Collateral Damage (25 page)

6

al-Hayat, Libya

W
hen Ray Rubeo was eight years old, a cousin's house had caught fire and burned to the ground. Rubeo visited the house the day after, as a bulldozer tore down what was left. A metallic smell hung in the air, mixing with the diesel exhaust of the Cat. His cousin's family stood around, eyes glassy as they watched the dozer work through what had been their home for more than a decade. There had not been time to rescue any of their belongings. Toys and clothes and furniture were jumbled in the flotsam.

The smell and the emptiness returned to him now as he walked through the ruins of the buildings hit by the Sabre's missiles. The ruins hadn't been touched since immediately after the attack, when the victims were pulled out. Now the bricks were being salvaged; two young boys were piling them on one side. Otherwise the area was deserted.

“Seen enough?” asked Jons.

“Not yet.”

“I don't want to stay too long,” said the bodyguard. “We stand out here.”

“Understood.”

Rubeo walked along the narrow street at the center of the attack, coordinating what he saw with what he remembered from the map. With the exception of a pair of buildings at the eastern end, where a fire had started and then spread, the rubble petered out at the edges of the street and three alleys that intersected the target area. That meant the computer had identified the buildings as targets.

Which he already knew.

Or did he? Because really, looking at the targeting information, they simply assumed that the computer had deliberately gone after a building. But it could just as easily have been looking at pure GPS coordinates.

It was a subtle, subtle distinction. Given the coordinates, the targeting section would look at the building, and go from there.

Significant?

Certainly this had not been a random act—the house was struck perfectly.

No, that didn't mean it wasn't random. That just meant the house was struck perfectly. Because in theory, to the machine there was no difference in the coordinates for an empty desert.

Not true—the machine took the coordinates and looked at them, deciding if it was a building or a tank or whatever. It then worked from there.

To an investigator coming in later, it would look purposeful. But that didn't mean it necessarily was.

If it had been given an empty desert, it wouldn't have attacked at all. But given a location with a house . . .

Rubeo played with his earring. The mission had been programmed in. Assuming there was no interference, what had happened could be explained by a change in the navigation system that made the Sabre think it was several miles away from its intended target,
and
by an override to the targeting computer that put the strike into dumb mode—in other words, turned off the target recognition feature. Two separate events that someone would have to beam in.

Dumb mode wasn't on. It hit the house—it was going to a target.

Maybe by accident. Or not accident exactly, but whoever had worked out the coordinates knew it would be close enough to look deliberate.

To reprogram it, you'd have to physically access the system. You'd need a fairly sophisticated knowledge of the Sabres as well as the computing system.

No. You could do it with a sophisticated knowledge of the Flighthawk GPS and backup system, which was the model for the Sabres. In fact, it was essentially the same, ported over with minor changes to account for the hardware.

How would you figure that?

Easy—look through the Air Force bids relating to the project. If you had access to different defense contractors.

So you're in. How do you get to dumb mode in the targeting section?

Easy—just flip a software switch. But you had to know it was there.

Hmmmph.

Interference, but an extremely sophisticated form.

Hard to get all of that data into the aircraft via the GPS channel. And then you had to erase it.

Rubeo worked the problem out in his mind, seeing the lines of code he would need to write if he were the one introducing the problem.

No, that was the wrong approach. Too complicated. It assumed too much knowledge.

Go back to the random theory. What if rather than playing with the software, which was always recorded, you attacked the hardware—if you changed the voltage to a particular circuit, you might be able to change the targeting mechanism. If you affected the GPS sensor for a short period of time, you could send the aircraft to a new location.

Was that all you needed?

He wasn't sure. He tried picturing the different circuitry in his mind. One thing he did know, however: when the system returned to normal, there would be no trace.

Who would go to that kind of trouble, though? With that much knowledge, wouldn't you just reprogram the unit to fly to wherever you wanted it? The Chinese would pay dearly for it.

Rubeo jerked his head around as he heard something fall nearby. The bricks had fallen on the two boys working on the wall.

He ran toward them, Jons right behind.

The Filipino who'd been watching that side of the perimeter got there first. One of the child's legs was pinned by the rubble. He scooped the material off and lifted the boy gently out. He put him down on the dirt nearby, then swung his rifle up and took a guard position a few feet away.

Rubeo found the second kid dazed but apparently unharmed. He lifted him by the shoulders and deposited him next to his friend.

“Are you hurt?” he asked the child.

The kid looked too shocked to talk.

Jons called over Halit, who had been back by the car with Lawson. The translator took a stern tone with two kids, immediately beginning to berate them for playing in the ruins.

“Don't yell at them,” snapped Rubeo. “Find out if they're all right.”

“They are fine. Look at them.” Halit waved his hands as if he was an exasperated crossing guard. “These vermin are always wandering where they don't belong. They are worse than monkeys. Monkeys would have more manners.”

“Ask them,” said Rubeo.

Halit began to question them. Neither boy spoke, clearly intimidated. Rubeo went to the kid whose legs had been pinned under the rubble and helped him to his feet. There was a bit of blood near the right knee. Rubeo started to roll up the pants leg; the boy jerked back.

“Tell him we'll fix his leg,” he told Halit.

“See? He is already OK. He moves around like a monkey. Faking.”

“I have a first aid kit,” said Lawson. “Let me see him.”

Lawson rolled up the boy's pants, exposing some scrapes and minor scratches. A thick welt was already shaded purple on his shin. Lawson took out a bacteria wash and cleaned the cuts and scrapes. The boy barely reacted, even though the antiseptic must have stung.

“Let's see you walk a little, fella,” said Lawson. When the child didn't react, the former Ranger began mimicking what he should do. He added a few words in Arabic, then pretended to be a toy soldier or robot—it wasn't clear to Rubeo which—bouncing around back and forth.

The child laughed. He took a few steps, apparently not greatly harmed.

“See, laughter is the best medicine,” said Lawson.

“Let's take them home,” said Rubeo.

“Good idea?” asked Jons, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

“Ask them where they live,” Rubeo told Halit. “And say it in a way that gets us a correct answer, or you may find it difficult to walk yourself.”

T
he boys were cousins, but lived together in a small apartment complex a few blocks away. Five stories tall, with walls of large brown bricks and a stucco material, the buildings were not much different than what might be seen in Europe or even parts of America. The Gaddafi government had erected similar developments throughout the country, awarding them occasionally to the poor, but more often to families connected in some way to the power structure.

The interior hall of the building was clean, and smelled of some sort of disinfectant. But the disrepair was obvious as soon as they were through the door. The elevator, its door scratched and pockmarked with indentations, was out of order. The railing next to the stairs leaned at an angle, missing several supports. The floor tiles were cracked and pitted.

Lawson, with the two boys in tow, led the way up the stairs to the third floor, where they lived. By now he and the kids were great friends, so much so that they ran to the door and pushed it open, shouting to their family that they had found rich Americans. Halit was clearly nervous, hesitating near the door as Rubeo took off his shoes.

“You're coming in with us,” Rubeo told him.

“Of course,” said the man unhappily.

Lawson and the Filipino nicknamed Joker went first, followed by Jons, who stayed in the doorway until the other two had made sure the place was clear. Abas and the others stayed below.

Four girls and two women were crowded into the living room just off the small foyer. They were the only ones home; all the others were either out at school or work. From what Halit said, there were two families here, and a grandmother. The grandmother, who was in her early fifties, was in the living room and acted as the family spokesperson.

After the children had told their story, she went to the kitchen to prepare some food for the visitors. Rubeo had Halit tell her that they'd just been fed but would gladly like something to drink. Anything more, Rubeo realized, would undoubtedly mean the family wouldn't eat for a week.

The grandmother found two dusty bottles of an Italian soft drink, and served cups all around. Rubeo told Halit to find out what he could about the family, then to ask if the woman knew the people who had been killed in the bombing.

Halit balked.

“To ask this—it is difficult to know the reaction,” said the translator.

“Tell her we want to help them.”

“She won't believe you.”

“Probably right, boss,” said Jons.

“Then let's ask the kids,” said Rubeo. “Have them take us to the families.”

“There was a riot here the other day, Ray,” said Jons. “We've really pushed this far. Very far. I really don't think we should go any further.”

“Fortunately, you're not the one making the decisions,” said Rubeo.

7

Sicily

T
urk was on his way to the base when Danny Freah called him on his cell phone and told him to report to him ASAP.

“What's up, Colonel?” asked Turk.

“We'll discuss it when you get here.”

Danny's tone made it clear that he should expect trouble, so when Turk walked into his office, he wasn't surprised by the colonel's stoic face—Freah's standard expression when things were going sour. The colonel wasn't a shouter—Turk couldn't remember him
ever
raising his voice. But in many ways his silent, unspoken disapproval was far worse.

“Have a seat, Captain,” said Danny. He was sitting at a computer screen, and after giving Turk a brief but meaningful glare, turned back and resumed typing.

The wait was excruciating, but Turk knew the best thing to do was wait for the colonel to speak. Danny's keystrokes seemed to become harsher as he typed. Finally he was done. He sat back from the computer, crossed his arms, and swiveled in his seat.

“Half the NATO command thinks you are an irresponsible pilot willing to fire on civilians—” started Danny.

Turk cut him off. “No way.”

“You had to be ordered several times not to open fire on civilian vehicles.”

“I—I didn't shoot.”

“And then there are people who think you withheld fire because you're afraid of hitting anything.”

“What?”

Unfolding his arms, Danny reached across his desk for a piece of paper.

Turk took it and started to read. It was an e-mail detailing part of an after-action report about the A–10E “incident.”

. . . despite having been cleared because of the earlier engagement, Captain Mako erroneously held fire. A few moments later there was a flash from the ground. The flash was the launch of an SA–14, fired from the group Captain Mako had passed. The missile or its shrapnel struck Shooter Three on the right side, disabling the engine and much of the control surfaces . . .

“That's bullshit,” said Turk. “That's total bullshit. Who's saying this?”

“Check the heading.”

The e-mail was from Colonel Ernesto.

“Ginella said this? No, no way. No way,” sputtered Turk. “I couldn't assume that I was cleared to fire—that's totally missing the intent of the ROEs. Even if I saw a weapon—”

“Did you see a weapon?”

“No,” Turk insisted. “No. If I had seen a weapon, then—”

He stopped short. If he
had
seen a weapon, he would have fired. Even if it was a kid.

He would have, wouldn't he?

“She's giving me a heads-up as a courtesy,” said Danny. “She said there may be an explanation, and she's not putting anything in writing until she talks to you.”

Turk felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He had a feeling this had nothing to do with the incident itself, but rather Li.

Damn.

“Colonel, I swear. No one in that group was armed. I would have seen a missile launcher. I looked. I really looked.”

“How fast were you going?” Danny asked.

“I don't remember.”

“Three hundred knots?”

“No.” Turk shook his head. “It would have been a lot slower than that.”

“A hundred?”

“That's stall speed. A little faster.” Turk shook his head. “Colonel, I know what I saw.”

Danny frowned.

“You can't let her say that. It makes me look like . . . a coward.”

“It's not up to me what she says.”

Turk knew the e-mail was meant as blackmail. But he couldn't tell Danny that.

“You have to believe me. That's not what happened,” he said. “They're saying crap about me because I'm not a member of the squadron. And for the record—I told Grizzly to break the other way. He turned right into it. It was dumb, not his fault, but . . . I mean—”

Danny put up his hand. “She's the one you have to talk to.”

Turk shook his head.

“Are you saying you don't want to talk to her?” asked Danny.

“No—I'll talk to her. I'll talk to her.”

“You want me to come with you?”

That wasn't going to work.

“It's all right. Thanks.”

“In the meantime, you're not flying for anybody but Whiplash. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. That's fine.”

D
anny watched Turk leave the office. He felt bad for the kid—Ginella's e-mail was extremely harsh, even without the very strict rules of engagement they were operating under.

Technically, she was within her rights to go through with a report criticizing Turk. If she did, Danny would make sure it was countered somehow.

Still, the damage would be done. Better for Turk to talk her out of it himself.

On the other hand, was her implication correct—had Turk missed the weapon? Had he seen it and dismissed it? It couldn't have just appeared suddenly.

Between that and the incident with the trucks, which the air commander had mentioned to him earlier, it seemed like the pilot was unduly stressed.

Understandable, he thought. He'd been there himself.

P
aulson was standing in the outer office when Turk came in.

“Here's the Dreamland hotshot who nearly got Grizzly killed,” said Paulson when he saw Turk in the hall. “Thanks a lot.”

“Fuck you,” snapped Turk.

“You gonna slug me?” asked Paulson.

Turk was sorely tempted.

“Mr. Paulson, that will do,” said Ginella, coming to the doorway.

“We're all grounded, you know,” Paulson told Turk. “Nice going, hotshot.”

Turk felt his face warm.

“We're taking a breather, Captain,” Ginella told Paulson. “Captain Mako, why don't you step into my office?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Turk went to the chair quickly and sat down. He watched Ginella close her door, then walk over to her desk.

She was all business. That was a relief.

Or was it?

“I understand you were out with Captain Pike last night,” said Ginella, sitting down.

“We went to dinner.”

“Had a good meal?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.”

“Listen—”

“I just spoke to Colonel Freah on the phone,” said Ginella. “He showed you the e-mail, I understand.”

“Yes, and it's bullshit,” said Turk.

“Is it, Captain?”

“Absolutely. I told you what happened.”

“If you didn't miss the missile, where did it come from?”

“I don't know.” Turk clenched his fists, then struggled to unknot them. “I—it wasn't on that hill when I passed. There's no way it came from that hill.”

“No way?”

“No. Maybe somebody climbed up there after I passed,” said Turk. “I don't think so—it wasn't with the kids.”

“You don't think they might have hidden the missile launcher somewhere?”

She was pushing this ridiculously hard. Turk wondered when she would drop the charade.

And what would he do then?

“Well? Could it have been hidden?” she asked.

“Maybe,” said Turk reluctantly.

“I see.”

Ginella's eyes bored into him. Turk tried to hold her stare but found he just couldn't. He blinked, looked down at the floor, then back up.

“You're worried that if the report is written this way, it'll hurt your career,” said Ginella.

“It's not the truth. That's my concern.”

“Understood. You can go, Captain.”

“Are you going to change it?”

“I'm not sure what I'm going to do.”

“But—”

“Dismissed, Captain. I don't need you in the squadron anymore. Thank you for your help.”

“Listen, this is all—”

Ginella stared at him. What was she thinking? Was she actually trying to blackmail him? Or was she just being a tough commander? Grizzly thought he'd screwed up—maybe she was just taking his word over his own.

Most squadron leaders would let it go. On the other hand, if she really thought he had messed up, she did have a duty to press him on it.

But . . .

“What is it you want to say, Turk?” Ginella asked.

“I—I just want to say that I know what I saw.”

“I'll take it into consideration.”

Unsure what else to do, Turk started to leave.

“One last thing, Turk,” said Ginella as he opened the door. “It's always best to answer your phone.”

It took every ounce of his self-control not to slam the door on the way out.