Collateral Damage d-14 Read online

  “You were involved in the A–10E program at Dreamland,” she said. “You briefed us. My squadron took the planes over.”

  “Oh.”

  “Still think the Hogs should be flown by remote control?”

  “Uh, well, actually I like the way they fly.”

  Ginella laughed. The A–10Es were specially modified versions of the venerable Thunderbolt A–10, far better known to all as “Warthogs,” or usually simply “Hogs.” The aircraft had begun as A–10s, then received considerable improvements to emerge as A–1 °Cs shortly after the dawn of the twenty-first century.

  The A–10Es were a special group of eight aircraft with an avionics suite that allowed them to be flown remotely. There were other improvements as well, including uprated engines.

  “We had met before,” added Ginella. “I waxed your fanny at Red Flag last fall.”

  “You did?”

  “You were checking out a Tigershark. I was flying a Raptor. Masked Marauder.”

  Turk had been at a Red Flag, but as far as he could remember, no one had gotten close to shooting him down — which was what Ginella’s slang implied. But she didn’t seem to be bragging and he let it slide.

  Besides, though a good ten years older than he was, she was very easy on the eyes.

  “How do you like Italy?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen that much of it.”

  “You’ve been here a couple of weeks, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been pretty, uh, I’ve had a lot to do.”

  “You should have time coming now with four kills, huh?”

  Turk felt his cheeks redden. “Not exactly.”

  “No? See now, if you were in my squadron, I’d make sure you had down time — and maybe a free stay at a fancy hotel of your choice.”

  “Maybe I should ask for a transfer,” he blurted.

  Ginella smiled, and started eating. Turk had lost his appetite and felt awkward and out of sorts, as if he’d just blown some major opportunity.

  Suddenly he felt very thirsty.

  “I’m going to go grab something to drink,” he told Ginella. “You want something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Well, that wine would be nice, but since I have to fly later, just some of that sparkling water. The Ferrarelle. It’s the one in the green bottle that’s not Pellegrino.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Turk went back to the serving area and got two bottles of water, along with some glasses. When he returned, Ginella was texting something on her BlackBerry. He opened one of the bottles and poured some water for her, then filled his own. The water was fizzy, and a little heavy with minerals.

  “Flu,” said Ginella, looking up from her phone. “Half my squadron is down with it.”

  “What’s your squadron?”

  “The 129th, Shooter Squadron.”

  “That would be A–10Es.”

  “You got it. Still flown by people.”

  “It’s a great aircraft,” said Turk. “I was just, you know—”

  “The hired monkey.”

  It was a put-down he’d heard many times: Most of Turk’s work had been to sit in the cockpit while the remote control concept was tested. But he had done a lot more than that.

  “It’s all right,” continued Ginella. “We staved off the geeks for now. We still have people in the cockpit.”

  “The machines flew OK,” said Turk. “But, uh, it’s too nice a place not to have a man at the stick.”

  “Or a woman.”

  “Right.” He felt his cheeks redden at the faux pas, and hurriedly changed the subject. “When did you get here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “The way you were talking, with the food and the water, I thought you’d been around.”

  “With a name like Ernesto, you don’t think I’ve ever been to Sicily before?”

  “I just… I don’t know.”

  “Mako — that’s Italian?”

  “My great-grandfather shortened it from Makolowejeski. This is the first time I’ve ever been in Italy.”

  “Sicilians think they’re from a different country,” said Ginella. She started telling him a little about the island and Italy in general. Her great-grandparents had come from different parts of the “mainland,” as she called it. She still had some relatives living there.

  Turk kept waiting for her to turn the conversation to the “incident,” but she didn’t. Instead, she regaled him with a veritable travelogue, detailing the beauties of Siena and Bologna, her two favorite cities in the whole world. Turk had never had much interest in visiting Italy, but now felt guilty about that.

  “You don’t like to travel, do you?” she said to him finally. Then she got an impish grin. “Are you afraid of flying?”

  “Very funny.”

  “You should do more sightseeing.”

  “Maybe I will. I guess you’ve probably heard about the, uh, accident.”

  Her face became serious again. “Yes, I’m sorry. It must be a real ordeal.”

  “It is,” said Turk. “It’s — the whole thing was weird. But… I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “So don’t.” She smiled, and took a sip of her water. “You know, this is naturally carbonated. Other waters have carbon dioxide pumped into them, like seltzer. Yuck.”

  “I kinda like seltzer.”

  “Oh, excuse me, Captain.” She laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Before Turk could answer, they were interrupted by two pilots in flight suits, bellowing across the room as they entered.

  “Hey, Colonel, how’s it hanging?” said the taller one.

  “Colonel, Colonel, we are here to brighten your day,” said the other man, much shorter — he looked perhaps five-four — and so broad-shouldered that Turk thought he must have a hard time fitting into the cockpit.

  “Private party?” asked the taller pilot when they were closer.

  “Turk Mako,” Ginella said, “let me introduce two of the worst pilots on the face of the earth. How they manage to stay off that face of the earth is beyond me. Captain Johnny Paulson.” The taller man bowed. “And Grizzly.”

  “That’s Captain Grizzly to you,” said Grizzly, putting his plate down.

  “I’m Turk Mako.”

  “No shit.” Paulson grinned. “Are we allowed to sit at the superstar’s table?”

  “Careful, Pauly boy,” said Grizzly. “He’s liable to vaporize you with a death ray.”

  “Don’t take them seriously, Captain,” said Ginella. “No one else does.”

  “Because we are bad boys,” said Grizzly. “That’s why we fly Hogs.”

  “As did Turk,” said Ginella. “He’s the guy who ran all the A–10E tests.”

  “The monkey who sat in the seat for the geeks, right?” said Paulson after sitting down. “What do you think, Dreamland? Do we look like remote controllers?”

  “I was just saying it’s such a great plane to fly that it would be a shame to do it by remote control.”

  “Got that straight.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get some dessert.” Ginella rose. “Captain, would you like something?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “We hear you’re better than good,” said Grizzly as the colonel walked toward the serving area. “You fried four planes yesterday.”

  “They kinda got in my way,” said Turk.

  “Ha, that’s a good one,” said Grizzly, across the table. “What do you think of the Hog?”

  “It’s good,” said Turk.

  “You were a passenger,” said Paulson.

  “No. I pretty much flew every day a couple of hours at least. The remotes tests were just a part of it.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple of months. It’s better than the A–1 °C, thanks to the engines, and the—”

  “Thank God they didn’t go ahead and put remote controls in it,” said Paulson. “Then we’d all
be working for Dreamland. Like you.”

  “I don’t work for them. But what’s wrong with Dreamland?”

  “Oh, Dreamland,” said Grizzly. Smiling, he jumped off his chair and fell to his knees. He extended his arms and lowered them as if worshipping Turk. Paulson followed suit.

  “Good, you got them on their knees,” said Ginella, returning. “It’s a position they’re used to.”

  “Only for our dominatrix leader,” said Grizzly in a loud stage whisper. “For her, anything.”

  “Don’t look now,” said Paulson, “but here comes the Beast.”

  “Oh, God,” said Grizzly.

  “Are you degenerates eating off the floor again?” growled a black pilot, strolling over. He was tall and well-built, a linebacker in a flight suit. His smile changed to a frown as he turned to Ginella and in a mock-serious tone said, “I’m sorry you have to see this, Colonel. Perversion in the ranks.”

  “We’re just worshipping at the altar of Dreamland,” said Grizzly, rising. “This is Turk Mako.”

  “No shit.” Beast held out his hand. Turk rose to shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Captain.”

  “Turk.”

  “There room for me here?” joked Beast. His name tag declared his last name was Robinson. “Or is this a segregated table?”

  “It’s segregated all right,” said Grizzly. “Pauly boy was just leaving.”

  “Hahaha.”

  “Actually, I’m done,” said Turk, getting up. “You can have my place.”

  “Don’t let them chase you away,” said Ginella.

  “We can move to a larger table,” said Grizzly.

  “No, I got some stuff I gotta do.”

  “Look, I’m grabbing a chair and pulling it over,” said Beast.

  “I gotta check my plane and do a million little things,” said Turk.

  “Colonel, given that Turk here has flown Hogs,” said Grizzly, “maybe we can get him on board as a backup. We need subs.”

  “That might not be a bad idea,” said Ginella. “What do you think, Captain?”

  “Well, uh—”

  “I understand your aircraft is grounded until they figure out what happened to the Sabres.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I am short of pilots,” said Ginella. “You want me to talk to your command?”

  Turk hesitated. He did want to fly. Even Zen had suggested he should. He liked the A–10E, a predictable, steady aircraft. But it had been nearly a year since he’d been in a Hog cockpit.

  “Does Dreamland have the stuff to be a Hog driver?” asked Paulson mockingly. “It’s a comedown from his sleek beast.”

  “I could handle it,” said Turk.

  “I’ll talk to some people,” said Ginella.

  Turk shrugged. “Sure.”

  * * *

  Back at the Tigershark and Sabre hangars, Turk discovered that the guard had been doubled. The men were visibly tense, and not only asked for his ID card but examined it carefully.

  “Hey, Billy, what’s up with all this?” Turk asked one of the security people he’d grown friendly with.

  “Big honchos from D.C. are tearing apart the airplane,” said the sergeant. “How you holding up, Cap?”

  “I’m good. What honchos?”

  “Pinhead types.” The sergeant shrugged.

  “Dr. Rubeo?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. They drove up in a couple of SUVs, had attaché cases — kinda like the Men in Black movie. You ever see that?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  “We’re not supposed to go inside even because of the security.”

  “No shit?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they think we’ll see that it’s put together with rubber bands.”

  “It’s actually paper clips,” said Turk.

  Inside AC–84a, the Tigershark had been stripped of much of the top of her skin. A large scaffolding ladder sat over her nose, and two mobile platforms extended over her wings. Several other ladders, ranging from four to sixteen feet, were arrayed next to various parts of the aircraft.

  Gear was spread all around her. Men dressed in white suits dotted the aircraft. They looked like surgeons. Several others, wearing blue suits similar to the scrubs a hospital surgical team would use, manned a portable computer and other sensor screens at three different workbenches set up on the far side of the plane.

  Another group of men and women were standing at the side of the hangar behind a velvet rope, as if the Tigershark were a nightclub and they were waiting to get in.

  “Captain Mako,” said Ray Rubeo, walking over to him from behind the plane. He was wearing blue scrubs. “What can we do for you?”

  “I just thought I’d see if the Tigershark was ready to fly.”

  “It will be a few days,” said Rubeo. “I’m sorry, Captain. As I told the investigators this morning, this has nothing to do with you, or anything you did.”

  “Thanks for that,” said Turk.

  Rubeo stared at him.

  “I just wanted to make sure the plane is OK,” said Turk.

  “So do we,” said Rubeo.

  “What do you think happened?”

  Rubeo sighed. It was a loud sigh — Turk had heard it described by Breanna and others as a horse sigh.

  “I cannot speculate,” said the scientist. “Even if I was given to speculation, which I am not, in this case, I simply can’t.”

  “You think it was the Tigershark?”

  “It must be ruled out.”

  “Guess I’ll go take a nap,” he told Rubeo.

  * * *

  Turk wasn’t about to take a nap, though in truth he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He headed toward the headquarters building, thinking he might at least check in with the duty officer and see if there was an assignment he could rouse up. If not, maybe he would follow Ginella’s suggestion and check out some of Italy. She made it sound pretty alluring.

  Maybe a nice tour of the country would divert him. Even better, maybe he’d find a nice Italian girl, one who’d whisper some sort of Italian come-on in his ear.

  Ciao. Bene.

  He was nearly at the building when he was flagged down by one of General Talekson’s aides. Talekson, an RAF officer, headed operations for the coalition; he was giving a briefing to the squadron leaders and wanted to know if Turk could detail his encounter with the four Mirages.

  “Be glad to,” said Turk, happy to finally have something to do.

  The session had already started by the time they got there. The general sat at the front of the large conference room, frowning. An RAF major on his staff — the intel officer, whom Turk had met only once — was giving an overall situation report. He flailed at a map projected on the large screen in front of him, waving his laser pointer around as he spoke of the government concentrations. The rebellion had started in the area of Benghazi, northern Libya, and slowly spread west and south. The government forces had done a good job moving their equipment down, and clearly had more of it ready to use than had been suspected.

  “The airfields marked A3, A6, A7, and A8 have been hit this morning,” said the major. He used the laser pointer in his hand in a highly impressionistic way, barely pausing at the spots he referred to. A3 was the airfield at Ghat, where the Mirages had launched from the day before.

  “The fields are only marginally usable. This is a double-edge sword,” added the major. “It means we will be delayed from making them usable when the rebels take them over.”

  “Quite,” said the general.

  The intelligence officer continued, saying that he didn’t believe the government could launch any more aircraft, as they were only in possession of two more airfields, neither of which was long enough for the fighters still in their possession. Nonetheless, the allies would have to be mindful, as he put it. The Libyan government still had upward of eighty fighters.

  “Most are obsolete Mirages and older MiG–23s, –25s, and –27s,” s
aid the general, interrupting. “But there are MiG–29s, and we have heard rumors of at least six Sukhoi Su–35s. We have not located them. Which frankly is more than a little worrisome. If they exist.”

  The intel major smirked, and a few of the squadron leaders did as well. Clearly, they didn’t think the planes would materialize.

  The general looked over at Turk.

  “Captain Mako is here. Perhaps he can tell us about the Mirages he encountered.”

  “Glad to.” Turk glanced around. “I don’t have the gun video — I’m kinda doing this off the top of my head. But there really wasn’t much to it, I guess.”

  He ran through the encounter. It seemed pretty simple now that he recounted it.

  Line ’em up and shoot ’em down.

  Turk didn’t say that, but he certainly thought it. The squadron leaders asked about his aircraft and the weapon. The questions were mostly technical: how much was automated, how far away was he when the engagement began and ended. But one, from a German oberst, or colonel, completely surprised him.

  “What did you feel when you shot the planes down?” asked the Luftwaffe commander.

  “I don’t know that I felt anything,” said Turk truthfully. “I just, you know, went with my training.”

  “Ah.” The officer was a member of Jagdgeshwader 73, the 73rd fighter wing, and headed a four-ship group of Eurofighters. The fighters had not yet been in combat. “So you feel nothing?”

  “I just, uh, just didn’t think about it really.”

  Even as the words came out of his mouth, Turk thought that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone seemed to stare at him.

  He felt… good about getting the kills. He felt triumphant. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to feel? It was a win — a big one, four of them in fact. And each one of those bastards was trying to kill him.

  Damn, of course he felt good. What else was he supposed to feel?

  Bad because he’d won? That made no sense.

  And then the Sabre had gone off course. How did he feel about that?

  That was the real question, and the truth was, he couldn’t really answer.

  It was terrible that the plane had gone off course and struck the wrong target. He felt bad that people had died. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

  And there was a limit to how much he could feel. He didn’t cry or get sick or anything like that. Was that what was supposed to happen?