Rubeo was about ten yards from Kharon when he went down. He changed direction, huffing with every step.
The young man lay curled up, in obvious pain. His face had hit the rocks and blood streamed down the side to his chin and the ground. As Rubeo started to inspect the wounds, he saw that Kharon’s pants leg was soaked red as well. He reached over and started to examine it.
Kharon yelped as Rubeo touched the leg. His bone had punctured the surface; he had a compound fracture.
“H-Help me,” muttered Kharon.
“You’re going to be OK,” said Rubeo.
“I’m cold.”
“You’re going into shock,” said Rubeo. “You broke your bone. It’s a compound fracture.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“We’re going to be OK. My people are coming for me.”
The helicopters were getting very loud. They were exposed here, easily seen.
“I’m going to get one of the guns from the van,” Rubeo told him. “Just in case we have to hold out for a few minutes.”
“Don’t leave me alone.”
“I’ll be right back. I promise.”
17
The three vans carrying General Zongchen’s committee and their security team were met at the airport by a pair of NATO armored personnel carriers that had just arrived. The alliance had also added more ground troops — two companies’ worth of Spanish infantrymen, who fanned out around the far section of the airport.
Another ring of security had been established near the hangar where they were to meet the Libyan defense minister. Here, members of GROM — roughly the Polish equivalent of American SEALs — stood guard. The committee’s own security team was instructed to stay outside the building; no guns were to be allowed inside the walls.
Zongchen looked at Zen as the Polish GROM commander, through a translator, informed him of the ground rules, which he seemed uncomfortable with.
Zen shrugged. “I don’t think we’re in any more danger here than anywhere else,” he told the general. “Assuming you trust the minister.”
“I trust no one,” said Zongchen. “But let us proceed.”
The minister’s presence at the airport was supposed to be a secret, but with all these troops, it was obvious to even the dullest human being that something important was going on. It wouldn’t take much to guess what that was.
Zongchen’s energy level had increased during the short trip to the airport; he practically sprang ahead toward the terminal. Even Zen, with his powered wheelchair, had trouble keeping up.
The interior of the hangar was empty except for a ring of Polish guards around the walls. A pair of folding tables had been placed end to end near the center of the large space. There were a dozen chairs arranged somewhat haphazardly around them. Three were occupied — one by the new Libyan defense minister, one by his translator, and one by an army general.
Zongchen greeted them enthusiastically. The bearing of the Libyan delegation was clearly more to his liking than that of the rebels, and he seemed more relaxed than he had been in the city. Introductions were made, and as the committee members began sorting themselves into seats, Zongchen began saying that he had just come from a meeting with one of the rebel leaders and they were very eager for a settlement.
“They will have to lay their weapons aside,” said the defense minister. “When they have done that, then we will have a talk.”
“That wasn’t the impression you had given us earlier,” said Zen.
“There is much eagerness,” added Zongchen. “But it might behoove the government to make a sufficient gesture — perhaps a public announcement of a cease-fire.”
The defense minister turned to the general. The two spoke in quick but soft Arabic.
“We need something from the alliance,” said the defense minister. “A sign that you will cooperate with us. A temporary cease-fire. From the alliance, and the rebels.”
Technically, the alliance wasn’t at war with the government, merely enforcing the no-fly zone and protecting interests declared “international” by the UN. So agreeing to a mutual cease-fire was not a big deal. Zongchen told the minister that an agreement might be reached quickly for a cease-fire.
“And from the rebels?”
“They would have to take their own action. But if you had declared the cease-fire, then they would respond to that, I’m sure. Within a matter of—”
“It cannot be unilateral! We cannot just declare the cease-fire ourselves. They won’t observe it. You see what dogs we deal with. They lie and cheat at every turn.”
We’re off to a great start, thought Zen.
18
It seemed as if all Libya was descending on the two wrecked vans. Not only were the helicopters only a few minutes away, but now trucks were heading out from the city as well. A small group of people — apparently civilians, though a few had AKs — had left a hamlet about a half mile to the east of the road and were coming up, probably to see what the commotion was about. Meanwhile, the four MiGs were flying northeast on afterburners, taking no heed of the two French Mirages coming in their direction.
The computer calculated that the Mirages had about a sixty-forty percent chance of shooting down the MiGs if they engaged within the next sixty seconds.
Turk didn’t particularly like those odds. He had a good opinion of the French pilots, but they were still pretty far north, and since they had to contact the MiGs to warn them off, no chance of surprising the enemy.
“Whiplash, what’s your ETA?” Turk asked Danny.
“We’ll be overhead in ten minutes.”
“I have people on the ground who are going to get there first.”
“Hostile?”
“Unknown. They look mostly like civilians, but a couple have rifles. Hard here to tell the difference sometimes.” Many people carried rifles for self-protection; Turk certainly would have.
“See if you can scare them off,” said Danny.
“You want me to buzz them?” asked Turk.
“Yes, but don’t use your weapons if you don’t have to. If you’re in danger, screw the ROEs. I’ll take the heat.”
“Roger that.”
It was nice to say, but Turk knew he would be court-martialed along with Danny. Still, better to go to prison than live with the death of his guys on his conscience.
“Helicopters have not responded to my hails,” Turk answered. “What about them?”
“We’ll try raising them on the radio.”
“They’re getting awful close. I’ll buzz them, too,” added Turk.
“Copy.”
Turk banked to get closer to the people. He wanted to do a loud run to show them he was there.
The problem would be judging their reaction — if they kept coming, did that mean they were on his side?
“Tanks are moving,” said the computer as he came out of the turn.
“Computer — which tanks?” asked Turk.
“Tanks in Grid A–3.” The area flashed on his sitrep map. “Additional vehicles are under way.”
“Why not,” muttered Turk. “Just one frickin’ open house picnic in beautiful suburban Libya.”
19
Rubeo walked back toward the trucks, conserving his energy. His leg muscles had tightened, but adrenaline was surging through his body, and he knew if he could just pace himself, he’d last the ten minutes or so until his people arrived.
He was sure they were close. Ten minutes, he told himself.
About fifty yards from the first truck the sky exploded above him. He threw himself down, sure that a missile was streaking at his head.