by Dale Brown
The Cube
“I HAVE A tentative fix on where the UAVs came from,” said Yanni Turnis, one of Rubeo’s top engineers. He was talking to him from New Mexico. “There’s an atoll in the Grainger Bank. A cargo container is docked near the lagoon. The satellites reported two flashes on the deck about thirty minutes ago.”
“I see.” Rubeo zoomed out the map on his display, then focused back on the area of a horseshoe-shaped island with a ship parked to the south. A pair of small boats were tied to a dock at the shore. The image had been taken by a satellite two days before.
“Was the flash analyzed?” Rubeo asked.
“Not considered significant by the Reconnaissance Office algorithms,” said the techie. “But look at the data. They have to be UAV launches, don’t you think? Check it against the simulation. It matches, perfectly.”
Rubeo’s technical expert was right. But the distance! It was some five hundred miles from the point where the Marines were operating. To have covered that distance in that short a time was beyond the capability of even the Sabres.
On the other hand, Rubeo hadn’t thought Braxton would be able to spoof the radars, even for a limited time, but clearly he had. It wasn’t so much the technical problems as the difficulty of manufacturing and packaging it reliably in something as small as the drones. Even the Sabres didn’t have that ability.
What other tricks did Braxton have in store?
“The performance specs look almost exactly like the Gen 4s,” added Turnis. “They may be a little faster, but turn a little wider. The simulation says they’ll bleed off speed pretty fast if you get them to pull over eight g’s in a turn—you might get them to go into a flat spin.”
The F-35 pilots would black out well before that happened, Rubeo realized. They were best off not engaging the enemy planes—which of course wasn’t an option, or probably even a thought.
“Are you talking to the Marine fighters?” he asked Turnis.
“We don’t have a direct hookup. They’re about to engage the fighters,” said Turnis. “I can relay tips to Frost in the Cube if you want.”
“Go ahead. I doubt they’ll be of much use,” added Rubeo bitterly.
10
Over the South China Sea
COWBOY PULLED THE F-35 into a turn, aiming to get behind the UAVs as they passed. The two aircraft were doing over eight hundred knots, so fast that there was no way in the world they could slow down enough to maneuver and target him before blowing past.
Except they did.
A laser range finder locked on the tailpipe of the F-35. Cowboy got an IR warning; realizing he was in trouble, he threw the aircraft into a dive a second or two before the UAV’s energy weapon fired.
The weapon’s beam touched the side of his tail, but the shot was too brief to do serious damage. The UAVs continued past, moving too fast for him to try his own shot. He tightened his turn and aimed south, hoping to position himself better to ward off their next attack.
“Cowboy, they’re not running away,” said Turk. “They’re going to go south and then sweep around you to hit the Ospreys.”
“How do I stop them?”
“They’ll prioritize on the biggest threat,” said Turk over the radio. “At this point they’ll only pay attention to you if they think you’re going to attack them.”
“Turk, what are you saying?”
“Go right after them. Target them with your radar, open your bay and make them think you’re going to attack them. Fire a Sidewinder if you have to—you want them to think you’re a real threat. Otherwise, they’re going to just keep on after the Marine Ospreys.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they didn’t just shoot you down. They got you out of the way, then went on. They don’t think you’re important.”
“What do I do once I have their attention?”
“Tangle with them long enough for the Sabres to get there. They’ll take care of them. Go! If one of them gets close to the Ospreys, everybody aboard is dead.”
“Colonel, you hear that?”
“Copy.”
Cowboy slammed his throttle. He didn’t mind making himself a target; he just didn’t want to be an easy target. What he wanted was a solution to kill the damn things, not to let someone else kill them.
But one thing at a time. Charging after the UAVs, he switched his targeting radar on, even though he had no radar missiles aboard. If it had any effect on the UAVs, he couldn’t tell; they were still moving west.
Maybe, thought Cowboy, they’re going back to where they came from.
No such luck. The two aircraft began to bank back south, swinging in a wide arc. They were meaning to cut off the Ospreys, aiming at where the rotorcraft would be in a few minutes. Just as Turk had predicted.
“Tell the Ospreys to change course and come north,” said Turk, once more breaking in over the radio. “Tell them to go back to the reef.”
“They’re twelve minutes from the mainland,” said Greenstreet.
“They’ll never make it. If they turn back, the UAVs will think they have time to shoot you down and then go for them. They’re obviously programmed to stop the Ospreys from getting to Malaysia. I can tell by the course.”
“Cowboy and I can hold them up long enough for the Ospreys to get away,” said Greenstreet.
“Negative,” insisted Turk. “Not gonna happen. They’ll split and one will go after the Ospreys. I’ve flown against these things dozens of time, Colonel. Trust me.”
“Turk knows what he’s talking about, Colonel,” said Cowboy over the squadron frequency. “He’s been right so far on everything they’ve done.”
Greenstreet ordered the Ospreys to change direction. As they complied, the UAVs turned as well—and kept going, heading straight for Cowboy, whom they now considered an immediate threat.
Cowboy angled his fighter toward the enemy aircraft, heading for their noses. The UAVs had gradually slowed, and were now doing about four hundred knots. He slowed his own speed; the trick now was to get them to come north with him when he turned.
The UAVs held their course, undoubtedly expecting him to fire his missiles before closing. This would be the most logical move, giving his weapons their best chance of hitting the targets while still minimizing his exposure. Instead, Cowboy jammed hard to the right, falling into a twisting turn that left the UAVs on his back, closing from ten miles out.
A human pilot would have strongly suspected a trick—the move had made Cowboy’s F-35 infinitely more vulnerable. But if the UAVs were wondering why he had just served himself up on a silver platter, they gave no sign of it, instead held their course.
“Basher Two, Ospreys are two minutes from the reef,” said Colonel Greenstreet.
“Roger.”
“They’re going to put down there. I’ll target the UAVs as soon as they land.”
“Get closer and wait for me to turn hard north,” said Cowboy. “The closer you are, the better the odds of taking them.”
“Are you sure you can last that long?”
“Piece of cake.”
Cowboy flexed his fingers around the stick, waiting as the two UAVs closed in on him. They’d managed to climb, which would make it even more difficult for him to get away. He’d push left and accelerate. At least one of them would do the same, and extra altitude might take away some of the advantage he hoped to get from surprise.
“Just as they lock, pull back and climb,” suggested Turk.
“Are you kidding?” answered Cowboy. “They’re above me. That’s suicidal.”
“No, they won’t expect it. They’ll have angled down to make their shots and you’ll slip right out of their targeting cone. As long as they’re five thousand feet above you when you pull back, you’re good. You’ll have just enough time to break their lock as they pass you.”
“What about six thousand?”
“Not gonna work. Keep it as close to five thousand as you can—you can’t give them too much time to react. Or too much room. Five th
ousand’s just about the sweet spot.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Pick one, get on his tail, and fire your Sidewinders. The Sabres will be about three minutes away.”
It sure sounded easy, thought Cowboy. But actually doing it was going to be very difficult. “You sure this is going to work?”
“No. But it’s what I would do if I were in your plane.”
That was less than the ringing endorsement Cowboy had hoped for.
He nudged down slightly, keeping his plane a little more than 5,000 feet below the closer of the two UAVs. They’d slowed a bit more, which was a temptation—maybe if he hit the afterburner he could shoot away without getting nailed. But even if that worked, he’d leave Greenstreet open to attack.
The UAVs closed to four miles, then three and a half. The RWR was bleeping, pleading with Cowboy: he was about to become dead meat.
“I agree,” muttered Cowboy.
And then they were on him, trying to slice him into yesterday’s hash. Cowboy yanked back on the stick, then got an inspiration. Why stop now? Rather than simply climbing, he urged the F-35 into a full loop, continuing around until he saw the black speck of one of the UAVs in front of him.
The Sidewinders sniffed the air, trying to find the UAV’s heat signature.
“It’s right there, right there,” said Cowboy, yelling at the missile. He turned left to keep the UAV in his sights, then poured on the throttle to hold onto his target.
The missile finally growled, indicating it had locked on its target. Cowboy fired, then pulled hard right, worried about the other bandit.
He was right to worry. The enemy aircraft had come in behind him. Its weapon caught the top of the cockpit before he managed to turn inside and drop out of the UAV’s sights. As he shoved the F-35 back to the north, he heard and felt a loud bang above him: the canopy literally ripped in half, the thick acrylic shattered by the combination of the laser and the high g turn. Cowboy floated for a fraction of a second, as if his brain and body had separated. Then everything roared around him, as though he’d flown into the center of a tornado.
Turk was saying something over the radio, but Cowboy couldn’t hear.
Where was the UAV?
Behind him. The gravity and wind nearly overcame him. The plane bucked, the stick jerking from his grip. Cowboy was blind; he pushed into a dive, desperate to get away.
The canopy gave way completely, shattering and flying behind the plane. Cowboy was pushed back in the seat, his hands still on the controls but unable to move because of the force of the wind. The aircraft had slowed and descended precipitously, but it was still a wild beast, some 5,000 feet above sea level, wings tipped.
I’m dead, he thought.
A pair of black shadows passed in front of him. There was a flash in the sky, a jagged red and yellow hand rising behind him.
The Sabres had arrived.
11
Over the South China Sea
TURK WATCHED THE Sabres follow the UAV that had been on Cowboy’s tail as it tried to accelerate away. Cowboy’s missile had damaged the other aircraft, but it was still flying, heading westward, most likely back toward its base.
They’d take down the one they had first, then go for the other. The enemy had never seen them coming.
With the Marines now in reasonably good shape, Turk turned his full attention back to the minesweeper, which had continued toward the island. He sent Sabre One on a low pass directly over the ship, running from bow to stern, and got a good close-up showing the sailors manning battle stations. The 85mm gun swung in the direction of the beached merchant vessel.
“Colonel Freah, I’m guessing they’re getting ready to fire,” Turk told Danny. “Like really soon. Minutes, if not seconds. They’re nearly in range.”
“Radio the warning.”
“Yes, sir.” They had prepared a brief message in English and Mandarin, declaring that the merchant ship had been boarded by U.S. forces in accordance with a UN resolution against helping the Malaysian rebels and telling the Chinese not to interfere. Turk had the computer broadcast it on all channels used by the Chinese navy.
There was no response. Not that he really expected one.
“Colonel, no response. They’re in range.”
“Do what you gotta do,” replied Freah. “But only if they fire.”
In other words—don’t shoot until they do. In many if not most situations, U.S. pilots would be allowed to fire on a ship or aircraft that turned its weapons radars on and locked on them. But the recent contentious history of U.S.-Chinese interactions in the South China Sea, where weapons radars were routinely used for provocation by both sides, had led to the more stringent requirement. There was an additional consideration in this case, as the capabilities of the Tigershark’s weapon were still secret, and simply using the weapon provided the enemy with information.
The Chinese were also notoriously poor shots. Still . . .
Turk started to object. “Colonel, if I wait until they fire, there’s always the possibility—”
“Those are your orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“THERE’S A HELL of a lot of gear here,” yelled Guzman from below. He’d gone through the hull into another opening and a small compartment beyond. “Looks like the frickin’ bat cave. And there’s another hatchway down at the end.”
“I’m coming down,” said Danny. “Stand by.”
Leaving Grisif near the blown-out hatchway, Danny maneuvered himself down to the ladder and then across the thick screen that ran between the hull and the compartment bulkhead. Water flowed at his feet, trickling down from the compartment above. Danny’s wrist light was of little use inside the darkened chamber. He switched the helmet to night vision, which cast everything an eerie gray. He had to turn sideways to get through the opening in the hull, squeezing his body down into a squat.
The compartment was actually a cylinder attached to the outside of the ship via a narrow tunnel. It opened into what looked like a large round hallway lined with computer equipment. Running nearly thirty feet, the cylinder was fourteen feet in diameter, with LED lighting along the top and a metal screen deck at the bottom. There were pumps below, sucking in the water as it leaked down and expelling it somewhere outside in the seabed. They were losing the battle, water slowly inching up toward the deck.
Power came from a device that converted wave energy into electricity, storing it in a large pack of batteries that filled the rest of the area below the decking. Computer servers and other electronic equipment were stacked along the walls; there were two processing stations with multiple screens and keyboards. One of the computers seemed to be on standby, with a small LED lit, but the rest were off and the screens blank.
“Quite a setup, huh?” said Guzman.
“It is. We gotta get this stuff out of here,” added Danny.
“It’s bolted to the metal frames.”
As Danny leaned down to examine it, there was a loud crack from above. The ship lifted two feet in the air, then settled hard, knocking both of them to the deck.
“Damn,” muttered Guzman.
“Yeah,” said Danny, hitting the radio Send button. “Team check in.”
There was no answer. The short-range communications relied on being near another unit, and with all the metal and water between them, Grisif was now out of range.
“Colonel, look at that.” Guzman pointed back toward the entrance to the cylinder connecting them to the rest of the ship. A sheet of water streamed down from a fresh crack at the top. “We gotta get out of here.”
But before they could move, the cylinder abruptly jerked downward, pushing them toward the hatchway where they’d come in. The pair fell into the water as it rolled, flopping against the side of the ship as the hatch came loose from its mooring. The tunnel-like connection between the ship and the compartment broke apart. A section rolled under the container and the ship. Crushed and twisted, it blocked their way out.
THE MINES
WEEPER’S SHOT on the merchant ship hit the reef on the starboard side of the vessel, throwing a geyser of water and coral into the air. It was short, and the Chinese crew didn’t get a chance to correct.
“Fire,” said Turk. “Disable target.”
Current shot through the rail at the center of the Tigershark, propelling what looked like an aerodynamic railroad spike out of the plane, through the air, and into the center of the shroud covering the 85mm deck gun on the Chinese minesweeper.
Two more shots sped from the Tigershark before Turk told the computer to stop; he was out to disable the gun, not sink the ship. His restraint was not appreciated on the ship, however, especially among the gun crew nor the men in the compartment directly below. Traveling in excess of Mach 6, the rail gun’s spikes shattered the Chinese gun and the mechanism that fed it. The spewing shrapnel ignited the explosive in a loaded shell, which not only exploded but started a secondary fire in the gun housing. This quickly spread to the deck immediately below the gun.
Meanwhile, two of the three projectiles continued through the ship after striking the gun. Penetrating the hull, they left relatively small but critical holes, and the ship started listing to its starboard side.
Damage control was complicated by the fire on the deck below the gun and confusion among the crew and the captain; it was not immediately clear where the attack had come from, as neither the Tigershark nor its escorts could be picked up on radar. The minesweeper therefore continued toward the reef—a serious mistake.
The fire showed as a hot glow on Turk’s targeting screen, with a damage percentage of one hundred percent in the legend next to it, indicating that the gun was now considered out of action even by the overly cautious computer. But the ship had other guns, and the fact that it was still moving convinced Turk that it remained a danger.
“Target propulsion system on target one,” he told the computer.
“Computed,” replied the computer. It lit three separate target areas that it proposed to strike, two in the engine room and a third a little farther back, on the propeller shaft.
“Eliminate propulsion system,” said Turk, choosing to let the computer pull the trigger while he flew the aircraft. The course was computed for him on the screen: dead on his present heading for five seconds, then a slight nudge right; the rail gun was fixed in the Tigershark’s fuselage, and could only be aimed as the airplane was aimed.
