“Fire some warning shots and see if they stop,” Danny told the pilot.

“If they don’t?”

“Then splash them.”

Rubeo heard the roar of the Osprey’s engines in the distance, but the shells were still raining down, passing overhead. He guessed they were being aimed at the road, but that was hardly a consolation—any second now he expected one to land short and wipe them out.

“I can’t carry you,” he told Kharon.

“Leave me!”

“That’s not what I meant. Come on.” Rubeo hooked his arms under the other man’s shoulder’s. “I have to get you on the bot.”

Kharon screamed in anguish. Rubeo hesitated, but the whistle of another shell going overhead convinced him to continue. He half lifted, half dragged Kharon to the nearby bot, cringing as the younger man howled in pain.

“We’re getting out of here,” Rubeo told him, putting him down as gently as he could manage on the rear bed of the bot. Kharon twisted, grabbing hold of the spar.

“Diomedes, follow me,” Rubeo told the bot, starting out of the small hollow where he’d taken shelter.

He’d taken exactly three steps when he felt himself pushed from behind, thrown forward by a force he couldn’t fathom.

22

Over Libya

Turk zeroed his gun on the tank and fired six bursts, the bolts leaping from the gun in a sharp, staccato rhythm that seemed to suspend the Tigershark in midair. The line of his bullets was tighter this time, and there was no escape for the men inside—the first slug ignited one of the tank’s shells, and secondary explosions ripped through the tight quarters of the armored vehicle, mincing its occupants. The rest of the bullets simply sliced through the fireballs.

As soon as he let off the trigger, Turk turned his attention to the MiGs. They had separated into two groups, one duo diverting toward the French interceptors and the other coming at the Hogs.

The A–10s were easy targets for the MiGs, but to their credit they remained in their attack patterns, closing in on the tanks.

“Shooter, I’m on those MiGs,” Turk told Ginella. “I have them.”

“We appreciate it.”

There was a launch warning—the MiGs were firing.

“Four missiles,” reported the computer. “AA–10 Alamo. Semiactive radar.”

“Plot an intercept to missiles,” said Turk. He could line up and shoot at the missiles with the rail gun.

“Impossible to intercept all four.”

“Best solution.”

A plot flashed up on the screen.

Three targets. Two were heading for Ginella’s aircraft, Shooter One. The other was going for Beast in Shooter Three.

“Identify target of remaining missile,” Turk said.

“Missile is targeted at Shooter Four.”

Li’s plane, on Ginella’s wing.

“Recalculate to include missile targeting Shooter Four.”

The computer presented a new solution, striking one of the missiles on Ginella as well as Li’s sole missile. But Beast was completely unprotected. Before Turk could decide what to do, four more missiles launched. The computer began running a variety of solutions, but Turk realized that none were going to completely protect the Hogs.

“Choose Solution One,” he said, moving to the course queue as it snapped into his heads-up. “Shooter squadron, you have missiles inbound.”

“We’re aware of that, Tigershark.”

“I can get some, not all.”

“Whatever you can do for us,” said Ginella. Her voice was cold and flat, without effect. “Tanks will be down in a second.”

23

Libya

Danny Freah grabbed for a handhold as the Osprey pirouetted above the road, the chain gun in its nose tearing up the road in front of the approaching vehicles. The two trucks veered off to the side but the armored car kept moving forward.

“Stop the bastard,” said Danny.

The Osprey spun back quickly. The gun under its chin swiveled, and a steady rat-rat-rat followed. Danny leaned forward, watching through the windscreen as the gun’s bullets chewed through the rear quarter of the lightly armored vehicle. Steam shot up from the armored car. The right rear wheel seemed to fall away, sliding from the cloud of smoke and disintegrating metal. The rest of the vehicle morphed into a red oblong, fire consuming it in an unnaturally symmetrical shape. The red flared, then changed to black as the symmetry dissolved in a rage.

“People on the ground, coming up along the road,” said the copilot.

“Where are our guys?” asked Danny.

“Going for them now.”

Rubeo fell face-first into the side of the hill. His face felt as if it had caught fire and had been ripped downward at the same time; his head pounded with pain. He pushed back with his hand, then fell to the side, exhausted and spent.

What had Bastian’s advice been? What was his old colonel telling him?

Find out why it happened. For yourself.

He’d done that—Kharon had caused it, with the help of the Russians. He’d closed the circle of a crime committed years before. A crime Rubeo knew he had been completely innocent of, yet one he’d always felt guilty about.

How did he benefit from knowing that?

He should feel relief knowing he wasn’t responsible for the accident, and more important, for the civilian deaths. And yet he didn’t. He should feel horror at Kharon’s crime—he’d committed murder. Anger. Rage. But all he felt was pity, pity and sorrow. Useless emotions.

Was that what knowledge brought you? Impotent sadness?

The man who had built his life around the idea that intelligence could solve every problem lay in the dirt and rubble, body battered and exhausted. He knew many things, but what he knew most of all now was pain.

Up, he told himself. Up.

You know what happened. And what of it? Knowledge itself is useless. It’s how it’s put to use, if it can be used at all.

Diomedes idled behind him. He could feel the soft vibration of its engine.

Time to get up. Time to move on.

“Follow me,” he said, starting to move on his hands and knees.

The bot moved behind him, carrying Kharon and nipping at Rubeo’s heels.

His ears pounded. Rubeo realized belatedly that he couldn’t hear properly. The ground vibrated with something, but whether it was far or close, he had no idea.

Gradually his strength returned. He pushed up to his knees, then to his feet, walking unsteadily up the slope. The world had shaded yellow, blurring at the edges. Rubeo pushed himself forward, trudging across the side of a hill, then down to his right, in the direction of the road. The loose dirt and sand moved under the soles of his feet, and he felt himself sliding. He began to glide down the hill, legs bent slightly and arms out for balance; a snowboarder couldn’t have done it better.

The bot followed. Rubeo glanced at it, making sure Kharon was still on the back. Then he began moving parallel to the road. He passed the disabled trucks, continuing toward a flat area he remembered from earlier.

Kharon’s leg had gone numb, but he actually felt better. The shock had passed; his head was clear. He felt stronger—still injured, of course, but no longer paralyzed.

He clung to the crane arm of the bot as they rumbled across the terrain, the vehicle bobbing and weaving like a canoe shooting rapids. It settled somewhat as it moved off the hill onto the level shoulder alongside the road.