t need to be there, but I don’t want to wait too long before we retrieve them. Besides, if we get there quickly, we can get back in time to finish the probe by first light tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll agree that the sooner we’re out of this hellhole the better.”
9
al-Hayat
He’d missed him.
Kharon thumped his fist against the dashboard. He was tempted to yell at Fezzan, who’d taken so long getting them here, but he held his anger in check, not least of all because the two men in the back of the SUV were the driver’s friends. He barely trusted them with weapons under the best of circumstances.
Meanwhile, the boy who told him that the Americans had left stood trembling by the car window, frozen in place by Kharon’s retort at hearing the news.
“Are they coming back?” Kharon managed to ask.
The boy quickly shook his head.
“Go,” said Kharon, dropping a few coins in front of the boy. “Go.”
He rolled up the window. Rubeo had moved much more quickly than he had expected. But of course—this wasn’t a fantasy anymore, this was reality. And the reality was that Rubeo was very, very good. Kharon couldn’t afford to be sloppy, to play the child. He was a man and needed to act and think that way.
“What should I do?” asked Fezzan. “Where are we to go?”
“Find a place for them to eat,” said Kharon, jerking his thumb. “Not too expensive.”
The car bumped along to the north end of town. Fezzan drove as if he knew exactly where he was going, but Kharon could never really tell with him. Like many of the people he dealt with, the Libyan was an excellent bluffer.
Kharon had hoped to catch Rubeo in the ruins—it would have been easy to separate him from his bodyguards, especially with the others to help. The plan to embarrass him had been abandoned. It was too ambitious, and he had lost his patience besides. At this point he wanted only to kill and be done with life completely.
His anger had grown exponentially since the chance meeting in the hotel. Why was that? What alchemy had caused his anger to become so insane?
He was capable of recognizing that it wasn’t rational, yet powerless to do anything about it. He couldn’t blame it on any fresh insults or indignities; nothing compared to the death of his mother.
The restaurant was located in the ground floor of a small office building. There was a small crowd of people outside, perhaps a dozen, waiting to get in.
“Very popular place,” said Fezzan. “Come. We will get in.”
“You know the owner?” Kharon asked.
“I know what he likes.”
Yes, of course, thought Kharon. Money. For enough, the man would undoubtedly kick out his own mother.
Kharon’s phone buzzed as he got out of the car. It was Foma.
“Go ahead,” he told the others. “I have to take this.”
Kharon handed Fezzan a few bills, then walked a few steps away and held the phone to his ear.
“This is Kharon.”
“Where are you?” asked Foma.
“Running an errand in the south.”
