by Jim DeFelice
Rubeo glanced at the television. The talking heads were pontificating about the dangers of drones and the inevitability of “disasters.”
“What about the decline in collateral damage brought on by smart weapons?” Rubeo asked the screen. “What about the ability to empirically correct problems in the machines, unlike intractable human error?”
He flipped the television off.
What sort of thing did VGNet want young Kharon to do for them? His graduate work, if Rubeo recalled correctly, had to do with systems integration relating to intelligence.
Or was he wrong?
He’d look it up in the morning. And check on VGNet — they had a lab in southern Italy, obviously, but where?
He really should pay more attention to his competitors and potential competitors. Now, though, he needed sleep. He had to leave for the airport at four, and it was already past one.
Two and a half hours of sleep. About his norm when traveling. Rubeo pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed.
12
Sicily
Zen sat in the secure communications room, sipping his coffee and thinking about his daughter, Teri. More than anything in the world, he wanted to talk to her about baseball, one of their morning routines.
An odd thing. A decade and a half ago, back at Dreamland, he never would have thought he would have preferred speaking to his little girl rather than the President of the United States.
“I’m sorry for the interruption, Zen,” said the President, coming back to the video screen. “Some days the schedule just gets ahead of itself.”
“I understand, Madam President.”
“I think there’s no downside in proceeding,” said National Security Advisor Michael Blitz, who was sitting next to her in the secure communications center in the White House basement. “At least at this point. Naturally, down the road, it could all blow up in our face.”
“I don’t like the idea of nonprofessionals conducting these sorts of talks.” Alistair Newhaven, the Secretary of State, shook his head as if he’d just come out of a pool and was getting rid of excess water. Zen didn’t know Newhaven very well, and what he did know of him he didn’t like. “This is a very sensitive and dangerous area.”
“No offense intended for the senator, I’m sure,” said the President, glancing toward the camera.
“None taken,” said Zen. “The Secretary wasn’t getting a Christmas card anyway.”
Newhaven, who had exactly zero sense of humor, stared at the camera without comprehending.
“The committee is perfect,” countered Blitz. “The allies have absolute deniability.”
The President’s aides debated back and forth a few more minutes. Zen’s mind drifted back to Teri. He wondered if Breanna had managed to take enough time off to take her to a ball game since he’d been gone.
“I think we’ve talked this to death,” said the President finally. “Jeff — Senator — please proceed. You have my blessing. Obviously you can’t guarantee anything, but I think it would be fair to say that you have my ear.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
“And for the record,” she added, “I think you’re a hell of a negotiator. Having seen you operate from the other side of the table, I’m very glad to know you’re working for us this time.”
“I’m always working for America, Mrs. Todd,” said Zen as he signed off.
13
Sicily
Danny Freah shook his head vehemently.
“No way, doc. There is no way I am letting you go to Africa now. Not after what happened to the commission.”
“The incident was staged.” Rubeo folded his arms in front of his chest. “As you yourself have said. Three times now.”
“Just because the government incited them doesn’t mean there’s not a lot of anger out there. No American is safe. No Westerner. There is just no way you’re going.”
“You’re exaggerating the danger…”
“Look Ray, I’m sorry. No way.”
“I need to find out what happened, Colonel.”
“You don’t have to be there to do that. Come on, Ray — you’re too valuable to be walking around in Africa. Crap — you’re not twenty years old anymore.”
“Nor am I an employee of the department of defense.”
“Yeah, but come on.”
Rubeo scowled and walked out of the room. He was determined to see what had happened for himself.
* * *
“I don’t know, boss. Getting there is no problem. Once we’re there, though…” Jons shook his head.
“We’ll hire people,” Rubeo told him. “I need to examine the radar facilities near where the accident happened. And I want to look at the attack pattern.”
“Why?”
“Because if this isn’t fixed, everything will be flushed.”
“I don’t know. Getting there—”
“Hire a guide. It’s easily done, I’m told.”
“Yeah, but finding the right people…”
“That’s your job.”
Jons frowned.
“We are booked on a flight to Tripoli at three, using our alternative identities,” said Rubeo. “I already have gear en route. So line the right people up quickly.”
14
Over the Mediterranean
Today’s target was literally dialed in — Turk and the rest of the Hog drivers would drop satellite-guided smart bombs at artillery at the edge of a city under government control.
Fly in, fly down, fly home. Piece of cake.
Counting Turk, the squadron was up to eight active pilots, which let them split into two different groups and take on a pair of missions. Turk’s group got the artillery; the other flight of A–10s would attack a motor depot where a variety of armored vehicles were parked.
Turk’s flight of four Hogs was led by Paulson in Shooter One. Grizzly was his wingman. Beast had finally succumbed to the flu and was a late scratch. That made Turk, flying Shooter Three, the leader of the second two-plane element in the flight. His wingman was Lieutenant Cooper “Coop” Hadlemann in Shooter Four.
Ginella was leading another mission to a different part of Libya at roughly the same time. She’d been all business today, without any mention or even hint that they had hooked up.
Fortunately.
“Shooter flight, we’re two minutes from IP,” said Paulson as they neared their target. “Look alive.”
Turk did a quick scan of his instruments. He was at 30,000 feet, moving a hair over 380 knots. It was a bright day, with no clouds within a few hundred miles.
The government forces had not scrambled any fighters since their encounter with Turk earlier in the week. Nonetheless, there was a heavy contingent of fighter coverage aloft. A two-ship of Eurofighters had flown down from the Med with the Warthogs, and were lingering overhead. A pair of Spanish F/A–18s were tasked right behind them. Technically, the Spanish versions were designated EF–18As, with the E meaning España; Spain. These variants were similar outwardly to the first generation of the Hornets produced by McDonnell-Douglas, but had upgraded avionics and other electronic gear.
The presence of the different aircraft types pointed out the different approaches to air warfare undertaken by the Americans and Europeans. While the air forces were much more similar than they were different, their varying needs and philosophies were expressed in the airframes they chose to build.
As a general rule, European aircraft were at least arguably better than their American peers when it came to sheer maneuverability. They were almost always better suited at taking off from short runways, even with decent loads. Their Achilles’ heel tended to be their fuel capacity; they had “short legs” compared to Americans.
This wasn’t surprising, considering the physical environments the respective air forces expected to be fighting in. The U.S. was always worried about distance, whether in its own country, the Pacific, or even the European and African theaters. In contrast, a French or Spanish pil
ot never had far to go to defend his borders. He might find it necessary, however, to do that from a highway rather than an airfield — and he could.
Americans would scoff at what they saw as incremental improvements in maneuverability. In their view, advanced electronics and weapons gave them a decided edge. To oversimplify, American strategy called for detecting the enemy before you were detected, and killing them well before they became a threat: an enemy pilot could maneuver all he wanted before he was shot down.
“Two minutes to IP,” said Paulson, signaling that they were almost at the start of the attack. “Let’s do it.”
The flight split in two. Turk and his wingman cut twenty degrees farther south, lining up for the bomb run. As they closed to fifteen miles from target, Turk got the weapons screen up, triple-checking his position and markers. He was going to launch his JDAMs ten miles from the target.
“Four, how are you looking?” he radioed.
“We’re good, Three. Coming up on sixty seconds.”
“Yeah, roger that.”
Turk checked the armament panel one more time, then took a slow breath. The targeting computer provided a cue for him as he approached — it wasn’t the fancy color-coded box the Tigershark’s computer drew, but it did the job. The system would automatically compensate for wind or any other unusual environmental factors.
“Firing,” said Turk.
He pressed the trigger, releasing a pair of 500 pound bombs. Though unpowered, the bombs were steered toward their target by small electronic devices that shifted the positions of the fins at the rear. Checking themselves against satellites above, the miniature brains piloted the charges toward a howitzer parked between piles of sandbags near the main highway.
Turk pulled the Hog’s stick up to increase separation as he let off the bombs. He quickly took the Hog toward its second release point, shifting in the sky to aim at an ammo dump about two miles north of the artillery emplacement. As the cue for the pickle appeared in Turk’s screen, he released the bombs. This time the Hog jerked up quickly, as if the aircraft were glad to be free of the weight it had been carrying.
“Away, away,” said Turk. Coop had already dropped his bombs and was moving back to the north. “Egressing north,” said Turk. He checked his compass reading and gave Coop the heading, moving toward the rendezvous they had briefed.
He could hear the chatter of the other pilots over the squadron frequency, calling “good bombs” and “shack,” indicating they had hit their targets. Fingers of smoke rose in the far distance — at least some of the bombs had hit their targets.
Primary mission complete, Paulson checked with the flight boss, making sure they had a clean screen — no enemy fighters — and then told the others that he was going to take a run over the target area.
“If I see anything else we can hit down there, we’ll come back and grease them,” said Paulson. “Grizzly, you’re on my back.”
“Copy.”
The A–10s were relatively high, over 15,000 feet, which put them out of range of guns and light MANPADs, but also made it difficult to get a definitive read of anything on the ground. They crossed once at that altitude, then came back, dropping to about 7,000 as they ran past the site.
Paulson reported that there were two fires burning near the artillery emplacements, and that there seemed to be widespread destruction. A few moments later he added that the ammo dump had been obliterated.
“Only thing here is black smoke and red flames,” he said, climbing out.
Deciding there were no targets worth taking a run at, the flight leader had them saddle up and head westward, aiming to get them back to Sicily by lunchtime. But they’d only gone a short way before they got an emergency call from a harried JTAC ground controller, requesting immediate assistance in a firefight that happened to be less than fifteen miles out of their way.
Out of habit, Turk punched the mike to acknowledge and ask for more details. Paulson overran his transmission with his own acknowledgment a moment later.
“Sorry,” said Turk, clicking off. “My bad.”
“Go ahead, Turner,” Paulson said to the JTAC. The forward controller — JTAC stood for joint terminal attack controller, the formal military designation — was a Navy SEAL operating with a group of rebels caught in an ambush on the edge of a stream. The rebels were huddled around two disabled vehicles, under attack from both sides.
“What ordnance do you have?” asked the JTAC. Bullets were whizzing in the background as he spoke; Turk could make out two distinct heavy caliber machine guns. “Say again?”
“Turner, we have our thirty calibers and that’s it,” replied Paulson. “Give me a location.”
“Shit.” The controller was clearly looking for a big boom. Maybe he hadn’t worked with a Hog before.
“Repeat?”
“At this time, I would like you to put down heavy fire to the southwest of my position,” said the JTAC, calmer, though his voice was nearly drowned out by gunfire. “Restrictions are as follows. Make your heading east to west. We are near the two pickup trucks. The enemy is north and south of us. The heaviest— Shit.”
There was an explosion in the background before the JTAC continued.
Pushing his wing down, Turk got his nose in the direction of the southernmost grouping of enemy soldiers, figuring that Paulson would divide the group in two for the attack, and take the northern bunch himself, since he was closest to them. But instead Paulson called for them to all attack the northern group.
“I can get that southern gun,” said Turk. He could already see it on his target screen. “Coop can follow me in.”
“I’m in charge, Dreamland.”
Turk blew a wad of air into his face mask in frustration. “Copy that,” he said.
The Hogs ducked low. The first two aircraft tore up the terrain with long sprays of thirty caliber. Fire rose over the position.
Turk followed in, about two miles behind. But as they approached, his gear became confused by all the secondaries and smoke and he couldn’t see well enough to get a specific target.
He told Coop to pull off. They rose, circling north.
“What the hell are you doing, Three?” radioed Paulson.
“I didn’t have a definite target. Too close to the friendlies,” said Turk.
“Picture’s clean down low.”
Bullshit, thought Turk. Stop giving me a hard time. But he said nothing.
Paulson told him and Coop to orbit north in a holding pattern.
“We can get that target south,” said Turk.
“We’re on it, Dreamland,” snapped Paulson.
Turk did his best to keep his head clear, checking his instruments and making sure there were no threats in the immediate area. Paulson and Grizzly took two runs at the area. Finally the JTAC called to say they had stopped taking fire.
“We’re good,” said Paulson. “Heading home.”
* * *
Turk seethed the entire flight home, and was in a finely wrought lather by the time he touched down. Paulson managed to avoid so much as eye contact during the postmission briefing. He made no mention of their disagreement when he talked to Ginella, and was even complimentary toward Turk, whom he called Turk, not Dreamland.
Turk figured it was a show for the boss, and that made him even angrier. But there was nothing to be done short of knocking the asshole on his back — which he might have done had he managed to get out of the briefing room quickly. But he was waylaid by Ginella.
“Lunch?” she asked, putting her arm across the doorway. He was the last pilot in the room; they were alone together.
“A little late.”
“It’s never too late for some things.”
“I gotta check with my guys,” said Turk. He started to push against her arm.
“Turk.” She put her hand on his chest.
A pilot from another squadron walked down the hall just then. He cleared his throat loudly. Ginella pulled her hand back. Turk took the opportunity
to squeeze past into the hallway.
“I just gotta go,” he told. “I’ll talk to you.”
Ginella rolled her eyes, then went back into the room.
15
Tripoli
Kharon spent the night in a sleepless stupor, unable to do anything but berate himself. He told himself he was a weakling and worse. He called himself a coward and a jerk and a fool. He punched his stomach with his fist until he collapsed in the bathroom, retching over the edge of the tub.
His life had led to that one moment, and he had failed.
He offered me a job!
The guilty fool!
And still I did nothing! Nothing! I could do nothing!
Kharon writhed on the floor of his hotel bathroom for hours, alternately beating and sobbing to himself. He was incapable of getting up, of moving.
Morning came. There was no epiphany, no conscious decision to reverse course. He simply rose, and in the still of the night fled the hotel, driving himself to the Aeroporto Fontanarossa Vincenzo Bellini, which was still taking civilian traffic, though largely given over to NATO operations. He found it surprisingly easy to find a flight off the island, and within a few hours had connected into Morocco, and from there bribed his way onto an Egyptian Air flight to Tripoli.
By the time he arrived, he had decided what he would do. His head felt like an empty space; the decision neither cheered nor frightened him. It seemed only preordained.
He found a cab and had the driver take him to Al-Fateh Tower, near the beach area. The government offices that had been located in the building were shuttered, as were most of the banks, but a few stalwart tenants remained, carrying on as best they could. Guards were posted on the bottom floor, but as far as they were concerned, Kharon was no threat: he was clearly a Westerner, and they let him pass after a brief look at his passport.
He took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, got out and took the stairs to the top floor, where the restaurant had been located. In the good days of the Gaddafi regime, Arab tourists and Western diplomats filled the revolving restaurant at the top of one of Tripoli’s tallest buildings. Now, though, the place was vacant, shut since the start of the war. Iron gates blocked the way from the floor below. The locks probably could have been picked, but Kharon didn’t have the equipment, or the will. Instead, he went down to the twenty-second floor and found his way into the maintenance section. There was a ladder leading up; he climbed it, and within a few minutes reached a ledge area below the main roof.
