Collateral Damage

He turned his attention to a large area of shelters to the northwest of the complex. These looked like long tents, half buried in the sand.

“Identify military complex in grid B–1,” he told the computer.

“Missile storage complex,” said the computer immediately. “NATO Scud B variant. One hundred seventy-three units identified in bunkers. Do you require technical information?”

“Negative. Are there launch vehicles?”

“Missiles are stored on TEL erectors. No activity noted.”

“Perso

“No perso

“No guards?”

“No perso

“That’s great,” said Turk. Enough missiles sitting out in the desert to destroy a dozen small cities, and no one was watching them.

Turk told the computer to identify other large weapons in the general area. There was an abandoned antiaircraft facility about two miles northeast of the missile storage area, back in the direction of the highway that led to the city. Though defunct since the 1990s, six tanks were parked there, along with a number of tents and enough perso

“Vehicles are identified as T–72, Libyan export variants,” said the computer. “Vehicles had moved within the last seventy-two hours.”

“Observe tanks,” Turk told the computer. “If they move, alert me.”

“Tanks will be observed.”

Turk swung back over the hills, moving toward the trucks carrying Rubeo. The scientist was in the lead truck.

“Zoom on target truck one,” directed Turk.

Flying the Tigershark and Hogs was like night and day. He loved both, but the tools here—you couldn’t knock the computer’s help.

As he pulled to within two miles, Turk saw something flapping at the back of the vehicle. Dust flew up and something fell at the side of the road.

“Focus on object,” said Turk. “Identify.”

“Two males. Subject One is Dr. Rubeo.”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Turk, flicking onto the Whiplash cha

9

Libya, north of Mizdah

Rubeo had calculated that his armored vest would absorb some of the impact as he fell. But whatever buffer it provided was negligible at best. The ground poked his ribs so hard he lost his breath. Rolling and wheezing, he scrambled desperately to get up and get to the side of the road.

It was lighter than he thought, still daytime. Things had happened much faster than he’d realized. He’d counted on it being night, and now saw there were hours before the sun would set.

He caught a glimpse of another vehicle—the one with the bots, he guessed.

His only goal was to get far away before whoever was in the truck could react.

Go! Go!

Rubeo struggled to his knees. His breath came back in a spurt. He pushed forward, head down, then remembered Kharon.

“Neil?” he grunted.

The young man was on the ground nearby. Rubeo went and grabbed his shirt. He tugged. Kharon bolted to his feet and began ru

“That hill,” yelled Rubeo, pointing westward. “We’ll get behind it.”

Something flew up near him, a puff of dirt.

It was a miniature volcano.

A gunshot.

“They’re firing at us!” yelled Kharon.

10

Tripoli

Zen’s nose rebelled at the heavy whiff of Moroccan hashish he smelled as they entered the hotel suite. He glanced at Zongchen, who seemed puzzled by the odor.

“Hashish,” whispered Zen.

The Chinese general didn’t understand, and there was no time to explain. One of Princess Idris al-Nussoi’s aides came out to welcome them.

“The princess is expecting you,” said the aide, with a hint of a

“We’re glad she could see us,” said Zongchen diplomatically. They were using English, as it was a common language for most of the people on the committee, and the rebel leader knew it as well.

A thick bump loomed at the doorway. Zen grit his teeth and blustered his way over it. He was glad to get through—despite everything he’d accomplished in his life, an inch and a half of wood could still stop him cold.

Even though they were in territory that at worst could be deemed neutral, Zongchen had taken three times as many security people as before. Besides the plainclothes UN team, he had two dozen British SAS commandos. To a man, they looked ready to snap necks and eat livers; Zen was a little scared of them himself. A good portion crowded into the suite with the committee members; there was hardly room for the rebels to move, let alone attack.

“Gentlemen—so many of you,” said Idris al-Nussoi. She was lounging on a couch, her head leaning back on a pile of pillows, an iPad in her hand. She waved them to the chairs with her free hand. “I just have to send this message, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” said Zongchen.

Zen glanced around. The princess’s suite was a mess, with jackets flung across the furniture, newspapers on the floor, a pair of suitcases on their sides. Pushed against the wall were trays of half-eaten room service food.

Not to mention the light scent of hash, still wafting from the hall.

This was the most powerful leader in the rebel movement?

“Senator Stockard. It is my pleasure to meet you, sir.” A portly man with a South American accent approached Zen and held out his hand. Zen shook it.

“I am Oscar Sifontes, a friend and advisor to the princess. We have heard very much about you, Senator, and your exploits with Dreamland.”

“Long time ago,” said Zen.

“Very important. We honor you even in my country. Venezuela,” added Sifontes, guessing correctly that Zen had no idea where he was from. “And you are General Zong.”

“Zongchen,” said the committee chairman, bending his head.

The princess finished what she was doing. Introductions were made all around.

“So, you have come with a message?” said the princess.

“We have come with something that may be of great interest to you,” said Zongchen. “We have an offer from the government to negotiate peace. One of their ministers will meet with you, and some other representative of the movement, personally. The aim would be to have new elections—”

“We have won!” The princess leapt from the couch. “If they are suing for peace—”

“They are not,” said Zongchen carefully. “They wish to talk. They have offered discussions only.”

“Oh, don’t be naive, General. They have refused to talk all this time. Now, obviously, we have them where we want them.”

Sifontes was beaming by her side.

Zen tried hard to keep a neutral face.

“So you are open to talks?” asked Zongchen.

“I will have to discuss this with my supporters.”

“Why talk when they are ready to surrender?” asked Sifontes. “They must be on their last legs to be making an offer like this. There’s no more fight left in them.”

“I wouldn’t overreach,” said Zen. “I wouldn’t underestimate the force they have left.”

“I will take this under advisement,” said the princess firmly. “Thank you, General. Thank you all. This is very important news.”

Wheeling out of the suite, Zen couldn’t help but wonder if the allies had supported the wrong side. The government had certainly been horrible, but if Idris al-Nussoi was an example, the rebels didn’t look like they would turn out much better.