And in truth, that wasn’t necessarily the case — not legally, at least. Ginella hadn’t explicitly threatened Turk’s career.
The real problem wasn’t Ginella, it was Turk. Maybe he hadn’t blamed himself for the Sabre accident, but Zen remembered him being troubled when he landed. Maybe he’d just missed the missile on the hill — at that speed and height, it wouldn’t be surprising at all. But whatever had happened, he was definitely second guessing himself now.
Fighter pilots couldn’t have that. In the darkest moment, you needed to know you could trust yourself. You needed to be able to just do, not think.
“Are you afraid Colonel Ernesto’s going to screw up your career?” Zen asked.
“I don’t know,” admitted Turk. “I guess what I’m really — what really bugs me is somebody saying I’m a coward.”
“If you missed a missile, that wouldn’t make you a coward. That idea shouldn’t even enter your mind.”
“Well.”
“Seriously. It’s bull. And I don’t think you missed it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about Ginella,” Zen told the pilot.
“You’re not going to say anything to her, are you?”
“Nothing that doesn’t need to be said.”
11
Tripoli
The machine called Arachne stood barely half a foot tall with its six legs fully extended, and could easily hide behind a crumpled piece of newspaper. The work module on top was smaller than a watch face, but its interchangeable sensors were more powerful than even the most advanced timepiece. One provided a 360-degree IR image, another an optical image in 10-4 lux.
In the rarefied world of advanced robots, Arachne was a superstar — or would have been, had anyone been allowed to boast of her prowess. The “bot,” as Rubeo and his people referred to her, was a hand-built terrestrial spy, able to do things that human spies could only dream of. Developed privately, she was still undergoing testing before being offered for sale to the CIA.
Where better to give her a realistic test than in Libya?
Rubeo finished the bench calibration on the third and final sensor, more critical in this application than the others — a magnetometer that mapped currents. The device had to be carefully calibrated, then gingerly handled until it was locked on the unit. The procedure was relatively straightforward for the techies who worked with it routinely, but unusual enough that the man who invented the device had to proceed extremely slowly.
Rubeo finished his checks, locked out the options panel, and then killed the power to the unit. He unscrewed it gingerly and brought it over to the bot, which was sitting on the bench in the hangar across from the larger transport bot, Diomedes.
Also invented by Rubeo’s company, a version of Diomedes was already in operation with Whiplash and the U.S. military. The Greek name was used only by Rubeo; the versions delivered to the military had extremely mundane designations like “gun bot 34MRU” and “WGR46TransportAssist,” which alluded to their ultimate use.
Diomedes was about half the size of a gas-powered lawn mower, with a squat, rounded hull that featured a flat payload area about twelve by eighteen inches in the back, and a broad mast area that looked a bit like the bridge superstructure from a modern destroyer. The skin was made of a thick, webbed resin composite, sturdy yet light. The motor, powered by hydrogen fuel cells, was extremely quiet. Diomedes could operate at full speed for sixteen hours without being refueled; in combat under normal operation, it might last a good week before needing a new fuel cell.
Unlike the smaller bot, Diomedes had two tanklike treads on either side of its rectangular body. Fore and aft of the tread systems were wheels that extended from large shafts. Ordinarily, the wheels remained retracted next to the transport bot’s hull, but when meeting an obstruction or if needed for balance or quick maneuvering, the bot extended them. This helped get the machine over small obstacles or balance on very difficult terrain. There were two armlike extensions at the front, and a miniature arm with a crane hook in the flat rear compartment.
Rubeo slid the sensor atop to the plastic holder, making sure the metal shielding was properly in place. The system was designed to ignore the fields generated by the bot, but he considered the shielding an important safeguard nonetheless.
Lawson was hovering nearby, watching. He was excited about the bots, which he called “little creatures.” He wasn’t actually in the way, but his lurking presence would have been annoying if he hadn’t been so enthusiastic.
Actually, it was annoying, but Rubeo let him stay anyway. The others were seeing to last minute details or guarding the area outside. Uncharacteristically, Rubeo felt the need for human company tonight.
He glanced at his watch as he snapped the last prong in place on Arachne. Clearly, they wouldn’t be able to get south before dawn — it was almost 5:00 P.M. now. The process had taken far longer than he thought it would.
His fault, really. He should have had more of his people here to help. He needn’t have done all the prep work himself.
Should he go to the hotel rooms they’d rented and get some sleep? Or sleep in the desert?
He’d ask Jons what he thought.
“So the spider creature walks right in to where we want it to go?” asked Lawson.
“When told to.” Rubeo went to the bench and took the control unit — a modified laptop — and brought it over to finish orienting Arachne. The unit had to be told what sensors it was carrying; once that was done, the process was fully automated and quick.
“How does it get in?”
“It will depend. If necessary, Diomedes will cut a hole through the wall,” said Rubeo. “Or do whatever is necessary.”
“Oh. I thought maybe it would, like, crawl up the drain spout or something.”
“It could, if there was a drain spout,” said Rubeo. “We haven’t seen an easy access. Diomedes will check the external perimeter, and if there is an easy access, we’ll use it. Cutting into the building is the last resort.”
“Because of the noise?”
“The saw is relatively quiet,” said Rubeo. “But because of that it works very slowly.”
“Are you a better weaver than Minerva?” Lawson asked the bot.
“I’m impressed,” said Rubeo. In Roman myth, Arachne was a weaver who was turned into a spider after her work outshone Minerva’s in a contest. Jealous, Minerva took revenge by changing her into a spider. “I didn’t know you knew the story.”
“Oh, I know my myths. That of course is the Latin version. There’s a parallel in Greek. Minerva would be Athena. Of course, this is all coming from Ovid, so who the hell knows what the real myth was.”
“You don’t trust Ovid?”
“Do I trust any poet? Hell, they lie for a living, right? For all I know, he was working for an extermination company when he came up with the tale.”
Rubeo laughed, unexpectedly amused by the mercenary soldier. He finished his work, unhooked the laptop, and placed the small robot inside a delivery compartment at the base of Diomedes. Then he keyed his access code into the larger computer, waking it up.
“Follow me,” he told the machine.
It did so, moving out to the pickups. One of the Filipinos had set up a ramp; Rubeo directed the machine to drive up it, into the back. Once there, he deactivated it and covered it with a tarp. Lawson helped tie it down.
Jons was in a parking area about three hundred yards away, talking with their helicopter pilot. Rubeo called him, telling him they were ready to leave. They discussed whether to go right away or not. For Jons, it was a no-brainer — better to move out as quickly as possible.