Collateral Damage (35 page)

T
urk heard Li contact the tanker. He could tell from the tone in her voice that she thought Ginella was gone.

And maybe he did, too.

There was no reason for him to want to save her. On the contrary, he was sure his life would be easier if she were dead.

But it was his duty to try.

“Captain Mako, this is Ray Rubeo.”

“Go ahead, Doc.”

“I have a sequence of events that I believe if followed very minutely will result in the aircraft's remote control apparatus starting up. At that point, you will be able to issue the proper commands and fly the plane from the Tigershark.”

“Really?”

“There is an element of doubt,” added Rubeo. “But I am of the mind that it is better than nothing. I think it does have a chance of working.”

“I'm game.”

“I am going to add one of my specialists to the line. Your first shot must be very precise. The second even more so.”

Turk listened as the engineer described the locations on the Hog that had to be struck. Fortunately, the engineer was able to upload the targeting data to him through the Whiplash system, and within a few seconds the Tigershark's computer marked the location.

Making the first shot was simply a matter of climbing 5,000 feet, then ramming straight down to an intercept course at exactly 632 knots and firing.

That was tough, but the second shot involved an even more difficult problem. It had to be made at a box housed near the plane's right wing root within thirty seconds of the first.

“Thirty seconds?” Turk asked.

“Has to do with the monitors that control the emergency system check-in,” replied Terci. “The battery will—”

“All right, all right,” said Turk. “Getting into position for the first shot.”

Turk hit his mark 5,000 feet over the Hog and pushed down so he would be on the intercept point. As he reached the target speed, the computer gave him the shooting cue and he fired.

Perfect shot.

But as he swung into position for the second shot, the A–10E turned on its wing and began to dive straight down.

“There's a problem,” he told Rubeo. He pushed his plane to follow. “I think we're going to lose her.”

S
ince the helmet was tied into the Whiplash system, Rubeo could command the screen to show him what the Tigershark saw. He did so, then immediately began to regret it—the A–10A was in what looked like a slow motion downward spiral, heading for the ground.

They had not calculated this possibility.

Why?

“The pilot must be semiconscious,” said Terci. “She's fighting the controls.”

“Yes.”

“If she can level off at ten thousand feet or so, she'll be fine.”

“What about the second shot?”

“You won't get it now. Get her to level off.”

“I doubt that will be easy for her to do. How else can we override that system?”

“That's the only circuit possible, and even that's iffy.”

Turk looked at the airplane. He had to strike a glancing blow on a plane that was very close to entering a spin. Even lining up to get to the right parameter for the computer to calculate the shot was going to be tough.

There was no other choice.

“I
don't know that I can make the shot, even with the computer's help,” said Turk.

They were now at 25,000 feet, moving downward in a large but gradually tightening circle. If Ginella was trying to regain control—a theory Turk was dubious about—she wasn't having any particular success.

The computer's solution was for the Tigershark to exactly duplicate the Hog's flight. It was the sort of solution a computer would propose—it saw nothing out of the ordinary, since the impossibility of doing that hadn't been programmed.

“I can't follow this course and keep my plane,” Turk told Rubeo. “She's going to end up in a spin. It'll get faster and faster. I have to try to stop it, then take the shot.”

“How exactly do you propose to do that?”

“I come in along the wing and tap it. It'll knock the plane out of the course she's on.”

“Will it stabilize it?”

“No way—but if I can just get the flight path to straighten out a little, I can take that shot.”

“How do you propose to do this?” said Rubeo sarcastically. “Are you going to reach your hands out?”

“No. I use my wings. It'll work if I'm careful. I just have to do enough to disrupt the plane.”

“You're sure?”

It was as much of a long shot as Rubeo's original solution, even more so. It was very possible he might throw it into an even worse situation. But it was the only thing he could think of to save her. And he knew he had to try.

“Yes,” he told Rubeo, trying to put steel in his voice. “It will work.”

Turk dropped the Tigershark closer to the Hog, ignoring the proximity warning.

Every novice flier has to demonstrate that he or she can recover from an incipient spin before being allowed to do anything very fancy in an airplane. The first few times, the experience is fairly scary, as the sensation of vertigo—and worse, the feeling that you aren't moving at all—tends to completely unnerve someone new to the cockpit. There is actually considerable time to correct the problem, but only if you go about things methodically, with a clear mind.

Mastering this and other emergency situations isn't important just because of the danger they represent. Being able to control the aircraft through them instills a critical level of confidence in a novice pilot.

Turk felt like a newbie now. He remembered the leading edge of his first incipient spin. He'd almost panicked—almost,
almost,
lost it.

The trick had been to let go. Not literally, but mentally—to let go of his fear and self-doubt and trust himself, what he had been taught, what he knew he had to do.

To trust the plane.

It was an important lesson—one you always needed to relearn, especially in the face of mistakes.

But did that lesson really apply here? This was something very different. He trusted himself and his plane—but the A–10E wasn't his to trust.

Instinct told him to try. There was no other choice.

“Tigershark, we don't think that's going to work,” said Rubeo.

“Too late, Doc. I'm already on it.”

He nudged the aircraft closer, trying to merge with the other plane. Turk told the computer to stop its proximity warnings, but his own sense of space held him back. He had to fight against his instincts as he lifted the wing to the left, coming up against the Hog's.

The Tigershark jerked down as the force of slipstream off the other plane's wing pushed it away. Turk struggled to control the plane but lost altitude too quickly to stay close. He saw the Hog moving overhead and tried to adjust, shifting to the right for another try.

Do it,
he told himself.
Do it.

Tap the wing. Throw it off course. Take your shot.

“What?” asked a disembodied voice. “What?”

A woman's voice . . . Ginella's, as if coming out of a dream.

“You're going into a spin,” he said over the radio, trying to push the Tigershark closer.

“What?” asked the other pilot.

“You need to recover,” said Turk. “You're at twelve thousand feet and dropping.”

“I . . . can't.”

“You can,” said Turk. He backed the Tigershark off. “Your O-two is screwed up.”

“My . . . oxygen.”

“Recover!”

“I—”

“Do it!”

Turk started to move back, desperate now—he had done so much, to the point of sacrificing his own plane in a desperate attempt to save her.

He had to succeed.

He started to come back.

“Where are you?” Ginella asked.

“I'm nearby. Can you eject?”

“I . . . eject.”

“Eject.”

“I . . . I have it. I have it.”

The Hog's wing steadied. The plane was still moving in a circle, but the flight was sturdier, more under control. Turk took the Tigershark out wider.

“I'm at—I have control,” said Ginella. “I have . . . control.”

The A–10 recovered, pulling out ahead, then swooping straight and level.

“Do you think you can handle a refuel?” Turk asked. “If we set a course to the tanker?”

“Yes.” Ginella's voice was still a little shaky.

“You sure?”

“I am not walking home from here, Captain,” she snapped, her voice nasty.

Good, thought Turk. She's back.

“I need a vector to the tanker,” said Turk, talking to the controller. “I need a vector and a tanker. And get rescue assets.”

The Hog began to climb.

“Stay under eight thousand feet,” he told Ginella. “The lower the better.”

“Copy that. You can rejoin your flight. I have it from here.”

“Just follow me,” Turk told her. “We're going home.”

THE TINT OF SUCCESS

1

Sicily

R
ay Rubeo felt his legs start to give way as he reached the tarmac. He reached out and grabbed Danny Freah's side, taking him by surprise and nearly knocking him over.

“Sorry,” the scientist said.

“It's all right, Ray. You all right?”

“I will be.”

They walked together to the waiting Hummer, Rubeo steadying himself against Danny's shoulder for a few more steps before his balance was back.

“Hell of an adventure,” said Danny.

“I owe you an apology,” Rubeo said, stopping before the truck. “I shouldn't have gone to Africa.”

“No, you shouldn't have.”

“I had to, though.”

Danny frowned.

“I had to know why the aircraft had made that attack. Kharon had arranged it. He was working with a Russian spy. They had someone insert a virus to infiltrate the system. I've worked it out in my head—they put it into the computer that we used to make sure the GPS system was properly calibrated before takeoff. They must have used one of our memory keys. I suspect the base maintenance crew was infiltrated.”

“We can look into that.”

“It wasn't a mistake we made. I had to know.”

“We would have found out eventually.”

“I don't know that we would have. Frankly, if Kharon hadn't explained it, I wouldn't have been able to puzzle it out.”

“Don't you always say the science will provide the answer? Doesn't everything work logically?”

“It doesn't always.”

Rubeo realized that he had just made an enormous admission—not to Danny, but to himself.

He'd lived more than fifty years, and he was only realizing that now.

Science, logic, were still critical. Emotion was a messy thing. It couldn't necessarily be trusted—it had ruined Kharon's life, and the lives of the people on the ground the plane had attacked. And yet, it had been necessary, it
was
necessary. Because science wasn't everything.

“We're going to have to answer a lot of questions,” said Danny.

“I take full responsibility.”

“Right.”

“I don't blame you for being angry. You're right to be angry. I was foolish. But thank you—thank you for saving me.”

Danny nodded. “Let's get some rest.”

2

Tripoli

H
aving forced the Libyan government to declare a “temporary cease-fire for humanitarian purposes,” Zongchen's committee had accomplished something the UN and allies had been seeking for months. They immediately exerted pressure on the rebels to follow suit.

They were reluctant, until told explicitly that their aid would be immediately cut off.

An hour later the princess and the other rebel leaders issued a statement that they were “putting hostilities aside for now” and were prepared to “join fruitful negotiations.”

The Libyan defense minister boarded a plane for “consultations” with the rest of his government. Zen, Zongchen, and the others were left alone in the giant hangar, considering what might be the next step.

“The scientist who worked on the Sabres believes they were sabotaged,” Zen told the Chinese general. “I think he'll be able to show the committee exactly what happened.”

“That would be optimal.”

Zen next spoke to the allied force commander. He wasn't very happy with Danny or any of the rest of the Whiplash team. But given the outcome and the importance of Rubeo's companies to NATO, the allies couldn't afford to make a big deal about the incidents. Not that anyone, Danny or Turk especially, would be praised.

Danny was at a point in his career where this might hurt him, Zen realized; politics at the star level was intense. But he also knew that Danny was the sort of officer who didn't care about politics—he cared about getting the job done.

Which was why Danny was so effective. And one reason they were friends.

As for Rubeo—he was simply too important a person in the scheme of things to be penalized in any way. But if Zen ever got his legs back, Rubeo would be on the list of people to get a kick in the butt.

Fortunately for Rubeo, it was a long list.

With his career as a peace negotiator now officially over, Zen mingled with the other committee members. Soon he and Zongchen found themselves alone, talking about aircraft. The Chinese general had many questions about the Hogs. Zen answered the few that he could, then told him that further answers would have to wait until he got an expert.

“How does it feel to be a peacemaker?” Zen asked, changing the subject.

“Very odd,” admitted Zongchen. He smiled. “I am reminded of a proverb to the effect that making war is easier.”

“Messier, though.”

“Yes. Should we return to the hotel? I believe a round of very stiff drinks are in order.”

“That's an excellent idea.”