Collateral Damage (9 page)

10

Sicily

T
o know why something had failed, one first had to know exactly what had happened.

This was not necessarily easy. In the case of the Sabre UAV, for example, hundreds of subsystems contributed to the aircraft's flight behavior, and while the main focus was on the flight computers and AI sections, the systems that it interacted with had to be investigated on their own. It was a laborious and time-consuming project.

Despite a well-earned reputation for being exacting to the point of overbearing, Ray Rubeo no longer had the patience to oversee the myriad mundane details that needed to be attended to as the investigation proceeded. Instead, he turned to Robert Marcum, the vice president of his main American company, Applied Intelligence, tapping him to head the investigation. Marcum was among the most anal retentive people he employed.

Which was saying quite a lot.

Traveling from Paris, where he had been overseeing another project, Marcum arrived in Sicily shortly after Rubeo, but already had an impressive investigative team in place. They were given a small facility at the air base, and rented much larger quarters about five miles away. These quarters consisted of the top three floors of an eight-story building perched above a series of hills that cascaded down toward the seacoast some ten miles away.

The executive suite on the eastern side of the top floor had a gorgeous view, and even Rubeo had a difficult time concentrating on the video projection as Marcum briefed him on what was known so far about the accident.

“Pilot action from the Tigershark can now be one hundred percent ruled out,” said Marcum. He had worked as an engineer for many years before going into administration. “The flight records have been carefully reviewed. He gave no command that altered their flight.”

“You've looked at the logs yourself?” asked Rubeo. The two men were alone in the large, sparsely furnished room. Levon Jons had gone into town to arrange for more transportation and backup, in case they went to Africa.

“Of course,” said Marcum. “The pilot was Captain Mako. He's been flying for Special Projects for a few months. I don't know too much about him personally. I'm told he's an excellent pilot. Young.”

“Very young, yes,” said Rubeo.

“Additionally, we are fifty-eight percent through with our checks on the Tigershark. It would appear unlikely that it was involved in any way.”

“I wonder if it's a coincidence that the fighters were scrambled,” said Rubeo.

“In what way?”

Rubeo folded his arms. The office chairs that had come with the rooms were deep leather contraptions that would be very easy to fall asleep in. This would have to be fixed.

“I understand that the government hasn't flown against allied coalition planes until this mission,” said Rubeo.

Marcum shook his head. “An exaggeration. This is what I mean when I say there has been much misinformation about the entire intervention. I don't blame anyone, not even the media. It's a very difficult situation, and NATO command has been less than forthcoming with them. We have already identified half a dozen flights by the government in the past five days. This was the largest, and the only time they engaged a plane. My bet is they won't be doing that again anytime soon.”

“Nonetheless, it is an interesting coincidence,” said Rubeo. “If it were significant, how so?”

Marcum frowned. Engineers didn't believe in coincidences. But then again neither did Rubeo.

“The pilot would not be paying attention to the Sabres, not fully,” said Marcum. “He admits this.”

“Yes.”

“But the government would have to know about the attack in advance. A possibility not yet ruled out, but a far-fetched one.”

Rubeo wasn't so sure. His attention drifted as Marcum continued, reviewing the preliminary data from the Sabres.

“All of the system profiles are absolutely within spec,” said Marcum. “There are no anomalies. Sabre Four believes it struck the coordinates it was told to strike.”

“But it didn't.”

“No. Exactly.”

“The visual ID package should have checked off,” said Rubeo, referring to a section of the system that compared the preflight target data with information gathered by the aircraft before it fired. “It should have seen that it wasn't hitting the proper target.”

“One of our problems. Or mysteries, I should say.”

Marcum went through a few slides, showing the designated target and then the village that had been hit. The devastation was fairly awful, as would be expected.

“Were the coordinates entered incorrectly?” asked Rubeo.

“If they were incorrect, how are they right now?”

“Hmmmph.”

“We are checking, of course, for viruses and the like. But at this point we have nothing firm.”

“Understood.”

Marcum turned to administrative matters, briefing Rubeo on the different team members he wanted and the procedures he would follow as he proceeded. NATO and the Air Force were conducting their own investigations; there was also to be a UN probe. Marcum had assigned liaisons to all, but expected little in the way of real cooperation. These were more like spies to tell him what the others were thinking.

Rubeo listened as attentively as he could, but his mind was racing miles away. He was thinking of what the attack would have looked like from the ground.

There would have been no warning until the first missile was nearly at the ground. A person nearby would hear a high whistle—Rubeo had heard it himself on the test range—and then what would seem like a rush of air.

Then nothing. If you were within the fatal range of the explosion, the warhead would kill you before the sound got to you.

That would be merciful. If you could consider any death merciful.

“Brad Keeler is on his way from the States,” said Marcum. Keeler had headed the team that developed the control software. “Once he's here, we should be able to move quickly.”

“Good,” said Rubeo, still thinking of the missile strike. He saw the fires and the explosions. Bodies were pulled from the wreckage before his eyes.

Was I responsible for all that?

My inventions make war more precise, so that innocent people aren't killed. But there is always some chance of error, however small that chance is.

Little consolation if you're the victim.

“Something wrong?” asked Marcum.

Rubeo looked over at him. Marcum had turned off the projector.

“Just tired,” Rubeo told him. “Keep at it.”

11

Sicily

A
ny aircraft would have felt a little strange to Turk after the Tigershark, but the A–10 was nearly as far removed from the F–40 as a warplane got.

The A–10A Thunderbolt had been something of a poor stepchild to the Air Force from the day of its conception. With straight wings and a cannon in its nose, the aircraft was the antithesis of the go-fast, push-button philosophy that ruled the U.S. Air Force in the late 1960s—and in fact, still largely ruled it today.

The Hog was born out of a need for a close-in, ground attack aircraft. While the country at the time was fighting in Vietnam, the perceived enemy was the Soviet Union, and the early design specs anticipated an aircraft that could be used to stop a massive tank invasion across the European plains. The plane was inspired partly by the success of the A–1 Skyraider—a highly effective throwback used to great effect in Vietnam, despite its alleged obsolescence. The “Spad,” as the A–1 was often nicknamed, was powered by a piston engine. Its primary asset—beyond the tough resourcefulness and skill of its pilots—was its ability to carry a large variety of ordnance under its wings. Clean, the Spad was comparatively fast for a piston-powered plane, but it was slow compared to jets. As a ground support aircraft, however, the lack of speed was something of an asset. In the days before complicated sensors and constantly updating satellite imagery, ground support relied heavily on the so-called Mk–1 Eyeball. Human pilots flying low and slow had a much better chance of putting the era's unguided ordnance on target than fast-movers rocketing over the terrain.

The A-X project produced two aircraft sharing the same philosophy, both designed essentially around an armor-pounding, 30mm Gatling. The A–10 by Republic eventually won out. (The loser, the YA–9 built by Northrop, became the answer to a trivia question rarely asked of anyone, including plane buffs.)

The A–10 was designed and built in an era of tight budgets, and some say that the penny pinching hurt the plane from the very beginning. It was strictly a daytime, good-weather aircraft, with effectively no ability to fight at night: a critical oversight given the evolution of war-fighting doctrine in the years that followed, not to mention the fact that war generally takes place in all sorts of weather. And many critics pointed out that its engines were somewhat underpowered from the beginning. This was important not so much because it lowered the aircraft's speed—speed wasn't a real factor for the A–10A—but because the power of the engines limited the weight it could carry into the sky and the endurance of the aircraft.

A series of improvements in the last decade addressed the first set of drawbacks, adding enough modern sensors to the A–10A airframe that the planes had been redesignated the A–10C by the Air Force. While the plane remained essentially the same from the outside, inside the pilot's “office” there were new displays and a data link that gave the Hog driver access to real-time combat information. The updated Hogs could also carry more modern “smart” weapons, including JDAM, or Joint Direct Attack Munitions.

Ginella's eight planes were a further evolution. The upgraded avionics systems were tied to smart helmets, which functioned similarly to Turk's—the pilots could use those helmets rather than the glass cockpit. There were certain subtle improvements—there was now a full-blown autopilot, separate from the remote link—and more obvious ones: uprated power plants that allowed the planes to carry even heavier bomb loads. The Hogs were still subsonic, but they had noticeably more giddy-up when accelerating. According to the stats, they had approximately forty percent more power, but used about a third less fuel under normal conditions.

The stats reminded Turk of EPA estimates on cars—always to be taken with a grain of salt—but there was no denying that the A–10E was a more powerful beast than its cousins.

At the same time, the plane remained an easy aircraft to fly. She just loved being in the air.

Sitting at the end of the runway, Turk got clearance and ramped the engine. The Hog galloped forward, gently rising off the concrete after he had gone only 1,200 feet—a better rollout than most other aircraft he'd flown.

He cleaned his landing gear, then following the controller's directions, flew north over the Mediterranean to an airspace cleared of traffic.

Turk's A–10E helmet duplicated the glass cockpit a pilot saw in an A–10C, and though it didn't have quite the customization he was used to, it was nonetheless easy to deal with. The center of the board had the familiar attitude indicator, a large floating ball that told the pilot where his wings were in relation to the world—not always something that came intuitively, especially in battle. The heading indicator just below showed where the nose was going—again, an all-important check for the senses. To their right and slightly above, the climb indicator and altimeter did the obvious; a row of clock-style gauges at the lower right showed the aircraft's vitals.

Ironically, the least familiar parts of the pseudocockpit for Turk were the most modern. The multiuse displays had a number of different modes, which he stumbled through slowly as he made sure he was familiar with the aircraft. The data transfer system, the embedded GPS navigation, and even the status page—a computer screen detailing system problems—were far different than what he was used to in the Tigershark. He had only to say a few words to get a response in the sleek F–40; here, he had to punch buttons
and
think about what he was doing.

But even hitting those buttons and occasionally pausing over the screens couldn't detract from the solid feel of the aircraft around him.

Planes had a definite soul, basic flight characteristics that they seemed to come back to no matter the circumstances. The Tigershark moved quickly. She turned quickly, and she went forward quickly. Given her head, she accelerated. This could certainly get her in trouble—a quick flick of the wrist on the stick, and the plane could pull more g's than Turk could stand.

The Hog's nature was completely different. She was more a solid middle linebacker than a fleet receiver. Not to say she wasn't nimble: she could dance back and forth, even sideways, as a few minutes of experimentation with her rudder pedals showed him. But her true nature was stability. Beat her into a turn, abuse her into a dive, jab her into a sharp climb—she came back gentle and solid.

The original A–10s were designed to be reliable, predictable weapons platforms, and the changes had left that completely alone. Try as Turk did to abuse it, the plane kept coming back for more. It went exactly where he pointed it, never overreacting to his control inputs.

In fact, Turk had so much fun putting the aircraft through its basic paces that he felt almost disappointed when it was time to land. The only consolation was that another Hog was sitting on the tarmac near the hangar waiting for him.

“All your controls solid, Captain?” asked Ginella, who walked over to the plane as he descended the ladder.

“They were kick-ass,” he told her, hopping down.

“Good. Don't break this next one. They had a little trouble with the indicators on the starboard engine,” she added, her voice instantly serious. “Be gentle, all right? We don't want to give the SAR people too much work this afternoon.”

“Gentle is my middle name,” he told her.

“I'll bet you say that to all the women,” bellowed Beast, who walked over from behind the plane.

“Play nice now,” said Ginella. “Captain Mako, Beast is going to check out Shooter Four while you're in Six. Don't let him trip you up.”

“I'll try to stay out of his way,” said Turk.

A
few hours later Turk tested the engines on the ramp, his brakes set to hold him in place. If there had been an actual problem with the jet, there was no sign of it now. The instruments said the power plants were smooth and ready, and his gut agreed.

With Beast following in his trail, Turk took the aircraft skyward. All of the indicators were pegged at showroom stats, systems as green as green could be.

When they reached their testing area, Turk took a long circle around his airspace. He told Beast to stand by, then spooled the starboard engine down. The Hog didn't entirely welcome flying on one engine, but she complied, reacting like a calm, indulgent workhorse. The plane jumped a bit when he brought the engine back on line, but there was no drama, no emergency. Nor did anything untoward happen when he flew on only the starboard motor.

“I think we're good,” he told Beast.

“Hey yeah, roger that,” replied the other pilot. “How do you like the Hog?”

“It's nice. I like it a lot.”

“As good as that little go-cart you fly?”

“The Tigershark is a special plane,” said Turk.

Beast laughed. “Fly with us enough and you'll think the Hog is, too.”

“Shooter Four, Shooter Six, be advised you have two aircraft heading toward Box Area Three,” said the controller, alerting them to an approaching flight. “Call sign is Provence.”

A few seconds later Provence leader checked in. The planes were a pair of Rafale C multirole fighters. The Frenchmen had just arrived in Sicily.

“What are you up to, Provence leader?” asked Beast.

“Just getting some flight time and checking our systems,” responded the flight leader.

Turk saw the two planes approaching from the southwest. The Rafales were delta-wing fighters, developed by France in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Originally conceived as air superiority fighters, they had retained those genes as they matured to handle a variety of other roles. While the aircraft might not match American F–22s, they were nonetheless extremely capable dogfighters. In fact, in a close-range knife fight against a Raptor, the smart money would be on the Frenchmen; much smaller than the F–22, they could turn tighter and fly extremely slow: a little appreciated value in an old-fashioned fur ball.

Of course, any Raptor pilot worth his salt would have shot them down at beyond-visual range, but where was the fun in that?

“You boys looking for a little practice?” asked Beast.

“Pardon? Excusez?”
said the French leader. “What is it you are asking?”

“Let's see what you can do,” said Beast. He pushed his throttle and pointed the nose of the A–10E upward, in effect daring the Rafale to follow.

An “ordinary” Hog would have more than a little difficulty going nose up in the sky, but the enhanced power plants in Shooter Four brought her into a ninety degree climb almost instantly. Turk watched as the Rafales swung over to follow. Though caught a little flat-footed—a challenge from the ungainly Hogs must have been the last thing they expected—the two French fighters soon began to catch up, angling toward the A–10's path. Then, just as it looked as if they would complete an intercept and put themselves in a position to wax Beast's fanny, the Hog fell off hard to the right, diving down toward the purple-blue of the ocean.

Again the Frenchmen were caught off-guard. By the time they started to react, cutting off the climb and circling to the east, Beast had recovered and was looping underneath them.

From where Turk was flying, it was hard for him to see if Beast ended up on one of the Frenchman's tails, but Beast's laughter over the radio sure made it seem as if he had.

“Ya gotta watch out,” he told the Frenchman. “This is not your daddy's Warthog.”

Turk turned his plane toward the others, waiting as the Rafales broke away. There was no way Beast could keep up, and so he didn't, climbing merrily and then circling back to the south as they spun away.

The two French fighters regrouped at the north end of the box they had been given to fly in, then banked back toward the Warthog in a coordinated attack. The truth was, a radar missile at this range would have meant the end of the Hog and its guffawing pilot, but that wasn't in keeping with the spirit of the encounter. As the Rafales moved in, they separated nicely, one high, one low, one to the east and one to the west, basically positioning themselves to cover anything Beast tried to do.

But that left the trailing wingman vulnerable to Turk, assuming he could accelerate quickly enough to make an attack. A “stock” A–10A couldn't have managed it, but with the uprated engines, the refurbished Warthog had just enough giddy-up to pull it off. Turk jammed his throttle and pointed the A–10E's nose at the Rafale's tail, pulling close enough to have spit a dozen pellets of depleted uranium into the Frenchman's backside before Provence Two realized where he was.

The Armée de l'Air pilot's first reaction was to try to turn—he was hoping to throw the Warthog in front of him, essentially turning the tables. But the Hog was at least as good at slow-speed flying as the Rafale was, and Turk was able to dial back his gas just enough to stay behind the other plane. Only when the Rafale put the pedal to the metal and accelerated was he able to shake his sticky antagonist.

Beast was having a bit of difficulty shaking the other pilot, who wisely kept just enough distance to shadow the Hog without getting too close. The front canards on the Rafale—small winglets that added greatly to its maneuverability—worked overtime as the French flight leader remained figuratively on Beast's shoulder. The two planes' speed dropped down toward 100 knots—extremely slow, even for the straight-winged Hog. Still, the French-built fighter was able to hang in the air, a tribute both to the man at the stick and the gentlemen who had designed her.

Turk cut in their direction, making sure to clear over them by several thousand feet. A few touches on his trigger and the Frenchman would have had his
pain
buttered.

“OK, OK,” said the French flight leader. “Knock it off.”

“You owe us drinks,” laughed Beast.

The Frenchmen were good sports, promising that they would pay off at their earliest opportunity. They also added that they would have beaten the two Americans in anything approaching a fair fight.