The hamlet where the missile had been fired was the same one that had reported being attacked by mortars—a fact Ginella pointed out rather sharply when she got the controller back on the line.

“Is this a rebel village or a government village, Penthouse?” she demanded. “Are we being set up?”

“Stand by, Shooter.”

“Screw standing by,” said Beast. “I say we hose the bastards.”

“Calm down, Beast.” Ginella’s voice was stern but in control. “Are you there, Penthouse?”

“Go ahead, Shooter One.”

“We’re going to overfly this village and find out what the hell is going on down there,” she told the controller.

“Uh, negative, Shooter. Negative. Hold back. We’re moving one of the, uh, Predator assets into the area to get a look.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“Listen, Colonel, I can understand—”

“By the time you get a UAV down here, we’ll be bingo fuel and the bastards will be gone,” she told him. Bingo fuel was the point at which they had just enough fuel to get home. “I’m not sure they’re not gone now.”

It took nearly a half minute for the controller to respond. “Yeah, you’re OK. Go ahead and take a look.”

By that time Ginella had already swung toward the town. The Hogs spread out in a pair of twos, each element separated by roughly a mile.

Flying as tail-gun Charlie, Turk kept watch for sparkles—muzzle flashes—but saw nothing. A white car moved on the main street, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.

“What do you think about that car?” Beast asked as they cleared the settlement.

“Didn’t look like much,” said Turk. “All buttoned up.”

The Hogs circled south, building altitude. The car left the village and headed for the highway. Beast suggested they buzz it, but Ginella vetoed the idea.

“Waste of time,” she said.

“Probably has the bastards who shot at us,” said Beast.

“Unless they’re stupid enough to take another shot,” said Ginella, “we’ll never know. And we’re almost at bingo,” she added. “Time to go home.”

2

Desert near Birak Airport

Three years before, members of the coalition of rebels had chased Muammar Gaddafi progressively south. Now history was repeating itself, with the new government being pushed farther and farther from the coast. There were certainly differences this time around—different factions of the government had broken away from the main leaders and established strongholds in neighboring Algeria and Niger—but the parallels were upmost in Kharon’s mind as Fezzan drove him south from Tripoli. It seemed some places were stuck in a cycle of doom, and would just continue spiraling toward hell until finally there was nothing more to be consumed.

Most of the journey south was boring, a long stretch of empty highway flanked by even more desolate sand and waste. Two checkpoints made it worth the money he paid Fezzan, however—clearing the barrier ten miles south of Tripoli, manned by rebels, and stopping at the gates to Birak to the south.

Getting past the first barrier just before dawn had been easy: Kharon slipped the first man who approached a few euros and they were waved around the bus that half blocked the highway.

The gate at Birak several hours later was another story.

Birak Airport was some 350 miles south of Tripoli. During Gaddafi’s reign it had been a major air base, with a good portion of the Libyan air force stationed there. Though the planes had been moved, the airport remained a government bastion, with temporary quarters set up in the revetments where fighter-bombers were parked. These quarters consisted of RVs and tents, with a few larger trailers mixed in.

A civilian city had sprouted just south of the base. Populated by family members and “camp followers,” as the age-old euphemism would have it, it was even more ragtag, with shanties and trailers clustered around tents and lean-tos that were more like lean-downs. The sun hit the white roofs of the trailers, creating a halo of light in the desert, a glow that made it look as if the settlement was in the process of exploding.

The road past the airport was a straight line of yellow concrete that ran through an undulating pasture of rock and sand. Grit and light sand covered everything, making the surface as slippery as ice. The path and nearby terrain were littered with vehicles. A few were burned-out hulks, set on fire during battles and skirmishes too insignificant to be remembered by anyone but the dead. Most were simply abandoned, either because they had run low on fuel or the keepers of the gate refused to allow the occupants to proceed with them.

Or proceed at all. Low mounds of sand not far off the road covered dozens of decayed and picked-at corpses. Hawks and other birds of prey circled nearby, drawn by the prospect of an easy meal.

The government forces had a “gate” on the highway, which they used ostensibly to keep rebels from coming south but in reality existed only to extract a toll—or bribe, depending on your perspective—from travelers. To reach the gate, a driver had to first weave past the abandoned vehicles, and then run the gamut of a de facto refugee camp populated by travelers who either couldn’t pay the toll or were waiting for others to join them from the North.

The camp had swelled since Kharon’s last visit, barely a week before. It had consisted then of no more than a hundred individuals, most of them living in their own vehicles under broad canvas cloths stretched for cover. Now it seemed to be ten times the size, extending from the shoulders to block the road itself.

Fezzan took their four-wheel-drive pickup off the road, moving west as they threaded through the ad hoc settlement. Kharon raised his Kedr PP–91 Russian submachine gun, making sure anyone looking toward the cab of the truck would see that he was armed. Fezzan had one hand on the wheel; the other gripped his own PP–91.

In truth, the pair would be easily outgunned in a battle here, if only by the sheer number of potential opponents. But brandishing the weapons made it clear they would not be casual victims, and that was enough to ward off most of their potential enemies.

A small group of children ran up to the truck, begging for money. Kharon waved them away, yelling at them in Arabic, though he was careful not to use or point the weapon—he feared inciting the parents.

They were in sight of the barrier to the west of the gate—a row of abandoned tractor trailers, augmented by the wrecked hulk of a Russian BMP and a tank that had lost its treads—when their pickup slid sideways in a loose pit of dirt and got stuck.

Fezzan tried rocking it back and forth, overrevving and making things worse. Jumping from the cab, Kharon sank to his knees in the loose sand. For a brief moment he felt a wave of fear take him; the unexpected hazard had left him temporarily without defenses.

He pushed his knee up, then shifted his weight to the right, wading through the sand to firmer ground.

By now a considerable audience had gathered, children in front, women in the middle, men to the rear. Most of the men were gray-haired and silent, glum-faced.

“Push us out,” Kharon commanded. “Get to the rear. Five euros for each person who helps.”

Five euros was a good sum, but no one moved. Finally, two of the children ran toward the truck. A woman began scolding them, but as soon as Kharon took out a fist of bills, two women went over and put their hands to the rear of the vehicle. Soon the entire crowd was there, pushing amid a cloud of sand.

Fezzan managed to get the truck out with the help of the crowd. Kharon could have just hopped in and driven off—he suspected many would. But he expected to be passing through this way again, and welshing on his promise might gain him more enemies or at least more notice than he wanted. And so he walked over to a clear spot and began passing out cash. He gave the children ones—giving them the same as the adults would have caused consternation—then doled out fives to the women.