An Osprey, black and loud, approached from the south. Kharon stared as it grew larger. His eyes, irritated by the grit in the wind, seemed to burn with the image. The ground shook. The wings seemed to move upward, the control surfaces sliding down as the rotors at the tips tilted. Dirt flew everywhere.

The world began to close around him, becoming dark. He was a child, trapped in the closet, waiting for something that would never happen.

All these years, and he had never really moved beyond those long, terrible moments. Everything he had done, his achievements, his studies, paled compared to that dreadful time. Life had failed to lift him beyond the sinkhole he’d crawled into that night.

Such a failure. Such a waste. Even the one thing I lived for, revenge, proved unreachable. Rubeo wasn’t even the culprit. Rubeo wasn’t even the villain. The people who helped me were. They probably knew it from the start.

Nothing is left.

Danny moved to the door as the Osprey started to settle toward the earth. Boston was already there, gun in hand, ready to leap out. They had to move quickly; the Osprey was extremely vulnerable when landing and taking off.

Not to mention on the ground.

Something shrieked. The aircraft jerked upward.

“Incoming shells,” said the pilot over the interphone. “Evading—hang on.”

Rubeo saw the aircraft as it swept overhead. Dirt swirled from the wash of the propellers spinning. He put his head down, shielding it with his hands.

“Into the aircraft,” he said, speaking into the microphone for the bot. He still couldn’t hear; his voice in his head sounded hollow and strange. “Go to the ramp at the rear.”

The wind increased. Rubeo bent almost double and stopped moving forward. All he had to do now was wait.

They were out of this damn hellhole.

Diomedes poked him in the back. Rubeo turned, then fell as the wind peaked. He rolled onto his back, eyes and face covered by his hands. He spread his fingers hesitantly, then saw something black fleeing above.

The Osprey was scooting away.

“What the hell?” he yelled in anguish.

The ground shook. Rubeo jerked back to his feet and began shouting at the aircraft. A geyser of sand and dirt rose from the road about a hundred yards away.

“We’re being fired at,” Rubeo yelled to Kharon. He turned and saw Diomedes, which had stopped about twenty yards away, waiting in the spot where the Osprey would have landed. A fresh geyser rose just beyond the bot.

The explosions were smaller than before—a mortar or maybe two or three.

“This way,” Rubeo told the bot. He fingered the microphone cord and started south. The bot quickly followed. He heard something, a growl in the air—his hearing was returning.

“Mortar team behind those two trucks,” the pilot told Danny.

“Eliminate it.”

“With pleasure.”

The Osprey’s tail rose, tilting the gun in its nose toward the trucks. A chain of bullets began spitting from the aircraft, chewing the ground just behind the vehicle. The Osprey danced right. The bullets disappeared in a stream of debris. A cloud rose where they landed, growing quickly until it mushroomed over the trucks and everything within fifty yards.

The mortar fire stopped. But there were more vehicles coming out from the city. And the people who had come from the village were gathering along the road about two miles away. Whiplash had blundered into the middle of an uprising—troops who had deserted earlier interpreted the military action as an attack from the loyal troops, and were coming out to fight. The government forces, meanwhile, had seen the action as a rebel attack. And in the middle was the scientist they were trying to rescue.

“Colonel, the air commander is reporting that there’s activity at that army base to the west,” said the Osprey pilot. “This place is getting damn busy.”

“I thought these bastards were negotiating a cease-fire,” cursed Danny.

24

Tripoli

The defense minister’s aide leaned over and whispered something in his boss’s ear. The two spoke quickly.

“I have a report that I must hear,” the minister told Zongchen and the others. “There is a confrontation—American aircraft are involved.”

“Which American aircraft?” asked Zen.

“Several. A black aircraft like a helicopter. And A–10 fighters—”

“You mean an Osprey?” said Zen.

“There is a major fight with rebels,” said the minister. “A rebellion in Mizdah. I must take this call.”

The aide handed him a phone. Zongchen looked at Zen.

“Excuse me a second.” Zen wheeled backward from the table. There was only one unit operating a black Osprey in Libya—Whiplash. He took out his satellite phone, hesitated a moment, then hit the quick dial for Danny.

Instead of getting Danny directly, the call was rerouted through the Whiplash system to a desk operative at Whiplash’s headquarters in the U.S. on the CIA campus. The officer was assigned to monitor and assist Danny and the team during operations; he was in effect a secretary, though no one would ever call him that. “Colonel Freah’s line.”

“This is Zen Stockard. I need to talk to Danny right now.”

“Senator, he is in Libya right now, in the middle of a firefight.”

“I know exactly where he is. I have battle information for him,” said Zen.

“Stand by, Senator.”

The line cleared, seemingly empty. Then Danny came on, as loud and clear as if he were in the same room.

“Zen, we’re in the middle of heavy shit here. Rubeo is on the ground and we’re trying to get to him. I got government and rebel forces on both sides.”

“I have the Libyan government minister here. I’m going to get a cease-fire.”

“That would be damn timely.”

“Give me your location. Then keep the line to me open if you can.”

“Near Mizdah.”

Zen put the phone in his lap and wheeled back to the table.

“If you want a negotiated peace,” he told the minister loudly, “call your forces off the Osprey at Mizdah they’re telling you about.”

Zen turned to Zongchen. “We need to tell the princess to get her people down there to stop as well.”

25

Libya

The Osprey roared overhead. Rubeo could hear almost perfectly now—the engines sounded like a pair of diesel trucks that had lost their mufflers.

The aircraft circled around, checking the nearby terrain as it came down to land.

“Follow,” Rubeo told Diomedes. He looked at Kharon, still gripping the crane spar. Kharon looked haunted, shocked into another dimension. “It’ll be all right,” Rubeo yelled at him. “We’re getting out this time.”

The aircraft settled down thirty yards away. Troopers leapt from the door at the side. Rubeo tried to run toward them but his legs wouldn’t carry him any faster than a walk.

Someone grabbed him. It was Sergeant Rockland—Boston.

“Come on, Doc,” yelled the sergeant, hooking his arm around so he supported Rubeo on one side. “Let’s get you the hell out of here.”

“The bot.”

“Yeah, yeah, the mechanical marvel.”

“Kharon, get Kharon.”

“We’re getting him,” said Boston. “Let’s go, let’s go. There are all sorts of people heading this way.”

Kharon curled his body down as the wind swirled around him and the robot rolled to the rear of the Osprey. One of the troopers ran beside him, gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and waved his gun back and forth, making sure there was no one there.