The controller came back a few seconds later, asking what their fuel and weapons situation was. Ginella had already given him that information, but she replied evenly; they had six missiles between them and a full store of gun ammo. The fuel was fine, with more than twenty minutes left before they would have to head home.

“Rebels are reporting a mortar crew working out of a pair of Hi Liners on Highway designated A3 on your maps,” said the controller. “Can you check that out?”

“Roger that.”

“Stand by for download.”

Before the Hogs had been upgraded, the controller would have delivered what was known as a nine-line brief—the mission set in a nutshell, beginning with an IP or initial point for them to navigate to, elevation of the target, its description, and other related matter. Now the nine-line brief came to the plane digitally; the target was ID’ed on the Tactical Awareness Display. The moving map on the TAD gave a top view of the tactical situation, showing Turk’s location in the center. An A–10C would have gotten this as well, but in the A–10E it came directly to Turk’s helmet.

It wasn’t the Tigershark, but it was a lot better than writing the instructions down on the Perspex canopy—the method used in the original A–10A.

The target area was roughly 150 miles due north. Cruising a few knots north of 300, it took roughly twenty-five minutes to get close. But because it was almost on their way home, they would have plenty of time to complete the mission without getting close to their fuel reserves.

Coming north took them past the town where the Sabre accident had occurred. It was some miles to the west, well out of sight, but Turk couldn’t help glancing in that direction as they drew parallel.

The images from the news video came back. All of the action today—getting up, getting ready, flying, fighting—had made him temporarily forget the images. He tried not to think about them now but it was impossible. They were horrific, all the more so because they were unintentional accidents.

Killing an enemy wasn’t a problem. Killing someone who was just there, in their own house . . .

“Shooter One to Three. Beast, can you see those trucks out ahead?”

“Yeah, copy. I’m eyes on.”

“They have guns?”

“Stand by.”

The trucks were on a side road almost directly ahead of Shooter Three. Turk watched as he tucked on his wing to lose altitude.

Damn, I’m his wingman, he thought to himself belatedly. He pushed down to follow.

The trucks were Toyotas, ubiquitous throughout the Middle East. They had four-door crew cabs. Whatever was in their beds was covered by tarps.

“Stay behind me,” Beast told Turk. “I’m going to buzz them.”

“I’m with you.”

Beast took Shooter Three down to treetop level—or what would have been treetop level if there were any trees. The attack jet winged right next to them, flew out ahead, then rose suddenly. Turk, flying above as well as behind, tensed as he watched the trucks for a flash.

Nothing happened.

“Got something in the back, that’s for sure,” said Beast. “But I’d need X-ray eyes to tell you what’s going on.”

“All right. Let me talk to Penthouse,” said Ginella, referring to the air controller by his call sign.

“We should just splash them on general principles,” said Beast.

“Don’t even kid around on an open circuit,” snapped Paulson.

“Oh, Lordy, I got a hall monitor along with us today.”

Paulson couldn’t think of something witty enough to respond before Ginella told them she was going to take a run at the trucks to see if she could spot anything out of place.

“Otherwise they’re clean and we have to let them go,” she told them.

“I don’t think so, Colonel,” objected Beast.

“What you think does not count, Captain. Pauly, you’re on my six.”

“The place everyone wants to be,” said Paulson.

Beast and Turk climbed and circled above while the squadron leader took another two passes at the trucks. The vehicles were moving slowly, but it couldn’t be said suspiciously. They didn’t react to either pass, not even shaking their fists.

As Turk turned in his orbit north, he saw a dust cloud in the distance.

“I’m going to get a better look,” he told Beast.

“Go ahead, little brother. I’m right behind you.”

Turk nudged the nose of the hog earthward. The more he flew the plane, the more he liked it. It was definitely more physical than the Tigershark. While the hydraulic controls had been augmented with electric motors to aid the radio-controlled mode, the plane still had an old school feel. He knew what older pilots meant when they talked about stick and rudder aircraft and working a plane. You got close to the Hog when you used your body. She was like another being, rather than a computer terminal.

The cloud of smoke separated into three distinct furls. They were made of dust, coming from the rear of a trio of pickups, speeding across the desert.

Now that seemed suspicious. Turk reported it.

“Weapons on them?” Ginella asked.

“Don’t see anything.”

Turk felt himself starting to sweat again as he got closer. He pushed the plane down closer to the ground, through 500 feet, then hesitated, looked at the altimeter clock to make sure he was right. The dial agreed with the HUD.

His airspeed had been bleeding off, and now he was dropping through 150 knots—very slow with weapons on the wings. But the Hog didn’t object. She went exactly where he pointed her, nice and steady.

Turk came over the trucks at barely 200 feet. Sensing that he was pushing his luck, he gunned his engines, rising away.

“Nothing in the back, not even tarps,” he told Ginella and the others.

His thumb had just left the mike button when a launch warning blared—someone had just fired a missile at him.

RUMORS OF REMORSE

1

Over Libya

Turk’s first reaction was: Are you kidding me?

He said it out loud, nearly insulted by the audacity of the enemy to fire at him.

Then learned instinct took over. He hit the flare release, pounded the throttle, and yanked the stick hard, all at the same time.

The decoys and sharp turn made it difficult for the missile to stay on his tail. At such low altitude, however, the harsh maneuver presented problems for him as well. In an instant his plane’s nose veered toward the dirt and threatened to augur in. He pulled back again, his whole body throwing itself into the controls—not just his arms, not just his legs, but everything, straining against the restraints.

“Up, up, up,” he urged.

The Hog stuttered in the air, momentarily confused by the different tugs. Finally the nose jerked up and he cleared the ground by perhaps a dozen feet.

“I have a launch warning,” he told the others belatedly. “Missile in the air. I’ve evaded.”

“We’re on it,” said Ginella. “Come south.”

“The trucks—”

“Didn’t come from the trucks,” said Beast. “Came from that hamlet south. It was a shoulder-launched SAM.”

Turk swung his head around, first trying to locate his wingman—he was off his left wing, up a few thousand feet—and then the hamlet he’d mentioned.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He’d been ready to splash the trucks, blaming them for the missile.

He angled the Hog to get into position behind Beast. Ginella, meanwhile, called in the situation to the controller. The missile was shoulder-launched, surface-to-air, sometimes called a MANPAD, or man-portable air-defense system. While the exact type wasn’t clear, more than likely it was an SA–7 or SA–14, Russian-made weapons that had been bought in bulk by the Gaddafi government.