Collateral Damage (21 page)

HESITATION

1

Over Libya

T
he A–10E helmet had a night vision attachment allowing the pilots to see in the dark. The combination was still lighter than the smart helmet, but it was awkward, tilting the helmet forward so the edges rubbed against Turk's cheekbones.

The glasses turned the world into a crisp collection of greens and blacks, an alternate universe that lived parallel to the real one. It was as if the pilot was an electronic ghost, slipping through the dark solids before him.

While the technology was different, the view itself was familiar to Turk from the smart helmet, where it was one of the preset defaults, designed to make the transition from older technology to new as seamless as possible. He felt it was superior to the view offered in F–35 helmets—another preset. There was a sharpness to it that the Lightning II view seemed to lack.

Turk took Shooter Four up from the south runway, moving into a gradual climb over the Mediterranean. The four-ship flight's first stop was a tanker track to the southwest; they would top off there before heading over Libya.

Turk listened as Ginella checked in with the AWACS, getting a picture of the situation over the country.

She was an odd case—professional to the point of cold indifference toward him in the squadron room, outrageously passionate in bed.

It confused the hell out of him.

Remembering Grizzly's tales of tanker woe, Turk approached the boom gently, easing in at a crawl. At any second he expected the boomer to squawk at him about how slow he was going. But all he got was an attaboy and a solid
clunk
as the probe was shoved into the nose of the Hog.

He held the aircraft steady as the JP–8 sloshed in. The cockpit filled with the heady scent of escaping kerosene. Turk tried to relax his shoulder and arm muscles, afraid that any twitch would jerk him off the straw. By the time the boomer called over to tell him to disconnect, his arms had cramped.

“Copy that. Thanks.”

Turk slipped downward, dropping through several dozen feet before banking right and moving out and away from the tanker. The radio whispered hints of distant missions; it was a busy night over Libya, the allies keeping pressure on the government as the rebels continued with their offensive.

Grizzly had already tanked and was waiting for him.

“You did good, Turk,” said the other pilot. “Gonna make a real Hog driver out of you yet.”

“I'm getting there.”

“You gotta work on your grunts.” Grizzly made a noise somewhat similar to the sound of a rooting hog. His voice lost an octave and became something a caveman would have been proud of. “Real Hog driver talk like this.”

“All right, you two, knock it off,” said Ginella. “Let's look sharp and keep our comments to business. Turk, how are your eyes?”

“I'm good.”

“There's been no sign of our package south,” she added. “Let's get there. You know the drill.”

T
hirty minutes later the four Hogs approached an arbitrary point in the sky where they had been assigned to loiter. The other half of Shooter Squadron was to the southwest about seventy miles. The aircraft were flying at roughly 30,000 feet, high enough so they couldn't be seen or heard in the dark night sky.

The American planes were part of a massive search and rescue operation. Dozens of aircraft were strung out across the country, ready. All they needed was a downed pilot.

The wreck had been located in a ravine twenty miles south. But the pilot's locator beacon and radio had not been detected. Ground forces were conducting a search near the plane and in an area where computer simulations showed the man might have parachuted. Army Special Forces units had been inserted just after dusk, and had made contact with some rebels in the area who were helping with the search.

Turk didn't have a lot of experience with rescue operations, but it took little more than common sense to realize that if the pilot hadn't radioed in by now, the odds of finding him alive were extremely slim. But no one in the air wanted to mention that. It was too easy to put yourself in the downed man's place—you didn't want to think of giving up.

An hour passed. The other half of Shooter Squadron called it a night and headed home. Ginella led her group farther south, orbiting over two different spec op detachments.

Adrenaline drained, Turk found staying alert extremely difficult. He stretched his legs, rocked his shoulders back and forth—it was a constant battle, far more difficult than actually flying the plane.

One of the ground units reported that they were following a lead from the rebel guerrillas; the information was passed back down the line to the squadron. Turk felt his pulse jump. But when the lead failed to pan out, he found it even harder to keep his edge.

With dawn approaching, Ginella decided they would refuel so their patrol could be extended if needed. She split the group in two so they could continue to provide coverage. Grizzly and Turk went north to the tanker track while she and her wingman stayed south.

Mostly silent during their loops, Grizzly became animated as they approached the hookup. He told Turk he had brought along an iPod and was listening to music as they flew.

“Got some old stuff I haven't heard in a while.”

The music may have been old, but Turk hadn't heard any of it. It was country and country pop—Son Volt and Civil Wars and half a dozen other singers and groups completely off his radar.

“You gotta get out more,” laughed Grizzly when Turk confessed he'd never heard of the groups. He began filling him in, keeping the patter up all the way to the Air Force 757s.

“What do you think of G?” asked Grizzly after they had finished tanking.

“Seems OK,” said Turk as neutrally as possible.

“Real hardass sometimes. Good pilot, though. First woman commander I've ever had.”

“First one?”

“Probably had a female in charge of one of the schools somewhere along the way,” said Grizzly, referring to the different classes the officer would have attended. “But not, you know, like this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kinda different flying for a woman, you think?” said Grizzly.

It sounded somewhere between a statement and a question. Turk didn't know how to answer it either way. His boss—Breanna Stockard—was a woman, but he wasn't supposed to refer to Special Projects if possible, and he worried that mentioning her would inevitably point the conversation in that direction. It took him a few moments to think of something suitably neutral and bland to come back with.

“I haven't worked with an actual squadron in a while,” he told the other pilot. “I'm pretty much a one-man shop.”

“That's kind of cool.”

“Yeah.”

“Word is the Air Force is gonna phase us down,” said Grizzly. “Turn all the electronics in these suckers on and let them fly themselves.”

“I don't know about that,” replied Turk.

“Probably replace us with laser jets, if not.”

Both ideas were actually plausible. A few years before, that would have sounded like science fiction or maybe fantasy. But there were in fact plans to replace the A–10 squadrons with airborne laser planes. The aircraft, modified from civilian airliners and housing high-energy weapons, could fly at a safe distance and altitude yet make attacks with pinpoint precision. It was almost guaranteed that a fleet of the laser jets, as they were called, would replace the Air Force's small force of AC–130s in the next eighteen months.

“I think there's a real need for people in the loop,” said Turk. “But, I don't know.”

“I hear ya.”

“Everything's going in the other direction,” said Turk.

“You're part of it though, right? You're playing with those little dart jets? Pretty soon they won't need you either.”

Grizzly was absolutely right. He didn't answer, though—because of his position, what would have been interpreted as a casual remark by any other person could be seen as a breach of security if he said it.

Maybe the accident would turn things back in the other direction. But it could just as easily be used as an argument against keeping a man in the loop—his being there, or being close, hadn't stopped the Sabre from making the mistake.

The accident had grounded the Sabres, but not the rest of the UAV fleet. That in itself was statement of how important they were. Right now at least three were operating in the rescue area. Two provided a continuous infrared picture of the ground to the controllers and the team hunting for the pilot. The other was sniffing for his radio and signal beacon.

W
ith a full belly—or more accurately, wing tanks—of fuel, Turk followed Grizzly in a loose trail south as the sun tiptoed toward the horizon. As the light strengthened, he removed the night goggles and left the augmented visor retracted, preferring to see the sky and aircraft as they truly were.

He had plenty of fuel, but this mission couldn't go on forever. Eventually, the pilots' fatigue would build to the point where they simply couldn't trust themselves. To use one of the more formal terms and measures, situational awareness would degrade severely.

That was a problem one never had with computers.

“Shooter One, this is Three,” radioed Grizzly.

“One.”

“We're about thirty minutes away. Anything?”

“Negative. Still on hold.”

“What do you want to do, G?”

“We'll go tank when you're here,” she told Grizzly. “Play it by ear from then.”

“Understood.”

“How's your wingman?”

“Still there every time I turn around.”

“Four?” Ginella asked.

“Shooter Four is good,” said Turk.

“A little boring for you?” asked Ginella. Her voice had a hint—but only just a hint—of the more familiar tone she used when they were alone.

“I'll survive.”

“That's the spirit.”

“We covering the pickup of the search units?” Grizzly asked.

“Not sure yet,” answered Ginella. “Pickup has been delayed.”

“That's a good thing.”

“Don't jump to conclusions.”

“Just saying.”

The four Hogs joined up, flying in a large circular pattern above the desert. Ginella rebriefed Grizzly on contact frequencies and some of their protocols—all things Grizzly already knew. But he didn't complain.

“We'll be up and back as quickly as we can,” she told them. “There's a flight of F–16s north for backup.”

“Roger that. Have a good trip.”

But before Ginella could check in with the controller, he radioed to tell them there was a flight of Blackhawk helicopters inbound. The IDs on the choppers belonged to the units tasked for the pilot's rescue pickup.

“Groundhog has located the beacon,” explained the controller. “Stand by to cover a pickup.”

“In that case, we'll hang down here,” Ginella told her squadron. “We have plenty of fuel for now.”

The A–10Es were vectored southwest, near a small settlement at the edge of a long, open square of desert. They waited until the helicopters were about five minutes away before going down to take a look; they didn't want to call attention to their presence until absolutely necessary.

Ginella contacted Groundhog for an update on their situation. From the accent of the radioman, Turk guessed that the ground unit was a British SAS commando squad, one of a number of special operations troops operating in the theater. His communiqués were terse, with quick acknowledgments when Ginella responded.

The commandos were in a village isolated from the highway by a narrow winding road through a series of sharp but narrow hills. The village had no more than two dozen houses, and was centered around a pair of unpaved streets that came together in a Y at roughly the center of the settlement. A small mosque and minaret stood near the intersection on the southernmost street.

The helicopters were directed to hold at a position roughly ten miles away from the village.

The SAS troopers had located a very weak signal inside a building on the street north of the mosque. With all of their support elements in place, they were going to storm the building. If things went wrong, they wanted the Hogs in fast.

“Acknowledged, Groundhog,” Ginella told him. “You can count on us.”

Turk studied the image of the village in the multiuse screen. The nearby hills limited their attack approach to an east-west corridor above the main streets.

Once again Ginella split the flight into two elements, but kept both on the east side of the village. All the planes would fly in the same direction on the initial attack. After that, she and Coop would recover south while Grizzly and Turk would go north. The idea was that the two groups would be in position to attack anyone coming from the outside.

“We'll play it as it develops,” she added.

Groundhog radioed that they were going in.

Turk felt his chest starting to tighten. Sweat began collecting under his gloves.

He told himself to relax, but his heart started thumping. His adrenaline level shot up—he was starting to feel a little jittery, as if he'd had a few pots of coffee. He knew he must be physically overtired, but his body seemed to be overcompensating.

Relax.

Relax, goddamn it.

The commandos used a special short-distance radio to talk among themselves; the Shooter aircraft couldn't hear what they were saying.

Five minutes passed. The planes circled in the sky, waiting.

“Shooter One, Groundhog here. We're moving south through the village.”

“Groundhog, say status.”

“We don't have him.”

“Is he there? What's going on?”

“We recovered some gear. We're moving to the mosque.”

“Groundhog, do you require assistance?” asked Ginella.