Rubeo said nothing. He had many competitors. Each one was an enemy, at least figuratively. And any number of people would benefit if the government stopped dealing with his firm; there would be a vast void to fill.

“No one seems to be taking them very seriously,” he told Jons. “Or otherwise I’d have heard.”

“Maybe. In any event, it’s a potential security leak. It could definitely be a disgruntled employee. Anyone willing to put out this kind of information, add your name—they won’t stop here.”

“I don’t think it’s an employee. Or an ex-employee. They’re paid too well.”

“It’s not always about money. Or science.”

In Rubeo’s experience, if it wasn’t about science, then it was always about money. Or sex.

“Rerun our security checks,” he told Jons.

“Oh, we’re well into that.”

“Good.”

“It may be a contractor,” suggested Jons. “We’re checking that as well. I wonder if there’s any disgruntled military. Maybe on the Whiplash side.”

“We can certainly check. There aren’t many of them.”

“Not directly. Indirectly, you’d be surprised.”

“Right.” Rubeo settled back into the seat, as frustrated as ever.

Halit proved his worth at the gate, speaking quickly to the guards. Jons, standing next to him, handed over a folded envelope, and they were through.

“One hundred euros,” Jons told Rubeo, climbing back into the truck. “That is all it took to get us past the front line. The government doesn’t have long.”

Rubeo nodded but said nothing. Darkness had enveloped the desert.

They drove quickly, nearly missing the turn that would take them to the military site where the government’s most powerful radar units were located. There were two sets here, general warning radars and radars that were connected with an SA–10 antiaircraft battery.

According to Rubeo’s calculations, the latter were the only ones in the area capable of interfering with the Sabre telemetry. Supposedly, they had come on very briefly during the engagement. The allies, for reasons known only to them, had not yet gotten around to targeting the radars, possibly because there were civilians inside the complex where the units were located.

There were two ways to see if the units here could have interfered with the Sabre. One was to somehow turn back time and record everything they did. The second was to examine them very closely, which required being physically nearby and provoking, or at least attempting to provoke, a similar response.

The latter choice was only slightly less impossible than the former. But more likely twice as dangerous.

They stopped a mile outside the site, clearly visible on a slight rise, guarded by two armored personnel carriers and three sandbagged machine-gun emplacements.

“Guys in that post over there are sleeping,” said Jons, looking through the night glasses.

“Go ahead and launch the Streamer.”

Lawson had already taken the small aircraft out of its case. With a wingspan just under twenty-four inches, the robot aircraft was an electronic noise machine. Powered by a small kerosene-fueled engine, it would circle over the radar installation, broadcasting a signal that would make it seem as if NATO aircraft were approaching.

“Come on little birdie, time to start you up,” said Lawson, half singing the last few words as if he were Mick Jagger singing “Start Me Up.”

The motor didn’t seem to be in a musical mood, or maybe it just didn’t like rock ’n’ roll. It refused to start. He reprimed it and pressed the starter, which used a spring and battery combination to spin it to life.

The engine spat, coughed, then finally spun into high speed.

Up close, the miniature power plant sounded like an HO-scale racing car, its high-pitched whir almost a whistle. The sound didn’t carry very far, however; it was difficult to discern at a hundred feet, and would be easily covered by the hum of the electronics and cooling gear in the control vans at the base.

“Fly, my pretty,” said Lawson, pushing the UAV into the air.

It launched like a paper plane, the wings struggling to find airflow as the motor revved. The nose dipped down, the plane gathered speed, then suddenly tilted up and soared skyward on a preprogrammed climb.

Lawson picked up the controller—it was a hobbyist’s kit, with only slight modifications for security—and worked the plane up to two hundred feet. Then he put it into a wide circle above the base.

Rubeo was watching the screen on the detection processing unit, which was attached to a set of wire antennas. As the UAV circled, Lawson turned its broadcast system on.

The radar system on the ground believed it was looking at a Predator some twenty miles away—well inside the missile’s effective range.

“They’re just watching,” said Lawson.

“Good. Phase two.”

A second signature now appeared on the screens of the operators inside the van—F/A–18s approaching from a distance. The aircraft popped up, preparing to attack.

The engagement radar for the ground-to-air missiles came on. The operators had decided to take down the Predator, which they interpreted as scouting for the manned aircraft. But within seconds both radars shut down.

“They’re afraid of antiradiation missiles,” said Rubeo, looking at the screen over Lawson’s shoulder.

“Yup.”

The radars stayed off.

If the Libyans had a way of interfering with the UAV transmissions, Rubeo reasoned, they would have likely used it against the Predator, which after all looked as if it was bird-dogging for the other planes.

Still, he needed to be absolutely sure. The jamming unit might be “tuned” to the Sabres.

“Launch the Mapper.”

“With pleasure,” said Lawson.

The Mapper was a larger UAV, with a wingspan over twenty feet. The large size allowed it to carry a heavier payload—a device that would map the electronic layout of the camp. Every wire, every circuit, would be diagrammed.

Rubeo monitored the Streamer controls. If the radars suddenly turned on, the Mapper would be an easy target; it was not only bigger, but louder than the first UAV.

“It’s on its own,” said Lawson. The plane had been programmed to fly a very slow circuit over the compound. As it did, its sensors would map the electronic and magnetic fields and circuits below, giving Rubeo a picture of the installation, or at least its electronic components.

“They’re going to hear it,” said Jons. He was watching the machine-gun position through his glasses.

“Hopefully they won’t,” said Rubeo.

“Relying on luck? That’s not like you, Ray.”

Rubeo didn’t answer. The data from the aircraft had to be recorded and then uploaded to his systems back in the States. They didn’t have the equipment to analyze it in real time. Rubeo had calculated that they needed three circuits to get a sufficient image; he wanted at least six.

The plane was just completing the second when the radar came back up.

“Why the hell did they do that?” grumbled Lawson.

The Streamer pumped out fresh signals, making it seem as if the site was going to be attacked by the F/A–18s. This time it didn’t work.

“They’re running around like crazy men,” said Jons.

A second later someone in one of the vehicles began firing a fifty caliber. The Mapper was way too close to be targeted by the missiles, but within easy reach of old-fashioned machine guns.

Red and orange tracers cascaded in the air, peppered here and there with bolts of black. The sound was oppressive, even from where they were.

“They’re going to launch missiles,” said Lawson. “Radar thinks it has a lock.”

“Wonderful,” said Rubeo sarcastically. He kept his eyes on the control screen, watching the Mapper UAV. It was about three-quarters of the way through its third turn over the complex, heading directly for the tracers. Rubeo could take over the flight program and divert it to safety, but that would mean the circuits would have to be repeated.