Collateral Damage (12 page)

17

Sicily

I
t was absurd and ridiculous to think that he was responsible in any way for the dozen deaths and the other casualties at al-Hayat. And yet Ray Rubeo couldn't help it.

The images he had seen of the strike tortured him. The fact that his people had no luck finding what went wrong bothered him even more. Surely it wasn't just a mistake—the enemy must have done this for propaganda purposes. And yet his people found no evidence of that.

Something had gone wrong. But what?

Working over his secure laptop in his hotel room, Rubeo worked as he had never worked before. He pulled up schematics and data dumps, looked at past accidents and systems failures, reviewed the different aspects of the mission until he practically had it memorized. And still the cause remained as much a mystery to him as it did to his people.

There was nothing wrong with the system that he could tell. The systems in the Sabre that had made the attack were exactly the same as those in the others.

So the attack hadn't happened. It was all a bad dream.

Rubeo had presided over disasters before. He had stood in the Dreamland control center as the entire world fell apart. He'd never felt a twinge of guilt. Fear, yes—he worried that his people would be hurt, or perhaps that his ideas and inventions would fall short. But he never felt guilty about what he did.

And he didn't feel guilty now. Not exactly. He saw wars as a very regrettable but unfortunately necessary aspect of reality. This war was a righteous one, to stop the abuse of the people who were being persecuted by Gaddafi's heirs. It was justifiable.

Accidents happened in wars.

He knew all this. He had thought about these things, lived with all of these things, for his entire life. And yet now, for the first time, he was upended by them.

Rubeo worked for hours. If he could just figure out what had happened, then he would be able to deal with it. He could fix the machines—his people would fix the machines—and this sort of thing wouldn't happen again.

If it was a virus, how would it have worked? It would have had to be extremely sophisticated to erase itself.

Not necessarily, he thought. The aircraft recycled its memory when it transitioned off the mission. It had to do that so it had enough space for data.

But where would it be before you took off?

The only empty positions were the video memory.

Actually, you could easily slot it there—it would be erased naturally, as the aircraft engaged its targets and recorded what happened.

Impossible, though—who among his people would do this?

So interference from outside? A radar signal they couldn't track?

That NATO couldn't track. He could easily believe that. Certainly.

But it could interfere with just one aircraft, not the others? Did that make sense?

Need to know more about the source.

Need to know more . . .

I have to have this checked out. This and a dozen other things. A hundred . . .

Twelve lives. Was that all it took to unhinge him?

Weren't his contributions greater than that? Without being boastful, couldn't he say that he had done more for mankind than all of the people killed?

But it didn't work that way, did it? And guilt—or responsibility—were concepts that went beyond addition and subtraction.

He was focused on a virus because he didn't want to take responsibility. He didn't want it to be a mistake he had made.

Same with the interference.

Maybe he had just screwed up somewhere.

Rubeo pounded the keys furiously.

It
might
be possible to throw the mapping unit off by varying the current induced in the system . . .

Hitting another stone wall as his theory was shot down by the data, Rubeo slammed the cover of the computer down in disgust.

He was a fool, tired and empty.

But he had to solve this. More—he had to know why it bothered him so badly. It paralyzed him. He couldn't do anything else but this . . .

Rising from the hotel desk, the scientist paced the room anxiously. Finally, he took out his sat phone and called a number he dialed only two or three times a year, but one he knew by heart.

The phone was answered by the second ring.

“Yes?” said a deep voice. It was hollow and far away, the voice of a hermit, of a man deeply wounded.

“I am stumped,” said Rubeo, trusting his listener would know what he was talking about. “It's just impossible.”

“Someone once told me nothing is impossible.”

“Using my words against me. Fair game, I suppose.”

“There was a beautiful sunset tonight.”

“It's night there,” said Rubeo. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“You know I seldom sleep, Ray. I wasn't sleeping.”

“The problem is . . . I . . . the thing is that I feel responsible. That something we overlooked—that I overlooked—caused this. And I have to fix it. But I don't know how.”

“Maybe it wasn't anything you did. I don't really have many details, just what I saw on the news. I don't trust those lies.”

“What they've reported was true enough, Colonel.”

“They made me a general before they kicked me out.”

“One day I'll get it right.”

“I think it would sound strange coming from you, Ray.” The other man laughed. “Besides, they did take that away. Along with everything else.”

“I don't know what to do,” confessed Rubeo.

“Go there. Go there and see it with your own eyes.”

“I don't know about that.”

“What other choice do you have?”

“It's not going to tell me what happened. The failure—or accident or attack, whatever it was—happened in the aircraft. Not on the ground. There may have been interference. It's possible—it is possible—but it's a real long shot. I think—”

“Ray, you're not going there to find out why it happened. You're going there to see. For yourself. So you can understand it, and deal with it. Otherwise, it will haunt you forever. Trust me.”

Rubeo said nothing.

“You saw my daughter recently?” asked the other man.

“I spoke to her yesterday. She's in Washington. You should call her. Or better yet, visit. Let her visit.”

“Thanks.”

“You're very good at giving advice. If you were in my position—” Rubeo stopped, realizing he was wasting his breath. Dog—the former Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian—was in fact excellent at giving advice, perhaps the only person in the world that Ray Rubeo respected enough to take advice from. But Dog was terrible at following it, and there was no sense trying to push him; they had been over this ground many times.

“Your son-in-law is over here,” Rubeo told him instead. “He's looking as fit as ever.”

“Good,” said Bastian, with evident affection. “Take care of yourself, Ray.”

“I will.”

“Take my advice.”

“I wouldn't have called if I didn't intend to.”

18

Over Libya

V
isor up, Turk leaned against his restraints, peering through the A–10E's bubble canopy toward the ground. Dirty brown desert stretched before him, soft folds of a blanket thrown hastily over a bed. He could hear his own breathing in his oxygen mask, louder and faster than he wanted. Chatter from another flight played in the background of his radio, a distant distraction.

The target was a government tank depot near Murzuq. Eight tanks were concealed there beneath desert camouflage, netting and brown tarps. Shooter Squadron would take them out.

“Ten minutes,” said Ginella in Shooter One. Paulson was her wingman, flying in Shooter Two.

“Roger that,” said Beast in Shooter Three.

Turk acknowledged in turn. The planes were flying in a loose trail, slightly offset and strung out more or less behind one another. Turk was at the rear, flying wing for Beast.

He swiveled his head to check his six, then pulled the visor down, automatically activating his smart helmet.

Ginella directed them to take a course correction and then split into twos for the final run to the target. The first element—Shooter One and Two—would make their attack first. Beast and Turk would move to the north, watching for any signs of resistance from another camp about two miles in that direction. Depending on how well the initial attack on the tanks went, they would either finish the job or look for targets of opportunity before saddling up to go home.

Turk found the new heading, checked his six, then nudged his Warthog a little closer to Shooter Three as the lead plane ran through a cluster of clouds.

“Shooter Four, let's bring it below the clouds,” said Beast. All laughs on the ground, he was nothing but business in the sky. “We need to be low enough to get an ID on anything we hit.”

“You see something?” Turk asked.

“Negative. I just want to be ready.”

Turk slid his hand forward on the stick. The threat radar began bleeping.

“We have an SA–6 battery,” said Ginella calmly. “Beast, you see that?”

“Looking for it,” said the pilot.

The detector had spotted the radar associated with the mobile missile launchers, and gave an approximate direction—south, just off the nose of Shooter Three. The radar had been switched on and off quickly—most likely to avoid being detected.

Turk hunted for the launcher, zooming the optical sensors. The center crosshair hovered over a gray and very empty desert.

“I see it,” said Beast. He pushed his nose ten degrees east, cutting in Turk's direction as he gave him the location. Turk, nearly two miles behind Beast and a little higher, couldn't see it.

“Two launchers. One up farther east just getting into position,” said Beast. “I'll take the one with the van—Turk, take the missiles.”

“Roger that.”

Turk didn't see the truck. In the Tigershark it would be labeled neatly for him, and the computer would prompt him if directed. But adapting wasn't a hardship—he took his cue from Beast's course and pushed toward the closer target.

He'd rehearsed the weapons procedures several times before taking off, and had of course used them many times during his earlier stint testing the A–10E. But as he closed in and got ready to pickle his weapons, his mind blanked. Fingers hovering over the buttons that controlled the Tactical Awareness Display, he momentarily couldn't recall how to set it up.

Just like the A–10C. Slew the target by using the control on the throttle.

The cursor started moving. He edged it into position, “hooking” or zeroing in on the tanklike launcher on the ground.

Digital Weapons Stores. Move quickly. Let's go!

He brought up the screen on the display. Turk felt the sweat pouring down the sides of his neck. His hands were wet and sticky inside his gloves. He thought of taking them off but there was no time. Time in fact was disappearing, galloping away.

The firing cue was rock solid in the HUD.

Big breath, he reminded himself. Big, slow, very slow, breath.

Someone on the ground was firing at him with a machine gun. He could see tracers.

Far away. Ignore them.

Both the cue and the launcher seemed to shrink.

Shoot the bastard.

The target was dead on in his sights. Turk pressed the trigger, pickling an AGM–65E2/L laser-guided Maverick missile.

The missile popped off the A–10E's wing. The infrared seeker on the missile homed in on the laser target designated by the A–10. A little under four seconds later, 136 pounds of shaped explosive burrowed through the body of the middle SA–6, igniting inside the chassis of the launcher. A ball of fire leapt skyward. Turk shuddered involuntarily, banking to his right and starting to look for whatever had been firing at him earlier.

“There's another radar unit flashing on to the south,” said Beast. “Straight Flush. Has to be pretty close.”

The Straight Flush radar was used to control the SA–6s. Turk pulled back on his stick and started to climb in Shooter Three's direction, covering his back while he hunted for the radar.

The radar flicked off.

Beast cursed.

“Still there somewhere,” said Turk.

“They have an optical mode. Be careful.”

The surface-to-air missiles could be launched and guided by camera. In that case the range was some eighteen miles.

“Gotta be down there behind that hill,” said Beast. “On the right. See it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Probably just the radar. But watch yourself. We'll swing in from the south,” added Beast, already starting to bank. He didn't want to come straight over the hill; if there was a launcher set up in its shadow, it could fire before he saw it.

Turk closed the gap with his leader as he came around north with him. A cluster of houses appeared off his right wing as he turned.

A lump grew in his throat.

“Oh yeah. I see him,” said Beast. “All mine.”

By the time Turk spotted the launcher, Beast had already fired. Turk watched the missile hit, a geyser of smoke, vapor, and pulverized metal erupting upward. A half second later there was a flash of white and then orange, then little flicks of red in a black cloud that seemed to materialize above the launcher.

“Scratch one SA–6 launcher,” said Beast, recovering to the west. “You want to get that radar van?”

“I see it on my left,” said Turk, finally spotting the telltale antennas.

“All yours.”

Turk steered gently to his mark, fired on the truck, then came back to join Beast. The A–10E trucked along contentedly.

“Let's do a racetrack here,” said Beast, suggesting that they circle in an orbit above the desert. “Come up to twelve thousand.”

They were at 5,000 feet. The climb to twelve in a laden A–10A could take a while, but with the uprated engines it was easy for the A–10E. Turk spun upward while Beast called in the kills to both the controller and Ginella, who was still working with her wingman on the tanks.

Ginella and Paulson had discovered another group of tanks just to the south. She told Beast to stand by while they went and checked them out.

“We can be down there in a flash,” said Beast.

“Just hold your horses. You've done enough for now.”

“Got plenty of arrows left.”

“Stand by.”

“Roger that, boss lady.”

Beast was now in an almost jaunty mood, his tone much more animated. The strike on the radar and missiles had been his first ever hits in combat. He called out the altitude markers as they rose, clearly enjoying himself.

“So did this feel as good as taking down those Mirages the other day?” he asked as they circled.

“It was OK.”

“Just OK? I'd think better than this even.”

“This was good. Doing a job. I'm a little unfamiliar with the plane,” admitted Turk. “I kept thinking I was going to screw up the weapons system. So it was good to kind of get past that.”

“Just about foolproof,” said Beast. “But I bet it's easier in your Tiger, huh?”

“The Tigershark can target by voice,” said Turk. “Or by pointing.”

“See, that's not flying.” Beast was almost gleeful. “That's push button. Don't even need a pilot. This is flying. This is fighting. Right?”

“They're both good.”

Traffic on the channel spiked as another group of aircraft came nearby. Beast switched over to a different radio channel so they could talk plane-to-plane. The Hog pilots spun out a little wider to survey the area, making sure there were no further threats. Everything looked clean.

“I'll bet those Frenchies we met yesterday are eating their hearts out about now,” said Beast. “We just made the skies safe for them.”

“So I guess we're out of the doghouse, huh?”

“Oh, that's the thing with G. Her bark is worse than her bite. You take care of business, she'll give you a long leash.”

“She was right. We kinda got carried away.”

“Ah, don't let her fool you. I bet she was pleased as hell. Hearing that a pair of zipped-do-my-dah fancy French whiz jets got their fannies smacked by two of the ugliest planes in the Air Force? She loved it. Especially since one of 'em was flown by a nugget and the other by a retard? Ha.”

“I guess I should be glad I'm not the retard, huh?”

“Oh, you'll like G eventually,” said Beast, laughing. “She's a good leader.”

A few minutes later Ginella hailed them on the main squadron frequency, telling them to come north.

“All tanks splashed,” she added.

“We still got some missiles here,” said Beast. “What do you want us to do with them?”

“Oh, I have something you could do with them,” answered Paulson.

“Settle down, munchkins.” Ginella called into their airborne controller, telling him that they had accomplished their task.

“If you have nothing for us, we're going to fly the prebriefed course home,” she told him. “And per our brief, we'll strike any—”

“Standby Shooter One. Standby,” interrupted the controller.

“That's a good sign,” said Beast. “He's looking up some trouble for us in a hurry.”

The controller came back a few seconds later, asking what their fuel and weapons situation was. Ginella had already given him that information, but she replied evenly; they had six missiles between them and a full store of gun ammo. The fuel was fine, with more than twenty minutes left before they would have to head home.

“Rebels are reporting a mortar crew working out of a pair of Hi Liners on Highway designated A3 on your maps,” said the controller. “Can you check that out?”

“Roger that.”

“Stand by for download.”

Before the Hogs had been upgraded, the controller would have delivered what was known as a nine-line brief—the mission set in a nutshell, beginning with an IP or initial point for them to navigate to, elevation of the target, its description, and other related matter. Now the nine-line brief came to the plane digitally; the target was ID'ed on the Tactical Awareness Display. The moving map on the TAD gave a top view of the tactical situation, showing Turk's location in the center. An A–10C would have gotten this as well, but in the A–10E it came directly to Turk's helmet.

It wasn't the Tigershark, but it was a lot better than writing the instructions down on the Perspex canopy—the method used in the original A–10A.

The target area was roughly 150 miles due north. Cruising a few knots north of 300, it took roughly twenty-five minutes to get close. But because it was almost on their way home, they would have plenty of time to complete the mission without getting close to their fuel reserves.

Coming north took them past the town where the Sabre accident had occurred. It was some miles to the west, well out of sight, but Turk couldn't help glancing in that direction as they drew parallel.

The images from the news video came back. All of the action today—getting up, getting ready, flying, fighting—had made him temporarily forget the images. He tried not to think about them now but it was impossible. They were horrific, all the more so because they were unintentional accidents.

Killing an enemy wasn't a problem. Killing someone who was just there, in their own house . . .

“Shooter One to Three. Beast, can you see those trucks out ahead?”

“Yeah, copy. I'm eyes on.”

“They have guns?”

“Stand by.”

The trucks were on a side road almost directly ahead of Shooter Three. Turk watched as he tucked on his wing to lose altitude.

Damn, I'm his wingman, he thought to himself belatedly. He pushed down to follow.

The trucks were Toyotas, ubiquitous throughout the Middle East. They had four-door crew cabs. Whatever was in their beds was covered by tarps.

“Stay behind me,” Beast told Turk. “I'm going to buzz them.”

“I'm with you.”

Beast took Shooter Three down to treetop level—or what would have been treetop level if there were any trees. The attack jet winged right next to them, flew out ahead, then rose suddenly. Turk, flying above as well as behind, tensed as he watched the trucks for a flash.

Nothing happened.

“Got something in the back, that's for sure,” said Beast. “But I'd need X-ray eyes to tell you what's going on.”

“All right. Let me talk to Penthouse,” said Ginella, referring to the air controller by his call sign.

“We should just splash them on general principles,” said Beast.

“Don't even kid around on an open circuit,” snapped Paulson.

“Oh, Lordy, I got a hall monitor along with us today.”

Paulson couldn't think of something witty enough to respond before Ginella told them she was going to take a run at the trucks to see if she could spot anything out of place.