Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “I doubt it.”

  “He might have stolen them before he was cashiered,” said Rubeo.

  “That’s possible,” said Bastian. “But I doubt he could have taken much.”

  “He might not need much,” said Rubeo. “A chip, early prototypes. He’d be able to remember much of what he did—he had a phenomenal brain.”

  “You know he’s rich, right? He owns that company.”

  “I’ll have to do a little background work,” said Rubeo. “I lost track of him.”

  “He has a whole foundation,” continued Bastian. “He’s an anarchist.”

  “An anarchist?”

  “You never were much of a people person, Ray,” said Bastian. “That’s why I liked you.”

  Rubeo had nothing to say to that.

  “Tell you what—I’m going back to bed. If you want to talk, you know where I am.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not your commander anymore, Ray.” Another man might have chuckled, but Bastian simply hung up.

  9

  Malaysia

  TURK TOLD BASHER flight what was going on, then got up and ran to Captain Deris and his Malaysians. The soldiers were advancing warily up the hill as the Marines came down with the captured rebels.

  “Pick one of them to question,” Turk suggested. “And hold the rest for pickup.”

  Deris chose the oldest rebel, and led the group down to the road to Captain Thomas and the Senior Marine NCO, “Gunny” Smith. The trio started questioning him, with Deris acting both as inquisitor and interpreter. Turk stood by, listening to the halting dialogue—Deris peppered the man with questions, the rebel answered in monosyllables, Deris translated.

  “No more alive, he says. I don’t trust him,” Deris told the Marines.

  “Ask him the size of the force,” said Gunny Smith. “We can work the rest out for ourselves.”

  Deris asked a question. When the rebel answered by shaking his head, Deris began shouting at him.

  “Ease up, ease up,” said Thomas. “That’s not getting us anywhere.”

  “I have to make him talk.”

  “He’ll just lie to get you off his back,” said the captain. “Get someone else. We got three more.”

  “This one was a squad leader. The others are frightened children. They’ll know nothing. Not even their prayers.”

  Gunny Smith reached into one of the pockets on his tac vest and took out a candy bar. He tossed it to Deris.

  “Try making friends and see if that works,” suggested the sergeant.

  Deris frowned, but started to hand the bar to the rebel. The rebel backed away.

  “Tell him it’s food,” said the Marine.

  Another round of shouting ensued.

  “He thinks we’re trying to poison him,” explained Deris finally.

  Gunny Smith took the bar back, broke it in two and pulled off the wrapper. Then he began eating half of it.

  “Not bad,” he said, holding the other half out to the prisoner.

  The rebel batted it away. Deris swung his fist, hitting the man in the side of the head.

  Turk jumped forward and grabbed the Malaysian captain around the chest. The Malaysian was shorter than him but powerfully built, and Turk had to struggle to hold him off the POW.

  “Hey, hey, none of that,” said Thomas. “Relax. These fuckers are prisoners of ours. We can’t be hitting them.”

  “He’s a criminal,” said Deris.

  “You’re right,” said Smith. “But we have to follow the law. Capisce?”

  “Law? What law? He is criminal and killer.” Deris looked up at Turk, who was still holding him. “Why are you protecting him, Turk? He killed my men. He tried to kill you. Why would you protect him?”

  Turk stuttered, unable to find an answer—in truth, he agreed with the Malaysian captain emotionally, even though he knew he was not permitted to strike a prisoner. It was Gunny Smith who spoke up.

  “Listen, I’d love to slam the son of a bitch myself,” he said. “It’d feel pretty damn good. But we need the bastard for interrogation. Intel. This way other people don’t get hurt. If that means laying off, not belting him—that’s what we got to do. Damn. We’re just saving other lives. Maybe people we love, you know?”

  “He’s right,” agreed Turk, wishing he’d been the one to say it.

  Deris didn’t look impressed. He said something in Malaysian, then put up his hands, signaling to Turk that he wouldn’t struggle any more. Turk let him go.

  Deris yelled something at the rebel—Turk guessed it was along the lines of, You’re lucky these guys held me back or you’d be dog meat by now—then turned and stalked back to his men.

  “Kind of a hothead, huh?” Gunny Smith smiled at Turk. Then raised his rifle at the prisoner. “Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot your balls off.”

  The man may not have understood English, but he certainly understood the threat. He put up his hands. When Gunny Smith gestured for him to sit down, he quickly complied.

  “Can you hold on to him while I get some cuffs?” the Marine asked Turk.

  “Sure.” Turk raised his rifle.

  Gunny took a step back, then another, making sure the prisoner wouldn’t try anything. Turk steadied the gun on the prisoner. Dirty and exhausted, the rebel looked even younger than the Malaysians. He stared at Turk with hard eyes, defiant. Turk wondered if he was thinking of trying to run—not to actually escape, but to get shot and die like his friends had.

  If he does that, will I be able to shoot him?

  Easily.

  The answer surprised Turk, yet as soon as it formed in his brain, he knew it was true. He was angry, deeply angry—not at the rebel, not the way the Malaysians were. Their anger was immediate. It made sense—they were mad at the people who had killed their friends.

  Turk’s rage ran deeper. He was mad at Breanna for ordering him killed. He was mad at the Iranians for cheating on their nuclear agreement and making the attack that had killed so many lives necessary. He was mad at the senselessness of the rebel movement, angry beyond reason at whoever was helping them with cutting-edge technology.

  He was mad at mankind in general for being so thoughtless, so careless with life.

  And he was mad at himself for not being able to do anything about any of it.

  The sergeant came back with the handcuffs. Glancing at Turk to make sure he was watching carefully, he dropped to a knee behind the prisoner and quickly trussed his hands. Then he pulled him to his feet and pushed him in the direction of two of his men.

  “Hey, Captain, you all right?” Gunny Smith asked Turk as the prisoner was led away.

  “I’m OK. Why?”

  “I thought for a minute you were going to shoot me, too,” said the Marine. He laughed and reached into one of his pockets for a tin of chew. Wadding the tobacco, he tucked it into the corner of his lip. “Dip?”

  “Nah.”

  “Dirty habit.” The Marine smiled. “Best keep away from it.” He worked the plug a bit. “You seen a lot of action?”

  Turk shrugged.

  “I heard you were in Iran,” added the Marine. “Top secret shit.”

  “I was over there,” admitted Turk. “How’d you hear that?”

  “Word gets around.” Gunny Smith worked the plug of tobacco in his mouth. “You don’t think we’d work with just any Air Force punk, do you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t work with just any Marines,” said Turk.

  The sergeant laughed, then spit. “You sure you don’t want some chew?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Let’s go try talking to another of these guys, right?”

  As Turk started to follow, the radio buzzed. It was Cowboy, in Basher Two.

  “Ground, I have more of those UAVs en route,” he said. “Six of them, two hundred miles away. And they are moving! Twelve hundred knots, right at my face.”

  10

  Suburban Virginia

  UNABLE TO SLEEP, Zen lay faceup on the
bed. Breanna wasn’t home, and had told him she might not be until sometime the next day. It was worse than when they both worked at Dreamland.

  Not really. For all the pressure, things were a lot less stressful now. And safer.

  He thought of getting up but knew he needed sleep. He tried diverting his thoughts, but inevitably they came back to his meeting with the President.

  She was in campaign mode . . . for him, not her.

  “Senator Stockard is here, Madam President.”

  “Show him in, and bring the coffee, please.”

  He’d been waiting at the door. He started wheeling in; she met him a few steps inside the Oval Office.

  “Jeff, so good to see you. Come on in. Tracey’ll bring us some coffee.”

  “No beer?”

  It took Todd a moment to realize he was pulling her leg. She shook her head and took a seat in front of her desk, waiting as he maneuvered his wheelchair. Her aide came in with a tray of coffee and cookies.

  “Raspberry filled,” said Zen, picking one up. “My favorite.”

  Raspberry cookies. They’d be worth getting out of bed for. But they didn’t have any.

  No?

  No.

  “Tracey’s very good at remembering things,” said Todd, loud enough to make sure her aide heard as she left the office.

  “So what vote am I being asked for here?” said Zen.

  “Vote?”

  “Come on, Madam President. I know you don’t engage in cookie diplomacy for no reason.”

  “Actually, I wanted to say that I appreciated your vote on the NSA bill,” said Todd. “Your voice was important in the committee, and it was critical in the Senate. Thank you.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  Zen picked up his coffee—black—and took a sip. Todd put hers down and plunged ahead.

  “I ran into your wife the other day, and I mentioned that I thought you would make an excellent President,” she said. “I wanted to follow up on that.”

  “You’re not planning on resigning, are you?”

  The remark caught her by surprise. She wasn’t, but she wondered if there were rumors.

  “No, no,” said Todd. “But . . . if I were to decide not to run again, I wonder if you would be the sort of person who would toss their hat in the ring.”

  Had she said that? It didn’t sound like her.

  Something along those lines, at least.

  “Because I for one would want to be in a position to help that along,” she continued. “I think you’d be excellent. And I think you could get the nomination.”

  “You’re not planning on running for reelection?”

  “I’m giving it a lot of thought, and will be giving it a lot more thought,” she told him. “If I knew someone like you—you specifically—were interested in running, that would certainly be a factor. And, candidly, I would work to make sure that you were in the best position to do that. If I stayed on for a second term, one way or the other, it would certainly help, I think, not hurt you.”

  That was as close as any politician would ever come to urging someone else to run. It was an admission—but an admission of what, exactly?

  That she was giving up power. And who did that?

  Willingly, anyway.

  But Todd was different. Todd—well, they’d had disagreements, but at the end of the day she was a strong, moral person, someone with integrity. And a good President.

  “Wouldn’t Vice President Mantis be the party’s likely candidate?” asked Zen.

  “Preying Mantis?” She made a face.

  They certainly shared that opinion. Her vice president was the most despicable, lying, conniving politician he’d ever met, and that was saying quite a lot.

  “I think he can be defeated in a primary,” said Todd.

  “I wonder if the country’s ready for someone in a wheelchair,” said Zen.

  “We’ve already had a President in a wheelchair,” she said. “Franklin Roosevelt.”

  “Yes, but the public didn’t know.”

  “I think the public is ready. Certainly in your case.” She rose. “Let’s have another discussion in a few weeks. There are people whom I’d like you to speak to.”

  “Why exactly aren’t you going to run?”

  “If I decide not to run,” she said, “it won’t be because of a scandal, or anything to do with the job.”

  “No?” He stared at her; she met it.

  “I think you know me well enough on that score.”

  “I do,” admitted Zen. “I assume you’d want this absolutely confidential.”

  “I know I can count on you.”

  “As much as anyone,” said Zen.

  He really missed Breanna.

  Zen rolled over, closing his eyes and trying to slip back to sleep.

  11

  Malaysia

  COWBOY CONTINUED TO climb, intending to use the altitude to help him build speed for an attack. There were six of them, moving tightly in a diamond, with one in the lead, then two, then three. The two aircraft on the ends split off, angling away from the others in what looked like a pincer movement. Cowboy assumed they were going to try and tuck around him if he stayed on his course.

  “Ground, the aircraft just split up,” he told Turk.

  “Yeah, I’m looking at it,” answered Turk. The feed from Cowboy’s F-35 was being piped through the Whiplash system into Turk’s display.

  “They’re going to come behind me, I think.”

  “What they’re looking for you to do is break one way or the other,” said Turk. “Then whichever side you’re on, the fighter in the lead and then the one behind will engage you head-on. The idea is to slow you down so the rest can swarm in.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They do it all the time.”

  “So how do I beat it?”

  “Come straight at them. All their attack patterns are optimized for a rear quarter attack because of their weapons,” added Turk. “If they’re armed, that is.”

  “You don’t think these are armed?”

  “We won’t know until they attack. No weapons radars.”

  “Right,” said Cowboy. “But they sure look like they’re aggressive—they’re climbing.”

  Aggressive or not, neither pilot could fire until they were in imminent danger—fired on or locked by a weapons radar. So they had to wait—or hope for a direct order from Danny Freah, who was empowered to interpret the situation according to his overall mission orders as well as the ROEs, or rules of engagement. So they had to prepare themselves for combat—and yet do nothing.

  “If they go hostile, target the middle aircraft,” suggested Turk. “Fire your radar missiles.”

  “Not at the lead?”

  “No. They’re keying the attack off the plane in the middle. If it diverts, they have to re-form. It’s a vulnerability in a large formation—they were originally designed to work in pairs.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m guessing,” admitted Turk.

  Basher Three, which was flying top cover over the base, checked in. He was coming south. Turk told him to stay back over the base—the UAVs might split and make their primary attack here.

  “You’ll know by their reaction when Cowboy fires,” he said.

  At the speed they were closing, Cowboy had another thirty seconds before the UAVs were within firing range.

  “You think these guys are hostile?” Cowboy asked Turk.

  “Hell, yes. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, and they’re getting close. But the ROEs are pretty specific.”

  “I’m working on that. Stand by. I’m going to patch Colonel Freah onto the shared frequency.”

  Danny Freah came on the circuit. His voice was clipped and formal—Cowboy realized he was talking “for the record.”

  “Basher, state your situation,” directed Freah.

  “Colonel, I have six unidentified UAVs coming at me in what Captain Mako says is an attack pattern. I want permissio
n to shoot them down.”

  “Do you feel yourself in imminent danger?” asked Freah.

  “I feel I’m about to be fired on, yes sir.”

  “Permission to engage granted,” said Freah.

  Wow, that was easy, thought Cowboy. He’d expected an argument, or at least more questions.

  The F-35 had two AMRAAM missiles in its larger internal bay, along with a pair of Sidewinder heat-seekers on its wings. Cowboy dialed up the radar missiles, designated the two targets, and got good locks on both. Just as he was about to fire, however, he lost his fix—the little UAVs had initiated ECMs.

  They also started a countermaneuver. The four planes that had stayed together separated into two groups. One charged upward while the other dove toward the earth.

  It took Turk a few moments to figure out what they were doing.

  “Dive on the ones that are hitting the deck,” he told Cowboy.

  It was a counterintuitive move, to say the least.

  “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  Cowboy hesitated, but only for a moment. He pushed his stick in, plotting an intercept about five miles to the west, on his left in the airplane. As soon as the nose of his aircraft tucked downward, the two aircraft that had started to climb spun back in his direction.

  “Roll on your wing and pull around as close to a 180 as you possibly can,” said Turk, telling Cowboy to change direction. “They’ll be on your nose in about thirty seconds. You’re going to want to fire right away.”

  “I don’t have a lock.”

  “Do it. They’ll get out of there anyway. Then push down and flip over. Look for the two fighters below you.”

  “Easy for you to say,” muttered Cowboy, but he did exactly as Turk had suggested. The Lightning II slid down on its wing, then shuddered as Cowboy fought gravity and his own momentum through the turn. It was more a swerve than a pivot. The tail of the plane stubbornly resisted his input, and for a moment the aviator thought he would actually lose the plane; his airspeed had dropped precipitously, and his altitude dropped so quick he thought he was in a free fall. But the Pratt & Whitney F135-600 kept pumping thrust, the two-shaft power plant exerting some 43,000 pounds of force to shove the aircraft in the direction its pilot wanted. Cowboy grunted, fighting off the g forces smashing against his body as the two bandits moved magically into the sweet spot of his targeting pipers.