Collateral Damage Read online

  “All enemy aircraft destroyed.”

  In the space of some forty-eight seconds, Turk had shot down four enemy planes, and a missile for good measure. Few if any pilots could make a claim even close.

  Not bad for his first encounter with manned planes, ever.

  He had a few seconds to savor the victory. Then three different voices began talking over one another in his radio, all asking essentially the same thing—what was the situation?

  The voices belonged to the AWACS controller, the flight boss, and the French leader of an interceptor squadron charged with providing air cover for any airplanes in the sector.

  The flight boss took precedence, though Turk in effect addressed them all, calmly giving his perspective on what had happened. The French flight, which had been vectored to meet the threat, changed course and flew toward the airfield the Mirages had launched from, just in case any other planes came up to avenge their comrades.

  An Italian flight of Harrier jump jets was diverted from another mission farther west and tasked to bomb the control tower and hangars at the airfield, partly in retaliation and partly to make it more difficult for other jets to join the fray. Lastly, the controller ordered an American Predator and a British reconnaissance flight to attempt to locate any survivors of the planes Turk had just shot out of the sky.

  Turk asked the AWACS controller if he knew why the Mirages had scrambled in the first place. The controller’s supervisor, an American squadron leader who had rotated into the position from the combat line, indicated that the aircraft might have been spotted visually as they came south, something that had happened often in the very first week of the war. It was also possible they had been seen by a radar at sea, or by a supposedly neutral ship—the Russians had several in the Mediterranean that weren’t really neutral at all.

  It was also possible, he added, that it was just bad luck—the planes took off, then happened to see an enemy.

  Turk had his own theory: spies were watching the Sicily base and sending information back to Libya when different planes took off. It wouldn’t be too much more difficult for a spy to infiltrate the allied command responsible for targeting or scheduling the aircraft.

  He had other worries at the moment. While he was engaging the Mirages, the Sabres had begun their programmed attack. Unlike older UAVs such as Predators and Raptors, or even the Dreamland-designed Flighthawks, the Sabres featured what the geeks called “distributed autonomous intelligence.” That actually involved two different features: first, the Sabres pooled resources (“distributed”), sharing not only their sensor data but their processing power; second, the Sabres were allowed to make their own battle decisions (“autonomous”). Not only did they decide the best route to battle, but they could pick their own targets.

  This was highly controversial, even within the military. Robots were used all the time in battle, but a man ultimately pulled the trigger. While the aircraft were under Turk’s command and he could override at any point, they were every bit as capable a human pilot of fighting on their own.

  The aircraft were targeting a government tank formation near Wadi al-Hayat. Located at the north side of a small cluster of hills, the camp looked out over a wide expanse of desert. There were several towns and villages in the area. These were claimed as loyal to the government, but that status was in doubt. If recent history was a guide, the inhabitants would join the rebels as soon as a sizable force got close. And that would happen once the tanks were destroyed.

  The primary targets were T–72s, venerable Russian-made armor equipped with 125mm main guns. The tanks had not been used in either this war or the 2011 conflict, but were nonetheless operational; they had moved up to their present position only a few days before. The Libyan government had recently obtained a shipment of ammunition on the black market.

  The attack plan was simple. The UAVs carried four antiarmor Hellfire missiles each, had been given four tanks as targets, and would attack much as a group of manned attack planes. The autonomous programming in the UAVs allowed them to do this without human guidance or input, though Turk could intervene and redirect the attack if he wished.

  Turk had run a half-dozen missions along these very same lines, and with the exception of the Mirages, this looked to be as routine as all the others. Using a hand gesture—his flight suit was specially wired to interpret gestures in conjunction with the command context, or the screen displayed on his visor—he pulled up the overall sitrep map. This was a large area plot that superimposed the positions of all four Sabres as well as the Tigershark on a satellite image. The real-time sitrep showed the four UAVs coming in exactly as programmed, flying at about fifty feet over the sand dunes just northwest of the encampment.

  That made it difficult for the mobile SA–6 antiaircraft battery protecting the camp to spot them, let alone target them. A pair of ZSU–23 four-barreled mobile antiaircraft weapons were parked in their path, but the radar-equipped weapons had apparently not found them either; all was quiet as the small UAVs approached.

  Turk had taken the Tigershark some one hundred miles to the southwest as he engaged the Mirages. He now swung back to get a view of the attack. He was still about fifty miles away—well beyond the range even of the high-powered optical cameras the Tigershark carried—as the first aircraft reached its attack point.

  “Visual preset two,” he told the computer. “Image screen B Sabre One.”

  The command opened a new window on his virtual cockpit screen, displaying the feed from Sabre One.

  Turk watched the aircraft launch a pair of missiles at the command and control vans for the SA–6 site. Launched from approximately five miles away, the Sabre’s missiles used an optical guidance system to find their targets: the small sensors in their head essentially looked at the terrain, identified their targets based on preprogrammed profiles—photos, in this case—and flew at them. This meant that there was no signal from the missiles or their launch planes to alert the defenses to their presence; the first thing the Libyans knew of the attack were the explosions, which occurred almost simultaneously.

  The destruction of the two vans rendered the missile battery useless, but the enemy’s SA–6 missiles themselves were still relatively high-value targets, and as soon as the destruction was recorded, Sabre One’s combat computer pushed the plane into a second wave attack on the launchers, two tanklike chassis sporting three missiles instead of a turret.

  The first strike created an enormous secondary explosion, shrapnel and powder shooting across the complex. The Sabre’s second missile disappeared into a cloud of smoke; a bright burst of flame confirmed that it, too, had hit its target.

  Turk switched over to Sabre Two, which was aiming at one of the ZSU antiaircraft guns. It fired two missiles. Both hit. Still on the same approach, the aircraft dished out another pair of projectiles, this time at separate targets, having used the success of the first launch to decide it could go with just one shot per tank.

  Meanwhile, Sabre Three initiated its own attack on the second ZSU gun and the nearby tanks. Using the data from Sabre One, it computed that one missile was all it needed to eliminate each target. It dished one at the gun, then fired three more in rapid succession, each aimed at a different tank.

  By now Turk was close enough to see the battlefield through his own optical sensors. He closed the feed and expanded his screen, which duplicated in extremely high definition what he would have seen if the sleek Tigershark had a real canopy. Six plumes of black and gray smoke rose from the encampment, stark contrasts against the light blue sky and the gaudy yellow of the sand in the distance.

  As he approached, Turk turned to get in line with a highway that ran through the area. The annual rains and an underground water supply combined to make the foothills suitable for agriculture, and a patchwork of tiny farm fields appeared under his nose. The squares were groves of citrus and olive trees, planted and tended by families that had l
ived here for generations. A little farther out were circles of green, round patches fed by pivot irrigation systems.

  There was a flash of red in the far right corner of Turk’s screen. He pointed his hand and told the computer to magnify.

  It was a house, suddenly burning in a hamlet about four miles from the tank base. A black shadow passed overhead.

  Sabre Four.

  “What the hell?” sputtered Turk.

  He watched in disbelief as a missile was launched from under the wing of the aircraft. The missile flew level for a few hundred feet, then dove down into the roof of what looked like a large barn. The building imploded immediately, setting up a huge cloud of dust and debris.

  “Abort, abort, abort!” said Turk. “Sabre command computer, abort all attacks. Return immediately to base. Repeat, abort!”

  “Authorize?” Direct command confirmation was necessary to override the preset attack plan.

  “Authorization Captain Turk Mako.”

  Turk added a stream of curses even as the planes complied. He saw Sabre Four pull up and continue south, away from the settlement. Farther west, two other UAVs rose from their attack runs, missiles still clinging to their wings. The synthesized image included small tags under each, showing their IDs: SABRE 2 and SABRE 3.

  He couldn’t see the other plane. Where was it?

  “Sabre One, status,” said Turk.

  “Optimal status,” responded the computer. “Responding to abort command.”

  “Locate visually.”

  “Grid A6.”

  Turk glanced at the sitrep map in the left-hand corner of his screen. The aircraft was flying to the south.

  “Sabre One, wingman mode,” Turk ordered, telling the aircraft to shadow the Tigershark.

  “Sabre One acknowledges,” replied the computer.

  He turned his attention back to Sabre Four, the aircraft that had fired its missiles on the village. The plane was rising in a wide arc to his south.

  “Sabre Four, wingman mode,” Turk told the computer, making absolutely positive it was responding.

  “Sabre Four acknowledges.”

  Turk started to climb.

  I hope to hell it doesn’t decide to take a shot at me, he thought. It’s a long walk home.

  2

  Sicily

  Senator Jeff “Zen” Stockard wheeled himself past the row of parked F–35As, admiring the creative nose art employed by the RAF. No traditional shark mouth or tiger jaws for them—the first, on an aircraft nicknamed, “Show Time,” featured a woman suggestively riding a bomb into battle, and they got less politically correct from there.

  Zen was amused—though he also couldn’t help but think about his young daughter. She was still in grammar school, but the images convinced him she wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone from Great Britain until she was forty.

  Pilots were completely out of bounds.

  Zen pushed himself toward a pair of parked Gripen two-seat fighters. Their paint schemes were austere to a fault: the very respectable light gray at the nose faded to a slightly darker but still eminently respectable darker gray.

  His interest was drawn to the forward canards, flexible winglets that increased the aircraft’s lift at takeoff and landing speeds, as well as increasing its payload. The airplanes had only just arrived on the island as part of the multination peacekeeping force; they had not seen combat yet.

  “Peacekeeping” was something of a misnomer in practice, though the alliance was trying to get both sides to the negotiating table. A month before, several European nations had acted together to condemn attacks by the Libyan government on civilians, and in essence begun supporting the rebellion. The U.S. had been asked to assist. Publicly, its role was limited to support assets, more or less what it had said during the 2011 war to oust Gaddafi. And just like that conflict a few years before, the U.S. was heavily involved behind the scenes, providing the unmanned aircraft and sensors that were doing much of the work.

  As Zen stared at the fighters, he was hailed by a short man in jeans and a leather flight jacket. Few people spotting the man on the runway would give him a second glance, but Zen immediately recognized him as Du Zongchen, formerly one of the most accomplished pilots in the Chinese air force.

  Zongchen was a native of Shanghai, but spoke English with an accent somewhere between Hong Kong and Sydney, Australia.

  “Senator Stockard, once more I meet you on a tarmac,” said Zongchen with a laugh. “I think perhaps you are considering flying one yourself.”

  “Du! Not a chance with any of these,” said Zen brightly. “Though I wouldn’t mind sitting in the backseat of one of those Gripens. I’ve never been up in one.”

  “Perhaps the UN can arrange for an inspection.”

  “You’d pull strings for me?”

  “For the greatest fighter pilot of all modern history, nothing would be too good.”

  Zen smirked. Upon retiring as a general, Zongchen had entered government service as a representative to the United Nations. He had recently been asked by the UN General Assembly to inspect the allied air operation. As a neutral observer, Zongchen had considerable influence with just about everyone.

  “If I were going to fly an airplane,” the retired general confessed, “I would ask to try one of those.”

  He pointed across the way to a pair of F–22Gs, recently enhanced and updated versions of the original F–22 Raptor. The aircraft were single-seat fighters, which made it highly unlikely that Zongchen would get a chance to fly one—the Air Force wasn’t likely to entrust what remained the world’s most advanced interceptor to a member of a foreign government that still had occasions to act hostile toward the U.S.

  “As soon as they get a two-seat version, I’ll personally recommend you get a flight,” said Zen.

  “And then I will fly you in the backseat of a J–20,” laughed Zongchen. Not yet operational, the J–20 was a Chinese stealth aircraft, more bomber than fighter. It, too, was a single-seat only plane, at least as far as Zen knew.

  “How goes your inspection tour?” he asked.

  “Very interesting,” said Zongchen. “Much talk. Pilots are the same the world over, no matter who they fly for.” He smiled. “Very full of themselves.”

  “Present company excepted.”

  “You are not. I am another story,” said Zongchen. “I still think I am the best pilot in the world, no?” He patted his midsection, which though not fat was not as taut as it would have been a decade before. “The years affect us all. And the fine cooking. That is one thing I will say for NATO—good cooking. I hardly miss home.”

  “This isn’t quite NATO,” said Zen. It was a sensitive issue, since for all intents and purposes it was NATO—NATO countries, NATO command structures, the squadrons NATO would call on in an emergency. But the complicated politics required that the countries use a separate command structure called the “alliance,” rather than admitting they were NATO.

  “If you want to keep up the facade, that is fine with me,” said Zongchen. “But other than that, the air forces are very professional.”

  “As good as Chinese pilots?”

  “Chinese pilots are very good.”

  “I can attest to that.”

  “Senator?”

  Zen turned and saw his aide, Jason Black, trotting toward him. Jason was his all-around assistant, in some ways more a son or nephew than a political aide.

  “I think I’m being called back to work,” he told Zongchen.

  “Senator, I hate to interrupt you, but, uh, your wife was looking to talk to you,” said Jason, huffing from the long run from the terminal buildings. “She has a limited time window. Your phone must be off.”

  “Guilty,” said Zen. “Talk to you later, General.”

  He turned and started wheeling himself toward the building with Jason. When they were o
ut of earshot, his aide whispered to him, “It’s not Breanna. I’m sorry for lying. It was the only thing I could think of.”

  “Not a problem,” Zen told the young man. “What’s up?”

  “There’s been an accident with the Sabres. You need to talk to Colonel Freah.”

  Zen wheeled a little faster toward the building.

  Ten minutes later, after negotiating the difficult bumps at the rear entrance to the building and then to the main corridor leading inside, the senator and former lead pilot for Dreamland entered a secure communications suite that had been set up for the American teams supporting the alliance. The room was literally a room inside a room inside a room—a massive sheet of copper sat between two sections of wallboard, which in turn were isolated from the regular walls of the Italian building. The space between the original room and the American inset was filled with nitrogen. Outside, an array of jamming and detection devices made it even more difficult to eavesdrop.

  Two rows of what looked like ordinary workstations sat inside the room. All were connected to a secure communications system back in the States. Despite the high-level encryption, the system was so fast that the users experienced no lag at all.

  There were drawbacks, however. Despite two small portable air-conditioning units, the room was at least ten degrees hotter than the rest of the building, and Zen felt sweat starting to roll down his neck practically as soon as he wheeled himself in front of the far terminal.

  Seconds later Danny Freah’s worried face appeared on the screen.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Zen. “What’s up?”

  “One of the Sabre unmanned aircraft went crazy,” said Danny.

  “ ‘Crazy’ in what way?”

  “It attacked civilians.”

  “What?”

  “I know, I know.” Danny looked grave. He was aboard an aircraft; Zen guessed he was on his way over from the States. “We’re still gathering the details. Turk Mako is due to land in about twenty minutes.”