Collateral Damage (8 page)

“Big honchos from D.C. are tearing apart the airplane,” said the sergeant. “How you holding up, Cap?”

“I'm good. What honchos?”

“Pinhead types.” The sergeant shrugged.

“Dr. Rubeo?”

“Couldn't tell you. They drove up in a couple of SUVs, had attaché cases—kinda like the
Men in Black
movie. You ever see that?”

“Not in a long time.”

“We're not supposed to go inside even because of the security.”

“No shit?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe they think we'll see that it's put together with rubber bands.”

“It's actually paper clips,” said Turk.

Inside AC–84a, the Tigershark had been stripped of much of the top of her skin. A large scaffolding ladder sat over her nose, and two mobile platforms extended over her wings. Several other ladders, ranging from four to sixteen feet, were arrayed next to various parts of the aircraft.

Gear was spread all around her. Men dressed in white suits dotted the aircraft. They looked like surgeons. Several others, wearing blue suits similar to the scrubs a hospital surgical team would use, manned a portable computer and other sensor screens at three different workbenches set up on the far side of the plane.

Another group of men and women were standing at the side of the hangar behind a velvet rope, as if the Tigershark were a nightclub and they were waiting to get in.

“Captain Mako,” said Ray Rubeo, walking over to him from behind the plane. He was wearing blue scrubs. “What can we do for you?”

“I just thought I'd see if the Tigershark was ready to fly.”

“It will be a few days,” said Rubeo. “I'm sorry, Captain. As I told the investigators this morning, this has nothing to do with you, or anything you did.”

“Thanks for that,” said Turk.

Rubeo stared at him.

“I just wanted to make sure the plane is OK,” said Turk.

“So do we,” said Rubeo.

“What do you think happened?”

Rubeo sighed. It was a loud sigh—Turk had heard it described by Breanna and others as a horse sigh.

“I cannot speculate,” said the scientist. “Even if I was given to speculation, which I am not, in this case, I simply can't.”

“You think it was the Tigershark?”

“It must be ruled out.”

“Guess I'll go take a nap,” he told Rubeo.

T
urk wasn't about to take a nap, though in truth he wasn't really sure what to do with himself. He headed toward the headquarters building, thinking he might at least check in with the duty officer and see if there was an assignment he could rouse up. If not, maybe he would follow Ginella's suggestion and check out some of Italy. She made it sound pretty alluring.

Maybe a nice tour of the country would divert him. Even better, maybe he'd find a nice Italian girl, one who'd whisper some sort of Italian come-on in his ear.

Ciao. Bene.

He was nearly at the building when he was flagged down by one of General Talekson's aides. Talekson, an RAF officer, headed operations for the coalition; he was giving a briefing to the squadron leaders and wanted to know if Turk could detail his encounter with the four Mirages.

“Be glad to,” said Turk, happy to finally have something to do.

The session had already started by the time they got there. The general sat at the front of the large conference room, frowning. An RAF major on his staff—the intel officer, whom Turk had met only once—was giving an overall situation report. He flailed at a map projected on the large screen in front of him, waving his laser pointer around as he spoke of the government concentrations. The rebellion had started in the area of Benghazi, northern Libya, and slowly spread west and south. The government forces had done a good job moving their equipment down, and clearly had more of it ready to use than had been suspected.

“The airfields marked A3, A6, A7, and A8 have been hit this morning,” said the major. He used the laser pointer in his hand in a highly impressionistic way, barely pausing at the spots he referred to. A3 was the airfield at Ghat, where the Mirages had launched from the day before.

“The fields are only marginally usable. This is a double-edge sword,” added the major. “It means we will be delayed from making them usable when the rebels take them over.”

“Quite,” said the general.

The intelligence officer continued, saying that he didn't believe the government could launch any more aircraft, as they were only in possession of two more airfields, neither of which was long enough for the fighters still in their possession. Nonetheless, the allies would have to be mindful, as he put it. The Libyan government still had upward of eighty fighters.

“Most are obsolete Mirages and older MiG–23s, –25s, and –27s,” said the general, interrupting. “But there are MiG–29s, and we have heard rumors of at least six Sukhoi Su–35s. We have not located them. Which frankly is more than a little worrisome. If they exist.”

The intel major smirked, and a few of the squadron leaders did as well. Clearly, they didn't think the planes would materialize.

The general looked over at Turk.

“Captain Mako is here. Perhaps he can tell us about the Mirages he encountered.”

“Glad to.” Turk glanced around. “I don't have the gun video—I'm kinda doing this off the top of my head. But there really wasn't much to it, I guess.”

He ran through the encounter. It seemed pretty simple now that he recounted it.

Line 'em up and shoot 'em down.

Turk didn't say that, but he certainly thought it. The squadron leaders asked about his aircraft and the weapon. The questions were mostly technical: how much was automated, how far away was he when the engagement began and ended. But one, from a German
oberst,
or colonel, completely surprised him.

“What did you feel when you shot the planes down?” asked the Luftwaffe commander.

“I don't know that I felt anything,” said Turk truthfully. “I just, you know, went with my training.”

“Ah.” The officer was a member of Jagdgeshwader 73, the 73rd fighter wing, and headed a four-ship group of Eurofighters. The fighters had not yet been in combat. “So you feel nothing?”

“I just, uh, just didn't think about it really.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Turk thought that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone seemed to stare at him.

He felt . . . good about getting the kills. He felt triumphant. Wasn't that what he was supposed to feel? It was a win—a big one, four of them in fact. And each one of those bastards was trying to kill him.

Damn, of course he felt good. What else was he supposed to feel?

Bad because he'd won? That made no sense.

And then the Sabre had gone off course. How did he feel about that?

That was the real question, and the truth was, he couldn't really answer.

It was terrible that the plane had gone off course and struck the wrong target. He felt bad that people had died. But there wasn't anything he could do about that.

And there was a limit to how much he could feel. He didn't cry or get sick or anything like that. Was that what was supposed to happen?

He certainly didn't feel guilty—he hadn't been responsible. Truly, it wasn't his fault.

So he felt bad, but clearly not bad enough, as far as anyone seemed to think he should.

The briefing continued. Turk felt out of place, but it seemed too awkward to leave. The commanders recounted some of the basic protocols, some of the SAR arrangements in case things went wrong, and reiterated the need to call in for permission to blow your nose . . .

That got a laugh, at least.

As the briefing broke up, Turk slipped out of the room. He was halfway down the corridor when Ginella called after him.

“Hey, Turk, why are you running away?”

“Running?” Turk stopped and waited for her. “I was just walking.”

“That was a weird question.” Ginella started walking with him toward the door at the end of the hallway.

“What?”

“How did you feel about gunning down four fighters trying to kill you?” said Ginella, paraphrasing the German's remark. “That was a weird question to ask.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I would have said ‘kick-ass.' ”

“Well, uh—”

“Isn't that how you felt?”

“Kinda,” he admitted.

“You feel bad because of the accident,” said Ginella. “We all get that. But that has nothing to do with the dogfight. You nailed those bastards. You oughta be proud of that.”

“Thanks,” said Turk.

“So you really want to drive Hogs, huh?”

“Well, I like them—”

“They're a lot different than that pretty li'l thing you've been tooling around in,” she told him. “Stick and rudder. Meat and potatoes.”

“I remember,” said Turk.

They reached the door. Turk reached to open it, but Ginella got there first, slapping her hand on the crash bar and holding it for him in a reversal of etiquette, chivalry, and rank.

“I need another check pilot for a flight this afternoon,” she told him. “You're welcome to apply. We'll see how good you are.”

“You'll let me fly?”

“If you won't break it.”

“Well, I—”

“It's already cleared.”

“Really? But I'd be bumping somebody—”

“I told you, three-quarters of my people are down with the flu,” said Ginella. “You saw who I have left at lunch. If I use their hours for the check flights, we won't be able to take a mission. At least not if I obey the alliance flight rules.”

“Hell, I'd love to do it,” said Turk.

“Report to Hangar B–7 at 1600 hours,” she said, her voice suddenly all business.

“I will,” said Turk.

She smacked his back. “See you then, Captain.”

9

Washington, D.C.

W
hen she was running for President, Christine Mary Todd was asked how she would respond if woken up at 6:00
A.M.
for a national emergency. She had responded that anyone looking for her at 6:00
A.M.
would find her at her desk.

Or in this case, in the secure conference room in the White House basement, where she'd arrived to review the situation in Libya with her national security team.

“Good morning, Mr. Blitz,” she said to the National Security Advisor. She nodded to the secretary of state, Alistair Newhaven. “Mr. Newhaven.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with several Air Force officers, were at the Pentagon, displayed on the large video screen at the front of the room. Breanna Stockard, who headed the Defense Department's Office of Special Projects, was also participating via a link to her office on the CIA campus. NATO liaison General Daniel Yourish and Air Force Special Warfare Command Chief of Staff James Branson were in Belgium and Florida, respectively.

“I assume that you have all read the latest bulletins,” said the President. “The preliminary reports that I've seen indicate that the aircraft made the attack on its own.”

“It's pretty clear that the pilot did not initiate it,” said Breanna. She had been working much of the night, and didn't seem to have bothered much with makeup beyond a small dab of lipstick. Yet she looked as well put together as ever.

The President admired that. Smart, good-looking, virtually unflappable—Breanna would do well in politics. Except of course that her husband had that covered.

Todd would have preferred Breanna to Zen, actually. He was a crucial ally, but often a difficult one.

“There are two problems here,” continued Todd. “One obviously is the media fallout. But just as important, in my mind, is the implication of the technology failure. What went wrong?”

“We have to find that out,” said Breanna. “That obviously is our focus here. Ray Rubeo has already volunteered to go personally and assist in the examination.”

“How close is this to Raven?” asked the National Security Director. The loss of the Raven drone two months before had caused considerable consternation—and an attempt on the President's life.

“We don't believe it's related at all,” said Breanna. “The UAVs use a different protocol, different systems entirely. They are unrelated.”

“The Sabres are autonomous as well, though,” said Branson. “They make their own decisions.”

“I think we want to keep that under wraps as much as possible,” said Blitz. “As a matter of national security.”

And as an important public relations measure, the President thought. It wouldn't do to have stories to the effect that U.S. robots were killing people on their own.

Yet, that was what they were doing. The technology employed in the UAVs, now used for the first time in combat, allowed the machines to decide who their enemies were. There were a large number of parameters, but in the end the decision was the computer's.

Was it a remarkable and necessary extension of a weapon? Or was it the beginning of the end for the human race?

It was a question straight out of a 1950s sci-fi flick, and yet one Todd had wrestled with carefully before authorizing the deployment of the Sabres to Libya.

There were plenty of precedents for computers being involved in the decision-making process. The Navy's Aegis system, far back in the 1980s, computed firing solutions on its own—though these were always under the supervision of crew. The Flighthawks developed by Dreamland in the mid- and late 1990s chose their own course and tactics when dealing with enemy fighters.

From one perspective, the Sabre missions were hardly different. The targets were specified by humans, and the feeds from the sensors aboard the aircraft could be constantly monitored.

Could be
, not were.

That was one difference. Another was the fact that the Sabres plotted their own courses, and chose their own strategies for approaching targets. They didn't need humans at all. They were capable of switching off prime targets, and even secondary targets. They could decide how to handle threats.

They'd done an excellent job in all the tests so far. They seemed ready for the next step.

And now this. A humanitarian disaster.

“Taking people out of the loop was a definite mistake,” said Branson, who though he had welcomed the Sabres was now clearly having second thoughts. “I was under the impression that they would be controlled by the Tigershark pilot at all times. I'd like to review why he diverted.”

“He diverted because he came under fire,” said Breanna.

“I think we're drifting into an area of debate that will be unfruitful at the moment,” said Blitz. “We all know the issues involved long-term. The ability of robots on the battlefield is something to be discussed another day.”

“You prejudice the argument by using the word ‘ability,' ” countered the general.

“Dr. Blitz is right,” interrupted the President. “This will be a valuable discussion for another time. Right now, we need to sequester those aircraft and find out what went wrong.”

“We're working on that,” said Breanna.

“Good. Now, for the diplomatic fallout. I assume you've all seen the gun camera video.”

“We're working on who leaked that,” said Yourish. “Unfortunately, there's a large list of people who had access.”

“Why?” asked the President.

“Well, the investigation . . .”

There was no satisfactory answer. Well over a hundred staffers had access to the computers where the information was being gathered for review, and dossiers had been prepared for all the members in the alliance. There were any number of people who wouldn't mind embarrassing the United States, or perhaps making a little extra money by selling the video.

President Todd assumed that the investigation would go on for months without coming to any real conclusion.

In a sense it didn't matter. The gun tape wasn't particularly revealing: a building targeted, the missile launch, then on to the next target before the missile hit. The images on the ground were much more devastating, in terms of public relations.

But they did mean blame couldn't be shifted away from the Sabre project, if anyone was so inclined.

The President was not. She had already directed a statement to be issued with the bare facts—the attack had been misdirected and was under investigation. The U.S. deeply regretted the loss of life. The victims would be compensated in accordance with past precedent.

“What do we do when people ask how it happened?” asked General Yourish, returning to a question that had been nagging at them since the incident first occurred.

“The truth,” said Blitz. “It's still being investigated. We don't want to prejudice the investigation. And we don't know.”

“I think Senator Stockard's presence on the committee has helped defer some of the questions,” said General Branson. “I just hope it doesn't backfire.”

“I talked to the senator personally,” said Ms. Todd. “I think he'll do an excellent job.”

“For us,” added Blitz.

“For everyone.”

The President glanced at Breanna. She had a vaguely worried look on her face.

“I don't expect Jeff to mince any words,” the President added. “I know that he'll be a straight shooter. But really, that's the best we can hope for. And we will fix the problem.”

“We will,” said Breanna.

“All right, very good,” she told them, rising. “We all have a lot to do. Keep me up to date on this.”

The deputy chief of staff was waiting in the hall with her news briefing as she went out.

“How are the reports?” she asked.

“You want the good ones or the bad ones?”

“Good ones first.”

“There's a headline from the New York
Post
: American killer drone wipes out village.”

“That's a good one?”

“Wait to you see what al Jazeera has.”

“I think I'll save that for after lunch,” said Todd, stepping into the elevator.