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possible.

6
    Sicily
    T urk rested his elbows on the table at the center of the ready room, then cradled his face, reviewing in his mind what had happened. He was starting to think he should get a lawyer.
    â€œI went to intercept the fighters,” he told the three men who’d been interviewing him since 0600 that morning. “That’s why I was off-course. I wasn’t off-course at all,” he added, realizing that he had inadvertently used his interrogator’s language. “I set my own course. The course that was programmed into the Tigershark’s computer was my plan. Plans change.”
    He raised his face, letting the whiskers of his unshaven chin scrape against his fingertips. His interviewers were French, Greek, and British, left to right, all members of their respective countries’ air forces. They had been talking to him now for over three hours.
    â€œWhen you change your course from the program,” asked the Frenchman, “this then reprograms the fighters?”
    â€œIt doesn’t necessarily affect them,” said Turk. He glanced to his right toward Major Redstone, an Air Force security officer who was supposed to prevent any classified information from being discussed. Redstone said nothing, nor had he said anything the entire time they’d been in the room. “The UM/F–9Ss are autonomous until overridden. As I said before, they control themselves.”
    â€œExplain how that works,” said the British RAF officer.
    â€œI don’t think I can.”
    â€œBecause it is classified?”
    â€œBecause I don’t know exactly how things work on that level,” said Turk. “I’m not a programmer or an engineer. I’m a pilot. I fly the plane. I’m trained to be able to deal with the UAVs, but without the system itself, I would have no idea how they work.”
    The Frenchman leaned toward the others and whispered something. Turk turned to Redstone. “I’d really like some coffee.”
    â€œLet’s take a break,” suggested Redstone, finally finding his voice.
    â€œA few more questions and we’ll be done for the day,” said the Greek.
    â€œLet’s get some coffee first,” said Turk, who’d heard the “few more questions” line a half hour before.
    â€œThe captain should remain sequestered while we get the coffee,” said the Frenchman. “No offense.”
    â€œFine,” said Turk.
    Redstone nodded. “Black, no sugar for me.”
    Just as the Frenchman reached for the door, a tall, thin man opened it and came in. Turk recognized him immediately—it was Ray Rubeo, the scientist who headed the team that had developed the artificial intelligence controlling the Sabres. Rubeo looked at the foreign air force officers—it was more a glare than a greeting—then stood against the wall.
    â€œExcuse me, chap,” said the RAF officer. “Who are you?”
    â€œDr. Rubeo. I am reviewing the incident.”
    â€œWe’re conducting an interview.”
    â€œI understand,” said Rubeo.
    The men seemed puzzled by his answer, but didn’t follow up. Rubeo remained, silent, standing against the wall. Turk thought he was full of contempt toward the foreign officers, yet if the pilot had been pressed to explain where this impression came from, he would have been at a loss. It was in his posture, his stance, his silence—subtle and evident, though somehow inscrutable.
    Redstone came back and the officers began questioning Turk again, starting off with the most basic questions.
    â€œYou are twenty-three years old?” asked the Greek.
    â€œUh, yeah.”
    â€œAnd already an accomplished test pilot.”
    â€œI was in the right place at the right time,” said Turk.
    â€œBut also very good, no?” The Greek smiled. Obviously the others had designated him Mr. Nice Guy, peppering Turk with softball questions.
    Yes, said Turk, he had done