Collateral Damage, page 31
Turk pulled up, sailing past Rubeo and whoever was with him on the ground. Meanwhile, the rail gun’s enormous heat—the most problematic part of the weapon—was dissipated by the air and liquid cooling system.
“Rubeo and a second individual are running in the hills,” Turk reported. “I have two more guys, back by the first truck. They’re examining the rear of the vehicle. Can I engage?”
“Are they showing weapons?” asked Danny.
“Negative.” Turk glanced to the right, where information on the two figures had been compiled by the computer.
NO WEAPONS flashed in the legend. The computer didn’t detect any.
“Hold off. Can you disable the vehicles?”
“Yeah, roger, OK. Stand by.”
Piece of cake, Turk thought to himself, swinging around to line up his shots.
Watching the feed from the Tigershark, Danny saw the stopped trucks and the men near the rear of the first vehicle. The Tigershark pivoted above, then seemed to settle over the front of the second truck. It was descending almost straight down.
There was a burst of steam from the vehicle. The truck jerked backward, propelled by the impact of the rail gun’s shell striking into the ground. Dirt flew upward, obscuring the van.
The view rotated, Turk slowly turning the aircraft to take the second shot. Danny selected the global ground-facing view—an image caught by a camera back on the belly of the Tigershark with a wide angle lens.
The image was a curved panorama some 160 degrees wide. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the truck jerked backward and to the side, a puff of smoke engulfing the front.
The men who’d been behind the first truck started to run along the highway south, undoubtedly for their lives.
“Splash two trucks,” reported Turk. “Uh, two runners on the ground, going up the road, away from the vehicles.”
“I see them,” answered Danny. “They any danger to Rubeo?”
“No weapons.”
Danny clicked into the interphone circuit, connecting with the pilots. “How long to the target area?”
“Thirty-five minutes, Colonel. We’ve got the pedals to the metal.”
“Keep them there.”
12
Libya, north of Mizdah
The earth shook a second time as the sky cracked behind them. Rubeo recognized the distinctive sound immediately—the Tigershark had fired its rail gun. Whiplash was nearby.
Action was always the best alternative.
But they weren’t in the clear yet.
“Up over there, onto the peak of that hill,” Rubeo told Kharon, pointing to the left. “Come on, come on.”
But it was Rubeo who lagged, tiring after only a few steps. While he was in reasonable shape for his age, he had never been an athlete, and on the far side of fifty he wasn’t about to win any sprints, let alone a marathon. He went down to his knees as he reached the peak, struggling for breath.
“The trucks blew up,” said Kharon.
“It’s the Tigershark—it’s a Whiplash—aircraft. We’re going to be—rescued,” said Rubeo, hunting for his breath. “It’s just a matter—of time.”
“There are two men, running up the road,” said Kharon.
“Let them go.”
Rubeo pushed up to his feet, steadying himself. They’d run about four hundred yards, not quite a quarter mile.
If the Tigershark was above them, a rescue team wouldn’t be too far off. All they had to do now was sit and wait.
Kharon looked across the sandy hilltops, orienting himself in the landscape. There was a town or city to the south, on his right. Behind them, to the west, were more hills. The ground was dry, but small trees and shrubs grew in rows in the valleys. These were the few spots where water remained from the wet season. While the area was not quite as barren and inhospitable as western Libya, where the Sahara’s dunes and moonlike extremes ruled, it was neither a breadbasket nor vacation spot.
Should he stay with Rubeo and be rescued? There was no alternative—even if he reached whatever city was to the south, it was a good bet that Foma would find him there.
But surely he couldn’t return with Rubeo—he’d be prosecuted for the murder of the villagers. And while he hadn’t told Rubeo everything about his work with the Russians, he’d certainly told him enough to warrant an arrest.
Just the sabotage alone would condemn him.
The men with the guns had been killed. Maybe he could get their guns, arm himself, and get to the city. At least then he would have a chance.
He looked at Rubeo. The scientist was thin, older, not frail but certainly not the tall and powerful man in his imagination. Not the monster.
If he could be believed. If what he had said were true?
Kharon, to his shame, sensed it was.
“I forgive you,” he told Rubeo. “I was wrong about you.” And then he set out on a dead run toward the trucks.
13
Over Libya
Danny Freah tapped his helmet to let the incoming communication pass through to his screen.
It was Chase, the security director of Rubeo’s European company.
“Colonel Freah, I see that you have located Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase. He sounded as huffy as ever.
“You see that, huh?”
“We’ve just a few minutes ago intercepted telephone communications between a Russian individual in Tripoli and the Libyan government. He has asked them to scramble forces to retrieve Dr. Rubeo, or kill him if necessary.” Chase cleared his throat so loudly that the antinoise dampers in Danny’s helmet—designed to filter out the sound of an explosion over the radio—kicked in. “They are also intending to retrieve two items that we have in the second van. Those items are our property, and we want them back.”
“What are they?”
“Robots.”
“What type?”
“I do not have the details. Both are experimental and highly valuable.”
Danny doubted that Chase didn’t have the details, but let it pass. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
“Colonel, I would greatly prefer that the items are recovered intact,” said Chase quickly. “I’m sure Dr. Rubeo would agree. However, if that is not possible, one of the items contains equipment that is extremely sensitive. If the situation warrants, you may have to blow it up.”
“You don’t know what they are, but you think we should destroy them?”
“An ounce of prevention—wouldn’t you agree?”
“How exactly do you know about the communication?” asked Danny. “Are you bugging their telephones?”
“We have taken steps to protect Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase smugly. “Some of those are not available to you, for a number of reasons.”
“Who is the individual?”
“He’s a Russian officer with the SVR. I will transfer the information to you anonymously.”
“Thanks,” said Danny.
The Tigershark’s computer warned Turk that four aircraft were coming off the runway at Ghat.
“Identify.”
“Aircraft are MiG–25 NATO reporting code name ‘Foxbat,’ variant unidentified.”
The MiGs were rocket fast—and about as maneuverable as a refrigerator. They were no match for the Tigershark: easier prey than the Mirages, though they could certainly run away faster.
Their airfield was some four hundred miles south. Assuming they went to their afterburners, they could be in firing range within twenty minutes, perhaps even sooner. That didn’t make them an immediate threat, but it could potentially complicate the pickup, as the Osprey would be easy prey.
“Danny, I have four government aircraft getting airborne in a hurry,” he radioed. “Not sure yet where they’re headed. They could be a threat.”
“I doubt they’re heading in your direction,” said Danny.
“Acknowledged. If they do, can I engage?”
“Hold your present position, Tigershark. I have to sort this out.”
Turk understood that getting clearance would be a problem—the aircraft were not yet considered hostile. And in fact they might not be until the Osprey was in serious danger.
“I say we warn them off,” suggested Turk. “Tell them to stay clear.”
“I’d rather not advertise the fact that we’re in the middle of a rescue operation,” said Danny. “My pilot says we’re about fifteen minutes from touchdown.”
“That’s still going to cut it close,” said Turk. “Your aircraft will be in range of their missiles if they go all out.” He pointed at the detail panel, showing what the computer interpreted the MiGs were carrying.
“Computer says they have an Apex variety, R27 missiles. That’s a decent medium range missile, Colonel,” Turk reported. “Could take out your aircraft.”
“Stand by,” Danny told him.
“Yeah, roger that,” said Turk. He recalculated an orbit that would take him south, putting him in a better position to intercept the planes. As he did, the computer gave him a fresh warning—the Mi–35V Hind and the Chinook in town were revving their rotors.
14
Libya, north of Mizdah
Rubeo stared after Kharon in disbelief as the other man ran down the hill.
What the hell was he doing?
“Neil!” yelled Rubeo. “Neil!”
There was no answer or acknowledgment. Cursing, he followed.
“Where are you going?” yelled Rubeo. “We have to wait—we’ll be rescued shortly. I’m sure of it. Stop. Just stop!”
Kharon either didn’t hear him or didn’t want to pay attention. He kept running toward the trucks.
“Damn,” muttered Rubeo, his pace slowing to a walk. “Stop!”
Kharon ran toward the truck they’d been in. From the rear, it looked undamaged, and he began to hope that he might actually be able to escape—he could drive into the city and find someone, anyone in charge. Eventually, he’d find a way to sell his services in exchange for passage out of the country.
To where? Not to Russia, obviously, as Foma would easily find him there. And there was no going to the States.
Venezuela—the fat bastard Sifontes might actually be useful. But Sifontes was in Tripoli, or somewhere with the rebels. This was government territory.
Just barely.
He could buy his way out to freedom. Maybe South Africa.
Kharon collapsed against the side of the truck. He pushed himself up, then worked his way over to the front with a sideways shuffle, aiming to get in on the passenger side and jump over.
As he reached the door, he saw that the hood had a large hole in it. He stared at it, unsure what he was seeing—something had blown clear through the sheet metal and the engine, and plunged deep into the earth.
The engine had been destroyed. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Desperate, he ran to the other vehicle.
Rubeo walked the last two hundred yards, his legs drained, his lungs heaving. By the time he got to the trucks, Kharon had collapsed between them.
“Stay away!” he yelled at Rubeo, getting up when Rubeo was only a few feet away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“What are you doing?” asked Rubeo.
“I’m getting the hell out of here. I’m going to the city.”
“It’s miles from here.”
“I have no choice.”
“Neil—”
“What do you think? You think they’ll let me go when they find out what I did? Do you really think I should hang around to be rescued by the allies?”
Rubeo realized that he was right—surely the allies would treat him harshly once they realized what he had done.
Kharon had tried to ruin him and kill him. There was no way in the world that he should feel anything but disgust and hatred toward him, Rubeo thought.
And yet it seemed he had to do something to help Kharon. Was it the fact that he had loved Kharon’s mother? Did he in fact still feel guilty over her death?
It was a death he had no fault in. And yet he did feel remorse—guilt. There was no other way to express it.
Why should he feel guilty for something a criminal had done?
And why did he feel bad, terribly bad, for Kharon, another victim of the crime?
Most people would say that Ray Rubeo was the last person on the face of the earth who would feel an emotion toward someone, let alone toward someone who had tried to harm him so badly. And yet, he felt emotion, a deep emotion, as if he had to save a son.
As if he could, if only he could think of something. If only he could find the right equation to solve things.
“Neil, if you go into that town, the Russian agent is going to be looking for you. Your only hope is to stay with me.”
“No.” Kharon shook his head. “Listen—they’re already coming.”
Rubeo did hear the sound—a pair of helicopters in the distance. He strained for a moment, trying to identify them. They weren’t Ospreys, which would be what Whiplash would use. But perhaps they were other allied aircraft.
Then he realized something else was wrong.
“They’re coming from the city,” he told Kharon. “Come on. We better take cover.”
15
Over Libya
The allied no-fly zone extended only over northern Libya, and under the standing rules of engagement, jets elsewhere could be shot down without prior approval from the alliance command only if they were a direct threat to civilians or allied aircraft. Danny had been instructed to notify the allies “if reasonable” before engaging any aircraft, and he dutifully did so, talking directly to the air commander aboard the AWACS aircraft surveying the airspace.
The commander had already vectored two French jets south, and was in the process of alerting another flight as backup.
“Your aircraft is clear to engage if necessary,” said the air commander. “We’re establishing direct coms now.”
“I’d like to keep him over my operation area,” said Danny.
“That’s all right with us. Colonel—we’re seeing two helicopters taking off nearby. We’re not sure if they’re hostile.”
“Can we shoot them down?”
“Have they taken hostile action?”
“I’d rather not wait for that.”
“Stand by.”
Danny clicked into Turk’s frequency.
“I’m talking to the allied command about the helicopters,” he told him. “Stand by and be ready.”
“They’re getting close.”
“Are they armed?”
“The Hind has a chin gun,” said Turk.
“Understood. Anything hostile, take them out. We’re a few minutes away.”
“Yup,” snapped Turk, clearly irritated that he had to wait. The helicopters could get right next to Rubeo without doing anything hostile, and then shoot. Turk knew there would be no way to protect him.
“Whiplash, be advised, those helicopters are part of the rebel alliance,” said the air commander, coming back on the line.
“They came out of a government city,” said Danny.
“City leadership has gone over to the rebels.”
“When?”
“It’s in progress,” said the controller. “The helicopters are not hostile. We have spoken to one of their ground commanders.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Affirmative.”
“They’re moving into an area where my guy on the ground may be threatened,” answered Danny. “Tell them to get the hell out of there.”
“We’re working on it. Do not engage.”
“Tell them to change course,” Danny said.
“I am not in direct communications with them at this time. We’re trying to establish a direct link. Suggest your aircraft attempt to contact them as well on Guard.”
“If they continue, they will be shot down,” Danny warned. He went back to Turk. “Turk, command is saying the aircraft are considered friendly. Try contacting them directly. If they look like a threat, nail them.”
“I want them to stay back.”
“Understood and agreed. Warn them off. Don’t fire unless you have to, but keep Rubeo safe.”
“What about the MiGs?”
“Air command allegedly is taking care of them,” said Danny. “But same thing there.”
“Yeah, roger, I got it. Easier if we were just running this on our own.”
“But we’re not.”
“Tigershark copies.”
16
Libya, north of Mizdah
Kharon hesitated, unsure what to do. Finally he decided to follow Rubeo, who was heading back up to the hills where they had been. After the first tentative steps, he put his head down and began running in earnest.
Whatever happens, I’ll stay with him. I’m as good as dead now anyway.
He caught up with Rubeo and trotted alongside him for a few steps. Then he decided to go ahead.
“I’m going to see if I can see anything from the top of the hill,” said Kharon.
“OK,” wheezed Rubeo.
Kharon started to run again. He cut left, up the steep side of the hill. Several large rocks blocked his way. He veered right, then felt the side of his foot giving way in the loose dirt. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, the left side of his face burning.
Rubeo was about ten yards from Kharon when he went down. He changed direction, huffing with every step.
The young man lay curled up, in obvious pain. His face had hit the rocks and blood streamed down the side to his chin and the ground. As Rubeo started to inspect the wounds, he saw that Kharon’s pants leg was soaked red as well. He reached over and started to examine it.
Kharon yelped as Rubeo touched the leg. His bone had punctured the surface; he had a compound fracture.
