Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “He’s not a rah-rah guy,” said Cowboy, shrugging.

  “I can see that,” said Turk.

  “Flies damn well,” said Cowboy. “Guy you want on your back in the shit.”

  “Sure. He could be a little more cheery about it, though.”

  “I think he’s pissed that we weren’t allowed to engage the bastards,” added Cowboy. “You could have shot them down.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re just too much, Air Force. I heard your voice—you were dying to take those guys out.”

  “Maybe, I guess.”

  Cowboy laughed. They’d reached the trailers. “You can admit it. It’s our job.”

  “True.”

  Cowboy gave him a shoulder chuck that nearly sent him into the wall. “Catch you later,” he said, sauntering off to his room.

  Twenty minutes later, lying on his cot drifting toward sleep, Turk thought about what Cowboy had said. Was he right? Had he been itching to take the other pilots down?

  Maybe he had.

  What was wrong with admitting it? Was he worried that it would make him seem too cold-blooded?

  He’d been in combat before, killed people, on the ground and in the air. He wasn’t jaded about it, or complacent; he didn’t take it lightly. It was, as Cowboy said, his job.

  And his duty. Just as it was his duty this morning not to shoot.

  Turk’s head floated between sleep and consciousness. He’d never angsted over his job before, and the whole idea of whether he should like shooting down people hadn’t really occurred to him. Or if it did, it hadn’t been something he spent a lot of time worrying about.

  Not that he was worrying now.

  I need sleep, he told himself. Enough of this.

  And just like that, he dozed off.

  SIX HOURS LATER, refreshed by a nap, Danny Freah took one of the Ospreys to Tanjung Manis Airport to meet the incoming Whiplash MC-17. Located near the northeastern coast, the civilian airport was virtually deserted. The MC-17 had just come in, carrying not only the Whiplash troopers but the Tigershark II and eight Dreamland aircraft specialists. After unloading the diminutive Tigershark, they were waiting for a second cargo plane carrying four escort Sabre UAVs.

  “There’s a sight for sore eyes!” said Chief Master Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland, striding toward his boss as he hopped off the Marine Osprey.

  “How was the flight?” asked Danny.

  “Wouldn’t know, Colonel. Slept the whole way.”

  “How’s the team? Will they be able to go out on a mission tonight?”

  “Try and hold them back. What do we got?”

  As always, Boston’s enthusiasm energized Danny. The chief master sergeant was a short, pugnacious, and high-energy veteran. Once one of the few African-Americans trained as a parajumper, Boston had mellowed a bit around the edges over the years—and lost most of the hometown accent that had given him his nickname—but he was still the sort of combat leader Danny found indispensable on an op. He filled Boston in on the latest intel from the Cube: two new bases had been located; each had underwater gridwork similar to the site Danny had been to earlier. One seemed to have been abandoned recently, the other was much farther north, in territory watched over by the Chinese. There was an old merchant ship there, with six Filipino marines who’d been parked there in a somewhat quixotic attempt by the Philippines to stake a claim to the territory.

  “The Filipinos are helping them?” asked Boston.

  “Officially, no,” said Danny. “But they talk to them once a day. No one seems to be sure what’s going on out there. That’s why we have to take a look.

  “And there’s the Chinese,” added Danny. “Their carrier task force has moved south, closer to that site. What their interests are, no one seems to know. They sent a pair of planes to check us out earlier, then skedaddled when the Marines got tough.”

  “Smart move on their part,” said Boston.

  “What I’m thinking is we use our Marine friends to hit the island I think was abandoned,” said Danny. “They go in with their Osprey and support aircraft. Meanwhile, we do a night HALO jump from the MC-17 onto the merchant ship, check it out. We have Turk and the UAVs to back us up, and we run the Ospreys for firepower and to get us out.”

  “We need permission from the Filipinos?”

  “I don’t think asking them what’s up is a good idea,” said Danny.

  “How heavily armed are they?”

  “We don’t know. The only weapons we’ve seen on the old merchant ship are M-2 machine guns. Ma Deuces,” added Danny, using the American nickname, “probably from World War Two. I’d expect they still work, though.”

  “What about the guys with the UAVs?”

  “Not clear.”

  “But their planes had a laser,” said Boston.

  “That’s right. There may be all sorts of defenses. We have to be prepared for anything.”

  A roar in the distance announced the pending arrival of the two Whiplash Ospreys. They had rendezvoused north of the island just an hour before. WhipRey One came down from Okinawa, where it had been parked since Danny’s first mission here. The second had flown all the way from Hawaii, a trip that involved nine in-air refuels and just under eighteen hours of straight flight time. Though flown entirely by computer, two full crews had accompanied the MV-22/W aircraft from Hawaii; both aircraft would be fully manned for the op.

  “So how do the UAVs operate off a reef?” Boston asked.

  “We’re not sure.” Danny shook his head. “They seem to have some sort of launching system that can be easily hidden—one of the theories is that’s like a rocket. I’m afraid this is one case where we’re going to have to play it by ear and see what happens.”

  “One case?” Boston rolled his eyes. No Whiplash mission was ever straightforward, by conventional standards.

  “I’m not worried about the UAVs,” continued Danny. “Turk seems pretty confident that he can handle them.”

  “I’d bet on that.”

  “We want the guys who are behind this. And they have to have some large computer operation somewhere.”

  “One question, Colonel—UAVs, small submarines—sounds almost like a Dreamland setup.”

  “You don’t know how right you are, Boston.”

  2

  Offshore an island in the Sembuni Reefs

  SHE WAS THERE in the dream as she always was, long hair draped back behind her ears, eyes penetrating, her smile so casual and confident. She was as tall as him, though that didn’t say much. Braxton stood only five-six, his height an issue and an impediment when he was young—and surely an issue in his personality, a reason he felt the need to prove himself to every human being he met, except Jennifer Gleason.

  In the dream, he saw her get up from the console in the Dreamland operations center, tired after watching the progress of a long night’s experiment. She walked toward his station, then leaned over his shoulder. He felt her warmth in the cool room, the light press of her breast against his back.

  “Man is meant to evolve,” she said. “To become free. The best and the brightest must throw off the shackles that hold them. Governments are oppressive . . .”

  A loud buzzer brought Braxton from the dream.

  Jennifer Gleason had never spoken like that to him, and never would have; she was the most apolitical person in the world. But the first part of the dream, of her getting up and walking toward him, that had happened. That was real.

  Human minds were hopelessly tangled and easily confused.

  How much of what he wanted was due to Jennifer, and not the philosophical underpinnings of Kallipolis? Was he just motivated by unobtainable lust?

  Braxton had contemplated the question at great length. He was certainly devoted to Jennifer Gleason’s memory, far more than anyone. Part of that was due to the beauty of her work—the AI constructs, the melding of hardware and software, the very basis of the brains that flew the Flighthawks and their prodigy: it was beautiful w
ork, so far advanced for its time that it still wasn’t completely appreciated, even though the basic architecture was embedded in every combat UAV currently in the fleet.

  Braxton had built on her work, and understood it like no one else, with the possible exception of Ray Rubeo. But just as Jennifer had surpassed Rubeo, building on his insights, Braxton had surpassed her.

  So it was lust and obsession, but on some higher plane—something worthy of Kallipolis and the future of the elite.

  “More work to be done,” he said aloud, rising from the chair where he’d fallen asleep. “Enough self-flagellation. Work. That is the only useful purpose a mind can be put to.”

  Even though the words were his, in his head they echoed with her voice.

  What a strange construct, the brain.

  3

  The Mall, Washington, D.C.

  WALK? OR RUN for President?

  Zen stopped his wheelchair at the middle of the Vietnam War memorial. He always felt deeply humbled here, as if he were physically as well as symbolically in the presence of so many brave Americans who had sacrificed their lives and futures for their country. In his mind, their sacrifices made his look petty.

  He had, it was true, done many heroic things. But he hadn’t traded his existence on earth for his country. On the contrary, he had lived a great life—not one without tremendous hardships, but a bountiful one nonetheless.

  He hadn’t discussed running for the presidency with Rodriguez, but it was clear from what the scientist said that were he to undergo the operation and rehabilitation, he wouldn’t have the time to campaign. In fact, he might even have to give up his Senate seat.

  He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do that. Between walking and being a politician—walking was better.

  But President?

  If he were President, he could get important things done. He could take care of the military, improve veterans’ benefits—especially for the wounded and disabled. It wouldn’t be easy—being in the Senate had taught him that. But there was still a lot more that he could do. He could have a lasting effect on people, on the country.

  On the other hand, he really, really, really wanted to walk again. Just the notion of walking down the aisle with Teri when she got married—how fantastic would that be?

  Unbelievable.

  In the years after the accident, he’d tried and tried to get his legs back. He’d always thought he would. Gradually, he had come to accept who he was. Accept that he was limited physically.

  He’d never been limited mentally.

  If the experiment worked, it would help others as well. His medical history made him the perfect candidate from a scientific point of view, but it was even bigger psychologically: if someone who had been crippled for so long regained the use of his legs, how many other lives would that affect? Wouldn’t that be even more tangible to them than what he might do as President?

  If he even got the nomination. There’d be no guarantee. Mantis would be a very formidable opponent. And then there was Jason Hu, and Cynthia Styron from Wyoming—who would be an excellent President, even if she was probably a long shot for the nomination.

  He’d certainly have to do things he didn’t want to if he ran. Beg for money. Compromise on his principles. Not big compromises, not at the start. But eventually. That was politics. He hadn’t given up his principles in the Senate, and he was well respected by both sides for that. But as President . . .

  “Uh, Senator, you wanted to be at that reception,” said his driver, who’d come down to the monument with him. “We are, uh, running pretty late.”

  Zen broke himself from his reverie.

  “Let’s go, James,” he said, wheeling back from the wall. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  4

  Malaysia

  GETTING INTO THE Tigershark after flying the F-35 was like trading a well-appointed F-150 pickup for a sleek little Porsche. It wasn’t just the size of the cockpit or the fact that the Tigershark’s seat slid down to an almost prone position once he was aboard. The aircraft was designed for an entirely different purpose than the F-35. Not needing to be all things to all people, it was optimized as an interceptor—small and quick, highly maneuverable in any imaginable regime, carrying active and passive sensors that could detect an enemy well before it could be detected. The plane was also optimized to work with UAVs—the Sabre drones, combat-optimized aircraft scheduled to replace the Flighthawks in the near future. The Tigershark and the Sabres shared their sensor data in much the same way that the F-35s did, but had the additional advantage of being able to tap into the Whiplash satellite communications network, and from there into a vast array of American military data worldwide.

  Turk went through the computer’s preflight checklist quickly, making sure the aircraft was at spec after its long trip west. The flight computer happily complied, checking off each box with an audible declaration of “Green.” The intonation that suggested there was no possible way the condition could be anything other than perfect.

  The Tigershark was not a STOL aircraft, but its small size and powerful thrust allowed it to get off the runway at Tanjung Manis in only 2,000 feet. Turk rocketed upward, stretching his muscles—the change in aircraft was as physical as it was mental, his body adapting to the beast’s feel.

  “Go to twenty thousand feet, on course and at speed as programmed,” Turk told the computer. He had loaded a memory chip with the outlines of the mission prior to takeoff. The chip included a backup of his personal preferences—the cockpit temperature, the precise angle of the seat, along with some of his favored preset maneuvers. Some of this was already programmed into the aircraft’s memory, somewhat like the driver’s setting in a car would be, but the designers had felt it should have a backup that could be easily changed if a new pilot was at the helm.

  Turk’s path took him west over the ocean, where he would rendezvous with the Marines. Basher One and Two had just taken off from their forward operating base. The Marine squadron was now back to full strength, with its pilots recovered from the stomach flu, and the aircraft that had been damaged by the laser fully repaired. Danny and Greenstreet had opted to keep two of the planes in reserve; the rebels’ recent propensity to attack while the planes were gone could not be taken lightly.

  Turk’s plane flew between the four Sabres in a two-one-two formation—two Sabres about five miles ahead of the Tigershark. The forward aircraft were spread a bit wider than the back, with 5,000 feet separation in altitude. The formation was arranged to provide not only a wide sensor field but also mobility for combat.

  “Basher One, this is Shark,” said Turk, checking in with the Marines. “I’m about zero-two from rendezvous point alpha. How’s your ETA?”

  “Five minutes, Shark One. We don’t have you on radar.”

  “Copy that.”

  If the F-35 was stealthy, the Tigershark was practically invisible to radar. The F-35s could, however, spot it with other sensors, most notably its passive infrared detection system, which would find the aircraft’s baffled tailpipe as it drew near. The Sabres, on the other hand, could only be detected at extremely close range while they were at cruising speed.

  As the planes rendezvoused, Turk flew close enough to the F-35s to give them a thumbs-up—or would have, had they been able to see into the cockpit of the Tigershark. But unlike every jet fighter since the Me 262, the aircraft did not have a canopy; it was a wing-in-body design so sleek that the pilot could not have sat ninety degrees upright. Instead, its skin was studded with small video cameras that gave Turk a perfect 360-degree view, one that could change instantly from daylight to night at voice command, and was always integrated with the radar and other detection systems.

  “Sleek chariot,” quipped Cowboy. “Where’d you get that? Mars?”

  “You sure it’s not a UFO?” said Greenstreet. It was his first attempt at humor since Turk had known him.

  “I want one,” added Cowboy.

  “Don’t drool,” said Greenstreet. “You�
�ll rust the controls.”

  Two tries at a joke within thirty seconds? He was on a roll.

  “I’ll see if I can arrange a demonstration flight,” said Turk.

  “That’d be awesome,” said Cowboy.

  The joke was on him—the demonstration flight would actually never leave the ground, as the Tigershark had a rather robust simulation mode.

  “All right, let’s do this, gentlemen,” said Greenstreet, back to all-business. “Shark, you ride over Target One and get us some images. We’re with the assault team.”

  “Roger that.”

  Turk pulled up the mission map and adjusted his course to fly over the atoll where the submarine dock had been spotted. He could just tell the computer to take him there, but where was the fun in that?

  “Throttle max,” he said, his hand reaching to duplicate the motion of pushing the throttle to military power.

  “Command accepted,” said the plane.

  For all the world, he could have sworn it added the words: It’s about time.

  DANNY FREAH RAISED his hands so the team jumpmaster could finish checking his rig.

  “Good,” Melissa Grisif announced finally, turning to give a thumbs-up to the MC-17 crew chief. “We’re good to go.”

  Grisif had joined the Whiplash assault team only two months before; this was her first mission with the unit. But she was far from inexperienced. Grisif had joined the Army Rangers as one of the first female members of the regiment; after two years there, she was selected for Officer’s Candidate School, where she graduated at the top of her class. The freshly minted lieutenant went to Special Forces; two promotions later she found herself headed for a desk job. At that point she stepped sideways, getting a slot in an intraservice exchange program that saw SF-trained personnel working with Air Force pararescue jumpers. Six months in she’d seen a notice for volunteers to join Whiplash.