Collateral Damage, page 29
“I think any account of the incident should indicate that,” said Zen. “But it should also indicate what he said.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“None of your other pilots saw the missile.”
“We weren’t close enough.”
Zen nodded. “As for personal feelings, I hope none will enter into any of your reports, or actions. One way or another.”
Ginella stared at him but said nothing.
“Great,” said Zen finally. “I’m glad that will be the case.”
He started to wheel away.
“Personal feelings have no place in battle,” said Ginella.
“Agreed, Colonel,” said Zen, not bothering to look back. “Though in my experience, they often seem to intrude.”
3
Tripoli
Kharon kicked the gun away from Rubeo, then pulled the scientist to his feet. His arms were shaking.
The revenge he’d dreamed about since he was a child was in front of him now. The only question was how to take it.
The two thugs who’d run up from the highway shouted at him in Arabic to put the gun down.
“You idiots. I hired you,” Kharon answered. “Fezzan works for me.”
“But they don’t work for Fezzan,” said a voice from up on the hill, back in the cemetery. He was speaking English, with a Russian accent.
Foma Mitreski.
“You are a foolish young man. Put the gun down or they will shoot you,” said Foma.
“What are you doing?”
“Gun down,” said Foma. He told the others to take aim.
Kharon thought of pointing the gun at the Russian, then, dejected, he let it drop.
As the gun fell, Rubeo saw his chance. He dove after it, planning to grab it and shoot the man who’d come down the hill—he was sure Jons would be up the alley and take care of the men with rifles. But as his fingers touched the cold metal, the butt stock of one of the guns smacked him in the side of the head.
He felt the air rushing through his mouth, then slid forward in the dirt, scraping his chin as he lost consciousness.
I’m a scientist, not a soldier . . .
“What are you doing? Why did you blow up the truck?” Kharon asked Foma as the goons trussed Rubeo.
“Ah, the idiot Libyans are too enthusiastic. But, eh, things happen. We have what we want.”
“You’re lucky he’s alive.”
“I want the robot and the sensors,” said Foma. “The scientist is a bonus. But I don’t know. Maybe we kill him anyway.”
“Let me.”
Foma laughed. “You are an idiot. You should be begging for your life.”
“Why?”
“You think that I was such a fool that I didn’t know your plan? Do you think that I would let you use my operation for some petty goal? You think the SVR is stupid? Something to be used by a child whom we employ? You are clever, Kharon, but not experienced. We have helped you many times, and you didn’t even know—how do you think you found the shelter under the university? Do you think you could have broken into the computer systems there without our help?”
“I did that myself.”
“Yes, yes, of course you did. You are a very brilliant man. You have an IQ of one hundred and eighty, almost twice as much as mine, eh? But I am the one with the guns.”
“Bullshit.” Kharon raised his fist to swing at the fat Russian. As he did, something hit him across the back of the head and he fell forward, limp.
4
Sicily
Danny Freah was not particularly superstitious, but a second before the phone rang he had a premonition that it was about something bad. It was a vague and inexact feeling, but as soon as he heard Breanna Stockard’s voice, he knew he was right.
“Something has happened to Ray,” she told him. “We have an alert on our system—the computer is tracking him moving south of Tripoli, but he hasn’t answered his sat phone.”
“Tripoli?” Danny stifled a flood of curses. “I told him not to go to Africa. Did you approve that?”
“Ray is not under my command,” said Breanna. “This isn’t Dreamland anymore, Danny. We can’t tell him what to do.”
“Damn it.” It was all he could say. “We talked about it—I talked to him, I told him not to go. His people here haven’t said a word—they claimed he was busy. Damn.”
“We’re tracking him on the MY-PID system,” she told him. “There was a spike in his heartbeat that alerted the system monitor. His people tried to get ahold of him, and then the security team with him. It looks like his bodyguards were killed. There’s apparently some high-tech equipment that may have been taken as well. We’re still getting details—this all only happened a few minutes ago.”
“We’ll get him back.”
“Obviously, this has top priority.”
“Damn.” Danny didn’t know what else to say.
“What the hell was he thinking?” Breanna asked. “You told him not to go to Africa? What was he thinking?”
“That he’s omnipotent. The arrogant SOB.”
Not more than a minute later a man named Clinton Chase sent a message to Danny on the MY-PID system’s secure line, asking for a video conference. Danny flicked the laptop screen and opened the com window. The round, slightly reddish face of a man in his late fifties appeared, practically filling the entire square.
Chase, a former CIA agent, was the security director for one of Rubeo’s European companies, Intelligence Appliquée. Danny had never heard of Intelligence Appliquée, though he knew Rubeo operated through a veritable spiderweb of companies and partnerships.
“I’m assuming you’re tracking his whereabouts on the system,” said Chase.
“He’s ten miles south of Tripoli,” said Danny.
“When are you launching the assault?”
“Hold your horses,” said Danny. “I literally just found out about this. I can’t just snap my fingers and charge across three hundred miles of water and another hundred miles of sand without a plan in place. I’m not even sure what resources I have yet.”
“You’re Whiplash,” said Chase. “You’re supposed to be able to deal with things like this.”
“I was here in a different capacity,” said Danny, practically grating his teeth. “I have team members, but we’re not prepared for a rescue at a moment’s notice.”
“Well who is?”
Danny decided it was better not to answer. Chase might prove useful, and it was best to avoid alienating him to the extent possible.
“I’ll be in Tripoli by noon,” added Chase. “If you care to coordinate with me, contact me.”
“I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to jeopardize our getting him back,” said Danny.
“That makes two of us,” said Chase sarcastically. He killed his connection.
“What’s up with that asshole?” asked Boston, who’d come into the office during the conversation.
“Don’t you knock, Chief?”
“I did and you didn’t hear.” Boston smirked. “Chief’s knock.”
Boston’s expression changed quickly as Danny explained what had happened.
“We’ve got Shorty and we got Flash,” said the Air Force chief master sergeant. “That’s it on personnel. Unless you want to start borrowing Eye-tralians. Two Ospreys for transport and firepower. That’s not a lot if they were able to grab Rubeo in broad daylight. What the hell was he thinking?”
Danny shook his head. Arrogance was a difficult thing to explain.
“How soon can you get the Ospreys airborne?” he asked.
“Gotta talk to the maintainers,” said Boston. “Probably pretty quick, though. Half hour? Twenty minutes? Whatever it takes to get fuel into them.”
“All right, let’s get moving. We’ll do this on the fly.”
“Say, Cap?”
Danny winced at the old nickname.
“Sorry—Colonel,” Boston corrected himself. “What about having the Tigershark fly cover? Come in pretty handy.”
“I don’t know.”
“The aircraft’s all checked out.”
“I wish I could say the same for the pilot.”
But it was a good idea. Danny picked up his phone and dialed Turk’s cell.
5
South of Tripoli
Rubeo regained consciousness on the floor of a panel truck, his arms and legs bound. It was dark, but he could tell he wasn’t alone. He pushed to the side, rolling over halfway until he hit something.
Another body.
Jons, maybe.
Whoever it was, he didn’t move or speak. His shallow breaths sounded like groans.
Rubeo pushed in the opposite direction, moving a foot and a half until he got to the wall. He maneuvered himself upright and sat, back to the wall of the truck.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he examined the other person in the truck with him. He looked too thin to be Jons.
Lawson? He’d been in the second vehicle.
Rubeo scooted over and leaned close.
It was Kharon, tied as he was.
Rubeo pushed back to the wall.
Kharon’s animosity had shocked him. But Rubeo understood exactly where it must be coming from—Kharon blamed him for his mother’s death.
“Neil. Neil?”
“What?” groaned Kharon. “What happened?”
“I believe you are in a far better position to explain than I am.”
Kharon, apparently realizing where he was, struggled to free himself. He jerked and rolled, but it was no use—the bonds were strong and well-tied. He flopped around like a prize brook trout confined to a canoe.
“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Rubeo told him.
“I hate you,” said Kharon. “I hate you.”
“Why?”
“My mother.” Short on breath, Kharon began to choke, then wheezed and finally cried. He screamed, and banged his head on the floor of the van.
Rubeo closed his eyes. The manic display of grief continued for more than a minute, until finally Kharon collapsed, completely spent.
“I’ve blamed myself as well,” said Rubeo softly when the other man was still. “I told her not to work that night, but I should have made her go home. I shouldn’t have let her work. I am tremendously sorry for it.”
“I don’t believe you,” whispered Kharon. The words were barely audible.
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Rubeo. “I know they didn’t tell you the whole story. It’s still classified.”
Kharon didn’t react.
“The accident was actually sabotage,” Rubeo continued. “We had a Russian agent at the base. It was the tail end of the Cold War.”
“You’re lying.”
“No.” Rubeo closed his eyes, remembering Dreamland. Kharon’s mother’s death was just one of several incidents that had eventually led to the shake-up, the threats of closing, and finally the coming of Tecumseh Bastian.
So good did come of it. Though it was impossible to explain that to Kharon. Nothing would ever compensate the ten-year-old who had lost his mother.
“I don’t blame you for not believing me.” Rubeo leaned his head forward, trying to undo the terrible muscle knot forming at the back of his neck. “I think if you ask Breanna Stockard, she’ll tell you. She knew your mother.”
Kharon didn’t answer. Rubeo wondered if he had passed out again, until finally he realized the young man was crying uncontrollably.
6
Sicily
Danny jumped from the Hummer and trotted toward the waiting Osprey. Boston was hanging out the door, waving him on.
The huge propellers, which rotated on their nacelles at the wingtips, whipped overhead, anxious to pull the craft into the air. Danny ran behind the wing to the door, shading his eyes against the dust kicked up by the rotors. Boston grabbed him by the forearm and helped him up. Not a half second later, the Osprey leapt forward, pushing into the stiff Sicilian wind.
“Body armor over there,” said Boston, pointing to the side bench as the hatchway closed behind them. “Gear and weapons.”
“Thanks,” said Danny, going over to suit up.
Across the tarmac from the Osprey, Turk sat at the controls of the Tigershark II, waiting as a long queue of NATO fighter-bombers moved up the taxi ramp to the runway. The com section bleeped; he cleared it, and the image of Danny Freah appeared in front of him.
“Turk?”
“I’m here, Colonel. Just waiting for clearance to take off.”
“Thank you for getting ready so quickly.”
“My pleasure,” said Turk. He meant it—he wanted nothing better than a chance to get back in the air and prove himself.
Again. Which he shouldn’t have to do.
“Dr. Rubeo wears a locating device that tracks his location continually,” said Danny. “The information has been tied into MY-PID, and we’re uploading into your connection now.”
Turk was sitting behind a transport and a tanker, waiting for clearance. As the aircraft in front of him moved forward, he nudged the Tigershark to follow.
The tower gave clearances and directions to a pair of other planes, the controller’s voice drowning out Danny’s.
“You got that?” asked Danny.
“Stand by. I’m queuing to take off,” Turk told him. He reached his arm up and touched the virtual switch to open the map panel. “MY-PID interface.” The computer blinked. “Find Rubeo,” he told his computer.
The map panel flickered. Turk used his fingers to zoom out a bit, getting some perspective—the indicator dot was some eighty miles south of Tripoli. According to the computer, the vehicle was moving at roughly fifty miles an hour on a paved highway toward the city of Mizdah.
“Plot intercept at maximum speed,” he told the computer.
“Nineteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds from takeoff,” said the flight computer. The distance was a little over four hundred miles.
“We can do better than that,” Turk told it.
“Command not recognized.”
“You’re a slowpoke.”
“Command not recognized.”
“Turk?”
“I see it. It’s going to take me about twenty minutes to get there.”
The plane in front of him jerked forward. He was now next in line.
“I need you to get there as fast as you can,” Danny told.
“Yeah, roger that, Colonel.” That was the funny thing about ground officers—they always assumed jets could simply get to where they needed instantly. “ROEs?”
“Avoid contact with the enemy. You’re just scouting.”
“What if they come for me?”
“Let’s play it by ear. We’re authorized to use deadly force to get Rubeo back, if it comes to that.”
“Roger that. Understood.”
The space in front of him was empty. It was his turn to fly.
“Whiplash, I’m clear for takeoff—talk to you in a few.”
Aboard the Osprey, Danny studied the same map that Turk was viewing, using a portable touch computer that accessed MY-PID. It was hard to like anything that he saw. Rubeo was being taken toward a city ostensibly still held by the government.
There was a small army base to the west. A large number of soldiers there had deserted, and the latest intelligence estimated that no more than three thousand were still in uniform and willing to fight. But three thousand was still far more than the Whiplash team was prepared to deal with.
Danny didn’t have enough people to take down a well-guarded house in the city—and guarantee that Rubeo would be alive. If he went into the city, he would have to call for backup. He’d already alerted the U.S. Special Operations Command, or SOCCOM, which had placed a platoon of SEALs at his disposal. They were on a carrier in the Mediterranean; he could send one of the Ospreys back to pick them up if necessary.
Turk would get there in twenty minutes. That would put the truck just outside the city. The Osprey would be roughly an hour away.
He went up to the cockpit.
“Tell Whiplash Osprey Two to double back and rendezvous with the SEAL platoon,” Danny told the copilot. “I’ll talk to the SEALs.”
“We’re still heading south?” asked the pilot.
“As fast you can.”
7
Libya
Rubeo knew his people would be tracking them by now. The best thing to do was to stay alive until they were rescued.
But that was far too passive.
It was true, he wasn’t a soldier. But he wasn’t a wimp either.
Searching the back of the van for something to cut the ropes, he hit on the idea of using the hinge edge. It wasn’t quite sharp enough to cut the rope, but by wiggling the rope against it, he was able to stretch the strands. The pressure on his wrists hurt, cutting off his circulation to the point where his fingers felt numb, but when he stopped, the restraints were loosened. He worked them back and forth, finally getting one free.
He pulled the other out, then went over to Kharon, facedown on the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching to the young man’s hands, which were tied behind his back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to untie you.”
“Why?”
“So we can get the hell out of here.”
“I still hate you.”
“Should I just leave you?”
Kharon didn’t answer. The knot was difficult, but Rubeo kept at it. Finally it came undone. Rubeo slid back, unsure what the other man would do.
