Birak Airport was some 350 miles south of Tripoli. During Gaddafi’s reign it had been a major air base, with a good portion of the Libyan air force stationed there. Though the planes had been moved, the airport remained a government bastion, with temporary quarters set up in the revetments where fighter-bombers were parked. These quarters consisted of RVs and tents, with a few larger trailers mixed in.
A civilian city had sprouted just south of the base. Populated by family members and “camp followers,” as the age-old euphemism would have it, it was even more ragtag, with shanties and trailers clustered around tents and lean-tos that were more like lean-downs. The sun hit the white roofs of the trailers, creating a halo of light in the desert, a glow that made it look as if the settlement was in the process of exploding.
The road past the airport was a straight line of yellow concrete that ran through an undulating pasture of rock and sand. Grit and light sand covered everything, making the surface as slippery as ice. The path and nearby terrain were littered with vehicles. A few were burned-out hulks, set on fire during battles and skirmishes too insignificant to be remembered by anyone but the dead. Most were simply abandoned, either because they had run low on fuel or the keepers of the gate refused to allow the occupants to proceed with them.
Or proceed at all. Low mounds of sand not far off the road covered dozens of decayed and picked-at corpses. Hawks and other birds of prey circled nearby, drawn by the prospect of an easy meal.
The government forces had a “gate” on the highway, which they used ostensibly to keep rebels from coming south but in reality existed only to extract a toll — or bribe, depending on your perspective — from travelers. To reach the gate, a driver had to first weave past the abandoned vehicles, and then run the gamut of a de facto refugee camp populated by travelers who either couldn’t pay the toll or were waiting for others to join them from the North.
The camp had swelled since Kharon’s last visit, barely a week before. It had consisted then of no more than a hundred individuals, most of them living in their own vehicles under broad canvas cloths stretched for cover. Now it seemed to be ten times the size, extending from the shoulders to block the road itself.
Fezzan took their four-wheel-drive pickup off the road, moving west as they threaded through the ad hoc settlement. Kharon raised his Kedr PP–91 Russian submachine gun, making sure anyone looking toward the cab of the truck would see that he was armed. Fezzan had one hand on the wheel; the other gripped his own PP–91.
In truth, the pair would be easily outgunned in a battle here, if only by the sheer number of potential opponents. But brandishing the weapons made it clear they would not be casual victims, and that was enough to ward off most of their potential enemies.
A small group of children ran up to the truck, begging for money. Kharon waved them away, yelling at them in Arabic, though he was careful not to use or point the weapon — he feared inciting the parents.
They were in sight of the barrier to the west of the gate — a row of abandoned tractor trailers, augmented by the wrecked hulk of a Russian BMP and a tank that had lost its treads — when their pickup slid sideways in a loose pit of dirt and got stuck.
Fezzan tried rocking it back and forth, overrevving and making things worse. Jumping from the cab, Kharon sank to his knees in the loose sand. For a brief moment he felt a wave of fear take him; the unexpected hazard had left him temporarily without defenses.
He pushed his knee up, then shifted his weight to the right, wading through the sand to firmer ground.
By now a considerable audience had gathered, children in front, women in the middle, men to the rear. Most of the men were gray-haired and silent, glum-faced.
“Push us out,” Kharon commanded. “Get to the rear. Five euros for each person who helps.”
Five euros was a good sum, but no one moved. Finally, two of the children ran toward the truck. A woman began scolding them, but as soon as Kharon took out a fist of bills, two women went over and put their hands to the rear of the vehicle. Soon the entire crowd was there, pushing amid a cloud of sand.
Fezzan managed to get the truck out with the help of the crowd. Kharon could have just hopped in and driven off — he suspected many would. But he expected to be passing through this way again, and welshing on his promise might gain him more enemies or at least more notice than he wanted. And so he walked over to a clear spot and began passing out cash. He gave the children ones — giving them the same as the adults would have caused consternation — then doled out fives to the women.
Six men had helped; four others joined the queue. To the men who had helped, he gave ten euros apiece. The others he waved a finger at.
When they began complaining, he put his money back in his pocket, then rested his hand on his gun. They moved back.
“I would not have paid anyone,” said Fezzan when he climbed into the cab.
“Then most likely you would be food for the buzzards,” said Kharon.
Fezzan recognized the sergeant in charge of the men at the gate, and the “toll” was quickly negotiated down from fifty euros to twenty. Once clear of the gate, they sped down the highway to Sabha, an oasis city in the foothills about forty-five miles south.
They drove to Sabha’s airport. Unlike Birak, the base here was still manned by the government’s air force. MiG–21s were parked on the apron near the commercial terminal building, and batteries of antiair missiles and their associated control vans were stationed along the road into what had been the military side of the complex. There was no “gate” here, only a pair of bored soldiers who gave a cursory glance at the letter of admission Kharon carried before waving them on. Fezzan drove slowly through the complex, turning north toward the administrative building. Here another pair of guards blocked the road with a pickup truck and a fifty caliber machine gun. Kharon opened the door and got out.
“I will let you know where to meet me,” he told Fezzan, banging on the roof of the truck after slamming the door closed. As the driver made a U-turn, Kharon walked to the guards, slinging the submachine gun on his shoulder and holding out his hands to show that he came in peace. They eyed the submachine gun suspiciously. Kharon had twice lost weapons at government checkpoints, more because the men wanted his gun than for security reasons. The Russian weapon, used mostly by policemen, was unfamiliar and required special bullets, making it less of a prize. Still, the soldiers made him remove the magazine before proceeding.
A second set of guards near the building were not as lackadaisical; here he had to surrender the weapon, giving it over to the custody of a corporal who came barely to his chest. Kharon was given a tag in return; he interpreted this to mean that he might actually be able to liberate the weapon for a small bribe on the way out.
He resisted the urge to trot up the steps of the main hall of the building after he was admitted. Instead he made his way as leisurely as possible, walking slowly down the hall to large office overlooking the airfield, where he found Muhammad Benrali frowning over a desk covered with Arab-language newspapers.
General Benrali, the commander of the government’s Second Air Wing, wore a tracksuit that appeared a size or two too small; his sleeves were rolled up his arms. The suit was a present from a Russian arms delegation the first week of the war; Kharon suspected it was the only thing Benrali had gotten out of the meeting.
“You are late,” Benrali snarled as he entered.
“There were delays on the road.”
“I lost four aircraft and men because of you.”
“I warned you not to engage the aircraft,” said Kharon calmly. “I told you only to get its attention and divert it over the vans.”