Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “Colonel, stand by for a transmission from Basher Four.” The Marine captain’s voice sounded hoarse; the gunfire in the background sounded very close. “Go ahead, Basher.”

  “Colonel, this is Turk. Say location.”

  “We’re about twenty yards from the road, on the southwest side directly below the Malaysian camp. There are two—”

  “Yeah, roger, I got you. Hold your position. I’m taking the trucks out. I’ll check in before the next pass.”

  “Everybody get down!” shouted Danny. “Down!”

  THE BOMBS CAME off the wings in quick succession, like the snap of a drummer’s wrist as he rolled on his snare. Turk banked, lining up to take a run with the cannon strapped to the F-5’s belly. The lead vehicle was on fire and the other had been broken in half by one of the bombs. He lit the cannon as his targeting pipper came up on a small pack of figures behind the second truck. They disappeared in a tornado of smoke.

  Pulling back on the stick, Turk had a fleeting vision of what it would be like on the ground—chaos and death, the stink of burning metal and flesh in your nostrils.

  It was truly hell. But you fought for your own, and you protected them, and that meant the other guy had to die.

  The other guy. Which was why he was so mad at Breanna. She should have protected him, not sent an assassin.

  “Basher Four to ground—Colonel, how are you looking?”

  “Nice job, Four.”

  “Do you need more? My gun’s full.”

  “We have it under control. Trucks are on fire. Rebels are retreating. I owe you one,” added Danny. “Thanks.”

  “Roger that. See you back at base.”

  2

  Washington, D.C.

  ZEN WHEELED HIMSELF out from behind his desk in his Senate office, revving himself into full-blown senator-at-work mode. There was a lot to do in the next few hours, starting with a vote in the chamber.

  “OK, people,” he said, zipping into the outer office. “I’m off. See you all around three.”

  “Senator?” His appointments secretary stood up from her desk, waving frantically to get his attention as he passed. “I have the President’s office on the line.”

  “Tell ’em I just left for a vote,” he said, not bothering to stop.

  “The President wants to set up a lunch. Today.”

  Zen stopped at the door. President Todd didn’t call often, let alone ask to have lunch. When she did, it was usually trouble—for him.

  But Breanna’s recounting of Todd’s comment the other night made him wonder what she was really up to. If he wanted to find out, lunch was the price he’d have to pay.

  Maybe.

  “I can’t do lunch,” he said, fudging, since his appointment could be easily put off. “But if she wants to see me at some point after three, that’s OK. Schedule it and text me.”

  Zen saw Fran Knapp, his recently hired political aide, giving him a wary eye—blowing the President off for lunch was not considered a good political move.

  Zen smiled at her, and kept smiling all the way to the Senate.

  3

  Malaysia

  “THE ATTACK ON the base had to have been helped by whoever is handling the UAVs,” said Danny, speaking to Breanna and Jonathon Reid a few hours after the attack had ended. “They’re trying to get rid of us.”

  “It could easily be a coincidence,” said Reid. “There were no UAVs.”

  “They had precise locations.”

  “That airstrip dates to the 1950s,” answered Reid. “You have to be mindful of the politics here, Colonel. Both domestically and in geopolitical terms.”

  “If they’re going to be this aggressive, we need to step up our force,” said Danny. “Or the Marines are going to take casualties. That’s going to be a disaster.”

  “I think Danny has a point,” said Breanna. “We should have a full force there.”

  “You know the problems with that,” said Reid.

  “How about more observation assets, for starters?” said Danny.

  “Even that will require the President’s approval,” said Reid. “And I don’t know that she’s going to give it.”

  “We might as well ask for everything we want,” said Breanna.

  “I’m not arguing with that,” answered Danny.

  Three Malaysians had been killed and four wounded in the attack; the wounded had been medevacked via a Marine Osprey to the eastern Malaysian capital. Two Marines had been hit by shrapnel; both were taken back to the MEU’s flagship, offshore on the eastern side of the island several hundred miles away. The MEU was supporting Malaysian operations there.

  “We still don’t know where the UAV came from,” said Reid.

  “But we do know that it flies like one of ours,” said Danny. “And to me, that’s a bigger problem than whatever politics we’re worried about.”

  “We’re well aware of the implications, Colonel.”

  “All right,” said Danny.

  “We’ve moved Team Two to Hawaii,” said Breanna. “So if the President does green-light us, they’ll be ready quickly. Sergeant Rockland is there with them. We have the Tigershark and four Sabres ready as well.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” put in Reid. “I’m just telling you what the situation is.”

  They talked a while more about contingencies and different plans, but Danny couldn’t wait for the conversation to end. He was tired and beginning to feel frustrated, the inevitable result when politics or admin bs got in the way of action.

  GREENSTREET PUT HIS face barely two inches from Turk’s. “You still haven’t explained who said you could bomb those trucks.”

  “I didn’t figure I needed permission to save the base,” answered Turk. He had to struggle to keep his voice level.

  “I told you where to fly and what to do,” said Greenstreet. “We were coming back as soon as we took care of the mortars. We were back on target inside of five minutes.”

  “Our guys might have been dead by then,” said Turk. “With respect.”

  The conversation had been going on now for at least ten minutes. Conversation was the wrong word—it felt more like an inquisition.

  “Hey, Colonel, you oughta lighten up,” said Cowboy, coming into the flight room at the end of the trailer. “Or at least lower your voice. We can hear you outside.”

  “Who the hell asked your opinion, Lieutenant?”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Do your sayin’ somewhere else.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cowboy gave Turk a sympathetic look as he left the room.

  “I know you’re a hotshot,” said Greenstreet, lowering his voice a few decibels. “But here you work for me. You got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Just because I’m easygoing doesn’t mean I go for insubordination. I give an order, I expect it followed.”

  Turk was at a loss for a response, wondering how Greenstreet could consider himself easygoing. Maybe because he hadn’t ordered him flogged.

  “If you were a Marine, I’d have you busted to ensign,” continued the colonel.

  “I don’t think you would,” said Turk. “I think if I were a Marine, you would have expected me to take out those trucks. You would have kicked my ass if I didn’t. Because my guys and my commander were in danger, and sure as shit it was my job to protect them. If I didn’t do that, and I was your pilot, you’d have me court-martialed. And I would deserve it.”

  Greenstreet looked as if he’d been slapped across the face.

  “Dismissed,” he told Turk.

  “I don’t work for you,” said Turk, rising. “Even when I’m on the ground.”

  “Get the hell out of my sight.”

  Turk walked from the room at a deliberate pace. He knew he was right, and he knew that Greenstreet knew it, too. The knowledge filled him with an odd if grim satisfaction, as if he were the hero in an old-fashioned western like Shane—the misunderstood good guy never given credit for savi
ng the day.

  It was a dangerous notion, though. Different service or not, Greenstreet outranked him, and while the colonel would never in a million years sustain a charge of insubordination against him for saving the base, he surely could find a way to make things uncomfortable for him. This wasn’t the military of the Cold War, where an unreasonable officer could literally break a man just on a whim. But it was still the military, and Turk knew that by standing up to Greenstreet he was skating very close to the edge.

  Still, he was right.

  Getting brow-beaten had left him with an appetite. He went over to the tent that was serving as a mess area. Cowboy and Haydem, the Marine’s fourth pilot, were sitting at one of the tables when Turk walked in. Both men rose solemnly and applauded—albeit very lightly—when Turk went over with his coffee.

  “Hey, Air Force,” said Cowboy. “Thanks for saving our plane.”

  “Screw that. Thanks for saving the base,” said Haydem. “I hear our beer supply would have been blown up if the attack went on much longer.”

  “It was nothing,” he told them. “Push button stuff.”

  “We’re also applauding your entry into the brotherhood of abuse,” said Cowboy. “Now you’re one of us.”

  “You’ve been christened,” said Haydem. “By Greenstreet’s spit.”

  Turk laughed.

  “He didn’t mean any of what he said,” Cowboy told him. “He knows you did the right thing.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Turk.

  “He gets his underwear twisted up,” added Haydem. “But he’s a good pilot and a decent commander.”

  “He’s a decent pilot,” said Turk, aware that he might be judging him on a harsh scale. “But as a commander . . .”

  “He is definitely a hardass,” conceded Haydem.

  “Prick’s more like it,” said Cowboy. “But it takes all kinds.”

  “Our squadron’s the highest rated in the wing,” said Haydem.

  “You can get good results without being an asshole,” said Turk.

  “I’m not going to defend him,” said Haydem. “I’m just stating the facts.”

  “And the facts are, these eggs suck,” said Cowboy.

  “I heard that,” growled a Marine over by the food trays. “You think you can do better, you come up here and try it.”

  Haydem and Turk laughed. Cowboy jumped up. “Hey, Slugs, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Slugs—the cook—shook his head. Cowboy was well known in the unit as a wise guy with a good heart, and treated as such.

  “I better apologize,” he told Turk. “Or I’ll end up like Rogers. He’s still flat on his back.”

  “Jolly got that way because he ate some of the Malaysian shit,” said Haydem. “He was bragging about it.”

  “Oh.” Turk realized he’d eaten with them, too, several times a day. He wondered if he was also going to get sick.

  “You flew pretty well,” said Haydem. “You fly F-35s a lot?”

  Turk shook his head. “Not too much.” He wasn’t sure how much to explain. “I fly a lot of different things, so, you know, variety.”

  They talked about the F-35 for a bit more. Turk avoided mentioning the planes he flew, since the details were all pretty much classified. They were just discussing how much faster the aircraft might be with a bigger engine—no pilot was ever satisfied—when Cowboy came back to the table with a tray of doughnuts.

  “How’d you manage that?” asked Haydem.

  “Me and Slugs are friends from way back,” said Cowboy. “I appreciate his time in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait a few minutes and you can get some fresh coffee,” added Cowboy.

  “I don’t need any more caffeine. I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “You aren’t going to sleep, are you?” asked Cowboy.

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “No time. They’ll have us up for another mission ASAP.”

  “Really?”

  “What do you think, this is the Air Force?”

  Turk laughed. “The Air Force was flying two and three missions a day in Libya when I was there.”

  “You were in Libya?” asked Haydem.

  “I’ve been in a few places.” Turk took one of the doughnuts.

  “Our mysterious stranger,” said Cowboy. “Where do you keep your cape, Superman?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t trying to brag.”

  “He’s just a top secret man,” Haydem said. “He flies all sorts of things.”

  “Flying saucers?” asked Cowboy. “They have those at Dreamland, right? That’s where that UFO landed.”

  “Before my time,” said Turk. “Where’s that fresh coffee at?”

  4

  The Cube

  “AS YOU CAN see, the flight pattern is exactly the same as WX2-BC, an early evasion path for the Flighthawks.” Ray Rubeo paused the video, a simulation that showed the actual path taken by the unknown UAV and the preprogrammed Flighthawk path. “Captain Mako identified it correctly.”

  “Coincidence?” asked Jonathon Reid.

  “Doubtful.” Rubeo touched his right earlobe, an old habit when faced with a difficult question. The gold stud earring was well worn. “The pattern is precisely the same. Not only do you have the initial maneuver, but you have the acceleration and escape as well. Any of the Flighthawk family would have acted precisely the same way, assuming that they are in autonomous mode.”

  “It’s certainly not a Flighthawk,” said Breanna.

  “No,” said Rubeo. He’d managed to nap a bit before the meeting, but it hardly compensated for the hours and nights he’d missed over the last two weeks. “Smaller, and faster than series Two or Three. Nor have we intercepted control transmissions.”

  Rubeo flicked his hand in front of the screen to change the slide. The fuselage that Danny had recovered a week earlier appeared.

  “As you know, the electronics of the aircraft that Colonel Freah came back with had been destroyed. First fried—to use the vernacular of some of my assistants—and then blown up by a small explosive, which severed this portion of the aircraft from the rest. However, we were able to recover some small bits of one of the chips, which were embedded in this portion of the remains.”

  He flipped to a new slide, which showed what looked like a slag of brown dirt laced with silver tints.

  “To give you an idea of scale, here is the chip, or what remains of it, with a dime.”

  The coin loomed over the tiny bit of silicone.

  “The chip is a computing unit,” continued Rubeo. “It is quite sophisticated. It appears to make use of ten-nanometer chip technology. That is significant for a number of reasons, beginning with the fact—or I should say apparent fact—that it had to have been custom-fabricated. It is at the high end of the scale.”

  Rubeo continued, talking about how the technology allowed for massive processing power in a relatively small space. To give the others an idea, he mentioned that Intel’s Ivy Bridge processors—commonly used in high-end desk and laptop computers—contained in the area of 1.4 billion transistors (or actually the chip equivalent). The processor could change state roughly 100 million times a second. That was beyond the processing power of a supercomputer in the Cold War.

  Assuming it was anywhere close to a standard size, the chip they had examined would have been several orders of magnitude more powerful than the Ivy Bridge, both in terms of size and speed. Rubeo’s people weren’t entirely sure how much faster—there was just too little to go on—but the technology appeared comparable to that in the nano-UAVs so recently used to wipe out Iran’s nuclear weapons.

  The biggest problem for the chips was the heat they generated; this seemed to have been solved with a rather ingenious and extremely elegant air piping system, where microtunnels were bored into the surface of the aircraft and used to bathe the processors with cooling air. The so-called pipes were thinner than human hair, and webbed in a way so that the structur
al integrity of the aircraft was not harmed. The discovery of those pipes—Rubeo didn’t mention that he had been the one to spot them—were significant in many ways.

  “What we’re looking at here is enormous manufacturing ability,” concluded Rubeo. “Even assuming these aircraft are essentially one-offs, hand-built. The skill necessary to create the airframe—let alone the brain that fits into it—is very, very high.”

  “So it’s definitely not Chinese,” concluded Reid.

  “I didn’t say that.” Rubeo touched his ear. “It doesn’t fit with the Chinese capabilities that I’m aware of. But that doesn’t mean it’s not Chinese. I have no evidence. I know several companies that could have manufactured the processors. All are in the United States. Including mine,” he added, feeling he ought to make explicit what Reid was probably thinking. “We have a laboratory facility dedicated solely to government work, and it would be capable of producing these chips.”

  “But it didn’t,” said Breanna quickly.

  “Our ten-nanometer chips are all accounted for,” said Rubeo.

  “The nano-UAVs?”

  “They were destroyed in Iran,” said Rubeo. “But those use eight nanometer chips. Which you will recall is why they are so absurdly expensive. And my company didn’t create those processors. We believe the CMOS limits no longer justify the technology, and so we’re moving in a different direction. Perhaps incorrectly,” he added.

  “We should check every fab site we can think of,” said Breanna.

  “Yes.” Rubeo had already made his own discreet inquiries without finding the actual manufacturer. “I would guess, though, that it was somewhere in Asia, maybe even Malaysia. An underutilized facility that has been overhauled with new equipment at much expense.”

  “That could be anywhere,” said Reid.

  “Yes.”

  “So what are we dealing with?” Reid asked.

  “Impossible to tell until we capture one,” said Rubeo. “If they are this sophisticated in chip technology, I can only make guesses about the weapons.”

  “Twenty-five-millimeter cannon?” asked Breanna.