“Ciao,” he told the driver, pretty much exhausting his store of Italian as he clambered down the steps.

They were miles from the sea, but the air was heavy with it today. The sun peeked in and out of the clouds, keeping the temperature pleasant. Sicily could be brutally hot, even in March.

Turk cut through the maze of admin buildings, zigging toward the lot. As he did, he heard something he’d rarely if ever heard on a military air base before—the sound of children playing. Curious, he took a sharp right between a pair of buildings and found himself at the back of a building used as a day care center by the Italian staff. A low chain-link fence separated a paved play area from the roadway.

A group of ten-year-olds playing a vigorous game of soccer caught Turk’s eye and he stopped to watch. The kids were good. He had played soccer himself through high school, making all-county at midfield. He admired the way the kids handled the ball, able to move up not only through a line of defenders but across dips and cracks in the pavement without tripping or looking down at the ball.

Suddenly, the ball shot over the fence. Turk leapt up and grabbed it, goalkeeper style, as it was about to sail over his head. He hammed it up, clutching the ball to his chest and then waving it, as if he’d just caught a penalty kick at the World Cup.

The kids stared at him. There wasn’t so much as a half smile among them.

“Here ya go,” he yelled, tossing it back.

The player closest to it ran over, tapped it up with his knee, then headed it back over the fence. This was a challenge Turk couldn’t turn down—he met it with his forehead, bouncing it back.

He was out of practice—the ball sailed far to the left rather than going back in the direction of the kid who had butted it to him. Another child caught it on his chest, let it drop and then booted a missile.

Turk jumped and caught it. He motioned with a mock angry face, pretended he was going to haul it back in the child’s direction, then meekly lobbed it over toward the kid who had headed it earlier.

The boy caught it on his knee, flipped it behind him, and tried juggling it on the heel of his foot. But that was too much, even for the little soccer star in the making: the ball dribbled away. One of his teammates grabbed it and flicked it back to Turk, who kicked it and managed to get it over to the kid who’d launched the missile earlier.

The back-and-forth continued for a while longer, and in fact might never have ended except for a van that pulled up at the head of the alleyway.

“Is that you, Turk?” called the man in the passenger seat.

It was Zen Stockard.

Turk bounced the ball back to the children and gave them a wave, then trotted over to the van.

“Bravo, il Americano,” yelled the kids. “Bravo!”

“You have a fan club,” said Zen.

“Just little kids—you see how good they are at soccer?”

“They look pretty good.”

“I wish I was half that good now, let alone at their age.”

“You seem to be holding up well,” Zen told him. “You want a lift to your hotel?”

“I have a car in the lot.”

“Rental?”

“There’s like a pool at the hotel. You sign for it. Some days there’s no cars, some days you have your pick.”

“Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.”

Turk reached to the rear passenger door and slid it open. Jason Black was behind the wheel.

“I’m not supposed to say anything to you,” Turk said. “Just, uh, just so you know.”

“Colonel Freah told you that?”

“No, uh, General Dalce, the Frenchman.”

“The intelligence chief, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zen chuckled at some private joke.

“Thanks for meeting my plane, Senator,” said Turk. “I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. I’ve been there.”

Turk liked Zen—a lot—and he liked his wife, Breanna Stockard, who as head of the Office of Special Technology was his ultimate boss. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he could or should say. Zen had been friendly and reassuring when he landed, but Turk hadn’t been in the mood to talk. And now the questions the investigators asked made him suspicious that they were going to try and find some way of blaming him for the accident.

If there was an inquiry, Congress would probably eventually get involved. Anything he said now might come back to haunt him.

“You flying tomorrow?” asked Zen.

“Planes are grounded. I don’t know—I’m sure I’ll have to answer a lot of questions.”

Zen was quiet for a moment. “I always tried to get right back in the air as soon as I could. Take a milk run or anything.”

“Yes, sir.” His options were pretty damn limited, Turk thought, but he didn’t say that.

“I can mention that you’re available, if you want,” said Zen. “I know General Pierce pretty well.”

“Sure.” Pierce was the head of the American flying contingent. He was a two-star general; Turk had met him exactly once, in a reception line.

“Nice flying in that encounter,” Zen continued. “Four shoot-downs in the space of what? Two minutes.”

“I think it might have been a little less, actually.”

“Damn good. Damn good.”

“Thanks.”

It was high praise coming from Zen, who had pioneered remote combat piloting with the Flighthawks and had several dozen kills to his credit.

“I just kind of, you know, hit my marks,” added Turk.

“I’m sure it was more than that.”

“Well. It’s what I did.”

Turk wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure exactly what it should be. And so the conversation died.

Turk directed the driver to the car, which was near the front of the lot.

“Thanks for the ride,” he told Zen as he got out.

“Any time,” replied Zen. “You have the rest of the day off?”

“Oh yeah. I figure I’ll catch something to eat. Maybe do some sightseeing or something later on. I’ll be around, though.”

“If you need anything, you should let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Zen watched the young officer walk to his car. He couldn’t blame Turk for being angry, even if he did hide it fairly well. The storm clouds were already thick and getting thicker. The Libyan government had picked up the images off YouTube and was circulating them far and wide. The casualty reports ranged from three to three dozen. A bevy of international journalists were en route, as evidenced by their Twitter feeds.

A tsunami of condemnation was sure to follow. Zen suspected that the matter would be brought before the UN General Assembly within twenty-four hours.

The only question was what effect it would have on the Western powers. Already there were rumors of a “pause” in the air campaign.

He turned to Jason. “We might as well go over to our hotel.”

“He’s pretty down,” said Jason.

“Yeah, I don’t blame him.”

“All hell’s going to break loose, huh?”

“Hopefully not on him,” said Zen. “He seems like a good kid.”

“Did he screw up?”

“Hard to say for sure, but I doubt it. Complicated systems.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s practically a modern ace. He got those shoot-downs. Nobody’s going to give him credit, though. They’ll think the computer did it.”

“But he was flying the plane.”

“Yeah, but they won’t think about that.”

As Zen knew from his own experience, there was a sometimes bitter divide between “traditional” pilots and remote pilots. Turk actually fit into neither camp, as he did both.

In fact, it wasn’t even easy to say where Turk fit in administratively. Technically, he was a test pilot assigned to the Office of Special Projects, doing temporary duty assigned to the allied flight command as part of a project to test the Sabres. He wasn’t even an official part of Whiplash—the DoD and CIA joint command, which temporarily “owned” the Sabre UAVs on behalf of Special Projects.

“I’m just glad I’m not in the middle of it,” said Zen. “What’s the latest on Rome?”