Collateral Damage, page 30
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
Over Libya
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
Libya, north of Mizdah
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
Tripoli
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
Over Libya
“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.
