What sort of thing did VGNet want young Kharon to do for them? His graduate work, if Rubeo recalled correctly, had to do with systems integration relating to intelligence.

Or was he wrong?

He’d look it up in the morning. And check on VGNet—they had a lab in southern Italy, obviously, but where?

He really should pay more attention to his competitors and potential competitors. Now, though, he needed sleep. He had to leave for the airport at four, and it was already past one.

Two and a half hours of sleep. About his norm when traveling. Rubeo pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed.

12

Sicily

Zen sat in the secure communications room, sipping his coffee and thinking about his daughter, Teri. More than anything in the world, he wanted to talk to her about baseball, one of their morning routines.

An odd thing. A decade and a half ago, back at Dreamland, he never would have thought he would have preferred speaking to his little girl rather than the President of the United States.

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Zen,” said the President, coming back to the video screen. “Some days the schedule just gets ahead of itself.”

“I understand, Madam President.”

“I think there’s no downside in proceeding,” said National Security Advisor Michael Blitz, who was sitting next to her in the secure communications center in the White House basement. “At least at this point. Naturally, down the road, it could all blow up in our face.”

“I don’t like the idea of nonprofessionals conducting these sorts of talks.” Alistair Newhaven, the Secretary of State, shook his head as if he’d just come out of a pool and was getting rid of excess water. Zen didn’t know Newhaven very well, and what he did know of him he didn’t like. “This is a very sensitive and dangerous area.”

“No offense intended for the senator, I’m sure,” said the President, glancing toward the camera.

“None taken,” said Zen. “The Secretary wasn’t getting a Christmas card anyway.”

Newhaven, who had exactly zero sense of humor, stared at the camera without comprehending.

“The committee is perfect,” countered Blitz. “The allies have absolute deniability.”

The President’s aides debated back and forth a few more minutes. Zen’s mind drifted back to Teri. He wondered if Breanna had managed to take enough time off to take her to a ball game since he’d been gone.

“I think we’ve talked this to death,” said the President finally. “Jeff—Senator—please proceed. You have my blessing. Obviously you can’t guarantee anything, but I think it would be fair to say that you have my ear.”

“Thank you, Madam President.”

“And for the record,” she added, “I think you’re a hell of a negotiator. Having seen you operate from the other side of the table, I’m very glad to know you’re working for us this time.”

“I’m always working for America, Mrs. Todd,” said Zen as he signed off.

13

Sicily

Danny Freah shook his head vehemently.

“No way, doc. There is no way I am letting you go to Africa now. Not after what happened to the commission.”

“The incident was staged.” Rubeo folded his arms in front of his chest. “As you yourself have said. Three times now.”

“Just because the government incited them doesn’t mean there’s not a lot of anger out there. No American is safe. No Westerner. There is just no way you’re going.”

“You’re exaggerating the danger . . .”

“Look Ray, I’m sorry. No way.”

“I need to find out what happened, Colonel.”

“You don’t have to be there to do that. Come on, Ray—you’re too valuable to be walking around in Africa. Crap—you’re not twenty years old anymore.”

“Nor am I an employee of the department of defense.”

“Yeah, but come on.”

Rubeo scowled and walked out of the room. He was determined to see what had happened for himself.

“I don’t know, boss. Getting there is no problem. Once we’re there, though . . .” Jons shook his head.

“We’ll hire people,” Rubeo told him. “I need to examine the radar facilities near where the accident happened. And I want to look at the attack pattern.”

“Why?”

“Because if this isn’t fixed, everything will be flushed.”

“I don’t know. Getting there—”

“Hire a guide. It’s easily done, I’m told.”

“Yeah, but finding the right people . . .”

“That’s your job.”

Jons frowned.

“We are booked on a flight to Tripoli at three, using our alternative identities,” said Rubeo. “I already have gear en route. So line the right people up quickly.”

14

Over the Mediterranean

Today’s target was literally dialed in—Turk and the rest of the Hog drivers would drop satellite-guided smart bombs at artillery at the edge of a city under government control.

Fly in, fly down, fly home. Piece of cake.

Counting Turk, the squadron was up to eight active pilots, which let them split into two different groups and take on a pair of missions. Turk’s group got the artillery; the other flight of A–10s would attack a motor depot where a variety of armored vehicles were parked.

Turk’s flight of four Hogs was led by Paulson in Shooter One. Grizzly was his wingman. Beast had finally succumbed to the flu and was a late scratch. That made Turk, flying Shooter Three, the leader of the second two-plane element in the flight. His wingman was Lieutenant Cooper “Coop” Hadlemann in Shooter Four.

Ginella was leading another mission to a different part of Libya at roughly the same time. She’d been all business today, without any mention or even hint that they had hooked up.

Fortunately.

“Shooter flight, we’re two minutes from IP,” said Paulson as they neared their target. “Look alive.”

Turk did a quick scan of his instruments. He was at 30,000 feet, moving a hair over 380 knots. It was a bright day, with no clouds within a few hundred miles.

The government forces had not scrambled any fighters since their encounter with Turk earlier in the week. Nonetheless, there was a heavy contingent of fighter coverage aloft. A two-ship of Eurofighters had flown down from the Med with the Warthogs, and were lingering overhead. A pair of Spanish F/A–18s were tasked right behind them. Technically, the Spanish versions were designated EF–18As, with the E meaning España; Spain. These variants were similar outwardly to the first generation of the Hornets produced by McDonnell-Douglas, but had upgraded avionics and other electronic gear.

The presence of the different aircraft types pointed out the different approaches to air warfare undertaken by the Americans and Europeans. While the air forces were much more similar than they were different, their varying needs and philosophies were expressed in the airframes they chose to build.

As a general rule, European aircraft were at least arguably better than their American peers when it came to sheer maneuverability. They were almost always better suited at taking off from short runways, even with decent loads. Their Achilles’ heel tended to be their fuel capacity; they had “short legs” compared to Americans.