Collateral Damage (31 page)

14

Libya, north of Mizdah

R
ubeo 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 running toward the trucks.

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

K
haron 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.

R
ubeo 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

T
he 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. Danny had been instructed to notify the allies “if reasonable” before engaging any aircraft, and he dutifully did so, talking directly to the air commander aboard the AWACS aircraft surveying the airspace.

The commander had already vectored two French jets south, and was in the process of alerting another flight as backup.

“Your aircraft is clear to engage if necessary,” said the air commander. “We're establishing direct coms now.”

“I'd like to keep him over my operation area,” said Danny.

“That's all right with us. Colonel—we're seeing two helicopters taking off nearby. We're not sure if they're hostile.”

“Can we shoot them down?”

“Have they taken hostile action?”

“I'd rather not wait for that.”

“Stand by.”

Danny clicked into Turk's frequency.

“I'm talking to the allied command about the helicopters,” he told him. “Stand by and be ready.”

“They're getting close.”

“Are they armed?”

“The Hind has a chin gun,” said Turk.

“Understood. Anything hostile, take them out. We're a few minutes away.”

“Yup,” snapped Turk, clearly irritated that he had to wait. The helicopters could get right next to Rubeo without doing anything hostile, and then shoot. Turk knew there would be no way to protect him.

“Whiplash, be advised, those helicopters are part of the rebel alliance,” said the air commander, coming back on the line.

“They came out of a government city,” said Danny.

“City leadership has gone over to the rebels.”

“When?”

“It's in progress,” said the controller. “The helicopters are not hostile. We have spoken to one of their ground commanders.”

“You're sure of this?”

“Affirmative.”

“They're moving into an area where my guy on the ground may be threatened,” answered Danny. “Tell them to get the hell out of there.”

“We're working on it. Do not engage.”

“Tell them to change course,” Danny said.

“I am not in direct communications with them at this time. We're trying to establish a direct link. Suggest your aircraft attempt to contact them as well on Guard.”

“If they continue, they will be shot down,” Danny warned. He went back to Turk. “Turk, command is saying the aircraft are considered friendly. Try contacting them directly. If they look like a threat, nail them.”

“I want them to stay back.”

“Understood and agreed. Warn them off. Don't fire unless you have to, but keep Rubeo safe.”

“What about the MiGs?”

“Air command allegedly is taking care of them,” said Danny. “But same thing there.”

“Yeah, roger, I got it. Easier if we were just running this on our own.”

“But we're not.”

“Tigershark copies.”

16

Libya, north of Mizdah

K
haron hesitated, unsure what to do. Finally he decided to follow Rubeo, who was heading back up to the hills where they had been. After the first tentative steps, he put his head down and began running in earnest.

Whatever happens, I'll stay with him. I'm as good as dead now anyway.

He caught up with Rubeo and trotted alongside him for a few steps. Then he decided to go ahead.

“I'm going to see if I can see anything from the top of the hill,” said Kharon.

“OK,” wheezed Rubeo.

Kharon started to run again. He cut left, up the steep side of the hill. Several large rocks blocked his way. He veered right, then felt the side of his foot giving way in the loose dirt. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, the left side of his face burning.

R
ubeo was about ten yards from Kharon when he went down. He changed direction, huffing with every step.

The young man lay curled up, in obvious pain. His face had hit the rocks and blood streamed down the side to his chin and the ground. As Rubeo started to inspect the wounds, he saw that Kharon's pants leg was soaked red as well. He reached over and started to examine it.

Kharon yelped as Rubeo touched the leg. His bone had punctured the surface; he had a compound fracture.

“H-Help me,” muttered Kharon.

“You're going to be OK,” said Rubeo.

“I'm cold.”

“You're going into shock,” said Rubeo. “You broke your bone. It's a compound fracture.”

“What's going to happen?”

“We're going to be OK. My people are coming for me.”

The helicopters were getting very loud. They were exposed here, easily seen.

“I'm going to get one of the guns from the van,” Rubeo told him. “Just in case we have to hold out for a few minutes.”

“Don't leave me alone.”

“I'll be right back. I promise.”

17

Tripoli

T
he three vans carrying General Zongchen's committee and their security team were met at the airport by a pair of NATO armored personnel carriers that had just arrived. The alliance had also added more ground troops—two companies' worth of Spanish infantrymen, who fanned out around the far section of the airport.

Another ring of security had been established near the hangar where they were to meet the Libyan defense minister. Here, members of GROM—roughly the Polish equivalent of American SEALs—stood guard. The committee's own security team was instructed to stay outside the building; no guns were to be allowed inside the walls.

Zongchen looked at Zen as the Polish GROM commander, through a translator, informed him of the ground rules, which he seemed uncomfortable with.

Zen shrugged. “I don't think we're in any more danger here than anywhere else,” he told the general. “Assuming you trust the minister.”

“I trust no one,” said Zongchen. “But let us proceed.”

The minister's presence at the airport was supposed to be a secret, but with all these troops, it was obvious to even the dullest human being that something important was going on. It wouldn't take much to guess what that was.

Zongchen's energy level had increased during the short trip to the airport; he practically sprang ahead toward the terminal. Even Zen, with his powered wheelchair, had trouble keeping up.

The interior of the hangar was empty except for a ring of Polish guards around the walls. A pair of folding tables had been placed end to end near the center of the large space. There were a dozen chairs arranged somewhat haphazardly around them. Three were occupied—one by the new Libyan defense minister, one by his translator, and one by an army general.

Zongchen greeted them enthusiastically. The bearing of the Libyan delegation was clearly more to his liking than that of the rebels, and he seemed more relaxed than he had been in the city. Introductions were made, and as the committee members began sorting themselves into seats, Zongchen began saying that he had just come from a meeting with one of the rebel leaders and they were very eager for a settlement.

“They will have to lay their weapons aside,” said the defense minister. “When they have done that, then we will have a talk.”

“That wasn't the impression you had given us earlier,” said Zen.

“There is much eagerness,” added Zongchen. “But it might behoove the government to make a sufficient gesture—perhaps a public announcement of a cease-fire.”

The defense minister turned to the general. The two spoke in quick but soft Arabic.

“We need something from the alliance,” said the defense minister. “A sign that you will cooperate with us. A temporary cease-fire. From the alliance, and the rebels.”

Technically, the alliance wasn't at war with the government, merely enforcing the no-fly zone and protecting interests declared “international” by the UN. So agreeing to a mutual cease-fire was not a big deal. Zongchen told the minister that an agreement might be reached quickly for a cease-fire.

“And from the rebels?”

“They would have to take their own action. But if you had declared the cease-fire, then they would respond to that, I'm sure. Within a matter of—”

“It cannot be unilateral! We cannot just declare the cease-fire ourselves. They won't observe it. You see what dogs we deal with. They lie and cheat at every turn.”

We're off to a great start, thought Zen.

18

Over Libya

I
t seemed as if all Libya was descending on the two wrecked vans. Not only were the helicopters only a few minutes away, but now trucks were heading out from the city as well. A small group of people—apparently civilians, though a few had AKs—had left a hamlet about a half mile to the east of the road and were coming up, probably to see what the commotion was about. Meanwhile, the four MiGs were flying northeast on afterburners, taking no heed of the two French Mirages coming in their direction.

The computer calculated that the Mirages had about a sixty-forty percent chance of shooting down the MiGs if they engaged within the next sixty seconds.

Turk didn't particularly like those odds. He had a good opinion of the French pilots, but they were still pretty far north, and since they had to contact the MiGs to warn them off, no chance of surprising the enemy.

“Whiplash, what's your ETA?” Turk asked Danny.

“We'll be overhead in ten minutes.”

“I have people on the ground who are going to get there first.”

“Hostile?”

“Unknown. They look mostly like civilians, but a couple have rifles. Hard here to tell the difference sometimes.” Many people carried rifles for self-protection; Turk certainly would have.

“See if you can scare them off,” said Danny.

“You want me to buzz them?” asked Turk.

“Yes, but don't use your weapons if you don't have to. If you're in danger, screw the ROEs. I'll take the heat.”

“Roger that.”

It was nice to say, but Turk knew he would be court-martialed along with Danny. Still, better to go to prison than live with the death of his guys on his conscience.

“Helicopters have not responded to my hails,” Turk answered. “What about them?”

“We'll try raising them on the radio.”

“They're getting awful close. I'll buzz them, too,” added Turk.

“Copy.”

Turk banked to get closer to the people. He wanted to do a loud run to show them he was there.

The problem would be judging their reaction—if they kept coming, did that mean they were on his side?

“Tanks are moving,” said the computer as he came out of the turn.

“Computer—which tanks?” asked Turk.

“Tanks in Grid A–3.” The area flashed on his sitrep map. “Additional vehicles are under way.”

“Why not,” muttered Turk. “Just one frickin' open house picnic in beautiful suburban Libya.”