Collateral Damage Read Free Page A

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 lived 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œAbort, abort, abort!” said Turk. “Sabre command computer, abort all attacks. Return immediately to base. Repeat, abort!”
    â€œAuthorize?” Direct command confirmation was necessary to override the preset attack plan.
    â€œAuthorization 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?
    â€œSabre One, status,” said Turk.
    â€œOptimal status,” responded the computer. “Responding to abort command.”
    â€œLocate visually.”
    â€œGrid A6.”
    Turk glanced at the sitrep map in the left-hand corner of his screen. The aircraft was flying to the south.
    â€œSabre One, wingman mode,” Turk ordered, telling the aircraft to shadow the Tigershark.
    â€œSabre 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.
    â€œSabre Four, wingman mode,” Turk told the computer, making absolutely positive it was responding.
    â€œSabre 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.

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    Sicily
    S enator 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