Collateral Damage

Over the past several weeks the dream he’d had for years morphed into something practical. Bits and pieces were still being formed in his head, but the overall shape had been set years before.

Ray Rubeo would be disgraced, ruined, and finally killed.

A cool, moist breeze was blowing in off the Mediterranean, promising rain: a brief shower, surely, just a touch to take away the heat and keep the green spots of the city green.

Those spots were few and far between. The city had not yet recovered from the scars it had received during the first Libyan civil war, let alone the one it was fighting now. As he came out of the hotel, Kharon dodged a poorly laid asphalt patch on the sidewalk where a shell had fallen a month before, just as the uprising began.

War was a constant in mankind’s history, more so in the areas that could least afford it. When he was a young man, Kharon had contemplated such thoughts for days on end. Though trained as both an engineer and a scientist, his mind had a philosophical bent, and on his own he read all of the great Western philosophers, from Plato and Aristotle to Derrida and Julia Kristeva. But in all that reading, he had failed to find an answer to the most basic questions of life and death. Or at least find one that satisfied him.

Now he had little use for philosophy, at least in so much as it related to the question of war. War was useful to him; that was as far as he needed to ponder.

Kharon walked to the end of the block, passing the car he had used to get here, and continued across the street. There, he turned right and walked down an alley to a small shop that once rented bicycles to tourists, but now eked out a living repairing and selling them.

Ten euros bought a Chinese bike only a few years old. Kharon pedaled a bit uncertainly as he started, his balance wobbly. But before going a hundred yards he had mastered it, and joined the light traffic heading toward the sea.

A few minutes of pedaling brought him to the big lot at the base of the harbor. He rode the bike to one of the old-fashioned light poles, then hopped off gingerly. Propping it against the post, he walked between the cement benches toward the water.

The beachfront had been restored after the first war. But it was empty today, as on most days, its austere beauty a reproach to the haphazard and dirty city behind it.

Kharon stared at the water as if he were a tourist or perhaps a poet, contemplating his place in the universe. He turned to his right and began walking parallel to the water lapping against the stones. Glancing casually to his right, he made sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he stopped again, and dropped the USB memory key on the ground.

He stooped to pick it up, started to rise, then stooped down again to tie his shoe. As he did, he ground the key under his heel, breaking it in two.

Rising with the device in his hand, he ripped it apart, exposing the chip. He snapped the memory chip from the rest of the device and walked closer to the water.

Over the rail, he went down onto the scrabble of rocks and sand and walked to the edge of the water. He bent, picked up a flat stone, then skipped it and the chip out across the surface of the nearby sea. The stone popped against the water, rose, flew farther, popped again, then plunked down with a tiny splash.

The chip had gone only halfway to the first large wave, but it was far enough. The saltwater would quickly deteriorate it.

Satisfied, Kharon turned and walked back to the promenade that lined the water. He glanced at his watch. Things had gone well, but he was behind schedule. He needed to leave for Tripoli as soon as possible.

6

Sicily

Turk rested his elbows on the table at the center of the ready room, then cradled his face, reviewing in his mind what had happened. He was starting to think he should get a lawyer.

“I went to intercept the fighters,” he told the three men who’d been interviewing him since 0600 that morning. “That’s why I was off-course. I wasn’t off-course at all,” he added, realizing that he had inadvertently used his interrogator’s language. “I set my own course. The course that was programmed into the Tigershark’s computer was my plan. Plans change.”

He raised his face, letting the whiskers of his unshaven chin scrape against his fingertips. His interviewers were French, Greek, and British, left to right, all members of their respective countries’ air forces. They had been talking to him now for over three hours.

“When you change your course from the program,” asked the Frenchman, “this then reprograms the fighters?”

“It doesn’t necessarily affect them,” said Turk. He glanced to his right toward Major Redstone, an Air Force security officer who was supposed to prevent any classified information from being discussed. Redstone said nothing, nor had he said anything the entire time they’d been in the room. “The UM/F–9Ss are autonomous until overridden. As I said before, they control themselves.”

“Explain how that works,” said the British RAF officer.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Because it is classified?”

“Because I don’t know exactly how things work on that level,” said Turk. “I’m not a programmer or an engineer. I’m a pilot. I fly the plane. I’m trained to be able to deal with the UAVs, but without the system itself, I would have no idea how they work.”

The Frenchman leaned toward the others and whispered something. Turk turned to Redstone. “I’d really like some coffee.”

“Let’s take a break,” suggested Redstone, finally finding his voice.

“A few more questions and we’ll be done for the day,” said the Greek.

“Let’s get some coffee first,” said Turk, who’d heard the “few more questions” line a half hour before.

“The captain should remain sequestered while we get the coffee,” said the Frenchman. “No offense.”

“Fine,” said Turk.

Redstone nodded. “Black, no sugar for me.”

Just as the Frenchman reached for the door, a tall, thin man opened it and came in. Turk recognized him immediately—it was Ray Rubeo, the scientist who headed the team that had developed the artificial intelligence controlling the Sabres. Rubeo looked at the foreign air force officers—it was more a glare than a greeting—then stood against the wall.

“Excuse me, chap,” said the RAF officer. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Rubeo. I am reviewing the incident.”

“We’re conducting an interview.”

“I understand,” said Rubeo.

The men seemed puzzled by his answer, but didn’t follow up. Rubeo remained, silent, standing against the wall. Turk thought he was full of contempt toward the foreign officers, yet if the pilot had been pressed to explain where this impression came from, he would have been at a loss. It was in his posture, his stance, his silence—subtle and evident, though somehow inscrutable.

Redstone came back and the officers began questioning Turk again, starting off with the most basic questions.

“You are twenty-three years old?” asked the Greek.

“Uh, yeah.”

“And already an accomplished test pilot.”

“I was in the right place at the right time,” said Turk.

“But also very good, no?” The Greek smiled. Obviously the others had designated him Mr. Nice Guy, peppering Turk with softball questions.

Yes, said Turk, he had done well throughout his career. Part of the explanation for his young age was the fact that he’d gone to college two years earlier than most people, and graduated in three. But yes, he had been very lucky to be blessed with good instructors, and above all hand-eye coordination that was off the charts.