Collateral Damage, page 18
“Neil Kharon. I’m Ray Rubeo. Do you remember me?”
“Uh, uh, yeah.” The young man stuttered, then glanced awkwardly at the hand Rubeo thrust toward him.
“Your mother worked for me at Dreamland, back in the nineties. Do you remember me? I sent you an e-mail when you graduated from MIT. I know it’s been years?”
Rubeo had done more than that. He had written a recommendation to help Kharon into a doctorate program in Europe—surreptitiously, with the help of the young man’s teachers at MIT. He’d actually hoped to steer him to Stanford, though there was really no arguing about Cambridge.
Rubeo had lost track after that. It was a shame—the young man was brilliant, every bit as smart as his mother.
“What are you doing in Sicily?” Rubeo asked.
“I’m here—I was supposed to interview for a position at VGNet.”
“With Rudd?” Rubeo touched his right ear, squeezing the post—an ancient habit, especially when holding his tongue.
Armain Rudd, who owned the company, had the ethical standards of a slug, and treated his employees little better than slaves. VGNet was active in the artificial intelligence field, handling cognitive interfaces—basically helping sensors “talk” to brains. Its work was solid, but not anywhere near as advanced or as interesting as Rubeo’s work.
Surely young Kharon could do better than that.
“You’re looking for a job?” Rubeo said. “Why didn’t you ask me?”
“I—”
“Give me your contact information.”
“Uh—”
“Forget what you’ve told them, or they’ve told you. They’re not to be trusted anyway. We will easily meet their offer. Really, Neil, I’m disappointed you didn’t think of us. You’ll be a good fit for us—we have a lot of interesting projects. Tell me about your interests.”
“I, uh, well—”
“You have a date tonight?”
“I was actually meeting, uh, a young lady,” stuttered Kharon.
“Naturally. Unfortunately, I’m going to Africa tomorrow. Wait.” Rubeo took out his wallet and retrieved a business card. It was a bit worn at the edges; he couldn’t remember the last time he actually gave one out.
“Here,” he told Kharon, handing him the card. “You are to send me an e-mail. Or call that number at the bottom. Call as soon as you get back to your room tonight. There’ll be a secretary. Make an appointment.”
Kharon took the card.
“The secretary may be a computer,” added Rubeo. “Or maybe not. See if it passes the Turing Test.”
Kharon shoved the card in his pocket and walked toward the lounge. His cheeks were burning; he felt unbalanced, small and weak. It was as if he was trapped again, back in the closet.
He went to the bar and ordered a beer. He took it from the bartender’s hand and practically drained it, still feeling pressed in on all sides.
Undone by a chance meeting? What kind of coward are you?
What kind of sissy weakling are you?
You should have shot him dead right there. Killed the bodyguard, too.
He hadn’t brought his gun. That was just one of his many mistakes.
“Are you all right?” asked the bartender in Italian.
“Bene, bene.” Kharon raised his head and looked at the bartender. Then he glanced at the bottle—it was nearly empty. “Un altro, per favore,” he said stiffly. “Please. Another.”
The bartender smiled. “A woman, eh?”
“Yes. My mother.”
“Ahhh,” said the bartender knowingly. He went and got the beer. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, placing the bottle on the counter.
In a way, the man had drawn exactly the right conclusions, Kharon thought. He was still grieving.
Upstairs, Rubeo left Levon Jons and went into his room, checking the security first with his bug detector. The device mapped the room’s electrical circuitry, and was sensitive enough to detect even the NSA’s latest generation of nanopowered “flies”—a certification Rubeo was sure of since his company had worked on the technology employed in the microsized listening gear.
The room was clean. Rubeo sat down in the large chair opposite the television and turned the set on, flipping to the U.S. news stations.
Alissa Kharon’s son working for VGNet. Good God!
The news program detailed a shake-up in the Libyan government’s ruling body. A group of alleged moderates had taken over.
Since when did moderates take anything over? Rubeo wondered.
He changed the channel. CNN was carrying a discussion program. The host introduced a speech from a member of the Iranian government saying the American plane that had bombed the village was the spawn of the devil.
“I’m sure you’re an expert on that,” spat Rubeo.
He sat back on the bed, mind drifting. He thought of Alissa Kharon. He’d had a crush on her. She probably didn’t even know. He’d certainly never acted on it: She was married and, though he was her supervisor, a few years older than he was.
Pretty woman. And very smart.
He closed his eyes and heard the alarms, smelled the fire, the aftermath. Alissa had died from suffocation in the lab bunker. The laser system she was working on had malfunctioned, and rather than leaving, she’d tried to put out the fire—a classic mistake, but like her in a way, insisting that she could shut down the systems and prevent more damage.
Rubeo knew exactly what she must have thought—all that work they’d done about to be ruined. The laser was connected to a hand-built targeting system that the team had spent two years perfecting. She had jumped from her station and run to it as the others began to leave.
The bunker had been equipped with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system. But state of the art in the early 1990s wasn’t quite good enough to kill the chemical fire the laser unit spawned. The doors locked, and for some reason no one realized that she was still inside.
Rubeo, working upstairs on something else, distracted as he always was then, arrived to find one of her assistants screaming frantically.
“Where’s Alissa?” she’d yelled. “Where’s Alissa?”
He overrode the system, but when they opened the doors they were met with a wall of black smoke. He had to close the doors—he closed them himself, knowing she was already dead, lost somewhere behind the smoke.
The hazmat team arrived a few seconds later. Rubeo went and got himself a suit, and went in after them.
Her body, badly burned, was back near the unit. The main AI unit lay inches from her outstretched hand.
She was a beautiful woman, and smart, with a kid and a husband. The husband dissolved after her death. He died of cancer a year later, but he’d been a broken man, unable to pull himself back together.
By then the assistant who had screamed had committed suicide.
Not because of Alissa’s death, or so the investigators said—she had marital problems, which were prominently mentioned in the note she left. But Rubeo remembered the last line of the suicide note:
I will see Alissa for you all.
So much pain. So much success and achievements, and all he could think of was the pain.
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 pilot 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.
