Turk turned the plane northeast so he could swing down and attempt to scatter the group.

From his perspective, the gunners were using women and children to shield themselves, making it difficult for them to be attacked without killing innocent lives. Of course, that was the idea. They figured they couldn’t lose: if he didn’t shoot, they’d get Rubeo. If they were shot at, the odds were the civilians would be hurt as well, undoubtedly giving them some sort of propaganda victory.

Had something like that happened with the kids? Were they actually trained to use MANPADs? Was one hidden somewhere nearby?

But if so, what could he have done?

As Turk approached the group, he lit off IR decoy flares, showering the area. At the same time, he pulled the Tigershark onto her back and hit the throttle full blast, jerking the aircraft upward. The noise was deafening—not quite a sonic boom, but more than a little distracting. One or two of the people began to run, then everyone started to follow, fleeing to the east.

He tilted on his wing, trying to get back into a position to find the people who had fired. But they’d thrown down their weapons in panic, and when he asked the computer to identify them, it responded that none of the people were armed.

“Who threw the guns down?” said Turk.

“Rephrase.”

Turk decided to concentrate on the helicopters instead. They were almost at the trucks.

He fell back toward the earth, spinning the wings level and sending off another shower of flares, this time directly in the helicopters’ path. They diverted east.

Turk zoomed out the map and took a look at the tanks, which were now moving on a road in the direction of the highway and Rubeo.

“People ran. Helicopters going east. Tanks are still moving,” he told Danny. “Can I take them out?”

“Stand by.”

“They’re close enough to fire,” warned Turk.

“I know—hold on. I have allied command.”

Danny’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t happy about what he was hearing on the line.

“I have people under fire,” Danny repeated for the French colonel who’d contacted him directly from the command staff. “I have to be permitted to protect them. We’re in the middle of a rescue operation.”

“We have been told that there is active negotiation between forces, and all forces require an immediate cease-fire,” said the colonel, whose English was so-so. “I have these orders, which have come from the general himself to me. All allied aircraft and forces are to stand back.”

“Listen, Colonel, with all due respect, I am going to protect my people.”

“You must follow the order.”

“Yup, that’s what I’m doing,” snapped Danny, closing the line. A few seconds later the combat air controller came back on.

“We’re seeing those tanks moving,” said the controller. “You want some help to watch them?”

“I want clearance to blow them up.”

“I can’t give that to you,” said the colonel. He spoke quickly. “I have a flight of A–10Es that I’m going to divert south.”

“Are they cleared hot on the tanks?” Danny asked.

“Negative at this time.”

The controller gave Danny the contact frequency and call sign—it was Ginella’s squadron, which of course made sense, since they were the only Hogs in the theater. Danny quickly made contact with Ginella, who was leading the flight.

“We are en route to you,” she told him, without the slightest hint in her voice that they had ever spoken or met. “We should be there in about zero-six minutes.”

“Appreciate your help.”

“Be advised, I have been ordered to restrain from using weapons at this time,” added Ginella.

“Copy that.”

“Colonel, just so you know: I do not intend on allowing any American to be harmed in this operation.”

“You and I agree one hundred and ten percent,” said Danny.

21

Libya

By the time Rubeo reached the first rock and started up the incline, the bot had caught up. It moved to the right of him and began trudging up the hill, moving at a slow but steady pace. The gunfire had stopped, and the helicopters appeared to have moved off.

Rubeo told the bot to pause as it crested the summit of the second hilltop. He reached it a few moments later, caught his breath, and then had it follow as he climbed over the last hill separating him and Kharon.

The young man blinked at him as he came down the slope. Pain lined his face.

“They’ll be here any minute,” said Rubeo.

“Don’t shoot me.”

“I’m not going to. Don’t worry,” said Rubeo. He glanced self-consciously at the gun, which was pointed at the ground.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll go to the hospital.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Rubeo shook his head. “I’ll help you.”

“Why?”

Rubeo couldn’t answer the question, not even for himself. He had only a sense that it was the right thing to do—not because of logic, but because of emotion. And even that was vague.

Something shrieked overhead. Rubeo turned his eyes upward, sure it must be the Tigershark. Then there was a loud clap nearby, and the ground seemed to shatter.

“Something is firing at us,” he told Kharon.

A second shell whistled nearby. This one was even closer; dirt and debris rained across his back.

“We have to get out of here.”

“Tanks are firing!” Turk told Danny.

“Take them.”

“Yeah. I’m on it.”

He was already on a direct line for one of the tanks, roughly three miles to the west. He zeroed it in his targeting screen, corrected slightly, and fired.

A slug sped from the aircraft, hurtling into the fat turret of the tank. Unsure of the result, Turk fired twice more, then pulled off.

The bullets put three large holes in the top of the tank, disabling its main gun and the engine. The T–72 jerked to an abrupt stop, disabled though not in fact destroyed. The almost surgical gunfire had left the crew hatches undamaged, and within a few seconds the three men who had been manning the tank scrambled away from it, undoubtedly stunned and unsure what would happen next.

“Tigershark, this is Shooter One. Are you engaging the tanks?”

“Affirmative Shooter. They have commenced firing.”

The sitrep map showed Turk all four Hogs, IDing them by their call signs and squadron identifications. Ginella was flying lead.

Her wingman was Li.

“We can engage,” said Ginella. “We’re just coming into range.”

“I have the one to the north, that one leading on the road,” said Turk. “You can have the rest.”

“Roger, Tigershark, we copy. We’re going to take the others.”

“Copy.”

Turk swung north to line up his shot. As he did, the RWR began to sound—the MiGs that were supposed to be intercepted by the French planes had turned in his direction. But it wasn’t him they were targeting; it was the A–10s.

Danny Freah took a long, slow breath, ignoring the cacophony of protests in his headset. He leaned forward between the two Osprey pilots, trying to spot the trucks in the distance.

“I’m being told to turn back north,” the pilot told him. “The air commander is trying to reach you.”

“You’re under my direct orders,” Danny told him calmly. “You have no responsibility.”

“Sir, I’m going to save our guys, too. Screw everything else.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“We have more vehicles coming up the road,” he told Danny. “Looks like a scout car, and a couple of pickups. Those pickups usually have fifty cals on the back. I’d like to engage them.”

Even without the allied order to stand down and avoid combat, engaging the vehicles was highly questionable. They had not fired at either the Osprey or Rubeo, and in fact had done nothing overtly threatening. But the situation now was simply too chaotic, and their mere presence was a threat. The Osprey couldn’t land close to a fifty caliber, let alone three of them.