by Jim DeFelice
Turk shook his head.
“What’s the personal thing going on here, Turk?” asked Zen sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“What is it with you and Ginella? One day she’s singing your praises, now she’s tossing you under the bus. What did you do to her?”
Zen couldn’t have surprised him more if he’d risen from the wheelchair and begun to walk on his own.
“What do you mean?” asked Turk.
“It’s written all over your face. There’s something personal here. What exactly is going on?”
“It’s nothing bad.”
“Whole story.” Zen had the tone of a father interrogating a child sent home from school by the principal. “Now.”
Reluctantly, Turk told Zen everything that had happened between him and Ginella, including her reaction to Li.
“There was never a quid pro quo, or anything like that,” he added. “But it was, uh, awkward.”
“Is that what’s really bothering you?”
“I did not see a missile on that hill. She can say anything she wants, but I didn’t see it. And I wasn’t affected by the Sabres. I mean, it was bad and everything — it’s terrible, but that wasn’t my fault either.”
* * *
If Turk had been a woman, the affair would clearly be a problem for Ginella. A commanding officer couldn’t have an affair with a subordinate, even one temporarily assigned.
But the role reversal blurred everything. Maybe it shouldn’t — from a purely theoretical sense, a colonel was a colonel, and a captain was a captain. But in real life, old prejudices died hard. A man simply wasn’t viewed as a victim of sexual harassment, no matter what the circumstances.
And in truth, that wasn’t necessarily the case — not legally, at least. Ginella hadn’t explicitly threatened Turk’s career.
The real problem wasn’t Ginella, it was Turk. Maybe he hadn’t blamed himself for the Sabre accident, but Zen remembered him being troubled when he landed. Maybe he’d just missed the missile on the hill — at that speed and height, it wouldn’t be surprising at all. But whatever had happened, he was definitely second guessing himself now.
Fighter pilots couldn’t have that. In the darkest moment, you needed to know you could trust yourself. You needed to be able to just do, not think.
“Are you afraid Colonel Ernesto’s going to screw up your career?” Zen asked.
“I don’t know,” admitted Turk. “I guess what I’m really — what really bugs me is somebody saying I’m a coward.”
“If you missed a missile, that wouldn’t make you a coward. That idea shouldn’t even enter your mind.”
“Well.”
“Seriously. It’s bull. And I don’t think you missed it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about Ginella,” Zen told the pilot.
“You’re not going to say anything to her, are you?”
“Nothing that doesn’t need to be said.”
11
Tripoli
The machine called Arachne stood barely half a foot tall with its six legs fully extended, and could easily hide behind a crumpled piece of newspaper. The work module on top was smaller than a watch face, but its interchangeable sensors were more powerful than even the most advanced timepiece. One provided a 360-degree IR image, another an optical image in 10-4 lux.
In the rarefied world of advanced robots, Arachne was a superstar — or would have been, had anyone been allowed to boast of her prowess. The “bot,” as Rubeo and his people referred to her, was a hand-built terrestrial spy, able to do things that human spies could only dream of. Developed privately, she was still undergoing testing before being offered for sale to the CIA.
Where better to give her a realistic test than in Libya?
Rubeo finished the bench calibration on the third and final sensor, more critical in this application than the others — a magnetometer that mapped currents. The device had to be carefully calibrated, then gingerly handled until it was locked on the unit. The procedure was relatively straightforward for the techies who worked with it routinely, but unusual enough that the man who invented the device had to proceed extremely slowly.
Rubeo finished his checks, locked out the options panel, and then killed the power to the unit. He unscrewed it gingerly and brought it over to the bot, which was sitting on the bench in the hangar across from the larger transport bot, Diomedes.
Also invented by Rubeo’s company, a version of Diomedes was already in operation with Whiplash and the U.S. military. The Greek name was used only by Rubeo; the versions delivered to the military had extremely mundane designations like “gun bot 34MRU” and “WGR46TransportAssist,” which alluded to their ultimate use.
Diomedes was about half the size of a gas-powered lawn mower, with a squat, rounded hull that featured a flat payload area about twelve by eighteen inches in the back, and a broad mast area that looked a bit like the bridge superstructure from a modern destroyer. The skin was made of a thick, webbed resin composite, sturdy yet light. The motor, powered by hydrogen fuel cells, was extremely quiet. Diomedes could operate at full speed for sixteen hours without being refueled; in combat under normal operation, it might last a good week before needing a new fuel cell.
Unlike the smaller bot, Diomedes had two tanklike treads on either side of its rectangular body. Fore and aft of the tread systems were wheels that extended from large shafts. Ordinarily, the wheels remained retracted next to the transport bot’s hull, but when meeting an obstruction or if needed for balance or quick maneuvering, the bot extended them. This helped get the machine over small obstacles or balance on very difficult terrain. There were two armlike extensions at the front, and a miniature arm with a crane hook in the flat rear compartment.
Rubeo slid the sensor atop to the plastic holder, making sure the metal shielding was properly in place. The system was designed to ignore the fields generated by the bot, but he considered the shielding an important safeguard nonetheless.
Lawson was hovering nearby, watching. He was excited about the bots, which he called “little creatures.” He wasn’t actually in the way, but his lurking presence would have been annoying if he hadn’t been so enthusiastic.
Actually, it was annoying, but Rubeo let him stay anyway. The others were seeing to last minute details or guarding the area outside. Uncharacteristically, Rubeo felt the need for human company tonight.
He glanced at his watch as he snapped the last prong in place on Arachne. Clearly, they wouldn’t be able to get south before dawn — it was almost 5:00 P.M. now. The process had taken far longer than he thought it would.
His fault, really. He should have had more of his people here to help. He needn’t have done all the prep work himself.
Should he go to the hotel rooms they’d rented and get some sleep? Or sleep in the desert?
He’d ask Jons what he thought.
“So the spider creature walks right in to where we want it to go?” asked Lawson.
“When told to.” Rubeo went to the bench and took the control unit — a modified laptop — and brought it over to finish orienting Arachne. The unit had to be told what sensors it was carrying; once that was done, the process was fully automated and quick.
“How does it get in?”
“It will depend. If necessary, Diomedes will cut a hole through the wall,” said Rubeo. “Or do whatever is necessary.”
“Oh. I thought maybe it would, like, crawl up the drain spout or something.”
“It could, if there was a drain spout,” said Rubeo. “We haven’t seen an easy access. Diomedes will check the external perimeter, and if there is an easy access, we’ll use it. Cutting into the building is the last resort.”
“Because of the noise?”
“The saw is relatively quiet,” said Rubeo. “But because of that it works very slowly.”
“Are you a better weaver than Minerva?” Lawson asked the bot.
“I’m impressed,” said Rubeo. In R
oman myth, Arachne was a weaver who was turned into a spider after her work outshone Minerva’s in a contest. Jealous, Minerva took revenge by changing her into a spider. “I didn’t know you knew the story.”
“Oh, I know my myths. That of course is the Latin version. There’s a parallel in Greek. Minerva would be Athena. Of course, this is all coming from Ovid, so who the hell knows what the real myth was.”
“You don’t trust Ovid?”
“Do I trust any poet? Hell, they lie for a living, right? For all I know, he was working for an extermination company when he came up with the tale.”
Rubeo laughed, unexpectedly amused by the mercenary soldier. He finished his work, unhooked the laptop, and placed the small robot inside a delivery compartment at the base of Diomedes. Then he keyed his access code into the larger computer, waking it up.
“Follow me,” he told the machine.
It did so, moving out to the pickups. One of the Filipinos had set up a ramp; Rubeo directed the machine to drive up it, into the back. Once there, he deactivated it and covered it with a tarp. Lawson helped tie it down.
Jons was in a parking area about three hundred yards away, talking with their helicopter pilot. Rubeo called him, telling him they were ready to leave. They discussed whether to go right away or not. For Jons, it was a no-brainer — better to move out as quickly as possible.
Lawson gathered the Filipinos. Halit had been dismissed. Abas was to stay with Kimmy, the helicopter pilot, in case they needed backup.
Jons suggested they tell the alliance what they were up to. Rubeo rejected the idea out of hand.
“They’ll only tell us not to,” he said.
Rubeo went to the front seat of the truck, brooding. He was fairly sure now that the Sabres hadn’t been interfered with from the ground, so why even bother going back?
Was the risk worth it for fifteen percent of doubt?
If that wasn’t the cause, though, what was? The sabotage theory seemed even more improbable.
His sat phone rang. Rubeo looked at the number, and at first he didn’t recognize it. But then the last name came up.
It was Kharon.
“This is Rubeo.”
“Ray, hi, say, um, I kind of need a little help.”
“What is it, Neil? What can I do?”
“Well… I kind of flew in to Tripoli and I got into a little problem at the airport. I was wondering if you could call one of your connections and maybe talk to them to get me sprung.”
“You’re in Tripoli?”
“Actually, I’m at passport control in the airport. I should be able to just go — it’s an open city, right? But they’re questioning my stamp from Italy. I guess the guy who stamped it there didn’t stamp it right.”
“Where are you?” asked Rubeo, still not quite believing what he had heard.
“Passport control. In the terminal. Tripoli. Maybe if, like, you could get one of the officials or somebody you work with—”
“Wait there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“You? Here?”
“Just sit tight.”
* * *
Kharon hung up the phone. It had been easier than he thought.
“He’s on his way,” he told the passport officer. “You know what to say?”
“Of course.”
Kharon held up the one hundred euro note. The man eyed it greedily.
“Soon,” promised Kharon. “When you release me, I slip you the passport to stamp. It’ll be between the back pages.”
The man nodded. Bribing your way through customs was a time-honored practice in Tripoli.
A few minutes later Kharon spotted a dark-haired American strutting through the hallway as if he owned the place. He stopped and asked someone near the lobby for directions. The man pointed toward the small desk where Kharon and the customs agent were standing.
He sent one of his people, rather than coming himself. I should have known that.
“You Neil?” asked the man, spotting him. His voice was very loud, as he was shouting across the hall.
“It’s me,” said Kharon.
The man walked over, grinning. “Name’s Lawson. What’s the trouble?”
“Passport, this not correct,” said the customs agent quickly. His English was actually quite good, as Kharon had learned earlier; he used fractured grammar for effect.
“Well we can fix that, can’t we?” asked Lawson. He winked at Kharon. He switched to Arabic. It was a little stiff, but grammatically correct. “I have heard that the paperwork can be corrected on the spot by the proper authority,” Lawson said. “Naturally, there are fees involved.”
“This is true,” said the passport officer softly.
“Perhaps we could do that in this situation.”
“Very well.”
“What is the fee?” asked Lawson.
“One hundred euro.”
Lawson didn’t bother trying to talk the man down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two fifties. The customs man’s face fell — he realized he could have gotten more.
The rest of the transaction was completed swiftly. Kharon handed over his passport, and got it back stamped — and a hundred euros lighter.
“Not that I think he’ll change his mind,” Lawson said, starting away. “But let’s not give him a chance.”
“Is Dr. Rubeo in Tripoli?”
“He’s waiting for us outside.”
* * *
Rubeo saw the young man trailing along after Lawson, looking a bit sheepish. He was smart, undoubtedly, but a bit naive. Surely a simple bribe would have gotten him out of trouble immediately.
But perhaps he didn’t have the money.
“Neil, I didn’t think you were coming to Africa,” said Rubeo, opening his window as he approached. “What brings you here?”
“I thought, since I was so close, I should see what was going on,” said Kharon. “You actually inspired me.”
“How is that?”
“I thought if a famous scientist like you was going to visit the country, then I should, too. An adventure.”
“This is hardly the place for an adventure. We’ll take you into town. Do you have a hotel?” Rubeo asked.
“The Majesty, in the old section.”
“I’m sure we can do a little better than that,” said Rubeo. He turned to Jons. “What about the Citadel?”
“Yeah, something along those lines.” The foreign hotels in the new sections had much better security.
“I, uh, really can’t afford that—”
“You’re my guest. Think of it as part of the interview travel. Unfortunately, I have to do some more traveling, but I’ll be back by tomorrow, and then we can talk. Some of my men will come with us and you can see the city, and have your little adventure.”
* * *
Kharon slid into the truck. A dark-skinned Filipino sat next to him. The man was silent, but had an AR–15 between his legs, pointed at the floor.
The closed space of the unfamiliar SUV began to bother him. He felt the first tingle of fear rising along the back of his neck. He turned toward the window.
“I need some fresh air,” he told the others, and opened the window.
They weren’t paying attention. In front of him, Rubeo adjusted his ear set and told the men in the second car that they would meet them on the highway south. The driver, Jons, was clearly unhappy.
“I’d rather they rode behind us.”
“I don’t want the bots exposed,” said Rubeo. “The less they’re seen, the better.”
“They’re tarped. It just looks like equipment in the back.”
“And that won’t raise questions?”
Jons didn’t argue. Rubeo was the boss.
They drove away from the terminal, heading toward the Al Amrus Highway.
“I don’t want the truck driving all through the city,” Rubeo told Jon as they reached the highway.
“I don’t like splitting up.”
“It’s only for
a few minutes. The bots are safer at the airport.”
The traffic was light. The truck sped around the circle and onto the highway.
Kharon sat back, waiting.
Rubeo realized he was getting testy, and that was affecting his judgment. He ought to let Jons do his job.
“I’m sorry,” he told him. “Call them to catch up.”
“Good,” said the driver. He took his foot off the gas and reached for the mike button on his ear set.
A moment later there was a sharp pop at the front of the truck. Jons gripped the wheel tightly, holding the truck steady as it jerked to the right.
“Blowout,” muttered someone.
There was a flash. Rubeo felt himself lifted into the air, then spinning.
“Damn,” he said, cursing for one of the very few times in his life. Then everything went black.
PRISONER OF CONSCIENCE
1
Tripoli
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go!
The voice screaming in Kharon’s head refused to be quiet. He pressed his arms over his head, trying to run away, even though he was held tight in his seat as the SUV tumbled over.
It was the closet, cramped and dark, the hiding place he had run to years before.
No. I’m not a child anymore!
The truck’s engine revved. There was another explosion nearby.
Time to get out! Get out! Go!
He was upside down. Kharon managed to undo his seat belt and push to the right. His window was still open and he half fell, half crawled out.
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go!
The fresh air relieved his claustrophobia and his head began to clear. He went back to the SUV and struggled with the front door, finally pulling it open. Rubeo dropped out of the truck. The scientist was coughing, only semiconscious. Kharon took hold of him under his arms and pulled him away from the wreck.
For a few seconds his animosity disappeared. In the confusion and chaos, Kharon sought to get them both to safety.
Guns were firing. Cars screeched. Something had gone wrong, completely wrong — the kidnapping was supposed to take place after he gave the signal at the hotel.
