Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  Volunteering to take the team trials represented a serious risk to her career. For one thing, there was no guarantee she would make the cut; if she didn’t, she would lose her assignment with Air Force special operations and return to the Pentagon desk job. And if she did make the cut, she would be treated like any other member of the team. While she would still be an officer, many of the privileges that rank usually bestowed would be missing. She wouldn’t command a team, at least not at first. As the “new guy” on the squad, she would be given much of the donkey work, just as if she were “only” an NCO. (Whiplash required a rank of E5 or higher, which meant that even the newest recruit had been in the military long enough to advance to sergeant or petty officer. As it happened, no military member—some Whiplashers were CIA—had been accepted below the rank of E6, a technical sergeant in the Air Force. If anything, the people who had come over from the CIA were even more experienced, as most had worked in the military before joining the CIA’s paramilitary side.)

  Captain Grisif had made the cut. If her ego had been bruised since joining, she never let on. The fact that she had won the position of jumpmaster, an extremely important role in the Whiplash scheme of things, showed that she was already thriving.

  The MC-17 was about halfway through its slow climb to 35,000 feet. By the time they reached that altitude, Turk Mako would be starting his pass over the beached merchant vessel. Danny had several plans contingent on what Turk found there, but they all ended the same way: the Whiplash team was getting aboard the vessel and taking it over.

  He looked over the rest of the team. With the exception of Boston, everyone was new; the original Whiplash team had been broken up and used to seed new teams, now in training. Chris Bulgaria and Tony “Two Fingers” Dalton had come from Air Force special operations; Eddie Guzman was a former SEAL who had been working for the CIA when he was recruited. Glenn Fulsom, “Baby Joe” Morgan, and Ivan Dillon were all from Army Special Forces. Riyad Achmoody was the eighth member of the team. Achmoody was another CIA recruit, and the oldest member aside from Boston and Danny. A former Army Special Forces officer, he was also the team leader, though with Danny and Boston along, he was the third-ranking member of the unit.

  Boston came over and gave Danny a quick thumbs-up. “We’re looking good,” said the chief. “Cap’lissa’s got ’em shipshape,” he added, using his new nickname for Grisif.

  “Yup.”

  “I see she even got you squared away,” added Boston.

  “My rig was perfect,” said Danny defensively.

  “A woman’s touch. That’s what you needed.” The chief wagged his finger at his commander. “Something you might think of in your personal life.”

  “The day I take advice on that front from you,” said Danny, “is the day I go into a monastery.”

  “Just lookin’ out for you,” said Boston.

  “Thanks,” said Danny, putting on his smart helmet to check on the rest of the operation.

  THERE WAS A massive depression on the side of the atoll the Marines were going to inspect. It looked like a small stadium had been there and then flattened. As Turk circled overhead, he directed Sabre One to descend and fly over the depression low and slow.

  The feed from the UAV’s low-light and infrared video was piped instantly back to the Cube, where an analyst studied it for a few seconds before declaring it the top of a pancaked bunker.

  “That’s definitely manmade,” said the expert. “Way too symmetrical to be anything but. Be nice to get a ground-penetrating radar and have absolute confirmation,” he added. “But I’m thinking that’s not in the budget.”

  “It’s not in the timeline,” said Colonel Freah, who was linked in via the com unit in his helmet and the MC-17. “Is the place safe or not?”

  “Danny, we’re not seeing any people on the island,” said Breanna from the sit room. “Proceed.”

  “Understood. Out,” said Danny. As the com link to the States turned off, he tapped the back panel of the smart helmet. “The island does not appear to be occupied,” he told Captain Thomas aboard the Marine Osprey. “There’s a large depression—our experts think it was a bunker that was exploded. You have the image?”

  “We’re looking at it now.” The video had been routed by Whiplash over to the Marine unit via their combat link. “No defenses?”

  “None noted. These guys are sneaky and smart,” said Danny. “I wouldn’t take anything for granted.”

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  COWBOY COMPLETED HIS pass over the island and banked west. The place looked as deserted as a government office at 4:05.

  “I’m going to clear them in,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

  “Acknowledged.”

  Leveling his jet out of the turn, Cowboy double-checked the position of the approaching Ospreys, making sure he wasn’t going to interfere with their flight path. Then he nudged the stick to climb behind Basher One and gave his readouts a thorough going over. The F-35 was performing like a champion racehorse on a midday warm-up, barely breaking a sweat.

  Cowboy’s stint out here and his association with the Whiplash people had sparked a conflict in his soul. He loved being a Marine. There was something truly awe-inspiring about the Corps’ history. For Cowboy, the link to the very first leathernecks—a name that had come from the collars worn by the recruits during the Revolution—was a tangible thing, something that didn’t simply inspire him, but linked him with a select fraternity of warriors. To be a Marine and a pilot made him a member of an even more elite fraternity.

  Not that he had necessarily thought naval aviators or Air Force pilots were wimps, but . . . they weren’t Marines.

  But Whiplash was something else again. It might be primarily Air Force, but it was clearly cutting edge. And at least to judge by Turk and Colonel Freah, the people associated with it were extreme warriors themselves.

  Not Marines. But definitely warriors.

  Did he have the stuff to join them?

  Cowboy certainly felt he did. He knew he did. But he’d have to prove it.

  The Ospreys came into the beach fast, settling down to let the men off. No matter how calm the situation might look, that was always a tense moment. So many things could go wrong, even without an enemy around.

  “Basher flight, this is Shark,” said Turk, radioing them from the north. “I’m about to make my run over Whiplash objective. How are you looking?”

  “We’re good,” said Greenstreet. “Everything is clean and quiet. Thanks for your help.”

  “Roger that. Have fun out there.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Greenstreet sounded ever so slightly annoyed, but as Cowboy had told Turk earlier, that was just his way. Greenstreet was an excellent pilot and a decent leader; he was certainly a good Marine.

  Cowboy wouldn’t have minded working with someone else, though. Colonel Freah’s style—very confident and self-assured, yet easygoing at the same time—was a sharp contrast. It was clear that Freah had been in a lot of shit, far more than even the crustiest gunnery sergeants in the MEU. Maybe that was why he was so laid back; whatever happened, it probably didn’t compare to the worst of what he’d already seen.

  Not that you’d want to cross him: there was a flash in his eyes every so often that let you know he was capable of real anger, and could back it up not only with connections all the way to the White House but physically as well. Then again, why would you want to cross him? He had the air about him that all great commanders had: Everything he said just seemed to make so much sense that you would be a complete idiot to go against his advice.

  Cowboy listened as Colonel Greenstreet talked with the Osprey pilots, then checked in with the air combat controllers as the units established themselves on the beach. It was good, it was quiet, they were advancing to the objectives.

  Everything was going great. The night was a picnic in the making.

  “Basher flight,” said Turk from the Tigershark, now nearly four hundred miles to the n
orth. “Are you seeing these contacts?”

  “Say again, Whiplash?” asked Greenstreet.

  “Two bogies, high speed, coming at you from the west,” said Turk. “The combat UAVs are back, and they’re running straight for you.”

  5

  The Cube

  THEY WERE AGGRESSIVE bastards, weren’t they?

  Rubeo looked at the large screen at the front of the room, which was mapping the location of every unit in the area. The UAVs were coming for blood.

  They’d just appeared on the screen, as if from nowhere. That certainly wasn’t possible, and it certainly wasn’t acceptable. His team had clearly missed something. He picked up the phone that connected to his company’s analytic center in New Mexico.

  “Check the launch profiles and see where they’re likely to have come from,” he demanded, without even bothering to give an explanation, let alone greet the techie on the other end of the line. “Coordinate that with everything we know about them—the bases they’ve used, things Braxton owned, the submarines—we are not doing a good job here. I want more information.”

  “Right now?”

  “I would have preferred yesterday,” snapped Rubeo before hanging up.

  6

  South China Sea, north of Malaysia

  EVEN THOUGH THE UAVs were approaching, Turk was already committed to supporting the Whiplash operation on the merchant ship and couldn’t leave. The best he could do to help the two F-35s was send a pair of Sabres to back them up. Even if they juiced their engines, it would take them close to twenty minutes to get there. The enemy UAVs were less than ten minutes from the Marines.

  It was better than nothing. Turk detailed Sabres Three and Four, the ones to his south, to help the Marines, but before dispatching them prioritized protection of the landing force above the F-35s. This way, they’d position themselves to cut off the enemy if they got by Greenstreet and Cowboy.

  Once tasked, the Sabres were autonomous, and would not only decide how to carry out their orders but adapt to new situations without needing to be reprogrammed. And they wouldn’t quit until there were no threats in the air. Turk told Greenstreet they were en route, then turned his attention to the beached merchant ship and area around it.

  Originally beached in the shallows a few yards from the top of the reef, the ship had been driven up the hard rock by the current, waves, and storms. The bow and a good portion of the starboard side of the ship had been lifted high enough to leave the keel exposed. The stern, which seemed to have twisted slightly, sat with the waves lapping just above the screw.

  An infrared scan showed that there were two men on the port deck near an ancient .50-caliber machine gun. There were four other men belowdecks in a compartment believed to be used for eating and sleeping. Turk assumed these six men were the Filipino marines assigned to occupy the ship against the Chinese, though until the ship was boarded, no one would actually know.

  The question was whether there were other people aboard. A modest heat signal indicated the engine room might have more people in it, but it was situated in a way that the analysts couldn’t be sure. The Whiplash team would go on the assumption that they were there until proven otherwise.

  Six Chinese fishing vessels were arrayed outside the reef south of the vessel. None were armed, but a Chinese Type 010-class minesweeper was about ten miles farther north, on the side of the beached Filipino ship. The minesweeper was the mama bear to the other boats. Here as elsewhere in the South China Sea, the Chinese tended to assert their most aggressive claims with a soft face, posting the seemingly less obnoxious “civilian” vessels close to the enemy, while leaving the muscle just over the horizon.

  The Type 010 was similar to the Russian T-43 minesweeper, an older oceangoing craft that was as much a patrol vessel as a minesweeper. Roughly 180 feet long, it had a crew of seventy and carried an array of light weapons, ranging from machine guns to an 85mm cannon. The ship wasn’t a threat to the Tigershark, nor would it be an immediate concern to the Whiplash team unless it sailed south. At the moment it was becalmed, facing parallel to the merchant vessel but presumed to be in constant contact with the fishing boats.

  As Turk crisscrossed over the area, he piped the feed from his sensors directly to Danny and the MC-17. When the combat cargo craft was about sixty seconds away from the drop point, Turk radioed to make sure they were still “go.”

  “Roger, Tigershark,” said Danny, his voice clear over the dedicated Whiplash com channel.

  “The UAVs appear headed for the Marines,” added Turk.

  “I copied that. We’re jumping in thirty seconds. Keep an eye on the boats and that minesweeper.”

  “Godspeed,” said Turk.

  DANNY FELT A knot grow in his stomach as the wind ripped against his body from the open ramp of the MC-17. He’d jumped from airplanes countless times in nearly every condition, but he’d never lost the little nudge of anticipation mixed with anxiety that accompanied the first time he’d given himself over to gravity. No jump was ever truly routine, especially a high altitude–low opening night jump; it was a long way down, with plenty of opportunities for something to go wrong.

  “We’re ready, Colonel,” said Grisif.

  He gave the jumpmaster a thumbs-up, and she in turn gave it to the crew chief and then the team. They went out briskly, in single file, walking into the darkness of the night like commuters moving to catch an early morning train.

  The rush of the wind untied the knots in Danny’s stomach, chasing away the tension. He spread his arms and legs the way he always did, adopting a frog position. When you were a human airplane, freedom and exhilaration far outweighed fear.

  The Whiplash team wore suits with special webbing that extended beneath their armpits and between their legs. These acted like wings, enhancing their ability to maneuver toward the target. Dropped some miles west of the ship, each man and woman flew forward as well as fell downward, maneuvering toward the target. Their helmets not only displayed their current altitude, bearing, and rate of fall, but showed their GPS position, a computed course and time to their objective.

  It was quite a difference from how things were when Danny had first jumped from an airplane, to say nothing of the WWII Pathfinders who were the godfathers of all American airborne troops. But certain things would never change: the strong brush of the wind, and the hard jerk of the parachute rig when it opened a few thousand feet above the landing zone.

  It was a strong tug, and while it didn’t catch Danny unaware, it still nearly took his breath away, jerking hard against his vulnerable groin.

  “Better than the alternative,” the old paratrooper who’d taught him used to say.

  Chute deployed, Danny checked his lines with a small wrist flashlight. Assured that he had a good canopy, he tapped the side of his helmet.

  “Team, ready?” asked Danny. “Check in.”

  One by one, they did. Unzipping their leg and arm wings, they sailed to a preset point on the western side of the ship.

  “Ten seconds to touchdown,” Danny told the team as the deck loomed below him. “Let’s do this the way we practiced.”

  AS SOON AS Turk saw the chutes blossom on his screen, he directed Sabre One and Sabre Two to head toward the minesweeper, just in case the Chinese boat saw them and got curious. The chutes were small and made with an absorbent material that tended to cut down on their radar signature, but only slightly. Anyone aboard the fishing boats with a pair of NODs or even a good set of eyes would be able to see them.

  If any of the fishing boats opened fire, he would sink them all. The computer had already stored their locations and computed targeting solutions for an attack; all he had to do was tell the rail gun to fire.

  Though still deemed experimental, the aircraft’s small-scale energy weapon had been so thoroughly tested that Turk was as confident about using it as he was firing the F-35’s cannon. More so, actually, since he had worked extensively with the gun before going to Iran.

  Like all rail g
uns, the weapon used a powerful electromagnetic field to propel a metallic slug at a target. The principle was well-known, and versions had been around for several decades; the real innovation here was the size of the weapon, which fit into the body-long bay of the sleek Tigershark II. The only downside was its need to recycle energy and lower its heat every dozen rounds. Even this, though, was a vast improvement over the earlier incarnations.

  Turk looked at the sitrep screen to see how Sabre Three and Four were doing. The Tigershark’s helmet provided him with a configurable control and display board; he had arranged several default configurations for the mission. The base configuration, which he was using now, was generally similar to what would be seen in a standard aircraft cockpit—an instrument panel, a 360-view of the outside, and a HUD projection of critical flight data.

  Aside from the fact that the HUD display was always in front of him no matter which direction he faced, the major difference between the Tigershark’s and conventional cockpits were the virtual video screens, which replaced the glass canopy and could be configured in any form he wanted. Turk had located three “screens” in the bottom-left corner of his forward view. He configured the top screen to give a God’s-eye view of his aircraft and what was going on around them—a sitrep, or situational awareness view. The bottom showed the Whiplash link, with messages and other data. He used the middle to select different feeds from the Sabres.

  They were still nearly thirteen minutes from the Marines. The F-35s were on radio silence, preparing to deal with the UAVs.

  “Five seconds from landing,” said Danny over the Dreamland circuit.

  Turk returned his full attention to the Whiplash landing. Eleven figures descended on the merchant ship, each aimed at a different point on the deck; once there, they would shed their chutes and head in different directions, aiming to quickly subdue opposition. The two men who were ostensibly on watch were completely oblivious to what was going on; Turk guessed that they were sleeping, as the computer indicated they hadn’t moved since the first Sabre passed overhead.