Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  Thomas frowned. Danny looked over and saw Walsh walking toward him.

  “Colonel, sorry, but I have an urgent message from Ms. Stockard,” said the techie. “I think they got a lead on the base the aircraft flew from.”

  PATCHED AND LOADED with a small amount of fuel, Turk took the F-35 from the battered airstrip and headed south to the Marine base. By comparison it looked like a first-class regional airport: the mortar holes had been quickly patched, and there was a controller to welcome him in. The ground dogs waiting at the edge of the tarmac were as eager as any Air Force crew to get the plane back into action; they rushed up as soon as he came to a full stop.

  “Thanks for getting my aircraft back in one piece,” said the crew captain. “Course if you hadn’t, I’m not sure the boys woulda left you in one piece.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time,” said Turk, pulling off his helmet.

  “Ha ha, don’t let ol’ Gunny spook ya,” said Cowboy, coming up and pounding his back. “Good work gettin’ in back there. Boys said you came in with no power.”

  “I like to use every ounce of fuel,” said Turk. Then he turned serious. “Thanks for watchin’ over me.”

  “Any time.” Cowboy laughed. “The crew would have cut my legs off if I let anything happen to their plane. Although I think they’re warming up to you a bit.”

  If he was correct, the sentiment didn’t seem to extend to Colonel Greenstreet: the squadron leader was waiting for them in the makeshift squadron room/environmental shack/all-around squadron squat. He stared at Turk as the pilot entered.

  “What the hell happened out there?” the colonel demanded as Turk began taking off his speed pants.

  “We shot down one of the UAVs,” said Turk. “Other one disappeared under the water.”

  “Yeah, but what happened to our plane?”

  “Basically, it had a hole burned in the fuel tank,” said Cowboy.

  “I’m talking to Captain Mako, Lieutenant. Thank you for your input.”

  “They said something about it loosening a seam,” said Turk, careful to keep his tone scientific. “The crew chief’s gonna talk to some of our tech experts. They’re real interested in the weapon.”

  “How did you get yourself in that position to begin with?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “He was saving my butt,” said Cowboy. “If it weren’t for him, I would’ve swam home.”

  Greenstreet shook his head, then sighed and walked out.

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” said Cowboy to his back.

  “Thanks for standing up for me,” Turk told him.

  “Hey, what are brothas for?” Cowboy laughed.

  Changing the subject, he said, “You fly against these kind of things all the time?”

  “Enough.”

  “That’s what I want to do,” said Cowboy. “I’d love to get that sort of gig.”

  “As a test pilot?”

  “Well, you’re more than that, right? That’s why you’re out here.”

  “True.”

  “That’s what I want to do,” said Cowboy again.

  “Really?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “They may be looking for pilots soon,” said Turk. He didn’t think it necessary to tell Cowboy why.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, really. I don’t know what sort of qualifications they’re going to want. But they probably are going to be interested in anyone who’s already been in combat. Of course, you wouldn’t only be flying F-35s. You probably wouldn’t fly them at all.”

  “What do you have to do to sign up?”

  “You have to talk to my boss, for starters.”

  “And you can get me in with him?”

  “It’s a her,” said Turk.

  “Oh, OK. Sorry.”

  “I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

  “Thanks. Do you think she’d want me?”

  “I don’t know what they’d be looking for, exactly,” said Turk. “But I’ll try and find out. And I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Great. Let’s go grab some food.”

  Another shoulder chuck started Turk out of the trailer and in the direction of the mess tent. But they’d only gotten halfway there when Danny Freah hailed them down—literally waving his arms to get Turk’s attention.

  “We have a possible ID on the submarine,” he told Turk. “It’s a civilian craft bought in New Zealand six months ago. We’d like you to take a look and see what you think.”

  “I didn’t see it too well,” confessed Turk. “Did you, Cowboy?”

  “I think I can remember it.”

  “Come on, both of you.”

  “IT DOES LOOK like that could be it,” said Cowboy five minutes later. He was down on his hands and knees, face practically pushed into the screen of one of the Whiplash displays. A synthetic radar image of what might have been a small pleasure boat was on the screen.

  It might have been a small pleasure boat. Or a submarine along the lines of a Seattle 1000, a luxury civilian submarine made by one of the preeminent companies in the business, U.S. Submarines. An engineer with the firm had studied the image and decided that, while the craft wasn’t one built by his company, it possibly could be a submarine.

  Which was roughly Cowboy’s judgment as well.

  Possibly.

  The submarine had been purchased in New Zealand, supposedly by a Japanese businessman who intended on sailing it to Japan. That was a little unusual, given the length of the journey and the fact that he could have easily had another delivered direct from the States. More unusual was the fact that the submarine did not appear to be registered or docked anywhere in Shikoku province, where the businessman allegedly was from.

  But the real reason for Danny’s interest was a routine satellite observation photo from a few weeks back that showed the submarine near an island in the area of the Sembuni Reefs offshore of East Malaysia.

  The only way to know for certain if the submarine was using the island was to go there. And sooner rather than later. But the Whiplash team was still twelve hours from reaching Malaysia.

  That wasn’t a problem, as far as Captain Thomas was concerned.

  “We have plenty of people for an assault,” he told Danny after watching Cowboy and Turk tentatively ID’ing the sub. “Let’s get out there.”

  “How soon can you be ready?” Danny asked.

  “We’re Marines. We’re always ready.” He grinned. “We can take off in an hour. Less if you need us to.”

  Danny turned to Turk and Cowboy. “Can you guys fly cover?”

  “If they let me near a plane,” said Turk.

  “They will,” said Cowboy.

  “I’ll talk to Colonel Greenstreet,” said Danny. “Are you guys sure you’re not tired?”

  Turk shrugged. Cowboy shook his head. “Like the captain said, I’m a Marine. I don’t get tired.”

  “YOU’RE GOING TO fly over that island in broad daylight?” asked Colonel Greenstreet. “If they have antiair there, you’re going to draw all sorts of fire.”

  “The satellite images don’t show anything like that,” said Danny. “Even though they’re a couple of days old, I think it’s unlikely they moved anything in.”

  “The photos also don’t show your aircraft. Or even that sub,” added Greenstreet.

  “True.”

  “It’s not the F-35s I’m worried about,” said Greenstreet. “It’s the Ospreys. They’re sitting ducks. You can put an RPG into the side and they’ll go down. What you have to do,” he added, “is have the F-35s take a couple of runs and try and suck out any defenses. Then you have the Ospreys come from this end, where at least they might have a chance if someone tries shooting at them.”

  “Agreed,” said Danny.

  The island was small—maybe ten acres, half of it covered with trees and thick brush. Shaped like an irregular opal, it had a necklace that sprawled from one side—a jagged reef that poked over
the waves at several different points and extended for about a half mile.

  The working theory was that the sub recovered the aircraft and returned it there for launching. A small rocket engine was attached to the rear of the aircraft, which was then launched from a small gantry like a guided missile. That meant the base could be small and easily hidden in the jungle. Whiplash analysts put the probability of the base being there at only seventy-five percent.

  How exactly they came up with the percentage hadn’t been revealed.

  “So you land here and here,” said Greenstreet, pointing at the sides of the island opposite the treed area. “You may need support fire on that tree line.”

  “That’s exactly what we think,” said Captain Thomas, the ground commander. “So you have to be ready to bomb the area.”

  “And there’s a possibility they may launch when they see us coming,” said Danny. “You have to be ready for that as well.”

  “Obviously.”

  “How many aircraft can you give us?” asked Danny.

  “I have two pilots, myself and Cowboy. Lieutenant Van Garetn, that is,” added Greenstreet, using Cowboy’s real name.

  “I think we oughta fly Turk out there, too,” said Cowboy. “He knows how these things fight.”

  Danny glanced at Turk, who was standing quietly against the wall on the opposite end of the room. He was staring blankly at the projection of the island. He seemed more like his old self; less angry, a little easier-going. There was always going to be a hard edge to him now, and an even harder core. Danny knew that seeing people who were close to you get killed changed your brain chemistry forever. But maybe Turk was coming out of the worst part of the dark place Iran had left him in.

  “We could fly three planes,” said Greenstreet. The vaguest note of reluctance mixed into his clipped, professional aviator tone. “We can kit one of them up for air-to-air, and mix the others. If Captain Mako is up for it.”

  “I’m good,” said Turk.

  Thomas wrapped up with an impromptu, “Let’s get going and kick butt the Marine Corps way.”

  Danny smiled, but it was Turk who had the last word:

  “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll give them a touch of Whiplash.”

  13

  The Cube

  “WE’RE GETTING REALLY good data flow from the Marine F-35s,” said the techie supervising the data collection, Hy Wen. “We’re good to go whenever they are.”

  Breanna nodded. The Cube’s situation room—a complex of data stations arranged theater-style in front of a massive wall screen on the very bottom level of the Cube—was packed to overflowing. Exactly ninety-eight analysts and technicians had been brought in for the project, both to gather and analyze data on the UAVs and to support Danny, Whiplash, and the Marines. It was the most people they’d ever had in the Cube at one time.

  The only problem was feeding them. Literally. Greasy Hands Parsons—Breanna’s special assistant and majordomo—was currently trying to solve that problem with a cook over at the CIA kitchens. Hopefully, he would solve it soon—Breanna was starving.

  She tried to get her mind off food by walking around the workstations. She found Ray Rubeo halfway down, arms folded, hunched over an analyst from the Air Force. The analyst was a cryptographer, tasked with trying to break any encryptions in real time.

  “Just like the old days, huh, Ray?”

  He frowned.

  Breanna sometimes suspected he didn’t like people.

  Other times she was sure of it.

  14

  Over Malaysia

  TURK HAD GONE much longer stretches without sleeping, but the stress of combat, and flying an aircraft he wasn’t thoroughly used to, was starting to wear him down. The sides of his head felt numb, his eyes were scratchy, and his throat was sore. On top of which, his arms and upper back kept cramping.

  Couple more hours, he told himself. Then we sleep.

  Turk knew from experience that once things got hot—when the Marines went in, or if the UAVs appeared—everything that was bothering him would disappear. The problem was the long intervals of boredom a fighter pilot inevitably had to endure. The briefs, the preflight, the prep, the long flight to target, the ride home—these were all the very thick bread that sandwiched the few minutes of excitement he lived for.

  Very thick bread, especially with Greenstreet cutting the slices.

  “All right, Basher flight. We’re zero five from the target. Basher Two, you are my wing. Basher Three, you are top cover. Acknowledge.”

  “Basher Two acknowledges,” said Cowboy.

  “Three,” said Turk tersely.

  “Sounding a little tired up there, Three,” offered Cowboy.

  “Negative,” said Turk. He was at 22,000 feet, a good 10,000 over the other aircraft. He’d picked that altitude because it was a few thousand feet over the starting point for the Flighthawks’ favorite long-range attack routine against ground attack aircraft. Of course, there were literally dozens of different routines the computer guiding the UAV interceptor might use. And in Turk’s opinion, the Marine F-35s should worry more about MANPADs—shoulder launched ground-to-air missiles—than UAVs.

  “Let’s do this,” said Greenstreet, hitting the throttle to spurt ahead.

  Turk juiced his gas. His heartbeat began picking up. He scanned the sky from left to right and back, checked his readouts, then his radar.

  “Nothing,” said Greenstreet as his F-35 approached the reef at the side of the island.

  The spit of land was so tiny that the aircraft were over it in literally half a heartbeat. Turk stretched himself upright in the ejection seat, alert, on edge—this was the point to watch for a response, for now it was obvious to anyone that they were there.

  Nothing.

  “Infrared, radar, all systems clear. Nobody home,” said Greenstreet. “We take another pass. Stay with me.”

  They banked wide and came around for another pass in the same direction, this time lower but just as fast. Turk felt himself starting to lose a bit of his edge. He warned himself this was the most dangerous point of the mission, a bit of a lie but a well-intentioned one. He needed to stay alert; he needed to be ready.

  “Nothing down there but sand rats,” said Cowboy after they cleared the island.

  “Low and slow,” said Greenstreet.

  They took two more passes without drawing a response or seeing anything move on the island.

  “I’m going to talk to the Ospreys,” said Greenstreet as Basher One rose from the final flyover at 3,000 feet. “They should be here inside ten minutes.”

  A FEW MINUTES later aboard Marine Osprey One, Danny Freah steadied himself at the back of the aircraft’s rear ramp, waiting for the Osprey to touch down. He had his gun in his hand, loaded and ready to fire. The F-35s hadn’t drawn a response or seen anyone on the island, but that wasn’t a guarantee the place was deserted. Danny knew from experience that even the best radar and infrared detection systems could be fooled with patience and creativity. He’d been ambushed too many times in his career to take a landing like this—against a well-equipped and undeniably intelligent opponent—for granted.

  “Charlie Platoon! Ready!” shouted an NCO as the rotorcraft settled into its landing squat.

  “Ready!” shouted the rest of the company. They were loud enough to briefly drown out the engines.

  The ramp fell and the Marines hustled out. They might not be considered a “Tier One” group, but they were as professional, moving quickly across the sand as they stormed the open beach.

  The platoon’s first objective was to take holding positions along a low rise near the center of the open area of the island. The jets were then called in for another flyover, while the Marines watched for a reaction. That done, two three-man groups got up and ran to the tree line. When they didn’t find anything or draw fire, they plunged a few yards deeper. With still no contact, the commander unleashed the unit in a systematic search of the island.

  Danny, trailin
g behind, couldn’t have organized them better. But if he’d been hooked up to a lie detector and questioned, he would have had to admit that he was disappointed: if the people with the UAVs weren’t here, where were they?

  AS THE GROUND units scoured the island, Greenstreet had Turk extend his orbit outward, theorizing that the UAVs might be using this as bait and would launch from another base.

  A civilian airliner twenty miles to the north provided the briefest of diversions before Turk double-checked its identifier with the Cube. Otherwise, the sky was empty, except for the Marine force.

  There were dozens and dozens of little islands and reefs below, but the vast majority weren’t big enough for a walrus to sunbathe on. Turk took his circle wider, double-checking his position with the other aircraft as he flew. Trying to stay alert, he ran himself through the possible reactions to a UAV, trying to guess where it would come from. He thought about Cowboy and the pilot’s desire to fly with Whiplash.

  Then he thought of Li. That was very dangerous—she was distracting even at the best of times. He refocused his thoughts as well as his eyes, examining the islands and waves below.

  Turk’s attention drifted again. Suddenly he was back in Iran, flying the Phantom that he and Stoner had used to escape in. MiGs were coming after them.

  God, am I ever going to get away from them? Flying this old crate, desperate for fuel, a sitting duck . . .

  He jumped upright against his restraints. He hadn’t fallen asleep, but he’d been slightly dazed, inattentive. He thought of taking one of the emergency “go” pills he had in his leg pocket before something serious happened.

  The AN/APG-81 AESA radar system had picked out two contacts at ninety miles, coming fast in his direction from 30,000 feet.

  Fast movers. J-15s. Chinese.

  J-15s! Chinese carrier planes.

  “I have two contacts coming hot from the northwest,” said Turk, hitting the mike. “Chinese.”

  DANNY REACHED THE edge of the island and pushed out onto the shallow ledge overlooking the water. If there had been people here in the past ten years, they hadn’t left a trace.