Collateral Damage

“What are they?”

“Robots.”

“What type?”

“I do not have the details. Both are experimental and highly valuable.”

Da

“Colonel, I would greatly prefer that the items are recovered intact,” said Chase quickly. “I’m sure Dr. Rubeo would agree. However, if that is not possible, one of the items contains equipment that is extremely sensitive. If the situation warrants, you may have to blow it up.”

“You don’t know what they are, but you think we should destroy them?”

“An ounce of prevention—wouldn’t you agree?”

“How exactly do you know about the communication?” asked Da

“We have taken steps to protect Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase smugly. “Some of those are not available to you, for a number of reasons.”

“Who is the individual?”

“He’s a Russian officer with the SVR. I will transfer the information to you anonymously.”

“Thanks,” said Da

The Tigershark’s computer warned Turk that four aircraft were coming off the runway at Ghat.

“Identify.”

“Aircraft are MiG–25 NATO reporting code name ‘Foxbat,’ variant unidentified.”

The MiGs were rocket fast—and about as maneuverable as a refrigerator. They were no match for the Tigershark: easier prey than the Mirages, though they could certainly run away faster.

Their airfield was some four hundred miles south. Assuming they went to their afterburners, they could be in firing range within twenty minutes, perhaps even sooner. That didn’t make them an immediate threat, but it could potentially complicate the pickup, as the Osprey would be easy prey.

“Da

“I doubt they’re heading in your direction,” said Da

“Acknowledged. If they do, can I engage?”

“Hold your present position, Tigershark. I have to sort this out.”

Turk understood that getting clearance would be a problem—the aircraft were not yet considered hostile. And in fact they might not be until the Osprey was in serious danger.

“I say we warn them off,” suggested Turk. “Tell them to stay clear.”

“I’d rather not advertise the fact that we’re in the middle of a rescue operation,” said Da

“That’s still going to cut it close,” said Turk. “Your aircraft will be in range of their missiles if they go all out.” He pointed at the detail panel, showing what the computer interpreted the MiGs were carrying.

“Computer says they have an Apex variety, R27 missiles. That’s a decent medium range missile, Colonel,” Turk reported. “Could take out your aircraft.”

“Stand by,” Da

“Yeah, roger that,” said Turk. He recalculated an orbit that would take him south, putting him in a better position to intercept the planes. As he did, the computer gave him a fresh warning—the Mi–35V Hind and the Chinook in town were revving their rotors.

14

Libya, north of Mizdah

Rubeo stared after Kharon in disbelief as the other man ran down the hill.

What the hell was he doing?

“Neil!” yelled Rubeo. “Neil!”

There was no answer or acknowledgment. Cursing, he followed.

“Where are you going?” yelled Rubeo. “We have to wait—we’ll be rescued shortly. I’m sure of it. Stop. Just stop!”

Kharon either didn’t hear him or didn’t want to pay attention. He kept ru

“Damn,” muttered Rubeo, his pace slowing to a walk. “Stop!”

Kharon ran toward the truck they’d been in. From the rear, it looked undamaged, and he began to hope that he might actually be able to escape—he could drive into the city and find someone, anyone in charge. Eventually, he’d find a way to sell his services in exchange for passage out of the country.

To where? Not to Russia, obviously, as Foma would easily find him there. And there was no going to the States.

Venezuela—the fat bastard Sifontes might actually be useful. But Sifontes was in Tripoli, or somewhere with the rebels. This was government territory.

Just barely.

He could buy his way out to freedom. Maybe South Africa.

Kharon collapsed against the side of the truck. He pushed himself up, then worked his way over to the front with a sideways shuffle, aiming to get in on the passenger side and jump over.

As he reached the door, he saw that the hood had a large hole in it. He stared at it, unsure what he was seeing—something had blown clear through the sheet metal and the engine, and plunged deep into the earth.

The engine had been destroyed. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Desperate, he ran to the other vehicle.

Rubeo walked the last two hundred yards, his legs drained, his lungs heaving. By the time he got to the trucks, Kharon had collapsed between them.

“Stay away!” he yelled at Rubeo, getting up when Rubeo was only a few feet away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What are you doing?” asked Rubeo.

“I’m getting the hell out of here. I’m going to the city.”

“It’s miles from here.”

“I have no choice.”

“Neil—”

“What do you think? You think they’ll let me go when they find out what I did? Do you really think I should hang around to be rescued by the allies?”

Rubeo realized that he was right—surely the allies would treat him harshly once they realized what he had done.

Kharon had tried to ruin him and kill him. There was no way in the world that he should feel anything but disgust and hatred toward him, Rubeo thought.

And yet it seemed he had to do something to help Kharon. Was it the fact that he had loved Kharon’s mother? Did he in fact still feel guilty over her death?

It was a death he had no fault in. And yet he did feel remorse—guilt. There was no other way to express it.

Why should he feel guilty for something a criminal had done?

And why did he feel bad, terribly bad, for Kharon, another victim of the crime?

Most people would say that Ray Rubeo was the last person on the face of the earth who would feel an emotion toward someone, let alone toward someone who had tried to harm him so badly. And yet, he felt emotion, a deep emotion, as if he had to save a son.

As if he could, if only he could think of something. If only he could find the right equation to solve things.

“Neil, if you go into that town, the Russian agent is going to be looking for you. Your only hope is to stay with me.”

“No.” Kharon shook his head. “Listen—they’re already coming.”

Rubeo did hear the sound—a pair of helicopters in the distance. He strained for a moment, trying to identify them. They weren’t Ospreys, which would be what Whiplash would use. But perhaps they were other allied aircraft.

Then he realized something else was wrong.

“They’re coming from the city,” he told Kharon. “Come on. We better take cover.”

15

Over Libya

The allied no-fly zone extended only over northern Libya, and under the standing rules of engagement, jets elsewhere could be shot down without prior approval from the alliance command only if they were a direct threat to civilians or allied aircraft. Da