Текст книги "Collateral Damage"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

22

Over Libya

Turk zeroed his gun on the tank and fired six bursts, the bolts leaping from the gun in a sharp, staccato rhythm that seemed to suspend the Tigershark in midair. The line of his bullets was tighter this time, and there was no escape for the men inside—the first slug ignited one of the tank’s shells, and secondary explosions ripped through the tight quarters of the armored vehicle, mincing its occupants. The rest of the bullets simply sliced through the fireballs.

As soon as he let off the trigger, Turk turned his attention to the MiGs. They had separated into two groups, one duo diverting toward the French interceptors and the other coming at the Hogs.

The A–10s were easy targets for the MiGs, but to their credit they remained in their attack patterns, closing in on the tanks.

“Shooter, I’m on those MiGs,” Turk told Ginella. “I have them.”

“We appreciate it.”

There was a launch warning—the MiGs were firing.

“Four missiles,” reported the computer. “AA–10 Alamo. Semiactive radar.”

“Plot an intercept to missiles,” said Turk. He could line up and shoot at the missiles with the rail gun.

“Impossible to intercept all four.”

“Best solution.”

A plot flashed up on the screen.

Three targets. Two were heading for Ginella’s aircraft, Shooter One. The other was going for Beast in Shooter Three.

“Identify target of remaining missile,” Turk said.

“Missile is targeted at Shooter Four.”

Li’s plane, on Ginella’s wing.

“Recalculate to include missile targeting Shooter Four.”

The computer presented a new solution, striking one of the missiles on Ginella as well as Li’s sole missile. But Beast was completely unprotected. Before Turk could decide what to do, four more missiles launched. The computer began running a variety of solutions, but Turk realized that none were going to completely protect the Hogs.

“Choose Solution One,” he said, moving to the course queue as it snapped into his heads-up. “Shooter squadron, you have missiles inbound.”

“We’re aware of that, Tigershark.”

“I can get some, not all.”

“Whatever you can do for us,” said Ginella. Her voice was cold and flat, without effect. “Tanks will be down in a second.”

23

Libya

Danny Freah grabbed for a handhold as the Osprey pirouetted above the road, the chain gun in its nose tearing up the road in front of the approaching vehicles. The two trucks veered off to the side but the armored car kept moving forward.

“Stop the bastard,” said Danny.

The Osprey spun back quickly. The gun under its chin swiveled, and a steady rat-rat-rat followed. Danny leaned forward, watching through the windscreen as the gun’s bullets chewed through the rear quarter of the lightly armored vehicle. Steam shot up from the armored car. The right rear wheel seemed to fall away, sliding from the cloud of smoke and disintegrating metal. The rest of the vehicle morphed into a red oblong, fire consuming it in an unnaturally symmetrical shape. The red flared, then changed to black as the symmetry dissolved in a rage.

“People on the ground, coming up along the road,” said the copilot.

“Where are our guys?” asked Danny.

“Going for them now.”

Rubeo fell face-first into the side of the hill. His face felt as if it had caught fire and had been ripped downward at the same time; his head pounded with pain. He pushed back with his hand, then fell to the side, exhausted and spent.

What had Bastian’s advice been? What was his old colonel telling him?

Find out why it happened. For yourself.

He’d done that—Kharon had caused it, with the help of the Russians. He’d closed the circle of a crime committed years before. A crime Rubeo knew he had been completely innocent of, yet one he’d always felt guilty about.

How did he benefit from knowing that?

He should feel relief knowing he wasn’t responsible for the accident, and more important, for the civilian deaths. And yet he didn’t. He should feel horror at Kharon’s crime—he’d committed murder. Anger. Rage. But all he felt was pity, pity and sorrow. Useless emotions.

Was that what knowledge brought you? Impotent sadness?

The man who had built his life around the idea that intelligence could solve every problem lay in the dirt and rubble, body battered and exhausted. He knew many things, but what he knew most of all now was pain.

Up, he told himself. Up.

You know what happened. And what of it? Knowledge itself is useless. It’s how it’s put to use, if it can be used at all.

Diomedes idled behind him. He could feel the soft vibration of its engine.

Time to get up. Time to move on.

“Follow me,” he said, starting to move on his hands and knees.

The bot moved behind him, carrying Kharon and nipping at Rubeo’s heels.

His ears pounded. Rubeo realized belatedly that he couldn’t hear properly. The ground vibrated with something, but whether it was far or close, he had no idea.

Gradually his strength returned. He pushed up to his knees, then to his feet, walking unsteadily up the slope. The world had shaded yellow, blurring at the edges. Rubeo pushed himself forward, trudging across the side of a hill, then down to his right, in the direction of the road. The loose dirt and sand moved under the soles of his feet, and he felt himself sliding. He began to glide down the hill, legs bent slightly and arms out for balance; a snowboarder couldn’t have done it better.

The bot followed. Rubeo glanced at it, making sure Kharon was still on the back. Then he began moving parallel to the road. He passed the disabled trucks, continuing toward a flat area he remembered from earlier.

Kharon’s leg had gone numb, but he actually felt better. The shock had passed; his head was clear. He felt stronger—still injured, of course, but no longer paralyzed.

He clung to the crane arm of the bot as they rumbled across the terrain, the vehicle bobbing and weaving like a canoe shooting rapids. It settled somewhat as it moved off the hill onto the level shoulder alongside the road.

An Osprey, black and loud, approached from the south. Kharon stared as it grew larger. His eyes, irritated by the grit in the wind, seemed to burn with the image. The ground shook. The wings seemed to move upward, the control surfaces sliding down as the rotors at the tips tilted. Dirt flew everywhere.

The world began to close around him, becoming dark. He was a child, trapped in the closet, waiting for something that would never happen.

All these years, and he had never really moved beyond those long, terrible moments. Everything he had done, his achievements, his studies, paled compared to that dreadful time. Life had failed to lift him beyond the sinkhole he’d crawled into that night.

Such a failure. Such a waste. Even the one thing I lived for, revenge, proved unreachable. Rubeo wasn’t even the culprit. Rubeo wasn’t even the villain. The people who helped me were. They probably knew it from the start.

Nothing is left.

Danny moved to the door as the Osprey started to settle toward the earth. Boston was already there, gun in hand, ready to leap out. They had to move quickly; the Osprey was extremely vulnerable when landing and taking off.

Not to mention on the ground.

Something shrieked. The aircraft jerked upward.

“Incoming shells,” said the pilot over the interphone. “Evading—hang on.”

Rubeo saw the aircraft as it swept overhead. Dirt swirled from the wash of the propellers spinning. He put his head down, shielding it with his hands.

“Into the aircraft,” he said, speaking into the microphone for the bot. He still couldn’t hear; his voice in his head sounded hollow and strange. “Go to the ramp at the rear.”

The wind increased. Rubeo bent almost double and stopped moving forward. All he had to do now was wait.

They were out of this damn hellhole.

Diomedes poked him in the back. Rubeo turned, then fell as the wind peaked. He rolled onto his back, eyes and face covered by his hands. He spread his fingers hesitantly, then saw something black fleeing above.

The Osprey was scooting away.

“What the hell?” he yelled in anguish.

The ground shook. Rubeo jerked back to his feet and began shouting at the aircraft. A geyser of sand and dirt rose from the road about a hundred yards away.

“We’re being fired at,” Rubeo yelled to Kharon. He turned and saw Diomedes, which had stopped about twenty yards away, waiting in the spot where the Osprey would have landed. A fresh geyser rose just beyond the bot.

The explosions were smaller than before—a mortar or maybe two or three.

“This way,” Rubeo told the bot. He fingered the microphone cord and started south. The bot quickly followed. He heard something, a growl in the air—his hearing was returning.

“Mortar team behind those two trucks,” the pilot told Danny.

“Eliminate it.”

“With pleasure.”

The Osprey’s tail rose, tilting the gun in its nose toward the trucks. A chain of bullets began spitting from the aircraft, chewing the ground just behind the vehicle. The Osprey danced right. The bullets disappeared in a stream of debris. A cloud rose where they landed, growing quickly until it mushroomed over the trucks and everything within fifty yards.

The mortar fire stopped. But there were more vehicles coming out from the city. And the people who had come from the village were gathering along the road about two miles away. Whiplash had blundered into the middle of an uprising—troops who had deserted earlier interpreted the military action as an attack from the loyal troops, and were coming out to fight. The government forces, meanwhile, had seen the action as a rebel attack. And in the middle was the scientist they were trying to rescue.

“Colonel, the air commander is reporting that there’s activity at that army base to the west,” said the Osprey pilot. “This place is getting damn busy.”

“I thought these bastards were negotiating a cease-fire,” cursed Danny.

24

Tripoli

The defense minister’s aide leaned over and whispered something in his boss’s ear. The two spoke quickly.

“I have a report that I must hear,” the minister told Zongchen and the others. “There is a confrontation—American aircraft are involved.”

“Which American aircraft?” asked Zen.

“Several. A black aircraft like a helicopter. And A–10 fighters—”

“You mean an Osprey?” said Zen.

“There is a major fight with rebels,” said the minister. “A rebellion in Mizdah. I must take this call.”

The aide handed him a phone. Zongchen looked at Zen.

“Excuse me a second.” Zen wheeled backward from the table. There was only one unit operating a black Osprey in Libya—Whiplash. He took out his satellite phone, hesitated a moment, then hit the quick dial for Danny.

Instead of getting Danny directly, the call was rerouted through the Whiplash system to a desk operative at Whiplash’s headquarters in the U.S. on the CIA campus. The officer was assigned to monitor and assist Danny and the team during operations; he was in effect a secretary, though no one would ever call him that. “Colonel Freah’s line.”

“This is Zen Stockard. I need to talk to Danny right now.”

“Senator, he is in Libya right now, in the middle of a firefight.”

“I know exactly where he is. I have battle information for him,” said Zen.

“Stand by, Senator.”

The line cleared, seemingly empty. Then Danny came on, as loud and clear as if he were in the same room.

“Zen, we’re in the middle of heavy shit here. Rubeo is on the ground and we’re trying to get to him. I got government and rebel forces on both sides.”

“I have the Libyan government minister here. I’m going to get a cease-fire.”

“That would be damn timely.”

“Give me your location. Then keep the line to me open if you can.”

“Near Mizdah.”

Zen put the phone in his lap and wheeled back to the table.

“If you want a negotiated peace,” he told the minister loudly, “call your forces off the Osprey at Mizdah they’re telling you about.”

Zen turned to Zongchen. “We need to tell the princess to get her people down there to stop as well.”

25

Libya

The Osprey roared overhead. Rubeo could hear almost perfectly now—the engines sounded like a pair of diesel trucks that had lost their mufflers.

The aircraft circled around, checking the nearby terrain as it came down to land.

“Follow,” Rubeo told Diomedes. He looked at Kharon, still gripping the crane spar. Kharon looked haunted, shocked into another dimension. “It’ll be all right,” Rubeo yelled at him. “We’re getting out this time.”

The aircraft settled down thirty yards away. Troopers leapt from the door at the side. Rubeo tried to run toward them but his legs wouldn’t carry him any faster than a walk.

Someone grabbed him. It was Sergeant Rockland—Boston.

“Come on, Doc,” yelled the sergeant, hooking his arm around so he supported Rubeo on one side. “Let’s get you the hell out of here.”

“The bot.”

“Yeah, yeah, the mechanical marvel.”

“Kharon, get Kharon.”

“We’re getting him,” said Boston. “Let’s go, let’s go. There are all sorts of people heading this way.”

Kharon curled his body down as the wind swirled around him and the robot rolled to the rear of the Osprey. One of the troopers ran beside him, gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and waved his gun back and forth, making sure there was no one there.

God, help me.

The bot continued inside the hull of the aircraft, moving forward. The side door was open, a trooper leaning through the open space, a safety belt holding him as the aircraft pitched upward. Kharon was a foot or two away.

The roar began to quiet. For a moment Kharon felt safe, untouchable. But then he noticed the darkness around him, the walls close by.

The closet.

Someone was yelling outside.

“Neil! Neil!”

His mother.

Kharon unfolded his fingers and then his arm. He took a tentative step. Someone grabbed for him. He pushed away.

Leave me alone!

Leave me!

“Neil!”

The sides closed in. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to be smothered.

The door was open in front of him.

With all his strength, he leapt for safety, ignoring the surge of pain in his leg, ignoring all the pain, ducking his head and driving ahead for the light.

By the time Rubeo realized what Kharon was doing it was too late. The Whiplash trooper at the door dove at him, but Kharon moved too fast: He leapt through the open hatchway at the side of the aircraft, tumbling down some one hundred feet to the rocks.

“Damn,” muttered Rubeo, sinking back onto the web bench at the side of the aircraft. “Oh damn.”

26

Over Libya

The Tigershark spit its slugs in a computer-controlled spurt, current and metal flashing in a dance of force and counterforce.

The rail gun had originally been conceived as an antiballistic missile weapon, and the computer program controlling it still bore that DNA, able to handle the complicated coefficients of speed, mass, and trajectory with quick ease. From a mathematical point of view, the fact that the warheads it was aiming at were comparatively small did not present a great difficulty; the formula always aimed at a single point in space, and as with any point, it had no dimension whatsoever. It was simply there.

But on the practical level, the predictable margin of error increased dramatically in an inverse proportion to the suitable target area; in other words, the smaller the target, the more likely the slug was to miss. To compensate, the computer spit out more slugs as Turk fired. While he could override this, it wasn’t advisable in an engagement with missiles, especially given that each individual encounter lasted only a few seconds at most.

But this did mean that the gun needed additional time to cool down between engagements, and even if the time was measured in fractions of seconds, each delay meant he might not reach Li in time. For the pilot stubbornly insisted to himself that he would in fact save her; that he would finally end in position to shoot down the last missile before it got her.

The Hogs completed their attacks and ducked away, firing chaff and working their electronic countermeasures. The Russian missiles were sticky beasts, staying tight to the trail of the planes they had targeted.

To the west, one of the MiGs had already been shot down, but that didn’t change anything for Turk—there were eight missiles in the air, and every one of them was homing in on the back of someone he needed to protect.

Danny’s voice came out of the buzz around his head. “Whiplash is away.”

Turk didn’t bother acknowledging. The only thing that mattered now were these eight missiles.

A tone sounded in Turk’s headset and his screen’s pipper flashed black—the computer had calculated that the first target was “dead.” There was no time to linger over the kill, or even watch the missile explode; Turk immediately turned to the next course, following the line laid out in his virtual HUD.

By the time the computer reported “Target destroyed,” he was already firing at the nose of the second missile, pushing the plane down at the last instant to keep with the missile’s sudden lurch. The maneuver probably meant that the missile had been sucked off by one of the countermeasures, but Turk was too intent on his mission to break at that moment. Once again he got a kill tone; once again he came to a new course.

He saw Li’s plane out of the corner of his eye. Had she gotten away? Would she?

Tempted to make sure, he started to fire too soon. The computer tacitly scolded him, elevating the course icon and flashing its pipper yellow, indicating he was no longer on target. He willed himself back to course as he continued to fire, pressing the attack until the tone. Then he pushed hard right, looking for the last missile, looking for Li.

He saw her plane, then saw the missile closing.

God, why didn’t I save her instead of Ginella?

The computer set up solutions for the remaining missiles, but all Turk could see was Li’s plane. He turned hard, still with her, then saw something flashing next to her.

By the time he cringed, it had passed. The Hog went on its wing to the left; the missile exploded right.

She was OK. Her ECMs had managed to bluff the missile away.

Turk turned hard to the computer’s suggested course, aiming for the next missile.

27

Over Libya

As far as Danny Freah was concerned, Neil Kharon’s body wasn’t important enough to risk going back for.

It was a cold decision, but one he had no trouble making. There was still sporadic fire in the area, and he had Rubeo and the robots aboard.

“We’ll get him if things calm down,” Danny told Rubeo, kneeling on the deck of the Osprey as the aircraft sped northward. “Zen is working on it.”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” said Rubeo blankly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Antiair battery to the east activating radar,” warned the copilot. “Radar—we have a lot of radars. Everything they got.”

Danny got up and grabbed his phone. He was still dialed into Zen’s private line.

“Zen, are you there?”

“I’m here, Danny.”

“We could really use that cease-fire you promised,” he said as the aircraft tucked down toward the ground. They would attempt to bypass the radar by staying close to the earth, where it would have trouble seeing them.

“The defense minister is on the phone with the air force right now,” Zen told him.

“There’s an antiair battery north of us. It—”

“All right, hold on.” Zen said something Danny couldn’t hear, then came back on the line. “Give me a GPS reading.”

“Every goddamn radar in the country is lighting up,” said Danny. “Get them all.”

Zen didn’t answer. Danny could hear someone speaking sharply on the other side of the line but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Radars are turning off,” said the pilot.

Danny waited. Zen came on the line a few minutes later.

“Danny?”

“I’m here. The radars are off. Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said we’d blow them up if they weren’t off in sixty seconds,” said Zen. “I wish every negotiation was that easy.”

28

Over Libya

Thoroughly confused by the electronic countermeasures and now at the far end of their range, the last two missiles blew themselves up several miles from their targets, destroying themselves in a futile hope that their shrapnel might take out something nearby.

Turk pulled the Tigershark higher as he got his bearings. The A–10s were forming up to the north, taking stock and preparing for the flight back home.

All except Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

At first Turk assumed that Ginella was checking on the tanks, making sure they had been destroyed. He left her, and checked in with Danny, who said they had recovered Rubeo and his gear and were on their way back to Sicily. Then he talked to the air controller, who said frostily that there were no longer any Libyan aircraft in the skies.

“State your intentions,” added the controller, sounding as if he were challenging a potentially hostile aircraft.

“I’m going to escort Whiplash Osprey back to Sicily,” said Turk, setting up a course.

“Acknowledged.”

I bet you’ll be testifying at my court-martial, thought Turk.

He radioed the Osprey pilot. With the Libyan radars now silent, the aircraft was climbing, aiming to get high enough to escape any stray ground fire.

“Stay on your present course and I’ll be with you in zero-five,” said Turk.

The computer estimated he would catch up in two minutes. He checked his instruments, working systematically as he took stock.

The Tigershark had performed well, and according to her indicators was in prime condition, none the worse for having fired more slugs in anger in five minutes than in her entire life.

They could say or do what they wanted about Turk; the aircraft had passed every real-life test thrown at it. As for the Sabres—once whatever had screwed them up was fixed, they too were ready for front-line duty.

He’d proven himself. Whatever he had missed the other day with Grizzly—if he’d missed anything—it wasn’t because he was afraid to fire. He wasn’t a coward or a shirker or anything else.

He was sure he hadn’t missed the weapon. But one way or another, he was sure of his ability to fly and fight.

Turk felt himself start to relax. He tried to resist—it was dangerous to ease up before you landed.

He checked the sitrep map. The French Mirages had shot down one MiG and now, ironically, were helping guide an allied rescue helicopter in. The other government planes had fled south—not to their base, but to Chad.

The pilots were getting out while the getting out was good, Turk thought.

He zoomed the sitrep to check on the Hogs. They had separated. Shooter Two and Three were flying north, heading on a straight line back toward Sicily. Four, meanwhile, was flying west toward Shooter One, which was climbing to the east.

Which seemed odd to Turk.

Given his history with Ginella, he hesitated to ask what was going on. Still, her flight path was almost directly across the Osprey’s.

“Shooter One, this is Tigershark. Wondering if you’re setting up on a threat in Whiplash Osprey’s direction,” he said lightly.

There was no response. Turk tried again.

OK, he thought when she didn’t answer. Be that way. He checked his location; he was about a minute and a half behind the Osprey, catching up fast. Ginella was going to pass just to the north, but would clear the MV–22 by a good distance—she was at 30,000 feet and climbing.

Turk remembered an old joke about the Hogs, to the effect that the pilots climbing to altitude packed a lunch. The new engines took a lot of the punch out of the joke.

He told the Osprey he was coming up on his six. The Osprey pilot asked him what was up with the A–10; there had been no communication from Shooter One.

“I’m adjusting course to the west just to widen the distance,” said the pilot, giving himself an even wider margin for error. “Are you in contact?”

“Negative.”

Not acknowledging his hails was one thing, but not acknowledging the Osprey pilot’s was, at best, extremely unprofessional—so much so that Turk realized something must be wrong with Ginella. He was just about to try hailing her again when Li called on his frequency.

“Tigershark, this is Shooter Four. Are you in contact with Shooter One?”

“Negative, Shooter Four. I have been trying to hail her.”

“Same here. There’s got to be some sort of problem with her aircraft,” added Li. “Can you assist?”

“Stand by.”

Turk talked to Danny and the Osprey pilot, telling them that he thought the Hog was having some sort of emergency. Both assured him that the flight could get back on its own if necessary. A few moments later the flight controller came on, requesting that he help make contact with the Hog.

Turk acknowledged and changed course, accelerating to catch up quickly with the A–10. The aircraft had continued to climb, and was now at nearly 35,000 feet.

“Was Shooter One damaged in the fight?” Turk asked Li.

“She said she got a shrapnel hit but that it wasn’t much. Her last transmission said she was in good shape and going to check on the tanks.”

“Sound giddy?”

“Hard to say. You think she’s OK?”

“I’d say no. I’m guessing hypoxia.”

“Yeah. Or worse.”

Hypoxia was the medical term for lack of oxygen. There was a whole range of symptoms, the most critical in this case being loss of consciousness. Turk suspected that Ginella’s plane was flying itself. With no one at the controls, it would keep going until it crashed.

She might in fact already be dead.

He tried hailing her several times, using both her squadron frequency and the international emergency channel. A pair of F/A–18s were coming southwest from a carrier in the eastern Mediterranean, but Turk was much closer, and within a minute saw the distinctive tail of the aircraft dead ahead.

“Shooter Four, I’m coming up on her six.”

“Four acknowledges.”

Turk backed off the throttle, easing the Tigershark into position over the Hog’s right wing. He zoomed the camera covering that direction so he could look into the bubble canopy of the A–10E. At first glance there seemed to be nothing wrong beyond a few shrapnel nicks in the aircraft’s skin. But when he zoomed on Ginella, he saw her helmet slumped to the side.

Turk radioed Li and the controller, giving his position and heading, then telling them what he saw.

“She’s gotta be out of it,” he added. “Autopilot has to be flying the plane. I don’t know if we can rouse her.”

“Maybe if you buzz nearby,” suggested Li. “Maybe the buffet will wake her up.”

It was a long shot, but worth a try. Turk took a deep breath, then moved his hand forward on the simulated throttle.

Some twenty miles west, Danny Freah listened to the pilots as they attempted to rouse the Hog squadron commander. He’d heard of some similar incidents in the past, including one that had involved an A–10A that was lost over the U.S.

Any pilot flying above 12,000 or so could easily succumb to hypoxia, even in an ostensibly pressurized aircraft, if he wasn’t receiving the proper mix of oxygen, or if something otherwise impeded the body’s absorption of that oxygen.

How ironic, he thought, for a pilot to survive combat only to succumb to a run-of-the-mill problem.

“I knew his mother,” said Rubeo, who was sitting on the bench next to him.

“Who?” Danny lifted the visor on his helmet and turned to Rubeo. “Who are you talking about?”

“Neil Kharon. The man who jumped. His mother worked at Dreamland. It was before your time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rubeo nodded.

“I was listening to a transmission,” said Danny. “One of the aircraft that was helping us is having a flight emergency. They can’t raise the pilot.”

“I see.”

“Turk thinks she lost oxygen.”

Rubeo stared at him. Danny was about to turn away when the scientist asked what type of airplane it was.

“An A–10E. One of the Hogs I mentioned earlier.”

“Have the Tigershark take it over,” suggested Rubeo.

“How?”

“Give me your com set.”

“It’s in the helmet.”

“Then give me the helmet.”

Turk pulled the Tigershark back parallel to the A–10, this time on its left side. Three swoops and Ginella had not woken.

The plane, however, had moved into a circular pattern, apparently responding to a slight shift of pressure on the controls.

“She’s going to be bingo fuel soon,” said Li, begging the question of how her own fuel was.

“I’m not sure what else we can do,” Turk said. “Maybe as she starts to run out of fuel the plane will descend. Once she’s below twelve thousand feet, she’ll regain consciousness and she can bail.”

Li didn’t answer. The odds of that scenario coming true, let alone having a good outcome, were incalculable.

“Tigershark, this is Ray Rubeo.” The transmission came from Danny’s helmet, but Rubeo’s ID flashed on the screen, the Whiplash system automatically recognizing his voice. “Are you on the line?”

“Affirmative, Dr. Rubeo.”

“You are following an A–10E. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. The plane is flying in a circular pattern. I’m guessing she has a very slight input on the stick because—”

“No response from the pilot?”

“Copy that. No response.”

“The A–10E is equipped with a remote suite that can be controlled from your aircraft by tuning to the proper frequency and using the coded command sequence, just as if it was Flighthawk or Sabre.”

“Yeah, roger,” said Turk. “I did some of the testing. But the pilots told me the circuitry is inactive in these planes.”

“Inactive but not nonexistent, Captain. Stand by, please. I need to consult one of my people.”

The dilemma invigorated Rubeo, giving him something to focus on other than Neil Kharon and his horrendously wasted talent and life.

The A–10E system had been adopted from one of the control setups developed for the early Flighthawks. It wasn’t quite cutting edge, but that was by design, since the Air Force specs called for a system that was both “compact and robust”—service-ese for a small but well-proven unit.

One of the primary requirements—and one of the things that had caused the main contractor on the project serious headaches—was the need to make the remote flight system entirely secondary to the “ordinary” pilot system. Unlike the Tigershark, which had been built from the ground up as a remote aircraft, the A–10E had to include legacy systems, most significantly in this case the autopilot, which had only been added to the plane in the A–10C conversions. Because of that, one of Rubeo’s companies had worked closely with the main contractor, developing a system that allowed both to coexist in the aircraft.