Collateral Damage, page 21
“Someone doesn’t like AI,” said Rubeo, handing the computer back.
“Or you. You’re mentioned by name in these. My guess is that a bunch of organizations got the e-mail cited in that article,” added Jons. “It looks like a campaign.”
Rubeo said nothing. He had many competitors. Each one was an enemy, at least figuratively. And any number of people would benefit if the government stopped dealing with his firm; there would be a vast void to fill.
“No one seems to be taking them very seriously,” he told Jons. “Or otherwise I’d have heard.”
“Maybe. In any event, it’s a potential security leak. It could definitely be a disgruntled employee. Anyone willing to put out this kind of information, add your name—they won’t stop here.”
“I don’t think it’s an employee. Or an ex-employee. They’re paid too well.”
“It’s not always about money. Or science.”
In Rubeo’s experience, if it wasn’t about science, then it was always about money. Or sex.
“Rerun our security checks,” he told Jons.
“Oh, we’re well into that.”
“Good.”
“It may be a contractor,” suggested Jons. “We’re checking that as well. I wonder if there’s any disgruntled military. Maybe on the Whiplash side.”
“We can certainly check. There aren’t many of them.”
“Not directly. Indirectly, you’d be surprised.”
“Right.” Rubeo settled back into the seat, as frustrated as ever.
Halit proved his worth at the gate, speaking quickly to the guards. Jons, standing next to him, handed over a folded envelope, and they were through.
“One hundred euros,” Jons told Rubeo, climbing back into the truck. “That is all it took to get us past the front line. The government doesn’t have long.”
Rubeo nodded but said nothing. Darkness had enveloped the desert.
They drove quickly, nearly missing the turn that would take them to the military site where the government’s most powerful radar units were located. There were two sets here, general warning radars and radars that were connected with an SA–10 antiaircraft battery.
According to Rubeo’s calculations, the latter were the only ones in the area capable of interfering with the Sabre telemetry. Supposedly, they had come on very briefly during the engagement. The allies, for reasons known only to them, had not yet gotten around to targeting the radars, possibly because there were civilians inside the complex where the units were located.
There were two ways to see if the units here could have interfered with the Sabre. One was to somehow turn back time and record everything they did. The second was to examine them very closely, which required being physically nearby and provoking, or at least attempting to provoke, a similar response.
The latter choice was only slightly less impossible than the former. But more likely twice as dangerous.
They stopped a mile outside the site, clearly visible on a slight rise, guarded by two armored personnel carriers and three sandbagged machine-gun emplacements.
“Guys in that post over there are sleeping,” said Jons, looking through the night glasses.
“Go ahead and launch the Streamer.”
Lawson had already taken the small aircraft out of its case. With a wingspan just under twenty-four inches, the robot aircraft was an electronic noise machine. Powered by a small kerosene-fueled engine, it would circle over the radar installation, broadcasting a signal that would make it seem as if NATO aircraft were approaching.
“Come on little birdie, time to start you up,” said Lawson, half singing the last few words as if he were Mick Jagger singing “Start Me Up.”
The motor didn’t seem to be in a musical mood, or maybe it just didn’t like rock ’n’ roll. It refused to start. He reprimed it and pressed the starter, which used a spring and battery combination to spin it to life.
The engine spat, coughed, then finally spun into high speed.
Up close, the miniature power plant sounded like an HO-scale racing car, its high-pitched whir almost a whistle. The sound didn’t carry very far, however; it was difficult to discern at a hundred feet, and would be easily covered by the hum of the electronics and cooling gear in the control vans at the base.
“Fly, my pretty,” said Lawson, pushing the UAV into the air.
It launched like a paper plane, the wings struggling to find airflow as the motor revved. The nose dipped down, the plane gathered speed, then suddenly tilted up and soared skyward on a preprogrammed climb.
Lawson picked up the controller—it was a hobbyist’s kit, with only slight modifications for security—and worked the plane up to two hundred feet. Then he put it into a wide circle above the base.
Rubeo was watching the screen on the detection processing unit, which was attached to a set of wire antennas. As the UAV circled, Lawson turned its broadcast system on.
The radar system on the ground believed it was looking at a Predator some twenty miles away—well inside the missile’s effective range.
“They’re just watching,” said Lawson.
“Good. Phase two.”
A second signature now appeared on the screens of the operators inside the van—F/A–18s approaching from a distance. The aircraft popped up, preparing to attack.
The engagement radar for the ground-to-air missiles came on. The operators had decided to take down the Predator, which they interpreted as scouting for the manned aircraft. But within seconds both radars shut down.
“They’re afraid of antiradiation missiles,” said Rubeo, looking at the screen over Lawson’s shoulder.
“Yup.”
The radars stayed off.
If the Libyans had a way of interfering with the UAV transmissions, Rubeo reasoned, they would have likely used it against the Predator, which after all looked as if it was bird-dogging for the other planes.
Still, he needed to be absolutely sure. The jamming unit might be “tuned” to the Sabres.
“Launch the Mapper.”
“With pleasure,” said Lawson.
The Mapper was a larger UAV, with a wingspan over twenty feet. The large size allowed it to carry a heavier payload—a device that would map the electronic layout of the camp. Every wire, every circuit, would be diagrammed.
Rubeo monitored the Streamer controls. If the radars suddenly turned on, the Mapper would be an easy target; it was not only bigger, but louder than the first UAV.
“It’s on its own,” said Lawson. The plane had been programmed to fly a very slow circuit over the compound. As it did, its sensors would map the electronic and magnetic fields and circuits below, giving Rubeo a picture of the installation, or at least its electronic components.
“They’re going to hear it,” said Jons. He was watching the machine-gun position through his glasses.
“Hopefully they won’t,” said Rubeo.
“Relying on luck? That’s not like you, Ray.”
Rubeo didn’t answer. The data from the aircraft had to be recorded and then uploaded to his systems back in the States. They didn’t have the equipment to analyze it in real time. Rubeo had calculated that they needed three circuits to get a sufficient image; he wanted at least six.
The plane was just completing the second when the radar came back up.
“Why the hell did they do that?” grumbled Lawson.
The Streamer pumped out fresh signals, making it seem as if the site was going to be attacked by the F/A–18s. This time it didn’t work.
“They’re running around like crazy men,” said Jons.
A second later someone in one of the vehicles began firing a fifty caliber. The Mapper was way too close to be targeted by the missiles, but within easy reach of old-fashioned machine guns.
Red and orange tracers cascaded in the air, peppered here and there with bolts of black. The sound was oppressive, even from where they were.
“They’re going to launch missiles,” said Lawson. “Radar thinks it has a lock.”
“Wonderful,” said Rubeo sarcastically. He kept his eyes on the control screen, watching the Mapper UAV. It was about three-quarters of the way through its third turn over the complex, heading directly for the tracers. Rubeo could take over the flight program and divert it to safety, but that would mean the circuits would have to be repeated.
The odds were better to just keep it flying, he decided.
A few seconds later the screen on the control blanked. It had stopped transmitting. The Libyan gunfire had caught the aircraft.
There was a ground flare at the complex. For a brief moment Rubeo thought it was the aircraft crashing, but in fact it was an SA–10 missile launching. A second and then a third and fourth came off the ground in quick succession.
“It is time for us to leave,” announced the scientist. “Pack quickly.”
HESITATION
1
Over Libya
The A–10E helmet had a night vision attachment allowing the pilots to see in the dark. The combination was still lighter than the smart helmet, but it was awkward, tilting the helmet forward so the edges rubbed against Turk’s cheekbones.
The glasses turned the world into a crisp collection of greens and blacks, an alternate universe that lived parallel to the real one. It was as if the pilot was an electronic ghost, slipping through the dark solids before him.
While the technology was different, the view itself was familiar to Turk from the smart helmet, where it was one of the preset defaults, designed to make the transition from older technology to new as seamless as possible. He felt it was superior to the view offered in F–35 helmets—another preset. There was a sharpness to it that the Lightning II view seemed to lack.
Turk took Shooter Four up from the south runway, moving into a gradual climb over the Mediterranean. The four-ship flight’s first stop was a tanker track to the southwest; they would top off there before heading over Libya.
Turk listened as Ginella checked in with the AWACS, getting a picture of the situation over the country.
She was an odd case—professional to the point of cold indifference toward him in the squadron room, outrageously passionate in bed.
It confused the hell out of him.
Remembering Grizzly’s tales of tanker woe, Turk approached the boom gently, easing in at a crawl. At any second he expected the boomer to squawk at him about how slow he was going. But all he got was an attaboy and a solid clunk as the probe was shoved into the nose of the Hog.
He held the aircraft steady as the JP–8 sloshed in. The cockpit filled with the heady scent of escaping kerosene. Turk tried to relax his shoulder and arm muscles, afraid that any twitch would jerk him off the straw. By the time the boomer called over to tell him to disconnect, his arms had cramped.
“Copy that. Thanks.”
Turk slipped downward, dropping through several dozen feet before banking right and moving out and away from the tanker. The radio whispered hints of distant missions; it was a busy night over Libya, the allies keeping pressure on the government as the rebels continued with their offensive.
Grizzly had already tanked and was waiting for him.
“You did good, Turk,” said the other pilot. “Gonna make a real Hog driver out of you yet.”
“I’m getting there.”
“You gotta work on your grunts.” Grizzly made a noise somewhat similar to the sound of a rooting hog. His voice lost an octave and became something a caveman would have been proud of. “Real Hog driver talk like this.”
“All right, you two, knock it off,” said Ginella. “Let’s look sharp and keep our comments to business. Turk, how are your eyes?”
“I’m good.”
“There’s been no sign of our package south,” she added. “Let’s get there. You know the drill.”
Thirty minutes later the four Hogs approached an arbitrary point in the sky where they had been assigned to loiter. The other half of Shooter Squadron was to the southwest about seventy miles. The aircraft were flying at roughly 30,000 feet, high enough so they couldn’t be seen or heard in the dark night sky.
The American planes were part of a massive search and rescue operation. Dozens of aircraft were strung out across the country, ready. All they needed was a downed pilot.
The wreck had been located in a ravine twenty miles south. But the pilot’s locator beacon and radio had not been detected. Ground forces were conducting a search near the plane and in an area where computer simulations showed the man might have parachuted. Army Special Forces units had been inserted just after dusk, and had made contact with some rebels in the area who were helping with the search.
Turk didn’t have a lot of experience with rescue operations, but it took little more than common sense to realize that if the pilot hadn’t radioed in by now, the odds of finding him alive were extremely slim. But no one in the air wanted to mention that. It was too easy to put yourself in the downed man’s place—you didn’t want to think of giving up.
An hour passed. The other half of Shooter Squadron called it a night and headed home. Ginella led her group farther south, orbiting over two different spec op detachments.
Adrenaline drained, Turk found staying alert extremely difficult. He stretched his legs, rocked his shoulders back and forth—it was a constant battle, far more difficult than actually flying the plane.
One of the ground units reported that they were following a lead from the rebel guerrillas; the information was passed back down the line to the squadron. Turk felt his pulse jump. But when the lead failed to pan out, he found it even harder to keep his edge.
With dawn approaching, Ginella decided they would refuel so their patrol could be extended if needed. She split the group in two so they could continue to provide coverage. Grizzly and Turk went north to the tanker track while she and her wingman stayed south.
Mostly silent during their loops, Grizzly became animated as they approached the hookup. He told Turk he had brought along an iPod and was listening to music as they flew.
“Got some old stuff I haven’t heard in a while.”
The music may have been old, but Turk hadn’t heard any of it. It was country and country pop—Son Volt and Civil Wars and half a dozen other singers and groups completely off his radar.
“You gotta get out more,” laughed Grizzly when Turk confessed he’d never heard of the groups. He began filling him in, keeping the patter up all the way to the Air Force 757s.
“What do you think of G?” asked Grizzly after they had finished tanking.
“Seems OK,” said Turk as neutrally as possible.
“Real hardass sometimes. Good pilot, though. First woman commander I’ve ever had.”
“First one?”
“Probably had a female in charge of one of the schools somewhere along the way,” said Grizzly, referring to the different classes the officer would have attended. “But not, you know, like this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kinda different flying for a woman, you think?” said Grizzly.
It sounded somewhere between a statement and a question. Turk didn’t know how to answer it either way. His boss—Breanna Stockard—was a woman, but he wasn’t supposed to refer to Special Projects if possible, and he worried that mentioning her would inevitably point the conversation in that direction. It took him a few moments to think of something suitably neutral and bland to come back with.
“I haven’t worked with an actual squadron in a while,” he told the other pilot. “I’m pretty much a one-man shop.”
“That’s kind of cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Word is the Air Force is gonna phase us down,” said Grizzly. “Turn all the electronics in these suckers on and let them fly themselves.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Turk.
“Probably replace us with laser jets, if not.”
Both ideas were actually plausible. A few years before, that would have sounded like science fiction or maybe fantasy. But there were in fact plans to replace the A–10 squadrons with airborne laser planes. The aircraft, modified from civilian airliners and housing high-energy weapons, could fly at a safe distance and altitude yet make attacks with pinpoint precision. It was almost guaranteed that a fleet of the laser jets, as they were called, would replace the Air Force’s small force of AC–130s in the next eighteen months.
“I think there’s a real need for people in the loop,” said Turk. “But, I don’t know.”
“I hear ya.”
“Everything’s going in the other direction,” said Turk.
“You’re part of it though, right? You’re playing with those little dart jets? Pretty soon they won’t need you either.”
Grizzly was absolutely right. He didn’t answer, though—because of his position, what would have been interpreted as a casual remark by any other person could be seen as a breach of security if he said it.
Maybe the accident would turn things back in the other direction. But it could just as easily be used as an argument against keeping a man in the loop—his being there, or being close, hadn’t stopped the Sabre from making the mistake.
The accident had grounded the Sabres, but not the rest of the UAV fleet. That in itself was statement of how important they were. Right now at least three were operating in the rescue area. Two provided a continuous infrared picture of the ground to the controllers and the team hunting for the pilot. The other was sniffing for his radio and signal beacon.
With a full belly—or more accurately, wing tanks—of fuel, Turk followed Grizzly in a loose trail south as the sun tiptoed toward the horizon. As the light strengthened, he removed the night goggles and left the augmented visor retracted, preferring to see the sky and aircraft as they truly were.
He had plenty of fuel, but this mission couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, the pilots’ fatigue would build to the point where they simply couldn’t trust themselves. To use one of the more formal terms and measures, situational awareness would degrade severely.
