The video connection was made through Skype, the commercial video service. As such, they all assumed it was insecure, being monitored in capitals around the globe—and probably by the rebels as well. But this suited Zongchen’s purposes. He wanted everyone to know exactly what the committee was doing.

Beamed wirelessly from one of the aide’s laptops onto the suite’s large television, the feed looked slightly washed out. But the connection was good.

The deputy interior minister was speaking for the government. Zen saw that this annoyed Zongchen; he had clearly expected a higher ranking official, most likely the minister himself. The mood worsened when the deputy minister began with a ten minute harangue about how the allies were being allowed to murder innocent Libyan people.

Zen watched Zongchen struggle to be patient. It didn’t help that the deputy minister’s English, though fluent, was heavily accented, making it hard for the Chinese general to understand. Zongchen turned occasionally to two aides for translations into Chinese. The men, too, were struggling with the accent, asking Zen several times for clarifications.

Finally, the Libyan allowed Zongchen to tell him that the commission wanted to inspect the sites.

“This will be arranged,” replied the deputy minister. “We will need identities—we do not want any spies.”

“We expect safe conduct for the entire party,” said Zongchen. “And we will choose our own personnel.”

“You will submit the names.”

“We will not,” insisted Zongchen. It was a small point, thought Zen—surely giving the names was not a big deal—but the general was holding his ground for larger reasons, establishing his independence. “We are operating under the authority of the United Nations to investigate this matter, and we will be granted safe passage. If you do not wish us to investigate it under those terms, you may say so.”

The deputy minister frowned. “No Americans,” he said.

“There will be Americans,” said Zongchen. His voice was calm but firm. “There will be whomever I decide I need to accompany me. This investigation is in your interests. But you will not dictate the terms. We will undertake it on our terms, within the precepts of international law, or we will not undertake it at all.”

The Libyan finally conceded.

“I will make the arrangements,” he told Zongchen. “But you had best get safe conduct from the criminals as well. We cannot guarantee your safety with those apes.”

“We will deal with them on the same terms we have dealt with you,” said Zongchen.

The feed died before Zongchen finished. The Chinese general glanced around the room.

“I believe that went well,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile. “And now, let us talk to the rebels.”

8

Sicily

Turk wanted to thank Rubeo for coming to his aid during the interview, but the scientist left the room before he got a chance; he was gone when he reached the hall.

He went over to the hangars and found out that the Tigershark and Sabres were still grounded, and would be for the foreseeable future. Unsure what else to do, Turk headed toward the base cafeteria to find something to eat.

Cafeterias on American military installations typically provided a wide variety of food; while the quality might vary somewhat, there was almost always plenty to choose from. The host kitchen here, run by the Italian air force, operated under a different philosophy. There were only two entrées.

On the other hand, either one could have been served in a first-class restaurant. The dishes looked so good, in fact, that Turk couldn’t decide between them.

“I would try the sautéed sea bass with the arancine and aubergine,” said a woman in an American uniform behind him. She was an Air Force colonel. “Or get both.”

“I think I will. Due,” he told the man. “Two?”

“Entrambi?” asked the server. “Si?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, he wants both,” said the colonel with a bright smile. Turk couldn’t remember seeing her before. “Tell him, Captain.”

The server smirked, but dished up two plates, one with the bass, the other with quail.

Turk took his plates and went into the next room. The tables were of varying sizes and shapes, round and square, with from four to twelve chairs. They were covered with thick white tablecloths—another thing you wouldn’t typically find in a base cafeteria.

He picked a small table near the window and sat down. The window looked out over the airfield, and while he couldn’t quite see the tarmac or taxiing area, he had a decent view of aircraft as they took off. A flight of RAF Tornados rose, each of the planes heavily laden with bombs—probably going to finish off the airfield the government planes had used the day before.

No one wanted to talk about that encounter, Turk thought to himself. The briefing had been little more than an afterthought.

Oh, you shot down four aircraft. Very nice. So tell us about this massive screwup.

By rights, Turk thought, he ought to be the toast of the base—he had shot down four enemy aircraft, after all.

“I see why you took two meals,” said the woman who’d been behind him in the line. “Hungry, huh?”

Turk glanced down at his plate. He was nearly three-fourths of the way through—he’d been eating tremendously fast.

“I didn’t have breakfast,” he said apologetically.

“Or dinner yesterday, I’ll bet. Mind if I join?”

“No, no, go ahead. Please,” said Turk. He rose in his chair, suddenly embarrassed by his poor manners.

She smiled at him, bemused.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, sitting.

“I, uh—no. I’m sorry.”

“Ginella Ernesto.”

“I’m Turk . . . Turk Mako.”

He extended his hand awkwardly. Ginella shook it.

“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–10Cs 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.