The strange thing was, he believed Rubeo.

But he still hated him.

He had so much anger and emotion, it needed to focus on someone. He hated that his mother had died, that her death had destroyed his father, that he had been left on his own, abandoned.

Angry at his mother? How could he be mad at her?

The faceless saboteur? Even if that was true, how could he hate someone he didn’t know?

“Come on,” said Rubeo, standing up. He had to duck so he wouldn’t hit his head. “Undo your legs.”

“We can’t just jump out of the truck,” said Kharon.

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill us.”

“I doubt staying in the vehicle will decrease those chances,” said Rubeo. “We can roll out. It should be dark by now. They may not see us. My people will rescue us soon.”

“We need weapons.”

“If you find any, let me know.”

Rubeo went to the back door. The truck rattled, but it was impossible to judge even their speed from what he heard or felt.

Surely they were in the desert somewhere. Getting out made more sense—it would be easier in the open space than in a city. Rubeo knew that from Dreamland.

“They’ll kill us,” said Kharon as Rubeo felt around for the lock. It was in a small pocket at the door and impossible to see in the dim light.

“Are you coming or what?” asked Rubeo.

“I don’t know.”

Rubeo went back to him.

“I wear a device that lets the people who work for me track me. They won’t be far behind. Come on. We just have to get a little way in the dark.”

He reached down and began undoing Kharon’s feet. Kharon pushed him away and then started untying them himself.

“Who helped you do this?” Rubeo asked.

“A Russian spy.”

“Name?”

“Like you’ll know him?”

“I might.”

“Foma Mitreski,” said Kharon. “He was interested in the technology you flew in. And in the transmission from your aircraft. As soon as your aircraft arrived, they contacted me and asked me to help them. We cooperated. I—”

Kharon suddenly felt ashamed and stopped speaking. He’d been wrong—so wrong he could never make it right.

“The Sabres?” asked Rubeo. “How did you track—”

“No, the other one. The manned plane. The Tigershark. We recorded them. They wanted the transmission in different circumstances—they wanted to try and look at the data flow under circumstances they knew. If a radar came on—”

“You recorded them—or you interfered with them?” asked Rubeo.

“We didn’t interfere. The encryption and fail-safes are too good. You know yourself—if you can start to see patterns, known reactions—”

“Then how did you order the Sabre attack?”

Kharon felt his throat clutching.

“You were behind the attack, weren’t you? Why did the Russians want that?”

“I wanted it,” he mumbled. “To discredit you. To ruin you.”

Rubeo stayed silent for a moment. “You killed innocent people to ruin me?” he asked finally, his throat dry.

Tears flooded from Kharon’s eyes.

“Yes!” Kharon yelled. “Yes. Yes, damn it. Yes. It was easy to insert the virus in the hangars. As soon as the aircraft were located there, I knew it would be easy.”

“Come on,” Rubeo said. “Let’s get out of here. You’ll tell me what you did later.”

Hand on the latch, Rubeo pressed his ear against the door and strained to listen. But it was useless. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the low hum of the motor and the rattle of the truck.

He glanced back at Kharon. He should have felt anger at what Kharon had done, but instead he felt something closer to relief—he wasn’t the one responsible for the deaths.

He also felt an odd compassion. Kharon was a tormented and twisted soul, worthy of pity.

“Come on,” Rubeo told him. “Get up and let’s go.”

Kharon got to his feet. Rubeo took a deep breath, then pushed himself out the door.

8

Over Libya

Turk spotted the two trucks moving through the desert foothills north of Mizdah just fifteen minutes after lifting off the runway in Sicily. They were nondescript cargo vans, heavy duty extended versions. He zoomed the optical camera, then uploaded the image to Danny aboard the Osprey.

“Whiplash, this is Tigershark,” said Turk. “I have our trucks.”

“Roger that. Seeing them now,” responded Danny.

“How do you want me to proceed?” he asked. He started cutting back on his throttle, preparing to set up in a wide orbit around the vehicles—the Tigershark couldn’t cut back its speed slow enough to stay directly above the vehicles.

“Just stay with them for now,” responded Danny. “We are about forty-five minutes from your location.”

“Gonna reach the city by then,” said Turk. “Want me to slow them down?”

“Negative. We want no chance of harming our package.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Check the city and the army base. See if there’s activity.”

“On it.”

Turk moved west, gliding over the hills at roughly 20,000 feet. He nudged the plane into an easy circle, banking over Mizdah. There were no air defenses there that could threaten him, but the computer did spot and mark out a pair of ancient ZSU–23–4 antiaircraft weapons parked near the soccer field at the center of town.

A pair of helicopters sat in a field adjacent to a compound at the southern end of the city. They were an odd pair—an Mi–35V Hind, Russian attack/transport, and an American-made CH–47C Chinook.

The 47 was a powerful aircraft whose speed and cargo carrying capability belied the fact that she had been built some forty years before; her sisters were still mainstays in the U.S. armed forces. The Hind wasn’t as big, but it could carry guns and missiles, combining attack with transport.

Turk assumed they were government aircraft, though the computer couldn’t link them with an existing unit. The computer identified the compound where they were parked as the home of a regional governor. There was no further data.

He guessed that a small contingent was in the compound. The building wasn’t particularly large; it might hold a dozen troops.

“Observe helicopters in grid D–3,” he told the computer. “Alert me if they power up.”

“Observing helicopters in grid D–3. Helicopters are inert.”

More ominous than the city were the army barracks Danny had mentioned. These were located several miles to the west, in an open area separated from the city by another group of low hills and open desert.

Turk glanced at the threat indicator. Technically this was unnecessary since the computer would warn him verbally, but there were certain things that no self-respecting pilot could completely trust the machine to do—even if the source of the information was exactly the same set of sensors.

The scope was clear.

He had the camera zoom as he approached. The complex of low-slung buildings looked deserted.

“Computer, how many individuals at the complex in grid A–6?” Turk asked.

“Scanning.” The system took a few seconds to analyze infrared data, comparing it to information from the normal and ground-penetrating radar.

“Complex includes Class One shelter system,” said the computer, telling Turk in advance that its estimate might not be accurate—though far better than anything aboard most aircraft, the radar aboard the Tigershark could not penetrate bunkers designed to withstand nuclear strikes. “Infrared scan determines 319 bodies within complex area. Size of underground shelter would indicate possibility of two hundred additional at nominal capacity.”

“Three hundred is good enough for government work,” Turk told the machine.

“Rephrase.”

“Ignore,” Turk told the machine. The estimate was lower than the intel he’d gotten earlier, a good sign—the troops were deserting.