Collateral Damage Read Free Page B

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.
    â€œPeacekeeping” 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.
    â€œSenator Stockard, once more I meet you on a tarmac,” said Zongchen with a laugh. “I think perhaps you are considering flying one yourself.”
    â€œDu! 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.”
    â€œPerhaps the UN can arrange for an inspection.”
    â€œYou’d pull strings for me?”
    â€œFor 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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œAs soon as they get a two-seat version, I’ll personally recommend you get a flight,” said Zen.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œHow goes your inspection tour?” he asked.
    â€œVery interesting,” said Zongchen. “Much talk. Pilots are the same the world over, no matter who they fly for.” He smiled. “Very full of themselves.”
    â€œPresent company excepted.”
    â€œYou are not. I am another story,” said Zongchen.