Kharon got to his feet. Rubeo took a deep breath, then pushed himself out the door.
8
Turk spotted the two trucks moving through the desert foothills north of Mizdah just fifteen minutes after lifting off the runway in Sicily. They were nondescript cargo vans, heavy duty extended versions. He zoomed the optical camera, then uploaded the image to Danny aboard the Osprey.
“Whiplash, this is Tigershark,” said Turk. “I have our trucks.”
“Roger that. Seeing them now,” responded Danny.
“How do you want me to proceed?” he asked. He started cutting back on his throttle, preparing to set up in a wide orbit around the vehicles — the Tigershark couldn’t cut back its speed slow enough to stay directly above the vehicles.
“Just stay with them for now,” responded Danny. “We are about forty-five minutes from your location.”
“Gonna reach the city by then,” said Turk. “Want me to slow them down?”
“Negative. We want no chance of harming our package.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Check the city and the army base. See if there’s activity.”
“On it.”
Turk moved west, gliding over the hills at roughly 20,000 feet. He nudged the plane into an easy circle, banking over Mizdah. There were no air defenses there that could threaten him, but the computer did spot and mark out a pair of ancient ZSU–23–4 antiaircraft weapons parked near the soccer field at the center of town.
A pair of helicopters sat in a field adjacent to a compound at the southern end of the city. They were an odd pair — an Mi–35V Hind, Russian attack/transport, and an American-made CH–47C Chinook.
The 47 was a powerful aircraft whose speed and cargo carrying capability belied the fact that she had been built some forty years before; her sisters were still mainstays in the U.S. armed forces. The Hind wasn’t as big, but it could carry guns and missiles, combining attack with transport.
Turk assumed they were government aircraft, though the computer couldn’t link them with an existing unit. The computer identified the compound where they were parked as the home of a regional governor. There was no further data.
He guessed that a small contingent was in the compound. The building wasn’t particularly large; it might hold a dozen troops.
“Observe helicopters in grid D–3,” he told the computer. “Alert me if they power up.”
“Observing helicopters in grid D–3. Helicopters are inert.”
More ominous than the city were the army barracks Danny had mentioned. These were located several miles to the west, in an open area separated from the city by another group of low hills and open desert.
Turk glanced at the threat indicator. Technically this was unnecessary since the computer would warn him verbally, but there were certain things that no self-respecting pilot could completely trust the machine to do — even if the source of the information was exactly the same set of sensors.
The scope was clear.
He had the camera zoom as he approached. The complex of low-slung buildings looked deserted.
“Computer, how many individuals at the complex in grid A–6?” Turk asked.
“Scanning.” The system took a few seconds to analyze infrared data, comparing it to information from the normal and ground-penetrating radar.
“Complex includes Class One shelter system,” said the computer, telling Turk in advance that its estimate might not be accurate — though far better than anything aboard most aircraft, the radar aboard the Tigershark could not penetrate bunkers designed to withstand nuclear strikes. “Infrared scan determines 319 bodies within complex area. Size of underground shelter would indicate possibility of two hundred additional at nominal capacity.”
“Three hundred is good enough for government work,” Turk told the machine.
“Rephrase.”
“Ignore,” Turk told the machine. The estimate was lower than the intel he’d gotten earlier, a good sign — the troops were deserting.
He turned his attention to a large area of shelters to the northwest of the complex. These looked like long tents, half buried in the sand.
“Identify military complex in grid B–1,” he told the computer.
“Missile storage complex,” said the computer immediately. “NATO Scud B variant. One hundred seventy-three units identified in bunkers. Do you require technical information?”
“Negative. Are there launch vehicles?”
“Missiles are stored on TEL erectors. No activity noted.”
“Personnel?”
“No personnel in Missile Storage Complex.”
“No guards?”
“No personnel in Missile Storage Complex.”
“That’s great,” said Turk. Enough missiles sitting out in the desert to destroy a dozen small cities, and no one was watching them.
Turk told the computer to identify other large weapons in the general area. There was an abandoned antiaircraft facility about two miles northeast of the missile storage area, back in the direction of the highway that led to the city. Though defunct since the 1990s, six tanks were parked there, along with a number of tents and enough personnel to crew the vehicles.
“Vehicles are identified as T–72, Libyan export variants,” said the computer. “Vehicles had moved within the last seventy-two hours.”
“Observe tanks,” Turk told the computer. “If they move, alert me.”
“Tanks will be observed.”
Turk swung back over the hills, moving toward the trucks carrying Rubeo. The scientist was in the lead truck.
“Zoom on target truck one,” directed Turk.
Flying the Tigershark and Hogs was like night and day. He loved both, but the tools here — you couldn’t knock the computer’s help.
As he pulled to within two miles, Turk saw something flapping at the back of the vehicle. Dust flew up and something fell at the side of the road.
“Focus on object,” said Turk. “Identify.”
“Two males. Subject One is Dr. Rubeo.”
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Turk, flicking onto the Whiplash channel to tell Danny.
9
Rubeo had calculated that his armored vest would absorb some of the impact as he fell. But whatever buffer it provided was negligible at best. The ground poked his ribs so hard he lost his breath. Rolling and wheezing, he scrambled desperately to get up and get to the side of the road.
It was lighter than he thought, still daytime. Things had happened much faster than he’d realized. He’d counted on it being night, and now saw there were hours before the sun would set.
He caught a glimpse of another vehicle — the one with the bots, he guessed.
His only goal was to get far away before whoever was in the truck could react.
Go! Go!
Rubeo struggled to his knees. His breath came back in a spurt. He pushed forward, head down, then remembered Kharon.
“Neil?” he grunted.
The young man was on the ground nearby. Rubeo went and grabbed his shirt. He tugged. Kharon bolted to his feet and began running. Rubeo followed.
“That hill,” yelled Rubeo, pointing westward. “We’ll get behind it.”
Something flew up near him, a puff of dirt.
It was a miniature volcano.
A gunshot.
“They’re firing at us!” yelled Kharon.
10
Zen’s nose rebelled at the heavy whiff of Moroccan hashish he smelled as they entered the hotel suite. He glanced at Zongchen, who seemed puzzled by the odor.
“Hashish,” whispered Zen.