Collateral Damage (13 page)

“Otherwise they're clean and we have to let them go,” she told them.

“I don't think so, Colonel,” objected Beast.

“What you think does not count, Captain. Pauly, you're on my six.”

“The place everyone wants to be,” said Paulson.

Beast and Turk climbed and circled above while the squadron leader took another two passes at the trucks. The vehicles were moving slowly, but it couldn't be said suspiciously. They didn't react to either pass, not even shaking their fists.

As Turk turned in his orbit north, he saw a dust cloud in the distance.

“I'm going to get a better look,” he told Beast.

“Go ahead, little brother. I'm right behind you.”

Turk nudged the nose of the hog earthward. The more he flew the plane, the more he liked it. It was definitely more physical than the Tigershark. While the hydraulic controls had been augmented with electric motors to aid the radio-controlled mode, the plane still had an old school feel. He knew what older pilots meant when they talked about stick and rudder aircraft and working a plane. You got close to the Hog when you used your body. She was like another being, rather than a computer terminal.

The cloud of smoke separated into three distinct furls. They were made of dust, coming from the rear of a trio of pickups, speeding across the desert.

Now
that
seemed suspicious. Turk reported it.

“Weapons on them?” Ginella asked.

“Don't see anything.”

Turk felt himself starting to sweat again as he got closer. He pushed the plane down closer to the ground, through 500 feet, then hesitated, looked at the altimeter clock to make sure he was right. The dial agreed with the HUD.

His airspeed had been bleeding off, and now he was dropping through 150 knots—very slow with weapons on the wings. But the Hog didn't object. She went exactly where he pointed her, nice and steady.

Turk came over the trucks at barely 200 feet. Sensing that he was pushing his luck, he gunned his engines, rising away.

“Nothing in the back, not even tarps,” he told Ginella and the others.

His thumb had just left the mike button when a launch warning blared—someone had just fired a missile at him.

RUMORS OF REMORSE

1

Over Libya

T
urk's first reaction was:
Are you kidding me?

He said it out loud, nearly insulted by the audacity of the enemy to fire at him.

Then learned instinct took over. He hit the flare release, pounded the throttle, and yanked the stick hard, all at the same time.

The decoys and sharp turn made it difficult for the missile to stay on his tail. At such low altitude, however, the harsh maneuver presented problems for him as well. In an instant his plane's nose veered toward the dirt and threatened to augur in. He pulled back again, his whole body throwing itself into the controls—not just his arms, not just his legs, but everything, straining against the restraints.

“Up, up, up,” he urged.

The Hog stuttered in the air, momentarily confused by the different tugs. Finally the nose jerked up and he cleared the ground by perhaps a dozen feet.

“I have a launch warning,” he told the others belatedly. “Missile in the air. I've evaded.”

“We're on it,” said Ginella. “Come south.”

“The trucks—”

“Didn't come from the trucks,” said Beast. “Came from that hamlet south. It was a shoulder-launched SAM.”

Turk swung his head around, first trying to locate his wingman—he was off his left wing, up a few thousand feet—and then the hamlet he'd mentioned.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He'd been ready to splash the trucks, blaming them for the missile.

He angled the Hog to get into position behind Beast. Ginella, meanwhile, called in the situation to the controller. The missile was shoulder-launched, surface-to-air, sometimes called a MANPAD, or man-portable air-defense system. While the exact type wasn't clear, more than likely it was an SA–7 or SA–14, Russian-made weapons that had been bought in bulk by the Gaddafi government.

The hamlet where the missile had been fired was the same one that had reported being attacked by mortars—a fact Ginella pointed out rather sharply when she got the controller back on the line.

“Is this a rebel village or a government village, Penthouse?” she demanded. “Are we being set up?”

“Stand by, Shooter.”

“Screw standing by,” said Beast. “I say we hose the bastards.”

“Calm down, Beast.” Ginella's voice was stern but in control. “Are you there, Penthouse?”

“Go ahead, Shooter One.”

“We're going to overfly this village and find out what the hell is going on down there,” she told the controller.

“Uh, negative, Shooter. Negative. Hold back. We're moving one of the, uh, Predator assets into the area to get a look.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“Listen, Colonel, I can understand—”

“By the time you get a UAV down here, we'll be bingo fuel and the bastards will be gone,” she told him. Bingo fuel was the point at which they had just enough fuel to get home. “I'm not sure they're not gone now.”

It took nearly a half minute for the controller to respond. “Yeah, you're OK. Go ahead and take a look.”

By that time Ginella had already swung toward the town. The Hogs spread out in a pair of twos, each element separated by roughly a mile.

Flying as tail-gun Charlie, Turk kept watch for sparkles—muzzle flashes—but saw nothing. A white car moved on the main street, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.

“What do you think about that car?” Beast asked as they cleared the settlement.

“Didn't look like much,” said Turk. “All buttoned up.”

The Hogs circled south, building altitude. The car left the village and headed for the highway. Beast suggested they buzz it, but Ginella vetoed the idea.

“Waste of time,” she said.

“Probably has the bastards who shot at us,” said Beast.

“Unless they're stupid enough to take another shot,” said Ginella, “we'll never know. And we're almost at bingo,” she added. “Time to go home.”

2

Desert near Birak Airport

T
hree years before, members of the coalition of rebels had chased Muammar Gaddafi progressively south. Now history was repeating itself, with the new government being pushed farther and farther from the coast. There were certainly differences this time around—different factions of the government had broken away from the main leaders and established strongholds in neighboring Algeria and Niger—but the parallels were upmost in Kharon's mind as Fezzan drove him south from Tripoli. It seemed some places were stuck in a cycle of doom, and would just continue spiraling toward hell until finally there was nothing more to be consumed.

Most of the journey south was boring, a long stretch of empty highway flanked by even more desolate sand and waste. Two checkpoints made it worth the money he paid Fezzan, however—clearing the barrier ten miles south of Tripoli, manned by rebels, and stopping at the gates to Birak to the south.

Getting past the first barrier just before dawn had been easy: Kharon slipped the first man who approached a few euros and they were waved around the bus that half blocked the highway.

The gate at Birak several hours later was another story.

Birak Airport was some 350 miles south of Tripoli. During Gaddafi's reign it had been a major air base, with a good portion of the Libyan air force stationed there. Though the planes had been moved, the airport remained a government bastion, with temporary quarters set up in the revetments where fighter-bombers were parked. These quarters consisted of RVs and tents, with a few larger trailers mixed in.

A civilian city had sprouted just south of the base. Populated by family members and “camp followers,” as the age-old euphemism would have it, it was even more ragtag, with shanties and trailers clustered around tents and lean-tos that were more like lean-downs. The sun hit the white roofs of the trailers, creating a halo of light in the desert, a glow that made it look as if the settlement was in the process of exploding.

The road past the airport was a straight line of yellow concrete that ran through an undulating pasture of rock and sand. Grit and light sand covered everything, making the surface as slippery as ice. The path and nearby terrain were littered with vehicles. A few were burned-out hulks, set on fire during battles and skirmishes too insignificant to be remembered by anyone but the dead. Most were simply abandoned, either because they had run low on fuel or the keepers of the gate refused to allow the occupants to proceed with them.

Or proceed at all. Low mounds of sand not far off the road covered dozens of decayed and picked-at corpses. Hawks and other birds of prey circled nearby, drawn by the prospect of an easy meal.

The government forces had a “gate” on the highway, which they used ostensibly to keep rebels from coming south but in reality existed only to extract a toll—or bribe, depending on your perspective—from travelers. To reach the gate, a driver had to first weave past the abandoned vehicles, and then run the gamut of a de facto refugee camp populated by travelers who either couldn't pay the toll or were waiting for others to join them from the North.

The camp had swelled since Kharon's last visit, barely a week before. It had consisted then of no more than a hundred individuals, most of them living in their own vehicles under broad canvas cloths stretched for cover. Now it seemed to be ten times the size, extending from the shoulders to block the road itself.

Fezzan took their four-wheel-drive pickup off the road, moving west as they threaded through the ad hoc settlement. Kharon raised his Kedr PP–91 Russian submachine gun, making sure anyone looking toward the cab of the truck would see that he was armed. Fezzan had one hand on the wheel; the other gripped his own PP–91.

In truth, the pair would be easily outgunned in a battle here, if only by the sheer number of potential opponents. But brandishing the weapons made it clear they would not be casual victims, and that was enough to ward off most of their potential enemies.

A small group of children ran up to the truck, begging for money. Kharon waved them away, yelling at them in Arabic, though he was careful not to use or point the weapon—he feared inciting the parents.

They were in sight of the barrier to the west of the gate—a row of abandoned tractor trailers, augmented by the wrecked hulk of a Russian BMP and a tank that had lost its treads—when their pickup slid sideways in a loose pit of dirt and got stuck.

Fezzan tried rocking it back and forth, overrevving and making things worse. Jumping from the cab, Kharon sank to his knees in the loose sand. For a brief moment he felt a wave of fear take him; the unexpected hazard had left him temporarily without defenses.

He pushed his knee up, then shifted his weight to the right, wading through the sand to firmer ground.

By now a considerable audience had gathered, children in front, women in the middle, men to the rear. Most of the men were gray-haired and silent, glum-faced.

“Push us out,” Kharon commanded. “Get to the rear. Five euros for each person who helps.”

Five euros was a good sum, but no one moved. Finally, two of the children ran toward the truck. A woman began scolding them, but as soon as Kharon took out a fist of bills, two women went over and put their hands to the rear of the vehicle. Soon the entire crowd was there, pushing amid a cloud of sand.

Fezzan managed to get the truck out with the help of the crowd. Kharon could have just hopped in and driven off—he suspected many would. But he expected to be passing through this way again, and welshing on his promise might gain him more enemies or at least more notice than he wanted. And so he walked over to a clear spot and began passing out cash. He gave the children ones—giving them the same as the adults would have caused consternation—then doled out fives to the women.

Six men had helped; four others joined the queue. To the men who had helped, he gave ten euros apiece. The others he waved a finger at.

When they began complaining, he put his money back in his pocket, then rested his hand on his gun. They moved back.

“I would not have paid anyone,” said Fezzan when he climbed into the cab.

“Then most likely you would be food for the buzzards,” said Kharon.

F
ezzan recognized the sergeant in charge of the men at the gate, and the “toll” was quickly negotiated down from fifty euros to twenty. Once clear of the gate, they sped down the highway to Sabha, an oasis city in the foothills about forty-five miles south.

They drove to Sabha's airport. Unlike Birak, the base here was still manned by the government's air force. MiG–21s were parked on the apron near the commercial terminal building, and batteries of antiair missiles and their associated control vans were stationed along the road into what had been the military side of the complex. There was no “gate” here, only a pair of bored soldiers who gave a cursory glance at the letter of admission Kharon carried before waving them on. Fezzan drove slowly through the complex, turning north toward the administrative building. Here another pair of guards blocked the road with a pickup truck and a fifty caliber machine gun. Kharon opened the door and got out.

“I will let you know where to meet me,” he told Fezzan, banging on the roof of the truck after slamming the door closed. As the driver made a U-turn, Kharon walked to the guards, slinging the submachine gun on his shoulder and holding out his hands to show that he came in peace. They eyed the submachine gun suspiciously. Kharon had twice lost weapons at government checkpoints, more because the men wanted his gun than for security reasons. The Russian weapon, used mostly by policemen, was unfamiliar and required special bullets, making it less of a prize. Still, the soldiers made him remove the magazine before proceeding.

A second set of guards near the building were not as lackadaisical; here he had to surrender the weapon, giving it over to the custody of a corporal who came barely to his chest. Kharon was given a tag in return; he interpreted this to mean that he might actually be able to liberate the weapon for a small bribe on the way out.

He resisted the urge to trot up the steps of the main hall of the building after he was admitted. Instead he made his way as leisurely as possible, walking slowly down the hall to large office overlooking the airfield, where he found Muhammad Benrali frowning over a desk covered with Arab-language newspapers.

General Benrali, the commander of the government's Second Air Wing, wore a tracksuit that appeared a size or two too small; his sleeves were rolled up his arms. The suit was a present from a Russian arms delegation the first week of the war; Kharon suspected it was the only thing Benrali had gotten out of the meeting.

“You are late,” Benrali snarled as he entered.

“There were delays on the road.”

“I lost four aircraft and men because of you.”

“I warned you not to engage the aircraft,” said Kharon calmly. “I told you only to get its attention and divert it over the vans.”

“You said it was a reconnaissance plane.” Benrali's Libyan-accented Arabic was curt. “Reconnaissance planes do not fire on others. They run away.”

“I said it was
used
for reconnaissance. There is a difference. I warned you,” added Kharon. “I was very explicit about the power of the forces you're facing. And by this point you should realize that.”

Benrali frowned.

“Where are the trucks?” Kharon asked.

“Two miles from here. You have several things to do for us first.”

“Several? I know of only one.”

“You must fix the radar installation, and arrange for the Russians to resupply us with missiles.”

“I'm prepared to fix the radar,” said Kharon. “But as for missiles—that was not part of our deal.”

Benrali rose from his desk. He had been an air force colonel under Gaddafi, joining the revolution only in its last weeks. In Kharon's mind that was why he was more objective than many of the others he had to deal with.

“We'll get something to eat and discuss it,” said Benrali. He began rolling down his sleeves. Kharon noticed he was wearing fancy Italian shoes.

“We can talk, but any help with the Russians is separate from our agreement,” warned Kharon. “I have no power with them.”

“You have influence.”

“Not at all.”

“My people say you meet with them all the time.”

“I meet with you. Would you say I can get you to do something you don't want to do?”

Benrali chuckled. His mirth was as explosive as his anger.

“You have a silver tongue,” he told Kharon. “Come and let us eat.”

A
few hours later Kharon drove a borrowed jeep through the low hills south of the city to a cluster of hills exactly one mile east of the power line that ran through the desert. He drove by GPS reading; there was no road here.

Two large tractor trailers sat on the southern side of the hill, seemingly abandoned. They had in fact been driven here immediately after the air raid on al-Hayat, having captured important telemetry for Kharon.

He wasn't sure how much Benrali understood, let alone if the Libyans had figured out what he was truly up to. They knew that the devices in the trucks were modified radar units; he'd had to request a trained crew and demonstrate a few areas where the radar differed from the Russian gear they were familiar with. They knew they were recording something, and they knew it must involve the Tigershark, which had been engaged by the fighters.

How much beyond that, who could say?

Kharon circled the two trailers, trying to see if anyone was lying in wait for him. In truth, it was impossible to be certain—a practiced assassin could easily hide himself in the sand. He knew that the Americans had such men; his only real protection against them was the fact that they didn't know what he was doing.

After two circuits, he drove over to the trailers. Leaving the engine running, he got out of the jeep with his submachine gun—it had cost him ten euros to retrieve—and walked quickly to the trailers.

His key jammed when he tried to open the padlock on the first trailer. He jiggled it back and forth, pulling and prodding, nearly despairing—the alternative would be to shoot through the chain, possibly damaging the gear inside.

Finally he got the key in and the lock clicked open. He pulled it apart and unlatched the door.

A thick loaf of warm, stale air greeted him. He lowered his head and pushed in as if he were a football player.

The trailer was the back of a Russian radar station, upgraded from the Soviet era, sold to Libya in the 1980s, and since then updated at least twice more, not counting the pieces Kharon had added himself. In a way it was a fascinating display of technological evolution, with bits and pieces remaining from each of its active periods.

Kharon wasn't here to admire it. He took a small LED flashlight from his pocket and moved quickly to a console at the far end of the trailer.

Two hard drive enclosures sat atop metal gridwork just below a radar console. The drives were held in place by a small plastic bracket at the side. He pushed the long handle in, swung the arm out of the way, and then picked up the first drive.

Wires at the back stopped him after a foot and a half. He undid the wires—the connections were the same as those used on Ethernet cables—then scooped out the second drive and did the same.

The trailer was extremely hot. So much sweat poured down his hands that he thought he was going to drop the two boxes. He went over to the door, leaning out to catch his breath. He dropped to his knees, resting for a few moments. Then he backed into the trailer, moving on all fours.

There was a small tool kit on the second console on the right side. He found it, removed it, then made his way to the back.

There was a CPU unit under the bench against the back wall. He couldn't see one of the bolts holding it to the floor and had to squirrel around with his hand to get the wrench on it. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the one bolt off. By the time he was done he felt like he couldn't breathe. He dragged the CPU out, yanking the cords out of the panel. They were superfluous at this point anyway.