Текст книги "Collateral Damage"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

A few minutes of pedaling brought him to the big lot at the base of the harbor. He rode the bike to one of the old-fashioned light poles, then hopped off gingerly. Propping it against the post, he walked between the cement benches toward the water.

The beachfront had been restored after the first war. But it was empty today, as on most days, its austere beauty a reproach to the haphazard and dirty city behind it.

Kharon stared at the water as if he were a tourist or perhaps a poet, contemplating his place in the universe. He turned to his right and began walking parallel to the water lapping against the stones. Glancing casually to his right, he made sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he stopped again, and dropped the USB memory key on the ground.

He stooped to pick it up, started to rise, then stooped down again to tie his shoe. As he did, he ground the key under his heel, breaking it in two.

Rising with the device in his hand, he ripped it apart, exposing the chip. He snapped the memory chip from the rest of the device and walked closer to the water.

Over the rail, he went down onto the scrabble of rocks and sand and walked to the edge of the water. He bent, picked up a flat stone, then skipped it and the chip out across the surface of the nearby sea. The stone popped against the water, rose, flew farther, popped again, then plunked down with a tiny splash.

The chip had gone only halfway to the first large wave, but it was far enough. The saltwater would quickly deteriorate it.

Satisfied, Kharon turned and walked back to the promenade that lined the water. He glanced at his watch. Things had gone well, but he was behind schedule. He needed to leave for Tripoli as soon as possible.

6

Sicily

Turk rested his elbows on the table at the center of the ready room, then cradled his face, reviewing in his mind what had happened. He was starting to think he should get a lawyer.

“I went to intercept the fighters,” he told the three men who’d been interviewing him since 0600 that morning. “That’s why I was off-course. I wasn’t off-course at all,” he added, realizing that he had inadvertently used his interrogator’s language. “I set my own course. The course that was programmed into the Tigershark’s computer was my plan. Plans change.”

He raised his face, letting the whiskers of his unshaven chin scrape against his fingertips. His interviewers were French, Greek, and British, left to right, all members of their respective countries’ air forces. They had been talking to him now for over three hours.

“When you change your course from the program,” asked the Frenchman, “this then reprograms the fighters?”

“It doesn’t necessarily affect them,” said Turk. He glanced to his right toward Major Redstone, an Air Force security officer who was supposed to prevent any classified information from being discussed. Redstone said nothing, nor had he said anything the entire time they’d been in the room. “The UM/F–9Ss are autonomous until overridden. As I said before, they control themselves.”

“Explain how that works,” said the British RAF officer.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Because it is classified?”

“Because I don’t know exactly how things work on that level,” said Turk. “I’m not a programmer or an engineer. I’m a pilot. I fly the plane. I’m trained to be able to deal with the UAVs, but without the system itself, I would have no idea how they work.”

The Frenchman leaned toward the others and whispered something. Turk turned to Redstone. “I’d really like some coffee.”

“Let’s take a break,” suggested Redstone, finally finding his voice.

“A few more questions and we’ll be done for the day,” said the Greek.

“Let’s get some coffee first,” said Turk, who’d heard the “few more questions” line a half hour before.

“The captain should remain sequestered while we get the coffee,” said the Frenchman. “No offense.”

“Fine,” said Turk.

Redstone nodded. “Black, no sugar for me.”

Just as the Frenchman reached for the door, a tall, thin man opened it and came in. Turk recognized him immediately—it was Ray Rubeo, the scientist who headed the team that had developed the artificial intelligence controlling the Sabres. Rubeo looked at the foreign air force officers—it was more a glare than a greeting—then stood against the wall.

“Excuse me, chap,” said the RAF officer. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Rubeo. I am reviewing the incident.”

“We’re conducting an interview.”

“I understand,” said Rubeo.

The men seemed puzzled by his answer, but didn’t follow up. Rubeo remained, silent, standing against the wall. Turk thought he was full of contempt toward the foreign officers, yet if the pilot had been pressed to explain where this impression came from, he would have been at a loss. It was in his posture, his stance, his silence—subtle and evident, though somehow inscrutable.

Redstone came back and the officers began questioning Turk again, starting off with the most basic questions.

“You are twenty-three years old?” asked the Greek.

“Uh, yeah.”

“And already an accomplished test pilot.”

“I was in the right place at the right time,” said Turk.

“But also very good, no?” The Greek smiled. Obviously the others had designated him Mr. Nice Guy, peppering Turk with softball questions.

Yes, said Turk, he had done well throughout his career. Part of the explanation for his young age was the fact that he’d gone to college two years earlier than most people, and graduated in three. But yes, he had been very lucky to be blessed with good instructors, and above all hand-eye coordination that was off the charts.

Not that it mattered so much when flying a remote plane.

And then he had been assigned to Dreamland?

Actually, he worked at Dreamland for only a short period. Some of his work, as a test pilot, was highly classified.

He needn’t supply the details. Just give a general impression.

The Brit took over. How was the mission planned, who had authority to call it off, at what point had he known there was a problem?

Turk tried to answer the questions patiently, though he’d answered them all several times, including twice now for the men in the room.

“The autonomous control,” said the Frenchman, finally returning to the point they really wanted to know. “How does it work?”

“Specifically, I don’t know.”

“In a general way.”

“The computer works to achieve goals that have been laid out,” said Turk.

“Always?”

“It has certain parameters that it can work within. In this case, let’s say there’s twenty tanks or whatever it was. It has priorities to hit certain tanks. But if a more important target is discovered, or let’s say one of the tanks turns out to be fake, the computer can reprogram itself. The units communicate back and forth, and the priority is set.”

“So the computer selects the target?” said the RAF officer.

“Yes and no. It works just the way I described it.”

“How can that be?” asked the Greek. “The computer can decide.”

“It works precisely as the captain has described,” said Rubeo. “I’m sure you have used a common map program to find directions to a destination. Think of that as a metaphor.”

“Excuse me,” snapped the Frenchman. “We are questioning the captain.”

Rubeo took a step away from the wall. His face looked drawn, even more severe than usual—and that was saying quite a bit in his case. “I’m sure the mission tapes can be reviewed. The pilot is blameless. You’re wasting his time. There’s no sense persecuting him like this.”

Though appreciative, Turk was surprised by Rubeo’s defense. Not because it wasn’t true—it absolutely was—but because it was the opposite of what he expected. While he had no experience in any sort of high level investigation, let alone something as grave as this, he’d been in the military long enough to know that the number one rule in any controversial situation was CYA—cover your ass.

The others were baffled as well, though for different reasons. The RAF officer asked Rubeo how he knew all this.

“The team that designed the computer system worked for me,” said Rubeo. “And much of the work is based on my own personal efforts. The distributed intelligence system, specifically.” He looked over at Redstone. “I don’t believe the exact details are necessary to the investigation.”

“Uh, no,” said Redstone. He sounded a little like a student caught napping in class. “Specifics would be classified.”

“Precisely.” Rubeo turned back to Turk. “The aircraft responded to verbal commands once you overrode, didn’t they, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was no indication that there was a malfunction, either while you were dealing with the government planes or later on, was there?”

“No, sir.”

“At no point did you give an order to the planes to deviate from their mission, or their programming, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“You can ask if he took any aggressive actions following the shoot-down of the Mirages,” Rubeo told the other officers. “But I don’t think you’ll get any more useful information from the pilot. As I said, he’s quite correct—he had nothing to do with the malfunction.”

“It was a malfunction?” asked the RAF officer.

“You don’t think the aircraft are programmed to kill civilians, do you?” snapped Rubeo.

Judging from their frowns, Turk wasn’t entirely sure that they didn’t.

7

Sicily

“The concept of conflict of interest—it is a very American idea,” Du Zongchen told Zen. “The fact that you are familiar with the program for many reasons—that is why I requested you. I am sure no one would object.”

“People will object to anything,” replied Zen. He glanced around the large suite room; two of Zongchen’s assistants were speaking into cell phones in a quiet hush at the side. Another was working in one of the bedrooms, which had temporarily been converted into an office. “That’s one thing that I’ve learned the hard way. They always object.”

“But you will help me,” said Zongchen happily. “You will assist.”

“I will, but I want you to know that it’s likely to be—that there may be controversy. Other members of the committee may object.”

“I have spoken with them. They are all impressed and wish your assistance.”

“Even so, the general public—”

Zongchen waved his hand. Zen wondered if Chinese officials were really so far removed from popular opinion and criticism that they didn’t have to worry about accusations that they had unfairly influenced events.

If so, he was envious.

“Our first order of business,” said Zongchen, “after the others join us, is to arrange for an inspection of the area. I am to speak to the government officials by videophone at the half hour. Do you wish to join me?”

“Sure.”

“And then, to be balanced, we speak to the rebels. This is a more difficult project.”

Zongchen rose from the chair. It was a boxy, stylish affair, but it didn’t look particularly comfortable. The Chinese general walked over to the small console table and poured tea into a small porcelain cup.

“Are you sure you would not like tea or coffee, Senator?”

“No, thanks.”

“In China, there would be scandal if people knew that I poured my own tea,” said Zongchen. “It is customary for aides to do everything. To hire more people—in a big country such as mine, everyone must work.”

“Sure.”

“The little jobs. Important to the people who do them.” Zongchen glanced toward his aides at the side of the room, then came back over to the chair where he had been sitting. The suite was decorated in an updated Pop Modern style, a Sicilian decorator’s take on what the 1960s should have looked like. “These rebel groups—there are simply too many of them.”

“There are a lot,” said Zen.

“Some of them.” Zongchen shook his head. “I do not like the government, but some of these rebels are many times worse. This woman, Idris al-Nussoi.”

Zongchen made an exasperated gesture with his hand. Idris al-Nussoi—generally known as “the princess” because of her allegedly royal roots—was the figurehead of the largest rebel group, but she was by no means the only rebel they had to speak with. Zongchen hoped to get an agreement for safe passage of the investigators. This was not necessarily the same thing as a guarantee for their safety, but it was the best they could do.

“Coordinating the air campaign with the rebels must be a matter of great difficulty,” said Zongchen.

“I don’t know,” said Zen truthfully. “But I imagine it must be.”

“Shall we call for some lunch?”

“Sure.”

Their food had only just arrived when the conference call with the government began. By now several more members of the international committee assigned by the UN to investigate the matter had joined them in the suite. They included an Egyptian army general, a Thai bureaucrat, and an Iranian named Ali Jafari. As a former member of the Republican Guard, Ali Jafari was not particularly inclined to view Zen or any American with anything approaching favor. But he was nonetheless polite, telling Zen how very grateful he was for his decision to join the committee.

Which of course made Zen doubly suspicious.

The video connection was made through Skype, the commercial video service. As such, they all assumed it was insecure, being monitored in capitals around the globe—and probably by the rebels as well. But this suited Zongchen’s purposes. He wanted everyone to know exactly what the committee was doing.

Beamed wirelessly from one of the aide’s laptops onto the suite’s large television, the feed looked slightly washed out. But the connection was good.

The deputy interior minister was speaking for the government. Zen saw that this annoyed Zongchen; he had clearly expected a higher ranking official, most likely the minister himself. The mood worsened when the deputy minister began with a ten minute harangue about how the allies were being allowed to murder innocent Libyan people.

Zen watched Zongchen struggle to be patient. It didn’t help that the deputy minister’s English, though fluent, was heavily accented, making it hard for the Chinese general to understand. Zongchen turned occasionally to two aides for translations into Chinese. The men, too, were struggling with the accent, asking Zen several times for clarifications.

Finally, the Libyan allowed Zongchen to tell him that the commission wanted to inspect the sites.

“This will be arranged,” replied the deputy minister. “We will need identities—we do not want any spies.”

“We expect safe conduct for the entire party,” said Zongchen. “And we will choose our own personnel.”

“You will submit the names.”

“We will not,” insisted Zongchen. It was a small point, thought Zen—surely giving the names was not a big deal—but the general was holding his ground for larger reasons, establishing his independence. “We are operating under the authority of the United Nations to investigate this matter, and we will be granted safe passage. If you do not wish us to investigate it under those terms, you may say so.”

The deputy minister frowned. “No Americans,” he said.

“There will be Americans,” said Zongchen. His voice was calm but firm. “There will be whomever I decide I need to accompany me. This investigation is in your interests. But you will not dictate the terms. We will undertake it on our terms, within the precepts of international law, or we will not undertake it at all.”

The Libyan finally conceded.

“I will make the arrangements,” he told Zongchen. “But you had best get safe conduct from the criminals as well. We cannot guarantee your safety with those apes.”

“We will deal with them on the same terms we have dealt with you,” said Zongchen.

The feed died before Zongchen finished. The Chinese general glanced around the room.

“I believe that went well,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile. “And now, let us talk to the rebels.”

8

Sicily

Turk wanted to thank Rubeo for coming to his aid during the interview, but the scientist left the room before he got a chance; he was gone when he reached the hall.

He went over to the hangars and found out that the Tigershark and Sabres were still grounded, and would be for the foreseeable future. Unsure what else to do, Turk headed toward the base cafeteria to find something to eat.

Cafeterias on American military installations typically provided a wide variety of food; while the quality might vary somewhat, there was almost always plenty to choose from. The host kitchen here, run by the Italian air force, operated under a different philosophy. There were only two entrées.

On the other hand, either one could have been served in a first-class restaurant. The dishes looked so good, in fact, that Turk couldn’t decide between them.

“I would try the sautéed sea bass with the arancine and aubergine,” said a woman in an American uniform behind him. She was an Air Force colonel. “Or get both.”

“I think I will. Due,” he told the man. “Two?”

“Entrambi?” asked the server. “Si?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, he wants both,” said the colonel with a bright smile. Turk couldn’t remember seeing her before. “Tell him, Captain.”

The server smirked, but dished up two plates, one with the bass, the other with quail.

Turk took his plates and went into the next room. The tables were of varying sizes and shapes, round and square, with from four to twelve chairs. They were covered with thick white tablecloths—another thing you wouldn’t typically find in a base cafeteria.

He picked a small table near the window and sat down. The window looked out over the airfield, and while he couldn’t quite see the tarmac or taxiing area, he had a decent view of aircraft as they took off. A flight of RAF Tornados rose, each of the planes heavily laden with bombs—probably going to finish off the airfield the government planes had used the day before.

No one wanted to talk about that encounter, Turk thought to himself. The briefing had been little more than an afterthought.

Oh, you shot down four aircraft. Very nice. So tell us about this massive screwup.

By rights, Turk thought, he ought to be the toast of the base—he had shot down four enemy aircraft, after all.

“I see why you took two meals,” said the woman who’d been behind him in the line. “Hungry, huh?”

Turk glanced down at his plate. He was nearly three-fourths of the way through—he’d been eating tremendously fast.

“I didn’t have breakfast,” he said apologetically.

“Or dinner yesterday, I’ll bet. Mind if I join?”

“No, no, go ahead. Please,” said Turk. He rose in his chair, suddenly embarrassed by his poor manners.

She smiled at him, bemused.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, sitting.

“I, uh—no. I’m sorry.”

“Ginella Ernesto.”

“I’m Turk . . . Turk Mako.”

He extended his hand awkwardly. Ginella shook it.

“You were involved in the A–10E program at Dreamland,” she said. “You briefed us. My squadron took the planes over.”

“Oh.”

“Still think the Hogs should be flown by remote control?”

“Uh, well, actually I like the way they fly.”

Ginella laughed. The A–10Es were specially modified versions of the venerable Thunderbolt A–10, far better known to all as “Warthogs,” or usually simply “Hogs.” The aircraft had begun as A–10s, then received considerable improvements to emerge as A–10Cs shortly after the dawn of the twenty-first century.

The A–10Es were a special group of eight aircraft with an avionics suite that allowed them to be flown remotely. There were other improvements as well, including uprated engines.

“We had met before,” added Ginella. “I waxed your fanny at Red Flag last fall.”

“You did?”

“You were checking out a Tigershark. I was flying a Raptor. Masked Marauder.”

Turk had been at a Red Flag, but as far as he could remember, no one had gotten close to shooting him down—which was what Ginella’s slang implied. But she didn’t seem to be bragging and he let it slide.

Besides, though a good ten years older than he was, she was very easy on the eyes.

“How do you like Italy?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen that much of it.”

“You’ve been here a couple of weeks, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been pretty, uh, I’ve had a lot to do.”

“You should have time coming now with four kills, huh?”

Turk felt his cheeks redden. “Not exactly.”

“No? See now, if you were in my squadron, I’d make sure you had down time—and maybe a free stay at a fancy hotel of your choice.”

“Maybe I should ask for a transfer,” he blurted.

Ginella smiled, and started eating. Turk had lost his appetite and felt awkward and out of sorts, as if he’d just blown some major opportunity.

Suddenly he felt very thirsty.

“I’m going to go grab something to drink,” he told Ginella. “You want something?”

“Sure.”

“Uh, what?”

“Well, that wine would be nice, but since I have to fly later, just some of that sparkling water. The Ferrarelle. It’s the one in the green bottle that’s not Pellegrino.”

“Gotcha.”

Turk went back to the serving area and got two bottles of water, along with some glasses. When he returned, Ginella was texting something on her BlackBerry. He opened one of the bottles and poured some water for her, then filled his own. The water was fizzy, and a little heavy with minerals.

“Flu,” said Ginella, looking up from her phone. “Half my squadron is down with it.”

“What’s your squadron?”

“The 129th, Shooter Squadron.”

“That would be A–10Es.”

“You got it. Still flown by people.”

“It’s a great aircraft,” said Turk. “I was just, you know—”

“The hired monkey.”

It was a put-down he’d heard many times: Most of Turk’s work had been to sit in the cockpit while the remote control concept was tested. But he had done a lot more than that.

“It’s all right,” continued Ginella. “We staved off the geeks for now. We still have people in the cockpit.”

“The machines flew OK,” said Turk. “But, uh, it’s too nice a place not to have a man at the stick.”

“Or a woman.”

“Right.” He felt his cheeks redden at the faux pas, and hurriedly changed the subject. “When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

“The way you were talking, with the food and the water, I thought you’d been around.”

“With a name like Ernesto, you don’t think I’ve ever been to Sicily before?”

“I just . . . I don’t know.”

“Mako—that’s Italian?”

“My great-grandfather shortened it from Makolowejeski. This is the first time I’ve ever been in Italy.”

“Sicilians think they’re from a different country,” said Ginella. She started telling him a little about the island and Italy in general. Her great-grandparents had come from different parts of the “mainland,” as she called it. She still had some relatives living there.

Turk kept waiting for her to turn the conversation to the “incident,” but she didn’t. Instead, she regaled him with a veritable travelogue, detailing the beauties of Siena and Bologna, her two favorite cities in the whole world. Turk had never had much interest in visiting Italy, but now felt guilty about that.

“You don’t like to travel, do you?” she said to him finally. Then she got an impish grin. “Are you afraid of flying?”

“Very funny.”

“You should do more sightseeing.”

“Maybe I will. I guess you’ve probably heard about the, uh, accident.”

Her face became serious again. “Yes, I’m sorry. It must be a real ordeal.”

“It is,” said Turk. “It’s—the whole thing was weird. But . . . I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“So don’t.” She smiled, and took a sip of her water. “You know, this is naturally carbonated. Other waters have carbon dioxide pumped into them, like seltzer. Yuck.”

“I kinda like seltzer.”

“Oh, excuse me, Captain.” She laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Before Turk could answer, they were interrupted by two pilots in flight suits, bellowing across the room as they entered.

“Hey, Colonel, how’s it hanging?” said the taller one.

“Colonel, Colonel, we are here to brighten your day,” said the other man, much shorter—he looked perhaps five-four—and so broad-shouldered that Turk thought he must have a hard time fitting into the cockpit.

“Private party?” asked the taller pilot when they were closer.

“Turk Mako,” Ginella said, “let me introduce two of the worst pilots on the face of the earth. How they manage to stay off that face of the earth is beyond me. Captain Johnny Paulson.” The taller man bowed. “And Grizzly.”

“That’s Captain Grizzly to you,” said Grizzly, putting his plate down.

“I’m Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Paulson grinned. “Are we allowed to sit at the superstar’s table?”

“Careful, Pauly boy,” said Grizzly. “He’s liable to vaporize you with a death ray.”

“Don’t take them seriously, Captain,” said Ginella. “No one else does.”

“Because we are bad boys,” said Grizzly. “That’s why we fly Hogs.”

“As did Turk,” said Ginella. “He’s the guy who ran all the A–10E tests.”

“The monkey who sat in the seat for the geeks, right?” said Paulson after sitting down. “What do you think, Dreamland? Do we look like remote controllers?”

“I was just saying it’s such a great plane to fly that it would be a shame to do it by remote control.”

“Got that straight.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get some dessert.” Ginella rose. “Captain, would you like something?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“We hear you’re better than good,” said Grizzly as the colonel walked toward the serving area. “You fried four planes yesterday.”

“They kinda got in my way,” said Turk.

“Ha, that’s a good one,” said Grizzly, across the table. “What do you think of the Hog?”

“It’s good,” said Turk.

“You were a passenger,” said Paulson.

“No. I pretty much flew every day a couple of hours at least. The remotes tests were just a part of it.”

“How long?”

“Couple of months. It’s better than the A–10C, thanks to the engines, and the—”

“Thank God they didn’t go ahead and put remote controls in it,” said Paulson. “Then we’d all be working for Dreamland. Like you.”

“I don’t work for them. But what’s wrong with Dreamland?”

“Oh, Dreamland,” said Grizzly. Smiling, he jumped off his chair and fell to his knees. He extended his arms and lowered them as if worshipping Turk. Paulson followed suit.

“Good, you got them on their knees,” said Ginella, returning. “It’s a position they’re used to.”

“Only for our dominatrix leader,” said Grizzly in a loud stage whisper. “For her, anything.”

“Don’t look now,” said Paulson, “but here comes the Beast.”

“Oh, God,” said Grizzly.

“Are you degenerates eating off the floor again?” growled a black pilot, strolling over. He was tall and well-built, a linebacker in a flight suit. His smile changed to a frown as he turned to Ginella and in a mock-serious tone said, “I’m sorry you have to see this, Colonel. Perversion in the ranks.”

“We’re just worshipping at the altar of Dreamland,” said Grizzly, rising. “This is Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Beast held out his hand. Turk rose to shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Captain.”

“Turk.”

“There room for me here?” joked Beast. His name tag declared his last name was Robinson. “Or is this a segregated table?”

“It’s segregated all right,” said Grizzly. “Pauly boy was just leaving.”

“Hahaha.”

“Actually, I’m done,” said Turk, getting up. “You can have my place.”

“Don’t let them chase you away,” said Ginella.

“We can move to a larger table,” said Grizzly.

“No, I got some stuff I gotta do.”

“Look, I’m grabbing a chair and pulling it over,” said Beast.

“I gotta check my plane and do a million little things,” said Turk.

“Colonel, given that Turk here has flown Hogs,” said Grizzly, “maybe we can get him on board as a backup. We need subs.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Ginella. “What do you think, Captain?”

“Well, uh—”

“I understand your aircraft is grounded until they figure out what happened to the Sabres.”

“Something like that.”

“I am short of pilots,” said Ginella. “You want me to talk to your command?”

Turk hesitated. He did want to fly. Even Zen had suggested he should. He liked the A–10E, a predictable, steady aircraft. But it had been nearly a year since he’d been in a Hog cockpit.

“Does Dreamland have the stuff to be a Hog driver?” asked Paulson mockingly. “It’s a comedown from his sleek beast.”

“I could handle it,” said Turk.

“I’ll talk to some people,” said Ginella.

Turk shrugged. “Sure.”

Back at the Tigershark and Sabre hangars, Turk discovered that the guard had been doubled. The men were visibly tense, and not only asked for his ID card but examined it carefully.

“Hey, Billy, what’s up with all this?” Turk asked one of the security people he’d grown friendly with.

“Big honchos from D.C. are tearing apart the airplane,” said the sergeant. “How you holding up, Cap?”

“I’m good. What honchos?”

“Pinhead types.” The sergeant shrugged.

“Dr. Rubeo?”

“Couldn’t tell you. They drove up in a couple of SUVs, had attaché cases—kinda like the Men in Black movie. You ever see that?”

“Not in a long time.”

“We’re not supposed to go inside even because of the security.”

“No shit?”

The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they think we’ll see that it’s put together with rubber bands.”

“It’s actually paper clips,” said Turk.

Inside AC–84a, the Tigershark had been stripped of much of the top of her skin. A large scaffolding ladder sat over her nose, and two mobile platforms extended over her wings. Several other ladders, ranging from four to sixteen feet, were arrayed next to various parts of the aircraft.

Gear was spread all around her. Men dressed in white suits dotted the aircraft. They looked like surgeons. Several others, wearing blue suits similar to the scrubs a hospital surgical team would use, manned a portable computer and other sensor screens at three different workbenches set up on the far side of the plane.

Another group of men and women were standing at the side of the hangar behind a velvet rope, as if the Tigershark were a nightclub and they were waiting to get in.

“Captain Mako,” said Ray Rubeo, walking over to him from behind the plane. He was wearing blue scrubs. “What can we do for you?”

“I just thought I’d see if the Tigershark was ready to fly.”

“It will be a few days,” said Rubeo. “I’m sorry, Captain. As I told the investigators this morning, this has nothing to do with you, or anything you did.”

“Thanks for that,” said Turk.

Rubeo stared at him.

“I just wanted to make sure the plane is OK,” said Turk.

“So do we,” said Rubeo.

“What do you think happened?”

Rubeo sighed. It was a loud sigh—Turk had heard it described by Breanna and others as a horse sigh.

“I cannot speculate,” said the scientist. “Even if I was given to speculation, which I am not, in this case, I simply can’t.”