by Jim DeFelice
His paranoia poked at him a few blocks later, when he came to an intersection blocked by police vehicles. Officially neutral like the city, the Tripoli police were generally considered pro-rebel, though you could never tell whose side they were on. And given Kharon’s situation, either could instantly decide he was their enemy.
But the police were investigating a routine traffic accident, and waved him past as he approached.
Kharon drove to the dense residential districts north of Third Ring Road. After making sure he wasn’t being followed, he pulled down an alley and raced toward a building at the far end. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a garage door opener and pressed the button in the middle. Then he hit the brakes, skidding under the thick branches of several trees as he turned into a bay whose door was just opening. He took the turn so hard that he had to steady himself with his foot on the cement floor, half crashing to a halt.
He jerked his head back and forth, making sure he was alone. Then he hopped away from the bike and went to the empty workbench a few feet away. Reaching under it, he found a key taped to the underside. He used it to open the circuit breaker box above the bench just as the door opener’s automatic lights turned off. With his fingers, he hunted until he found the switch at the very bottom of the panel. He threw it to off, and then, still in the dark, walked to the side of the room and found the light switch.
When the lights came on, he glanced to the right, looking for the red light connected to his security system. The light stayed off. No one had been inside since his last visit.
Kharon went to the door to the garage and opened it. He glanced around the small room, making sure it was empty. Then he went back outside to the garage and the power panel, turned the breaker back on, and went inside.
The garage was the side end of a small workshop used as a sewing factory some years before. All of the machinery had been removed, a perfect place for Kharon to set up shop had he wanted. But he had decided it could be too easily surrounded; he used it only as a temporary staging area.
Inside the large room, he retrieved a touchscreen computer hidden in a small compartment beneath the tile floor. He activated it, then used it to interface with the security system, running a second check to make sure it had not been compromised. Satisfied, he pulled a large duffel bag from the compartment, replaced the tile, and went back to the garage, where he put the CPU drives in the bag. Then he locked down the building and went out through a side door.
* * *
An hour later Kharon carried the duffel bag down the steps of a lab building at Tripoli University to the subbasement where the utilities were kept. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, listening to hear if anyone was following. Then he slipped a thin plastic shim into the doorjamb to get around the lock. He stepped into a corridor lined with large pipes. Closing the door, he found himself completely in the dark.
The confined space stoked his claustrophobia. His hand began to shake as he reached for the small flashlight in his pocket.
It’s nothing, he told himself. Nothing.
But that didn’t stop his hand from shaking. Kharon’s fingers finally found the light. He switched it on and played it across the space in front of him.
Breathe.
He took a step forward, then turned back and made sure the door was locked. Lifting the duffel onto his shoulder, he walked swiftly to the end of the hall, where he found a set of steps leading off to his right. He went down cautiously, one hand tight on the rail. Then he ducked under another set of large pipes and electrical conduits and walked through an open space to another door. This one led to a second hallway, lit by a dull yellow light at the far end.
There was a door near the light, guarded by a combination lock. Kharon pounded the numbers quickly, pushing inside as the lock snapped open. Still breathing hard, he reached for the two switches to the left. One killed the light outside; the other turned on a set of daylight fluorescents that lined the ceiling.
The light helped him relax. He was inside a hidden lab complex that was once part of the Libyan effort to build a nuclear weapon. It had been abandoned for years when Kharon stumbled upon it.
He walked through what had been a large security/reception area. There was a lab room at the far end, guarded by another coded lock. Inside, he found his two workstations in sleep mode just as he had left them.
After making sure that his security had not been breached, Kharon unpacked his boxes and began downloading the information from the hard drives into his native system. While the drives spun, he booted a third computer that was tied into the university’s mainframes. He used it to get onto the Internet and scan the news relating to Libya.
Most of the stories about the riot either hinted that it had been staged or said so outright.
Idiot government.
The commission had returned to Tripoli. They said all the right things — the accident had been inexcusable, the loss of life was horrible.
And the questions he had asked about the autonomous drones?
Not even mentioned. The reporters were too stupid to understand what was going on.
Frustrated, Kharon began scanning stories from several days before, looking to see if the tips he’d planted had borne fruit. Rubio’s name didn’t even come up in the stories related to the incident.
Kharon leaned his elbow on the bench in front of the keyboard. He put his chin against his hand, then bit his index finger. He bit it so hard and so long that when he finally let go, his finger was white.
Embarrass Rubeo? Ruin him?
Hardly.
He was going to have to just kill him and be done with it.
6
Sicily
Following their return to base and the formal debrief, Turk joined Shooter Squadron at their second ready room — the hotel lounge at the Sicilian Inn a few miles from the base. The seaside resort had been taken over by the allies, and the bar was filled with fliers from several member countries: Greece, France, a few Brits, and even some Germans. The pilots from Shooter Squadron commandeered a table on the terrace overlooking the beach and the sea. It was a brilliant night, with the stars twinkling and the moon so massive and yellow it looked as if it had been PhotoShopped in.
Grizzly and most of the others were still sick, but two pilots Turk had never met before came down to join them, Captain Frank Gordon from San Francisco, and the squadron’s junior pilot, Lieutenant Li Pike, a woman who had joined the Hog squadron just a few weeks before.
There was plenty of the usual joking around, but there was also a serious conversation on the rebel movement and the role of the allies as well. Pike, who had a degree in international relations, pointed out that this was the second time around for the allies — the first intervention, almost universally hailed when it ousted Gaddafi, had resulted in a terrible regime that was now itself being contested. In her opinion, intervention of any sort was futile; the locals should have been left to fend for themselves.
Paulson countered that just because things hadn’t worked out in the first place, there was no reason to give up — try, try again was more or less his motto.
“Ah, waste ’em all,” groused Beast, reaching for his beer. “Shoot ’em up and go home.”
“Do you really feel that way?” asked Pike. She had a sweet, almost innocent face — pretty, thought Turk.
“That’s how I feel, shit yeah. Doin’ good? Almost got us killed today. Turk had to blow a missile off his back.”
“Almost flew his Hog into the dirt,” said Paulson. “That would have been embarrassing. Dreamland hotshot kicks in the desert because he oversticks his plane.”
Turk was starting not to like Paulson very much, but he tried taking the ribbing good-naturedly. Objecting was the easiest way to guarantee it would continue.
“I have to say, the Hog goes where you point it,” he told the others. “Very nice aircraft.”
“Sure your muscles haven’t atrophied?” asked Paulson.
“I can still make a
fist,” said Turk.
“I’m just jokin’ with ya, Captain,” sneered Paulson, getting up and heading toward the bar.
“Do you believe in intervention?” asked Pike.
“I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest,” Turk told her, grateful for the chance to change the subject.
“So what’s the F–40 like?” asked Beast.
“It’s interesting. Some days you forget you’re really in an airplane. It’s real smooth.”
“I don’t think I’d like that,” said Li.
“You get used to it.”
“They blame you for the accident?” asked Beast.
“No. That’s one good thing about all the systems they have in place for monitoring everything. They can see exactly what I did.”
“You think they’ll figure it out?” asked Li. “Soon, I mean.”
“I hope they don’t,” said Ginella, returning to the table after speaking with one of the French fliers. “Because it means we have our friend Turk here for a little bit.”
“You’re staying?” Li asked.
“Well…”
“Captain Mako can stay until we have our full complement back,” said Ginella. “As far as I’m concerned, he can stay forever.”
“I’m glad to be here,” said Turk.
The mood lightened as Ginella told a story she’d just heard from the Frenchmen. Turk watched Li, whose expression remained serious the whole time.
The more he watched her, the more beautiful she seemed to become. Her light tan skin was smooth and exotic in the dim light of the club. Her eyes sparkled.
Turk looked away whenever he suspected she was going to turn in his direction. She caught him once and smiled.
He tried to smile back, but he was sure that he must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
Paulson returned with a fresh round of drinks. He started bragging about how well he’d done in some Gunsmoke competition a year before. He seemed to be playing to Li, who sipped her drink coolly and avoided looking in his direction.
Turk got up and went over to the window, looking out at the sea. He was starting to feel tired. Everything that had happened over the past few days had worn him down. He decided he ought to find a ride back to his own hotel.
A pair of French pilots came over and introduced themselves. It turned out they’d been nearby when Turk shot down the Mirages, and asked him to recount the engagement. He did so gladly, using his hands to show the different paths the antagonists had taken.
“It was over in less than two minutes,” he said. “I had to be lined up perfectly.”
“He is quite a pilot, isn’t he?” said Ginella, coming over. She threw her hand around his shoulder. “A real ace.”
“Well, not so much an ace,” said Turk.
“You need five planes to be an ace,” said one of the Frenchmen, citing the traditional tally for the honor.
His companion mentioned Célestin Adolphe Pégoud, the French World War One pilot who had first earned the title. Turk confessed that while he had heard of the pilot, he didn’t know much about him. The other man described him as an early test pilot — Pégoud had looped a Blériot monoplane before the war, by legend and common agreement the first man to do so.
As the Frenchmen spoke of some other early aces, Turk realized that Ginella’s hand was lingering on his back. It felt warm, and reassuring.
And sexual, though she didn’t do anything suggestive.
Eventually, the French pilots excused themselves, saying they had an early op. Turk turned to Ginella, whose hand was still on his back.
He hesitated a moment, not exactly sure what to do.
She leaned in and kissed him.
Her lips were lush, much warmer and more moist than he would have imagined. She pressed him gently toward her, her right hand coming up on his side.
He moved his lips to hers, tilting his head to meet hers. He felt her tongue against his teeth and opened his mouth to accept it.
A small part of his brain objected — he would have much preferred kissing Li — but every other cell in his body urged him on. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. It had been a long time since he’d had a kiss this passionate.
Finally, Ginella started to move back. Turk did as well, sliding his hands down. She caught them, gripping tightly.
“Problem, Captain?”
“Um, uh, no. No. Not at all.” He glanced behind her. The rest of the squadron had left. In fact, that bar was empty except for the two of them and the bartender.
“Maybe we should continue this upstairs,” she suggested.
“Well, I—”
“Sshhh.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Nothing.”
“Well.”
He was truly undecided. He wanted to go to bed with her, without a doubt. But there were reasons not to.
Like?
They didn’t quite compute at the moment.
“Come on,” she told him.
Turk opened his mouth to say yes, but before he could get a word out, she leaned in and kissed him again.
7
Sicily
The video was very poor quality, and expanding it to fill the fifty-five-inch screen in Zongchen’s conference room further distorted it. But it wouldn’t have been very pretty to look at under any circumstance.
Zen shook his head as the video continued, the camera running with the mob after the Osprey. He saw a glimpse of his wheelchair heading for the aircraft, then saw only the backs of heads and finally the ground. The last shot was the Osprey in the distance.
“They showed us,” said Zen sarcastically. The two men were alone; except for an aide watching the phones, the rest of the staff had quit for the night.
“My government has filed a protest,” said Zongchen. The Chinese general wore a deep frown. “This has been a great disgrace.”
“We should have expected it,” said Zen.
“We were assured complete security,” said Zongchen.
Zen kept his answer to himself. The general was a military man, with high standards and expectations. Like military professionals the world over, he placed a great deal on personal integrity and honor.
Noble assets certainly, traits that Zen shared, and traits one could depend on in the military world, and often in the world at large.
But the world of politics — geopolitics included — was different. Lofty values often held you back. Zen had learned the hard way that the knife in the back from a friend was more common than the frontal assault from an enemy.
“We will pursue our investigation,” said Zongchen. “We will continue.”
“Good.”
“The explanations of how the system works have been most useful,” Zongchen added, nodding to Zen. “We appreciate your candor.”
“And your discretion.” True to his word, Zongchen had not pressed for the technical aspects of the system. Given the animosity between China and the United States, they were working together remarkably well. Part of it was certainly personal — the two old pilots respected each other — but perhaps it was an indication that the two great powers in the world, one young, one not quite so young, might find a way to cooperate going forward.
Careful, Zen warned himself, you’re getting all touchy-feely. Next thing you know, we’ll be sitting around the campfire singing “Kumbaya”—and then Zongchen will knife me in the back like a proper ally.
“The pilot is not at fault,” said Zongchen. “This is clear. But from your discussion, the only possibility seems an error aboard the aircraft. Would you agree?”
“There’s nothing that would contradict that,” said Zen. “Perhaps with a little more work we can identify it. But the teams working on it haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Hmmm.” The general seemed temporarily lost in thought.
One of the general’s aides approached quietly. Zen noticed him first, and glanced in his direction. Zongchen looked, and apparently saw someth
ing in the young man’s face that told him it was urgent.
“Excuse me, Senator.”
“Of course.”
Zongchen spoke to the aide in Chinese, then turned to Zen in surprise.
“A member of the Libyan government is on the phone and wishes to talk to me. He speaks English — which is good since Cho here does not speak Arabic.” Zongchen smiled. “Come, you should listen as well.”
Zen wheeled himself from the large room to Zongchen’s suite office. He stopped a few feet away, waiting as the Chinese general put the call on speakerphone.
“I have another member of our committee here with me,” Zongchen said before he even greeted the other man. “Senator Stockard, from the United States.”
“The man in the wheelchair,” said the Libyan. His English was good, with an accent somewhere between Tripoli and London.
“The senator lost the use of his legs in an air accident many years ago,” said Zongchen, glancing at Zen. “But he has had quite a career since then. He was an excellent pilot.”
“I am pleased to talk to him, or anyone else you designate. Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Colonel Abdel Bouri, and a few hours ago I have been designated to head the military portfolio of our government.”
“I am pleased to speak to you,” said Zongchen.
“The security breakdown was deeply regrettable,” said Bouri. “And a fault of the previous minister. Things have changed. The government has… reorganized. I have been asked… Let me find the proper words here.”
He paused, speaking to someone else in the office in soft but quick Arabic.
“I have been authorized to speak of a peace arrangement,” said the minister in English. “We are prepared to hold discussions with the rebels, if the proper conditions can be arranged. These talks would lead to a new government. Elections would be established.”
Zongchen and Zen exchanged a glance.
“The president himself cannot make this statement,” Bouri continued. “But I have full authority to conduct talks. This can only occur at the most confidential… under the most quiet circumstances.”