Текст книги "Collateral Damage"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

16

Benghazi, northern Libya

As much as he tried, Rubeo found it impossible to stay behind his bodyguard as they walked through the narrow streets filled with outdoor markets. Jons finally gave up trying to nudge him back and let him walk at his shoulder.

Jons had tried very hard to talk him out of coming along to meet Halit. But Rubeo was determined to see the man for himself in his own environment before they hired him. You could only learn so much from a sanitized meeting in an office or at the airport.

Both Rubeo and Jons were armed—Rubeo with a pistol hand made by a colleague at Dreamland years before, and Jons with a pair of weapons made by Rubeo’s companies. Both guns employed so-called “smart bullets”—microprocessors inside the ammunition received target information from the aiming mechanism at the top of barrel, and could adjust the flight of the bullet via a muscle wire: actually a piece of metal that changed the bullet’s shape and ballistic characteristics.

The bullets couldn’t change direction, nor were they able to find their own target or do anything outrageously fancy. But the weapons simplified aiming, while at the same time increasing their lethality. The shooter pointed his gun at the largest part of his target—generally the torso. The finlike reader on the top of the gun automatically adjusted the aim for its target’s face, and put the bullet there. Not only did this avoid the problem of bulletproof vests, it made even novice gunmen dangerous no matter what the situation.

Rubeo wasn’t a novice—he had acquired a taste for hunting long ago—but he certainly wasn’t combat-trained, and the weapon made it much easier for him to be sure that he would protect himself. Levon Jons, on the other hand, disliked the idea that the gun would aim on its own.

“What if I just want to wound someone?” he often complained to Rubeo.

This was an entirely theoretical complaint: Jons himself would be the first to admit that when his gun came out, it came out to be used, and when it was used, it was only with the intent to kill. But he didn’t see the contradiction, and more often than not turned the smart technology off.

He had it on today. Benghazi was not a place to worry about purity.

“Left,” suggested Jons. The bodyguard was listening to directions from his earpiece.

“Mmmm,” said Rubeo. He kept walking, sensing that they were being watched. Like most of the Libyans on the street, they were wearing Western clothes; more traditional dress would have highlighted them rather than made them blend in.

Rubeo wore his thin protective vest beneath his shirt as well as a light jacket that concealed his pistol. Jons had a bulky sweater. The copper-boron web vests used a layer of glass filaments to reduce their thickness, but they restricted the wearer’s body subtly, and even though his vest was tailored to his chest, Rubeo felt as if his arms were banded. His discomfort annoyed him, but at the same time it heightened his watchfulness, and as he continued past the street where they were supposed to turn, he picked out a small boy staring at them from across the way.

Rubeo stopped at the nearest stall, where a man was selling leather goods. He picked up a wallet and glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye.

“Kid watching us,” he told Jons.

“Probably a pickpocket.”

“Maybe.”

Rubeo gave the wallet back, then started walking again. The city was patrolled by members of the rebel militia, or at least men who claimed to be so. Most wore civilian clothes, but were identifiable by red bandannas on both arms. They were armed with rifles, AK–47s and AK–74s for the most part, though the one Rubeo saw at the end of the block had an M–4.

“Let’s turn,” he said.

He led the way through the thin crowd about halfway down the block, where he found a small store selling groceries. He pulled open the door, turning casually in the direction they had come. The boy was there, looking at them.

“Maybe he is with our friends, and maybe he is not,” said Rubeo. “But let us find out.”

“Your call,” said Jons, in a tone that let Rubeo know he disagreed.

“There’s a door in the back.” Jons moved to check it out.

Rubeo rummaged through the front of the store, looking at the shelves of dusty canned goods, making sure the boy could see him. The store owner came over, delighted at having a Western customer. Rubeo nodded at him.

“This, very good one,” said the man, stumbling in English.

“Nice.”

“You like?”

“No.”

“You buy this one, then?”

“No. I’m not buying anything,” said Rubeo flatly.

The man went off, offended. Rubeo turned his attention back to the street. The boy saw him and started to back away—right into Jons’s arms.

Rubeo came out of the store. The boy kicked and wiggled, but Jons held him firmly.

“How old are you?” Rubeo asked in English. “Eight? Nine?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“I cannot speak Arabic well,” said Rubeo. “But this device will translate for me.”

He took out his phone and queued up a translation program. He pressed the large circle in the middle of the screen, scrolled through his most recent lines, and highlighted the questions. The machine repeated them in fluent Arabic.

“Go to the devil,” said the boy.

Even Rubeo’s Arabic was good enough to figure out what he had said without the program. He reached into his pocket and slipped out a ten euro note.

“Would this help?”

The boy grabbed at it.

Rubeo pulled it back. “Tell them I’m coming.” He double-tapped his screen without looking; the machine gave the translation almost instantly. Then he handed the boy the money.

“I say he’s a purse snatcher,” said Jons as the boy ran off.

“That is why you are the brawn of the company, Levon.” Rubeo flicked the app on his screen to the tracking display. While holding the kid, Jons had placed a small video fly on his shoulder. The fly transmitted his location, displaying it on an overhead map.

He ran straight to the alley where they were supposed to meet the men. Rubeo brought up another app, and images appeared on the screen.

“All right. I’m an asshole,” said Jons glumly as he took the phone from his boss.

Ten minutes later Rubeo and Jons climbed over a short fence that ran behind the building where the boy had run. Jons knocked on the back door, then put his shoulder to it, breaking it off its hinges. Rubeo walked inside.

The three men the kid had reported to were still questioning him about Rubeo.

“Excuse my dramatic entrance,” Rubeo told them. “I was somewhat disconcerted by the fact that you had a child shadowing me.”

Jons held his gun on the men, but that was superfluous: they were all too surprised to react.

“Which one of you is Halit?” asked Rubeo. He had practiced the phrase several times, and said it smoothly.

A man in a white-and-blue striped sweater raised his hand.

“These are my brothers,” said the man in English. “They have just been here with me, to keep company.”

“I’ll bet,” said Jons. “Come here.”

The squat Libyan tried to suck in his gut as he got up. He wore a gray warm-up jacket and black jeans, along with black shoes polished to a high shine.

“Spit,” said Jons, holding out a small device with what looked like an air scoop on the edge. “Into it.”

Halit did so. The device analyzed the DNA in the spit, uploading parts to a database back at Rubeo’s company headquarters. It worked quickly, picking out only small parts of the complicated code, looking for signatures that would be compared to known agents, terrorists, or criminals in the federal database.

The system was not foolproof. From a scientific standpoint, there was too much potential for a bad match: about 122 chances out of 65,000; roughly the standards law enforcement had used for preliminary DNA matches with limited markers just a few years before. But it was fine for Rubeo’s purposes.

The small screen on the device went green, indicating the sample was sufficient to be tested. A minute later the screen blanked, then flashed green, yellow, then green again. Halit was not a criminal or a known terrorist. Or anyone else in the U.S. data banks, for that matter.

A start, at least.

Rubeo reached into his pocket and took out a few euros. He threw them on the floor.

“Halit comes with us. The rest stay, or that money will be used for your funerals.”

Rubeo looked at his phone, where the feed from the video fly was still operating. The boy was outside; the area was clear.

Jons took hold of Halit’s elbow and they went out the front door. Rubeo, more relaxed, walked behind them, looking back and forth.

There was something invigorating in dealing with danger, he thought. He liked the way his heart pounded in his chest.

They brought Halit to the truck. After checking the monitoring system to make sure the vehicle had not been tampered with, Jons put Halit in the backseat.

Rubeo climbed in the front. He let Jons drive.

“Do you know the head of the guards at the gate below Tripoli?” Rubeo asked Halit.

“I know them, yes. Why do you treat me like a prisoner? I was told you need a guide. I am a guide, the best.”

“I don’t trust you,” said Rubeo. “You used a child to spy on me.”

“Only to see when you are coming. My son.”

“He wasn’t your son,” snapped Rubeo. He hated being lied to.

“My son, yes.”

Rubeo stared at him with contempt. The two couldn’t appear more different. The boy had been rail thin, with light features and blue eyes; the man was dark and pudgy, very short, with curly hair where the boy’s was straight.

Which was worse? The fact that he would lie on such a petty matter—or that he would think it OK to put his own son in danger?

Or any child, now that he thought of it.

Rubeo found most people venal and petty. A good number were stupid as well. Navigating around them was one thing; inevitably, though, there were situations where you had to count on them.

Jons had found three men capable of getting them south into the government-held areas. Halit was the most highly recommended.

Rubeo couldn’t help but imagine how horrible the other two must be.

“Your job is to get us past the guards,” he told the man as they drove. “You will stay with us at all times. If you say anything beyond what I ask you to say, if you attempt to leave us, if you do anything that puts us in danger, you will die.”

“A lot of words,” said the Libyan, holding his hands out. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain,” said Jons. He pulled one of his pistols out and pointed it toward the backseat. “Fuck up and we kill you.”

They drove back over to the airport. Two associates were waiting, sitting on the front bumper of a large Ford 250. The diesel-powered pickup had been flown in only an hour before.

The taller of the two men sprang off the bumper as they approached. Rubeo had met him when he’d helped pull security for him during some travels in China. His name was Lawson, and he had been a Ranger in the Army. He was personable, a talker—rare for the profession, in Rubeo’s experience.

The other man was Abas, an Iranian-American who had been a SEAL and done some work for the CIA before joining a private company Jons often called on for backup. Abas was silent to the point of being rocklike. He never smiled, and if he blinked his eyes or even closed them, Rubeo had never seen it.

“Boss, how’s it going?” said Lawson, stalking over. He was tall and thin. His right knee had been torn up in Afghanistan. For some reason it didn’t keep him from running, but he walked with the slightest of limps. The others sometimes called him “Igor” because of it.

“Where is everybody?” asked Jons.

“Siesta in the warehouse,” said Lawson. “And Kimmy’s out with the helucopper.”

Lawson thought his mispronunciation was funny and began chuckling. The men in the warehouse were four Filipinos, trusted by Jons but unknown to Rubeo. Between them they had plenty of firepower, ranging up to a pair of automatic grenade launchers.

Unlike Rubeo and Jons, the team used commercial weapons and tactical gear. The only thing supplied by Rubeo’s company were the com units—small ear sets with a pocket broadcast device. The units linked through a satellite connection and could share data; they worked solely by voice command.

“Go wake them up,” said Jons. “When’s Kimmy getting back?”

“Oughta be here any minute. She’s just shay-uh-aching the chopper down.”

Laughing again, Lawson turned and walked over to the warehouse to get the others.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just take the helicopter in?” Jons asked.

“It’ll attract too much attention,” said Rubeo. The helicopter was a backup, in case they needed to be extracted quickly. While it was tempting to fly directly in and out, the chopper brought its own risks. It would be a target not only for the government and the rebels, but the Western coalition as well. While Rubeo assumed they wouldn’t shoot him down, he wanted to avoid telling them that he was here.

Jons took Halit over to the pickup and put him in the front seat. With Abas looking on, he showed him the GPS mapping system, which had a seven-inch screen mounted on a flexible arm between the driver and the front passenger.

The 250 cab had another row of seats in the back. Abas would drive; Jons and Rubeo would be in the back. Lawson and three of the Filipinos would be in the other truck. The last Filipino and Kimmy would stay back in the helicopter, on alert.

Rubeo turned his attention to the horizon. The desert was calm. There was no wind to speak of. A few pancake clouds sat on the horizon. The temperature was mild, considering where they were.

“Kimmy’s about five minutes away,” said Jons. “You want to wait for her, or should we hit the road?”

“There’s no reason to wait.”

“Let’s go, then.” Jons turned to the others. “You want to hit the can, better do it now. We ain’t stoppin’ for nothing and nobody once we leave.”

17

Sicily

With the rest of the afternoon off, Turk decided he would work out back at his hotel, then maybe go for a swim in the pool there. He hoped the activity would give his mind a break. He was almost at his car when his phone buzzed with a text message.

It was from Li Pike:

R U AROUND?

He answered yes.

COL WANTS TO KNOW—CAN U FLY TONIGHT? MISSION. IMPRTNT

ON MY WAY.

The briefing had already started by the time he got there. A French plane had gone down near a city held by the government in the southeast corner of the country, very close to the Chad border. The plane had apparently been lost to engine trouble; in any event, the government did not appear to know that it had crashed. A team of British SAS commandos was looking for the downed airman; the Hogs had been asked to join the second shift of air support tasked to aid the mission.

The A–10s would be equipped with Maverick missiles guided to their targets via laser designators; the bombs could be targeted either by the ground forces or the aircraft themselves.

All eight of Shooter Squadron’s planes were tasked for the mission, but they would be divided into two groups to extend coverage.

The first flight, with Paulson as lead, would take off at 2200. The second group, led by Ginella, would come off the runway three hours later, at 0100.

The two flights would overlap for a brief period, but the general idea was that the first flight would be relieved by the second, which would operate until daylight.

“What happens if they don’t find the guy by then?” asked Grizzly.

“Then he’s not alive,” said Ginella. She glanced at her watch. It was a little past 1900, or 7:00 P.M. “There’s a little time to grab something to eat, but make it quick. Anyone that’s too tired, I want that hand up now.”

She looked at Turk. He wasn’t about to admit fatigue.

Assigned to the second group, he would fly wing to Grizzly; Ginella explained that he had never flown at night with the special gear the Hogs used. Coop was flying as her wingman.

Li was in the first group as Paulson’s wing.

“I’m sorry for you,” Turk told her as they went over to get some dinner.

“For what?”

“Paulson can be a real prick.”

“I think he’s a pretty good pilot.” Turk felt a little stab in his heart, until she added, “A class A jackass and a jerk besides, but he flies well.”

While they ate, Grizzly regaled them with stories about his first nighttime refuel in a Hog—not particularly morale inducing, as he had fallen off the fuel probe not once, not twice, but three times, which the boomer—the crewman manning the refuel probe—had claimed was a new Hog record. Turk gathered that the difficulty of the refuel was the reason he’d been relegated to the back of the line.

“The boomer, though, claimed the worst pilots at night refuel are the F–22 jocks,” said Grizzly.

That got a jealous laugh from the others, even though it was probably not true.

Turk hardly touched his food, spending most of his time watching Li instead. She had long slim fingers. They were expressive, even just holding a fork.

He wanted to ask her why and how she had become a pilot, but Grizzly started another story about how he’d spent “a year one week” flying Hog missions with a SEAL team.

His stories were too involved to be interrupted. The ops weren’t the interesting part; the shenanigans, missteps, complications, and above all the nightly parties with members of the SEAL team, were the real point. According to Grizzly, they had gotten into a total of ten fights in six days, including one all-out brawl with members of a mixed martial-arts troupe.

True or not, it was a good yarn. Li, anxious to get ready for her flight, excused herself before it ended. Unable to find an excuse to accompany her that wouldn’t sound overly corny, Turk watched her leave.

Even her walk was sexy.

He was glad that he didn’t have to fly with Paulson, but the long wait before the sortie weighed heavily. He finally found a couch in a corner of the room next to the ready room and bedded down.

He started to drift off. He saw Li in his mind, starting to slip into unconsciousness. The image was pleasant, but almost immediately it morphed into Ginella. They started having sex.

Turk opened his eyes. Grizzly was shaking him.

God!

Turk practically jumped to the ceiling.

“Rise and shine, bro,” laughed Grizzly, who fortunately had no idea of the dream he’d just woken him from. “We got some flyin’ to do.”

18

Libya

Following Halit’s advice, Rubeo decided to avoid the gate south of Tripoli, riding about twenty miles across open desert to reach a road that connected to the main highway south.

The road was barely discernible from the dirt, grit, and sand that washed over it. They drove up through a succession of hills. From a distance the terrain looked like the rumpled back of a giant sleeping facedown on the earth. Up close they were brown and almost featureless, bland nonentities that only slowed them down.

So much of life was like that, thought Rubeo. From a distance things looked remarkable. And then you got there and they were bland and boring.

Even his own life. For all his work in artificial intelligence systems, in related technologies, in the interface between man and machine—what accomplishments filled him with excitement?

The work that he was doing now on autonomous machines? On computers that really, truly, thought for themselves—not in the areas where they had been programmed to think, but in areas that they knew nothing about.

The Sabres were a small by-product of that work—a distant offshoot, really, because of course war had to be programmed into a machine.

And programmed out. The machine needed to be taught limits so it would not turn on its master, as everyone who had ever picked up a scifi novel surely knew.

Had he not given the Sabres proper limits? Or was it a mechanical flaw?

Some combination, surely.

They had not yet ruled out direct action from the enemy. But that seemed to make little sense. Why do something to cause more casualties? The aim would be to have the plane destroy itself.

“What do you think of this?” asked Jons, handing him one of the team iPads. The device was equipped with a satellite modem in place of the usual cell and wireless connections; the com system used a series of anonymous servers to hide the identity and origins of the Web requests.

The screen showed a news story on the UAV incident. Labeled “Analysis,” it recounted some of the popular theories on what had happened. Most were far off base or so vague that they could be describing a car accident.

But the paragraphs Jons had highlighted speculated that the attack had been made because of software problems. And it cited anonymous e-mails from “developers” indicating that the aircraft were making targeting decisions on their own.

In contrast to the rest of the piece, there was plenty of well-reasoned thought on the subject, enough to convince Rubeo that the source knew a great deal about the problems involved. He scrolled back to the top and reread the story carefully. Much of it was generic, so much so that he couldn’t figure out whether the writer, as opposed to the source, actually knew what he was talking about.

“It’s not very specific,” said Rubeo, handing the iPad back. “This middle part is interesting, but I don’t know that he has any real sources inside our organization. He might know someone at another company that’s working on the problem.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jons opened the browser to a new page. “But I did a couple of searches on some of the phrases just to be sure. Look at this list.”

There were twenty-eight matches from bulletin boards and comment areas. All used similar language to describe the accident and the theory that the aircraft had been under their own autonomous control when the attack was made.

“These drones are being operated without human supervision,” read one. “They decide who to kill and who to spare. The man who invented them, Ray Rubeo, thinks machines are better than people.”

The latter was a rather common criticism, not just of Rubeo, but of practically any scientist who worked in the area. But the fact that it was being directed at one person, rather than a team, bothered Rubeo immensely. Coupled with the alleged e-mail, it looked as if someone either in his company or at least tangentially related was leaking information.

“What do you think?” asked Jons.

“Someone doesn’t like AI,” said Rubeo, handing the computer back.

“Or you. You’re mentioned by name in these. My guess is that a bunch of organizations got the e-mail cited in that article,” added Jons. “It looks like a campaign.”

Rubeo said nothing. He had many competitors. Each one was an enemy, at least figuratively. And any number of people would benefit if the government stopped dealing with his firm; there would be a vast void to fill.

“No one seems to be taking them very seriously,” he told Jons. “Or otherwise I’d have heard.”

“Maybe. In any event, it’s a potential security leak. It could definitely be a disgruntled employee. Anyone willing to put out this kind of information, add your name—they won’t stop here.”

“I don’t think it’s an employee. Or an ex-employee. They’re paid too well.”

“It’s not always about money. Or science.”

In Rubeo’s experience, if it wasn’t about science, then it was always about money. Or sex.

“Rerun our security checks,” he told Jons.

“Oh, we’re well into that.”

“Good.”

“It may be a contractor,” suggested Jons. “We’re checking that as well. I wonder if there’s any disgruntled military. Maybe on the Whiplash side.”

“We can certainly check. There aren’t many of them.”

“Not directly. Indirectly, you’d be surprised.”

“Right.” Rubeo settled back into the seat, as frustrated as ever.

Halit proved his worth at the gate, speaking quickly to the guards. Jons, standing next to him, handed over a folded envelope, and they were through.

“One hundred euros,” Jons told Rubeo, climbing back into the truck. “That is all it took to get us past the front line. The government doesn’t have long.”

Rubeo nodded but said nothing. Darkness had enveloped the desert.

They drove quickly, nearly missing the turn that would take them to the military site where the government’s most powerful radar units were located. There were two sets here, general warning radars and radars that were connected with an SA–10 antiaircraft battery.

According to Rubeo’s calculations, the latter were the only ones in the area capable of interfering with the Sabre telemetry. Supposedly, they had come on very briefly during the engagement. The allies, for reasons known only to them, had not yet gotten around to targeting the radars, possibly because there were civilians inside the complex where the units were located.

There were two ways to see if the units here could have interfered with the Sabre. One was to somehow turn back time and record everything they did. The second was to examine them very closely, which required being physically nearby and provoking, or at least attempting to provoke, a similar response.

The latter choice was only slightly less impossible than the former. But more likely twice as dangerous.

They stopped a mile outside the site, clearly visible on a slight rise, guarded by two armored personnel carriers and three sandbagged machine-gun emplacements.

“Guys in that post over there are sleeping,” said Jons, looking through the night glasses.

“Go ahead and launch the Streamer.”

Lawson had already taken the small aircraft out of its case. With a wingspan just under twenty-four inches, the robot aircraft was an electronic noise machine. Powered by a small kerosene-fueled engine, it would circle over the radar installation, broadcasting a signal that would make it seem as if NATO aircraft were approaching.

“Come on little birdie, time to start you up,” said Lawson, half singing the last few words as if he were Mick Jagger singing “Start Me Up.”

The motor didn’t seem to be in a musical mood, or maybe it just didn’t like rock ’n’ roll. It refused to start. He reprimed it and pressed the starter, which used a spring and battery combination to spin it to life.

The engine spat, coughed, then finally spun into high speed.

Up close, the miniature power plant sounded like an HO-scale racing car, its high-pitched whir almost a whistle. The sound didn’t carry very far, however; it was difficult to discern at a hundred feet, and would be easily covered by the hum of the electronics and cooling gear in the control vans at the base.

“Fly, my pretty,” said Lawson, pushing the UAV into the air.

It launched like a paper plane, the wings struggling to find airflow as the motor revved. The nose dipped down, the plane gathered speed, then suddenly tilted up and soared skyward on a preprogrammed climb.

Lawson picked up the controller—it was a hobbyist’s kit, with only slight modifications for security—and worked the plane up to two hundred feet. Then he put it into a wide circle above the base.

Rubeo was watching the screen on the detection processing unit, which was attached to a set of wire antennas. As the UAV circled, Lawson turned its broadcast system on.

The radar system on the ground believed it was looking at a Predator some twenty miles away—well inside the missile’s effective range.

“They’re just watching,” said Lawson.

“Good. Phase two.”

A second signature now appeared on the screens of the operators inside the van—F/A–18s approaching from a distance. The aircraft popped up, preparing to attack.

The engagement radar for the ground-to-air missiles came on. The operators had decided to take down the Predator, which they interpreted as scouting for the manned aircraft. But within seconds both radars shut down.

“They’re afraid of antiradiation missiles,” said Rubeo, looking at the screen over Lawson’s shoulder.

“Yup.”

The radars stayed off.

If the Libyans had a way of interfering with the UAV transmissions, Rubeo reasoned, they would have likely used it against the Predator, which after all looked as if it was bird-dogging for the other planes.

Still, he needed to be absolutely sure. The jamming unit might be “tuned” to the Sabres.

“Launch the Mapper.”

“With pleasure,” said Lawson.

The Mapper was a larger UAV, with a wingspan over twenty feet. The large size allowed it to carry a heavier payload—a device that would map the electronic layout of the camp. Every wire, every circuit, would be diagrammed.

Rubeo monitored the Streamer controls. If the radars suddenly turned on, the Mapper would be an easy target; it was not only bigger, but louder than the first UAV.

“It’s on its own,” said Lawson. The plane had been programmed to fly a very slow circuit over the compound. As it did, its sensors would map the electronic and magnetic fields and circuits below, giving Rubeo a picture of the installation, or at least its electronic components.

“They’re going to hear it,” said Jons. He was watching the machine-gun position through his glasses.

“Hopefully they won’t,” said Rubeo.

“Relying on luck? That’s not like you, Ray.”

Rubeo didn’t answer. The data from the aircraft had to be recorded and then uploaded to his systems back in the States. They didn’t have the equipment to analyze it in real time. Rubeo had calculated that they needed three circuits to get a sufficient image; he wanted at least six.

The plane was just completing the second when the radar came back up.

“Why the hell did they do that?” grumbled Lawson.

The Streamer pumped out fresh signals, making it seem as if the site was going to be attacked by the F/A–18s. This time it didn’t work.

“They’re running around like crazy men,” said Jons.

A second later someone in one of the vehicles began firing a fifty caliber. The Mapper was way too close to be targeted by the missiles, but within easy reach of old-fashioned machine guns.

Red and orange tracers cascaded in the air, peppered here and there with bolts of black. The sound was oppressive, even from where they were.

“They’re going to launch missiles,” said Lawson. “Radar thinks it has a lock.”

“Wonderful,” said Rubeo sarcastically. He kept his eyes on the control screen, watching the Mapper UAV. It was about three-quarters of the way through its third turn over the complex, heading directly for the tracers. Rubeo could take over the flight program and divert it to safety, but that would mean the circuits would have to be repeated.