As a fighter pilot, Zen had the luxury of distancing himself from the effects of ground war. Rarely had he seen firsthand damage to anything other than an airplane.
Now it was all around him.
It was horrific. While the government guide was a bit heavy-handed, there was no question that the bombs sent by the Sabre had inflicted a terrible toll.
Zen reminded himself that the government, too, was to blame. It was inflicting a heavy toll on the populace, robbing and stealing from the people. In the roughly two years it had been in power, thousands of people were imprisoned without trial. The new leaders were repeating many of the outrages that had flourished under Gaddafi.
But that didn’t make this any less tragic.
He wheeled slowly along, gradually falling behind the main pack as they moved along the sides of the battered buildings.
“Excuse me, are you Senator Stockard?” shouted one of the journalists trailing them.
The man had an American accent. Zen debated whether to ignore him, but finally decided it was better to speak.
“Yes, I am,” Zen told him.
“I’m Greg Storey from AP. I’m interested, Senator—what’s your impression?”
“It’s terrible,” said Zen. “A horrible accident.”
“The government is claiming that it was done on purpose, as a terrorist act.”
“That’s clearly not what happened,” said Zen.
“How do you know?”
Zen controlled his anger. He had enough experience with reporters to know that they often tried to provoke people to get an extreme reaction.
“NATO doesn’t go around targeting civilians. We hope to get to the bottom of what happened, and then fix it so it doesn’t happen again. That’s the committee’s aim.”
Seeing that Zen was taking questions, the other reporters quickly gathered nearby and asked a few of their own. The government minder ran over, but by the time he arrived there were so many other people around that he had a difficult time pushing through the crowd and was in no position to reshape the conversation.
A few of the questions were things Zen couldn’t answer in any detail—what exact aircraft had been in the raid was one he just ignored. But most were thoughtful, and he answered as fully and honestly as he could.
The U.S. was not controlling the investigation. He was an honorary member, willing to help as much as possible. Zongchen, a respected Chinese air force officer as well as diplomat, was a careful man and would sift through the evidence. It was unfortunate that the government of Libya had chosen to take a hard line against the rebels. There was room for a negotiated peace, if the sides would come to the negotiating table.
Zen admitted that he didn’t know the exact ins and outs of the local politics, and would have to defer to others on specific grievances. He was interested in finding out why things had gone wrong with the air attack.
“Was it because the planes were UAVs?” asked the American reporter.
“Assuming that they were—I’m not sure that’s one hundred percent yet—there’s no reason to think the tragedy would have been avoided with a manned plane,” said Zen.
“Really, Senator?”
“Obviously, we have to see the circumstances of the accident,” he said. “But manned planes make mistakes, too. Unfortunately.”
“UAVs seem more dangerous.”
“Not really. UAVs have helped reduce casualties,” Zen answered. “Now some people—pilots especially—long for what are thought of as the good ol’ days, when every aircraft was manned. But remember, back in the very old days, collateral damage was a serious problem. World War Two saw horrendous civilian deaths. We’ve come a long way.”
A voice from the back shouted a question. “Why are robots making the decisions now?”
Zen tried to ignore the question, turning to the right, but the reporter he glanced at asked the same thing.
“I don’t know that they are,” said Zen.
“There have been anonymous reports to that effect,” said the first reporter. “Several news organizations have gotten leaks.”
“I don’t have information on that, so I guess I can’t address it,” said Zen.
“Are the UAVs acting on their own?” asked Storey.
“It’s not a robot rebellion, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Zen. “Men are in the loop.”
“I’ve heard from sources that they are not,” said the reporter in the back.
“I’ve given you pretty much the details I know and can give,” said Zen. He noticed Zongchen standing nearby. “We’re looking into everything. Probably the person you really want to talk to about the committee would be General Zongchen.”
Zongchen gave him a look that said, Thanks a lot.
The reporters began peppering him with questions. Before Zongchen could answer, a rock sailed overhead. Zen looked up and saw several more flying from the direction of the ruins.
Suddenly, there were many rocks in the air.
The riot took Kharon by surprise. He moved to his left, looking for a way out of the crowd.
People surged from the edge of the ruins, pushing toward the thin line of UN soldiers. Clearly, the action had been planned by the government. A foolish, stupid move.
But then, what did they do that wasn’t foolish?
The cameras shifted their aim from the dignitaries to the crowd. The people yelled about killers and murderers, and threw more rocks—they couldn’t quite see the irony.
The journalists moved toward the rock throwers, most thinking they were immune to the violence. Kharon realized they were just as much the target as the dignitaries were—and they didn’t have anyone to protect them.
It was time to leave.
He pocketed his ID and moved quickly back through the ruins, walking at first, then running back to his truck.
Zen made it to the Osprey just as the UN soldiers fired warning shots into the air. He wheeled himself toward the platform but was intercepted by two of the plainclothes security people who had traveled with them but stayed in the background.
“Sorry, Senator. We’re getting you out of here,” said one of the men gruffly. He grabbed him under the arm.
Zen started to protest but realized it was too late—he was half carried, half thrown into the Osprey. The props were already spinning.
“My chair!” he yelled.
No one heard him in the confusion. The door closed and the aircraft veered upward.
Zen crawled to the nearest seat and pulled himself up. Someone helped him turn around.
It was Zongchen.
“This did not go as well as I hoped,” said the Chinese general. He was sweating profusely. His pants were torn and his knee was bleeding.
“No, I would say it didn’t go well at all,” said Zen, wondering how long it would take to find a wheelchair as good as the one he had left behind.
5
Tripoli
The fact that the government thought staging a riot at al-Hayat would have any beneficial effect toward their cause showed just how far removed from reality the leaders were.
Kharon brooded about this on the drive back to the city, worried that the government would collapse before he was able to exact his revenge. If so, years of effort would have been wasted; he would have to begin fresh.
He was so distracted that when they arrived in Tripoli he agreed to pay Fezzan an extra hundred euros to help him carry the box of drives and CPUs up the stairs of the small house he had rented in the western quarter. Taped shut in a cardboard box that had held bags of cashews, the components were neither large nor particularly heavy. Fezzan left as happy as Kharon had ever seen him.
A few minutes after he left, Kharon took the devices from the box and put them in a large, padded suitcase. He went downstairs—he used the building only for his sporadic contacts with Fezzan and other locals—and found his small motorcycle in the alley at the back. He tied the suitcase to the rear fender with a pair of bungee cords, put on a helmet to obscure his face, then set out on a zigzag trail through the city.