The other members of the committee appeared to have similar feelings, chattering among themselves as soon as they got into the elevator.

“Best to withhold judgment,” said Zongchen as they started downward. “Peace has many handmaidens.”

“Or something like that,” muttered Zen under his breath.

11

Over Libya

“Vehicles have stopped,” Turk told Danny, watching from above. “We have two guys getting out of the second truck—they’re armed. Request permission to—”

“Fry them,” said Danny before he could complete the sentence.

“Gladly.”

Turk leaned the Tigershark on her right wing, lining up the rail gun. The targeting computer did the math—the pipper glowed red and hot on the two men.

He pushed down on the trigger control, firing a single slug at ultrahigh speed.

“Slug” made the round sound like a brick, but in fact it was a highly engineered and aerodynamically shaped piece of metal. The tail end looked somewhat like a stubby magnet. It contained the electronics to propel the projectile, and was discarded as the round came out of the gun. The payload holder was a cylinder with a pair of four-fingered arms that rode the bullet down the rail. Friction from the air forced it to drop away as the rocket-shaped bullet sped toward its target at over Mach 5. Fins stabilized the projectile.

None of this was visible to the naked eye, and even the sophisticated sensors aboard the Tigershark would have had a hard time focusing on the crisply moving arrow. The slug obliterated the gunman it had been aimed at, slicing through his weapon and his chest.

A half a second later Turk fired again. The force of the bullet disintegrated the target’s skull before burying itself deep into the earth.

Turk pulled up, sailing past Rubeo and whoever was with him on the ground. Meanwhile, the rail gun’s enormous heat—the most problematic part of the weapon—was dissipated by the air and liquid cooling system.

“Rubeo and a second individual are running in the hills,” Turk reported. “I have two more guys, back by the first truck. They’re examining the rear of the vehicle. Can I engage?”

“Are they showing weapons?” asked Danny.

“Negative.” Turk glanced to the right, where information on the two figures had been compiled by the computer.

NO WEAPONS flashed in the legend. The computer didn’t detect any.

“Hold off. Can you disable the vehicles?”

“Yeah, roger, OK. Stand by.”

Piece of cake, Turk thought to himself, swinging around to line up his shots.

Watching the feed from the Tigershark, Danny saw the stopped trucks and the men near the rear of the first vehicle. The Tigershark pivoted above, then seemed to settle over the front of the second truck. It was descending almost straight down.

There was a burst of steam from the vehicle. The truck jerked backward, propelled by the impact of the rail gun’s shell striking into the ground. Dirt flew upward, obscuring the van.

The view rotated, Turk slowly turning the aircraft to take the second shot. Danny selected the global ground-facing view—an image caught by a camera back on the belly of the Tigershark with a wide angle lens.

The image was a curved panorama some 160 degrees wide. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the truck jerked backward and to the side, a puff of smoke engulfing the front.

The men who’d been behind the first truck started to run along the highway south, undoubtedly for their lives.

“Splash two trucks,” reported Turk. “Uh, two runners on the ground, going up the road, away from the vehicles.”

“I see them,” answered Danny. “They any danger to Rubeo?”

“No weapons.”

Danny clicked into the interphone circuit, connecting with the pilots. “How long to the target area?”

“Thirty-five minutes, Colonel. We’ve got the pedals to the metal.”

“Keep them there.”

12

Libya, north of Mizdah

The earth shook a second time as the sky cracked behind them. Rubeo recognized the distinctive sound immediately—the Tigershark had fired its rail gun. Whiplash was nearby.

Action was always the best alternative.

But they weren’t in the clear yet.

“Up over there, onto the peak of that hill,” Rubeo told Kharon, pointing to the left. “Come on, come on.”

But it was Rubeo who lagged, tiring after only a few steps. While he was in reasonable shape for his age, he had never been an athlete, and on the far side of fifty he wasn’t about to win any sprints, let alone a marathon. He went down to his knees as he reached the peak, struggling for breath.

“The trucks blew up,” said Kharon.

“It’s the Tigershark—it’s a Whiplash—aircraft. We’re going to be—rescued,” said Rubeo, hunting for his breath. “It’s just a matter—of time.”

“There are two men, running up the road,” said Kharon.

“Let them go.”

Rubeo pushed up to his feet, steadying himself. They’d run about four hundred yards, not quite a quarter mile.

If the Tigershark was above them, a rescue team wouldn’t be too far off. All they had to do now was sit and wait.

Kharon looked across the sandy hilltops, orienting himself in the landscape. There was a town or city to the south, on his right. Behind them, to the west, were more hills. The ground was dry, but small trees and shrubs grew in rows in the valleys. These were the few spots where water remained from the wet season. While the area was not quite as barren and inhospitable as western Libya, where the Sahara’s dunes and moonlike extremes ruled, it was neither a breadbasket nor vacation spot.

Should he stay with Rubeo and be rescued? There was no alternative—even if he reached whatever city was to the south, it was a good bet that Foma would find him there.

But surely he couldn’t return with Rubeo—he’d be prosecuted for the murder of the villagers. And while he hadn’t told Rubeo everything about his work with the Russians, he’d certainly told him enough to warrant an arrest.

Just the sabotage alone would condemn him.

The men with the guns had been killed. Maybe he could get their guns, arm himself, and get to the city. At least then he would have a chance.

He looked at Rubeo. The scientist was thin, older, not frail but certainly not the tall and powerful man in his imagination. Not the monster.

If he could be believed. If what he had said were true?

Kharon, to his shame, sensed it was.

“I forgive you,” he told Rubeo. “I was wrong about you.” And then he set out on a dead run toward the trucks.

13

Over Libya

Danny Freah tapped his helmet to let the incoming communication pass through to his screen.

It was Chase, the security director of Rubeo’s European company.

“Colonel Freah, I see that you have located Dr. Rubeo,” said Chase. He sounded as huffy as ever.

“You see that, huh?”

“We’ve just a few minutes ago intercepted telephone communications between a Russian individual in Tripoli and the Libyan government. He has asked them to scramble forces to retrieve Dr. Rubeo, or kill him if necessary.” Chase cleared his throat so loudly that the antinoise dampers in Danny’s helmet—designed to filter out the sound of an explosion over the radio—kicked in. “They are also intending to retrieve two items that we have in the second van. Those items are our property, and we want them back.”