Not true—the machine took the coordinates and looked at them, deciding if it was a building or a tank or whatever. It then worked from there.

To an investigator coming in later, it would look purposeful. But that didn’t mean it necessarily was.

If it had been given an empty desert, it wouldn’t have attacked at all. But given a location with a house . . .

Rubeo played with his earring. The mission had been programmed in. Assuming there was no interference, what had happened could be explained by a change in the navigation system that made the Sabre think it was several miles away from its intended target, and by an override to the targeting computer that put the strike into dumb mode—in other words, turned off the target recognition feature. Two separate events that someone would have to beam in.

Dumb mode wasn’t on. It hit the house—it was going to a target.

Maybe by accident. Or not accident exactly, but whoever had worked out the coordinates knew it would be close enough to look deliberate.

To reprogram it, you’d have to physically access the system. You’d need a fairly sophisticated knowledge of the Sabres as well as the computing system.

No. You could do it with a sophisticated knowledge of the Flighthawk GPS and backup system, which was the model for the Sabres. In fact, it was essentially the same, ported over with minor changes to account for the hardware.

How would you figure that?

Easy—look through the Air Force bids relating to the project. If you had access to different defense contractors.

So you’re in. How do you get to dumb mode in the targeting section?

Easy—just flip a software switch. But you had to know it was there.

Hmmmph.

Interference, but an extremely sophisticated form.

Hard to get all of that data into the aircraft via the GPS channel. And then you had to erase it.

Rubeo worked the problem out in his mind, seeing the lines of code he would need to write if he were the one introducing the problem.

No, that was the wrong approach. Too complicated. It assumed too much knowledge.

Go back to the random theory. What if rather than playing with the software, which was always recorded, you attacked the hardware—if you changed the voltage to a particular circuit, you might be able to change the targeting mechanism. If you affected the GPS sensor for a short period of time, you could send the aircraft to a new location.

Was that all you needed?

He wasn’t sure. He tried picturing the different circuitry in his mind. One thing he did know, however: when the system returned to normal, there would be no trace.

Who would go to that kind of trouble, though? With that much knowledge, wouldn’t you just reprogram the unit to fly to wherever you wanted it? The Chinese would pay dearly for it.

Rubeo jerked his head around as he heard something fall nearby. The bricks had fallen on the two boys working on the wall.

He ran toward them, Jons right behind.

The Filipino who’d been watching that side of the perimeter got there first. One of the child’s legs was pinned by the rubble. He scooped the material off and lifted the boy gently out. He put him down on the dirt nearby, then swung his rifle up and took a guard position a few feet away.

Rubeo found the second kid dazed but apparently unharmed. He lifted him by the shoulders and deposited him next to his friend.

“Are you hurt?” he asked the child.

The kid looked too shocked to talk.

Jons called over Halit, who had been back by the car with Lawson. The translator took a stern tone with two kids, immediately beginning to berate them for playing in the ruins.

“Don’t yell at them,” snapped Rubeo. “Find out if they’re all right.”

“They are fine. Look at them.” Halit waved his hands as if he was an exasperated crossing guard. “These vermin are always wandering where they don’t belong. They are worse than monkeys. Monkeys would have more manners.”

“Ask them,” said Rubeo.

Halit began to question them. Neither boy spoke, clearly intimidated. Rubeo went to the kid whose legs had been pinned under the rubble and helped him to his feet. There was a bit of blood near the right knee. Rubeo started to roll up the pants leg; the boy jerked back.

“Tell him we’ll fix his leg,” he told Halit.

“See? He is already OK. He moves around like a monkey. Faking.”

“I have a first aid kit,” said Lawson. “Let me see him.”

Lawson rolled up the boy’s pants, exposing some scrapes and minor scratches. A thick welt was already shaded purple on his shin. Lawson took out a bacteria wash and cleaned the cuts and scrapes. The boy barely reacted, even though the antiseptic must have stung.

“Let’s see you walk a little, fella,” said Lawson. When the child didn’t react, the former Ranger began mimicking what he should do. He added a few words in Arabic, then pretended to be a toy soldier or robot—it wasn’t clear to Rubeo which—bouncing around back and forth.

The child laughed. He took a few steps, apparently not greatly harmed.

“See, laughter is the best medicine,” said Lawson.

“Let’s take them home,” said Rubeo.

“Good idea?” asked Jons, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

“Ask them where they live,” Rubeo told Halit. “And say it in a way that gets us a correct answer, or you may find it difficult to walk yourself.”

The boys were cousins, but lived together in a small apartment complex a few blocks away. Five stories tall, with walls of large brown bricks and a stucco material, the buildings were not much different than what might be seen in Europe or even parts of America. The Gaddafi government had erected similar developments throughout the country, awarding them occasionally to the poor, but more often to families connected in some way to the power structure.

The interior hall of the building was clean, and smelled of some sort of disinfectant. But the disrepair was obvious as soon as they were through the door. The elevator, its door scratched and pockmarked with indentations, was out of order. The railing next to the stairs leaned at an angle, missing several supports. The floor tiles were cracked and pitted.

Lawson, with the two boys in tow, led the way up the stairs to the third floor, where they lived. By now he and the kids were great friends, so much so that they ran to the door and pushed it open, shouting to their family that they had found rich Americans. Halit was clearly nervous, hesitating near the door as Rubeo took off his shoes.

“You’re coming in with us,” Rubeo told him.

“Of course,” said the man unhappily.

Lawson and the Filipino nicknamed Joker went first, followed by Jons, who stayed in the doorway until the other two had made sure the place was clear. Abas and the others stayed below.

Four girls and two women were crowded into the living room just off the small foyer. They were the only ones home; all the others were either out at school or work. From what Halit said, there were two families here, and a grandmother. The grandmother, who was in her early fifties, was in the living room and acted as the family spokesperson.

After the children had told their story, she went to the kitchen to prepare some food for the visitors. Rubeo had Halit tell her that they’d just been fed but would gladly like something to drink. Anything more, Rubeo realized, would undoubtedly mean the family wouldn’t eat for a week.

The grandmother found two dusty bottles of an Italian soft drink, and served cups all around. Rubeo told Halit to find out what he could about the family, then to ask if the woman knew the people who had been killed in the bombing.

Halit balked.

“To ask this—it is difficult to know the reaction,” said the translator.