by Dale Brown
The Marines had practiced taking down a cargo container vessel before the present deployment, and Danny agreed that it made sense to give them that assignment while his team took the ocean-going tugboat nearby.
With the Ospreys operating so far from land, one of the aircraft would be used to refuel the others. While that would give the teams on the ships more support, it would also limit the size of the boarding teams by a quarter. It was a necessary trade-off.
“I’ll work out the logistics and talk to you in an hour,” Danny told the captain. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know immediately.”
“Good.”
“One more thing—I’m a little concerned about security at the airport now that we have our trailer there. I’m going to need all my men for the mission. There’s no threat at the base, but—”
“How many people do you want?” asked the captain.
“A squad?” asked Danny. “We can augment them with our perimeter gear.”
“Absolutely. They can go back with you on your Osprey.”
“That would be ideal,” said Danny.
TURK LISTENED AS Cowboy went over the UAV encounter. The more he talked about the other planes, the more Turk wished he’d been there. Even if it had been a plot to steal the Sabres, he still felt he could have figured out a way to get the better of them.
The combat UAVs were the key. Turk knew from analyzing the Sabre video that they were roughly the equivalent of the latest Flighthawks, with the exception of the laser weapon. That was truly an advance, but even that had its limitations. It had to fire for several seconds to be effective; more importantly, it could only be used at short range. There were a small number of vulnerable places on a target as well.
“Think of it as a cannon that’s effective from three miles out,” suggested Turk. “Don’t let it get on your tail, and don’t give it a clean shot at your fuel areas, even for a second.”
“It needs three, though,” said Cowboy.
“That’s what the techs say. Anything less just gives you a hot foot.”
“Best thing is to take it down as soon as you see it,” said Colonel Greenstreet.
“Can’t argue with that,” said Turk.
Turk diagrammed a few of the basic maneuvers he expected the planes would favor, and the best way to deal with them. None of the tactics were revolutionary, though they did take advantage of the UAVs’ proclivities as well as the flight characteristics.
“Never try and outturn them,” Turk warned. “But they don’t accelerate as quickly as you’d think. And they have a lot of trouble in a two-on-one situation. The first thing they’ll do is dive.”
“Why?” asked Cowboy.
“That’s the way they’re programmed. I think it’s because they were flying with Megafortresses originally, and their role was to keep interceptors away from the mother ship. So if they were overwhelmed and couldn’t come up with a strategy, the default was to move away from the Megafortress. Because the EB-52s were typically flying at a high altitude, that meant going down.”
There were other tactical reasons, but the relevant point was simply knowing what they would do. Turk talked for a while more about tactics ranging from when to hit chaff to the need to use radar missiles at relatively close range so the UAVs had less time to duck them. By the time Danny Freah appeared at the door to summon Turk, he was talked out.
“Looks like I gotta get moving,” he told the Marines. “We’ll hook up when we have the op details. Basic plan, let me deal with the biggest UAV threats, you guys watch the teams on the boats.”
“And anybody that gets past you,” said Cowboy.
“I don’t think anybody’s gonna get past him,” said Greenstreet.
Turk glanced at the Marine officer. It was a vote of confidence—the first one he’d gotten from him.
“Thanks,” said Turk. “But if something does, I know you guys’ll nail it.”
DANNY NOTICED A familiar face among the detail sent to help protect the Whiplash trailer: Corporal Mofitt.
The corporal steadfastly ignored him.
Just as well, thought Danny. Not my business.
The plan for the takedown of the two ships was as simple as it was dangerous—the Ospreys would broadcast warnings to the ships that they were to be inspected for contraband, then deposit teams via fast-rope onto their decks. If there was any resistance at all, the bridges on both ships would be raked with gunfire from the Whiplash Osprey. Continued resistance would net an attack from the Tigershark. They’d stop short of sinking the vessels—but only just.
The next few hours were a whirl of preparations. Danny studied the latest intelligence and conferred via satellite phone with Captain Thomas, who had refined the takedown plan on the cargo ship. Thomas also suggested Danny take a squad of Marines with the Whiplash team to act as reinforcements, in case something went wrong on either ship.
Takeoff was set for 0800, with H hour at 0910. They were good to go.
As Danny signed off with Thomas, there was a knock at the door to the Whiplash trailer. Boston poked his head in.
“Marine wants to see you, Colonel,” said Boston. “Says it’s personal, but important.”
Danny guessed it was Mofitt. He was right: Mofitt, head down, shambled into the trailer as soon as Danny said he could come in. His manner reminded Danny of a puppy who’d peed on a rug.
“Corporal? What can I do for you?” Danny asked as Boston disappeared.
“I need another chance, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“Captain Thomas thinks I’m a coward, and that’s not true. I know I froze, and you saw me, and I’m not going to lie about that. But—”
Mofitt stopped abruptly, as if he’d suddenly lost the ability to talk.
“Listen, I know you went stiff,” said Danny gently. “I also know that you didn’t freeze the day before when you and I went out and we came under fire. It’s just one of those things. It happens. You move through it.”
Mofitt looked up, surprised. “Captain Thomas doesn’t seem to think so. He said I’m an embarrassment.”
“I can’t speak for your captain, son. I can tell you what I would do if I were in your position—I’d deal with it, and move on. I’m sure you’ve dealt with adversity before.”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“See.”
“Maybe you, uh, could say something to the captain? All I want is another chance.”
“I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”
“Sir, he has a lot of respect for you. A lot.”
Danny nodded. He saw no point in telling the corporal that he already had talked to Thomas. “I’ll give it a shot. But I can’t tell him what to do.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Mofitt’s head bobbed up and down. “All my life, I just wanted to be a Marine. I just wanted to prove myself. But—that day. I don’t know. That day, that moment even. It just got to me for that one time.”
“I’m sure.”
They stood facing each other for a long, awkward moment. Finally Danny told him that he had many things to do.
“Of course,” said Mofitt. “Listen, I’m sorry. I—I really appreciate it. Thank you. Thank you. All I need is another chance.”
DANNY REMEMBERED MOFITT’S words an hour later when the Whiplash team boarded the Osprey to start their operation. The Marine backup unit that was supposed to ride with Whiplash had yet to arrive in their Hummers.
He went to Sergeant Hurst, the head of the security detail, and told him that he was taking him and his men as backups; the Marines en route would take their place as the security force.
Hurst didn’t even try to suppress the smile on his face.
“Leave two men here to watch everything,” Danny told him. “Boston—Chief Rockland—will take care of them. I’ll tell your commander I made the switch. And make sure Corporal Mofitt is aboard the Osprey.”
“Mofitt, sir?”
“Yes,” said Danny. “I think he deserves ano
ther chance.”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes, but then nodded. “Yes, sir. As you say.”
8
Aboard Air Force One
“I HARDLY THINK China will go to war over a minesweeper,” President Todd told the Secretary of State, Alistar Newhaven, over the secure video connection. “Especially since they took the first shot.”
Newhaven frowned. The lighting in the State Department “tank” made him look ten years older than he was, and he was no spring chicken to begin with, as the saying went.
“I’m just reporting their stance,” he told her. “They’re calling it a provocation.”
“Theirs or ours?”
“They are one-sided, obviously.”
“We have tape and plenty of evidence, and frankly they ought to be glad that we didn’t sink their damn ship and destroy their aircraft.”
“Madam President, we have come so close to a rapprochement, and now it’s going to go up in smoke.”
“I’m not going to knuckle under to bullying tactics. Reiterate our earlier statement. We are chasing international outlaws in accordance with the UN resolution,” said Todd, trying to speak in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster, “and in the interests of justice and safety, they would do well to stay the hell out of our way. Fix my verbiage, obviously. But make it clear that we’re not backing down. That’s my position.”
“I wasn’t suggesting we back down—”
“Good.”
Newhaven started to say something she thought was an objection. Todd cut him off. “If you can’t do that, then submit your resignation.”
He looked stricken. “I was about to say that I had no problem with it.”
“Good. I’m glad we agree.” Todd flicked off the call and hit the next one in the queue—Charles Lovel, the Secretary of Defense.
“Mr. Lovel, you’re up to date, I assume?” she said, knowing that he was. “The Flighthawks are grounded until further notice?”
“They are. We’re in the process of providing a fix.” He switched the topic quickly, subtly attacking Whiplash and its unique command arrangement. “I have to say, Madam President, that this would have been better from the start if the CIA was not involved. The operation should have been launched by the Navy.”
“In a month, when the rebels they were supporting were in full control of eastern Malaysia.”
“I don’t think that would have happened. And here we have basically your private army—”
“You’re starting to sound like certain members of Congress,” answered the President. “Whiplash is under joint control, Mr. Lovel. Your department is responsible for the people.”
“They answer to the Joint Chiefs, not me.”
“I’m not in the mood for a turf battle,” warned the President.
“I’m not starting one. The Joint Chiefs are recommending that our submarine move between the Chinese and the Whiplash operation,” added Lovel. “Frankly, I’d recommend a greater show of force.”
Now it was Todd’s turn to argue for restraint. “We don’t want this to escalate too far if we can help it,” she told the secretary. “Nor do I want to call attention to the fact that we’ve lost two of our most advanced UAVs. Responding too strongly will only make them more curious, not less. How capable is the submarine?”
“Very. But it doesn’t have a land force. Or an air arm.”
The submarine Lovel was referring to was the Connecticut, a Seawolf-class sub that had been assigned to shadow the Chinese carrier. It was currently running a pair of unmanned submersibles known as ROUVs—remote-operated underwater vehicles—within a few hundred yards of the carrier. The ROUVs were not capable of attacking the Chinese carrier or its escorts, but were recording data and could be used to divert attention if the submarine did attack. The sub itself was roughly a mile outside the defensive screen.
The U.S. Navy had two aircraft carriers and their escorts near the Philippines, but Todd hesitated sending them south.
“Let’s see what Whiplash comes up with before we make any further decisions,” she said.
“Very well. But I’ve asked SOCCOM to move a SEAL team into position aboard the Reagan. They’re as capable of Whiplash in a situation like this—This isn’t a case where high-tech alone can get the job done. If anything, it’s been just the opposite.”
The remark, to Todd, was one more indication that the Secretary of Defense wanted to shut Whiplash and the Office of Special Projects down. He’d never particularly liked either the group or the arrangement with the CIA, arguing that all special operations should be handled by SOCCOM, or the Special Operations Command, which was in charge of the SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers, and other spec op units. While occasionally accused of being cowboys, SOCCOM was a highly disciplined operation with a clear chain of command—and not coincidentally enjoyed a very tight relationship with the secretary, who had made sure several of his friends had high places in the command structure.
“Thank you for your assessment, Charles,” said Todd, filing her observation away. “We’ll reconvene when we have news.”
9
South China Sea
BRAXTON HAD TO hand it to the Dreamland people: not only had the Sabre UAVs landed intact, but their self-diagnosis modules declared they were in fit shape and ready for action pending refueling. It was far better than he had hoped: even the second generation Flighthawks would have experienced some damage to their wing structure.
While it was their “brains” he wanted, the Sabres’ airfoils would be of great interest to several countries, and could undoubtedly fetch a considerable sum if sold. The question was to whom. The two most likely candidates were China and Iran, but neither was suitable. Braxton hated the Chinese, and knew the Iranians could never be trusted, as an earlier attempt at a deal with them had proven.
Russia was a possibility, though that would also carry risks. The country’s prime minister was mercurial, which meant those under him were mercurial as well; they were as likely to try to steal aircraft as they were to actually pay for them, and Russia’s annoying tendency to insist on using Russian banks to initiate payment might even help the U.S.: for some reason, Russian officials refused to believe that the NSA routinely watched all large transactions, and would undoubtedly use that lead to break into Braxton’s financial network.
But the other countries that could afford to pay the amount of money the UAVs were worth were allies of the U.S., at least nominally, which would make dealing with them even more difficult. The only one he really would trust would be Israel, but they had a strong relationship with President Todd, who had backed them most recently on the Syrian partition.
All of that was to be worried about later. Right now Braxton had to get the aircraft aboard the launch and meet up with the cargo container.
Given their abilities, the Sabres were not only small but surprisingly light. Much of the UAV’s operational weight came from the fuel it carried; three-quarters empty meant it was light enough to be easily handled by two men. In fact, Talbot could probably have handled it by himself; holding the left wing, Braxton mostly steered as they carried the aircraft off the beach and onto the bow area of the long launch. With a wingspan barely as big as the average desk, both aircraft fit nicely in the front of the boat. Lashed down to the deck, they looked a little like stingrays with short tails.
As soon as the aircraft were secured, Talbot backed the launch off the shoal, turning carefully toward the open sea. Satisfied that they were in good shape, Braxton eased himself forward to examine the Sabres. It was hard to believe that aircraft so small and sleek could be so deadly.
If his own UAVs were advanced—as aircraft, he reckoned they were close to the second generation Flighthawks, though not quite as fast—these were a step or two beyond. Even smaller than the Flighthawks, they were built around a lightweight but powerful jet engine and a 25mm cannon. The main electronics, consisting of custom-made chips and IC circuits, were distributed along the aircraft, rather than c
oncentrated in one place; they couldn’t be accessed without disassembling the spine of the aircraft.
The bulge of the rear part of the engine on the underside of the aircraft was similar to that on his airplanes—not a surprise, given that his engine was an earlier version of the Sabres’. The nozzle and variable thrust mechanisms at the back of the planes was both strikingly simple—two perforated pieces of metal, one over the other, made up the body—and yet effective, acting as both a thermal dissipater and directional thruster at the same time. Unable to access the interior of the molded unit, Braxton surmised it was controlled by a coglike mechanism that aligned the perforations as well as changed the length and shape of the tailpipe, adding a vector effect to the thrust.
It would be a shame to sell the technology, he thought. They should keep it for themselves.
“We’re being hailed,” said Talbot from the wheelhouse.
“By who?”
“A Chinese patrol craft.”
“Screw them,” said Braxton.
“I’m not answering.”
“Do they have aircraft up?”
“Not clear,” said Talbot. “Nothing on the passive radar.”
Braxton took the binoculars from the shelf next to the wheel and scanned the horizon. There was a dot in the distance to the north, directly in their path. It was too close to be the cargo container ship.
“Let’s go to Daela instead of the rendezvous,” he told Talbot.
“Got it.”
Daela was the last of their reef hideouts. Larger than the others, with good vegetation covering a third of the land, Braxton had used it for the early tests of the UAVs. It was claimed by Vietnam as well as China and Malaysia, and nearly equidistant to Vietnam and Brunei.
Talbot immediately changed course, consulting the GPS to come to the right heading. Within minutes the blip on the horizon disappeared.
