Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “I am in international waters,” said the tugboat captain. “You are committing an act of piracy.”

  “You’re under arrest for the theft of U.S. property,” said Danny. “And for assisting the shipping of contraband to a UN member nation. I’m asserting my right to search your ship.”

  “You are breaking the law,” repeated the man.

  “Hey, dude, you shot at us,” said Guzman. “You’re fucked.”

  “There were no shots from our ship,” said the captain, addressing Danny. “You had no resistance.”

  “We’re going to search your boat,” Danny told him.

  “You have no authority.”

  Not in the mood to argue, Danny told Dalton to search the captain and his mate for weapons, then cuff them. Guzman, meanwhile, had figured out the controls. He stopped the tug in the water, applying just enough of the screw to keep her position steady.

  “How many people do you have aboard?” Danny asked the captain.

  “I have eight hands, not counting myself. You will find my papers already laid out there, with the log.”

  “Small crew for this big a vessel,” said Danny.

  The captain shrugged. The bridge was fully automated, and it was certainly possible that the ship could be run with only a handful of people. But Danny didn’t quite believe him.

  “Dalton, you’re with me,” he said as soon as the captain and the mate had been handcuffed. “Guzman, secure those papers and get us closer to the cargo vessel.”

  “You got it, Colonel.”

  TURK MADE A slow circuit above the two ships as the Ospreys rose. The boardings had gone off without a hitch, with no resistance on either ship. He was surprised—given the initial reaction from the cargo container vessel, he had expected a serious gunfight. But apparently the bombs from the F-35s had dampened the crew’s appetite for a fight.

  They had also killed and injured at least a dozen people, and started several small fires. Black smoke drifted upward in bunches, angry fists pounding the air.

  Turk stretched his shoulders and then his legs. It was far too early to relax—the mission had several hours to run, at least—but it appeared the heavy lifting was over, at least for him. A destroyer that had been with the Marine expeditionary force on the eastern side of the island had just checked in. Tasked overnight to sail west, it headed toward them at flank speed and was roughly three hours away.

  Turk checked in with Basher flight. The Marines were flying their own patrol orbit at 5,000 feet, making a large figure eight over the two ships.

  “Whiplash Shark, we’re all getting close to bingo,” said Greenstreet. “If you’ve got things under control, we’re going back to the base to refuel.”

  “Roger that, Basher One,” Turk told him. “Clear skies ahead. Looks like things are settling down.”

  “Affirmative. Nice flying,” Greenstreet added.

  “Thanks.”

  “He’s slipping,” said Cowboy. “Took him all of five minutes to get them all.”

  “It wasn’t more than three, I think,” said Greenstreet.

  “You should have let me have one of those bogies,” added Cowboy.

  “I was feeling greedy,” quipped Turk. “See you guys later.”

  WITH THE TUG secured, Danny left Achmoody in charge of the search and called the Osprey to take him over to the container vessel. While the Marines had secured the ship with surprising speed and ease, the search of the massive vessel was proceeding slowly. Not only did the containers have to be opened and inspected one at a time, but a bomb had knocked out power through most of the ship. Worse, fire had spread to a compartment below the container deck.

  The Marines had captured a dozen crewmen. Four more were killed in the air attack and another six wounded. The wounded were being triaged on the forward deck, a few yards from the prisoners, who sat with their hands on their heads, nervously whispering to one another as Danny’s Osprey lowered itself to a clear space nearby.

  “Most of the crew are Filipinos,” said Captain Thomas, leading Danny to the superstructure a few moments later. “They don’t seem to know much.”

  “Somebody had to be operating the aircraft,” said Danny. “They can’t launch on their own.”

  “Maybe, but we haven’t found them yet. Ship’s intact,” added the Marine captain. “But I’m not sure we’re going to be able to put the fire out.”

  “I’m going to send one of the Ospreys over to the McCain to pick up a skeleton crew,” said Danny. The McCain was the destroyer detailed to sail west and help them. “They’ll help.”

  “Good. This way,” added Thomas, pointing to a set of metal steps that went up the side of the superstructure. “The captain is a Frenchman, or at least he has a French accent. Won’t give his name. Ship’s papers say it’s Fortine.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “Spelled F-o-r-t-i-n-e.”

  “Hold on.”

  Danny stopped and tapped the radio button at the back of his glasses to transmit back to Whiplash headquarters. He gave the name to the desk tech, who told him that Rubeo wanted to have a word.

  “Colonel, there were radio transmissions detected from the vicinity of the two ships as the aircraft launched,” said the scientist.

  “Yeah, roger that. We’re looking now.”

  “The signals do not appear to have come from the cargo container vessel,” continued Rubeo. “Looking at the mast antenna of the tug, we believe that it is configured to allow it to control the aircraft.”

  “The tug? Really?”

  “I would suggest you search both,” said Rubeo.

  No shit, thought Danny.

  “You gave Betrand the name of Fortine,” added Rubeo. “Be careful with him. He was a French naval captain.”

  “Right.”

  Rubeo turned him over to another analyst, Jeremy Von Schmidt.

  “We’ve updated the schematic of the cargo carrier,” said Von Schmidt, one of a dozen naval officers helping interpret the intel at the Cube. “We can lead your teams around the fire.”

  “Punch that right through to Thomas,” said Danny.

  Achmoody checked with an update from the tug: The team had discovered that several of the compartments below the main deck were locked and booby-trapped. They were assessing whether they could be disarmed or blown in place without endangering the ship.

  “All right,” Danny told him. “In the meantime, get somebody up to the radio room and send video back to the Cube. We’re looking for something capable of controlling the UAVs.”

  “Probably in one of those locked-down areas,” suggested Achmoody.

  “Agreed—but let’s eliminate the other possibilities.”

  Danny checked the communications space on the cargo vessel himself. Outfitted with the latest satellite communications and a 4K high-definition television screen that had to be at least seven feet in diagonal, it was big enough to host a sports bar. But the room was almost entirely empty except for a few office chairs and the radio equipment. There were no joysticks or the dedicated consoles that typically were used to control UAVs, let alone the array of servers and other computer gear ground stations generally needed.

  Danny sent video back to the Cube, then went up to the bridge to talk to the ship’s captain. Fortine was sitting on a chair at the side of the bridge, face pale but with his arms crossed, and even before he answered Danny’s questions it was clear he wasn’t going to be very cooperative.

  “So you’re French?” asked Danny. “You served in the French navy?”

  “I’m sure you know my entire background,” said Fortine.

  “Why did you join Kallipolis?” Danny asked.

  “I didn’t join—I started it.”

  “I thought Lloyd Braxton started it.”

  “There were several of us—hundreds,” added Fortine, continuing in an accent that sounded more British than French. The movement was one of historical proportions, he claimed; from the small seed he and the others planted, a massiv
e movement would grow.

  “You’re a military person,” said Danny. “Usually anarchy doesn’t sit well.”

  “We don’t believe in anarchy,” said Fortine.

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Freedom.”

  “From everything?”

  Fortine gave him a sarcastic grin. “If you are willing to open your mind, I will be happy to debate the matter with you. But not at the point of a gun.”

  “I’m not pointing a gun at you.”

  “But you are armed, and you clearly intend me harm. You attacked my ship—”

  “Your ship attacked my aircraft,” answered Danny. “You were warned not to resist. You are in violation of several international laws. Smuggling weapons and providing assistance to rebels and terrorists,” Danny added quickly, seeing that Fortine was about to object. “Your own country voted for the UN resolution forbidding that, and in fact has its own laws—”

  “I have no country,” said Fortine. “I have renounced my citizenship. And I am in violation of no laws.”

  “Firing on aircraft is certainly against international law,” said Danny.

  “Defending my vessel and my crew against pirates is my right, and my duty.”

  “What other arms are you carrying?” Danny asked. “Where is your cargo manifest?”

  “I showed that to the first officer who entered the bridge.”

  “Where’s the real manifest?”

  Fortine smirked. “Always the government goons play their games and word tricks.”

  “You can help us save your vessel from sinking,” suggested Danny, “by telling us what else we have to worry about.”

  “I will not assist you in any way,” said Fortine. “You can’t hold me. You have no authority.”

  “I have plenty of authority,” said Danny.

  “Guns, yes.”

  “And those, too.”

  Danny decided not to bother wasting any more time. Thomas met him on the external ladder as he was going off the bridge.

  “We’ve searched the engine room,” said the captain. “No contraband so far. Nothing that looks out of place.”

  Several of the crewmen were eager to talk, but to a man they insisted they were merely hired hands, paid nearly four times the going rate and treated far better than they would have fared ordinarily. They knew nothing of Kallipolis, and while they thought it was “beyond odd” that they had spent the last several weeks sailing in the same waters, none had seen any UAVs or heard of any plans to attack anyone, let alone Americans. All were shocked when the containers were opened to reveal the launchers.

  “What about the guys who tried to shoot down our planes from the stern?” Danny asked.

  “They say they were the mates in charge,” explained the Marine who’d taken charge of the interrogation. It happened that his mother was Filipino, and he spoke Spanish with an accent similar to theirs. “I don’t know how much to believe them, but none of the dead guys look Filipino. They’re all dressed differently, with button-down shirts. For what that’s worth.”

  “A shirt makes them an officer?” Danny glanced at Thomas, who shrugged. “Any of the wounded talking?” he asked.

  “Not about anything important,” answered the interpreter. “Most of them are pretty messed up.”

  “See if you can get any information about the tug, about people coming and going, where they’ve been, that sort of thing.”

  “Questioning them that extensively is going to take time, Colonel,” said Thomas. “Much better off bringing them back ashore.”

  “As soon as we do that, we have to alert their embassy,” said Danny. “Besides, we’re going to be out here for a while longer. How many EOD guys you got with you?”

  The unit had four men with explosives or EOD training and experience, though none were technically considered specialists. Danny decided to leave two aboard the cargo ship in case the search there turned up anything; the other two came back to the tug with him.

  He was just hopping off the Osprey when Turk’s voice, high-pitched with excitement, came over the Whiplash circuit, breaking through the chatter of the search team.

  “Whiplash leader, we have company,” warned Turk. “I have eight Chinese fighters on long-range radar. And they are trying to set a new world’s speed record getting here.”

  15

  South China Sea

  BRAXTON LED WEN-LO down the concrete steps to the bunker where the Kallipolis tech room was hidden. While not as expansive as the one at Gried that he had blown up, it was nonetheless well equipped—and perfectly positioned for what he needed to do.

  Wen-lo’s greed and hubris would help.

  The lights automatically turned on as he approached the door to the bunker. Laser beams scanned his face; once his identity was verified, the door would be unlocked unless he said anything—a precaution against his being forced at gunpoint to let anyone in.

  He remained silent until they were inside.

  “We have launch facilities on the south side of the island,” he told Wen-lo, steering him down the corridor from the small foyer. “I can activate them from here. And then your men must carry the UAVs into position.”

  “Of course.”

  The quickness of the answer told Braxton that Wen-lo didn’t intend that he would get that far. He adjusted his plan accordingly.

  Most of the crew of both boats had come ashore with them. All heavily armed, they followed quietly but quickly, stepping in unison at times so that they reminded him of the storm troopers in the Star Wars series. It made for quite a crowd in the narrow hall.

  “I have to ask your men to step back,” Braxton told Wen-lo. “If the computer sees weapons, it won’t open.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Computer, open,” said Braxton.

  The door stayed shut.

  Wen-lo reached beneath his shirt and took out a 9mm pistol. It was a Chinese knockoff of a Glock, one Braxton had never seen before.

  “Open the door,” said Wen-lo, raising the barrel of the gun so it pointed toward Braxton’s head.

  “It won’t as long as your gun is out. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Do it.”

  Braxton took a deep breath. “Open door,” he told the computer.

  It stayed shut. Wen-lo pushed the pistol against his temple.

  “Don’t you think there’d be precautions?” asked Braxton, trying to keep his voice calm. “You’ve seen the technology we have. You know that we are enemies of the Americans. You think that we are fools?”

  Wen-lo pushed the muzzle back and forth.

  “The computer is reading my heart rate right now,” said Braxton. “If it doesn’t get back down below sixty-eight beats a minute, we’re not getting in at any point, whether you have a gun or not.”

  That was a bluff, but one Braxton felt he could get away with—as was the caution about the weapons. He had actually thought of instituting such a precaution when he built the system, but decided it might prevent him from bringing a gun into the room when he needed one.

  Wen-lo lowered his pistol, then told the others to step back.

  “Give your gun to someone before you come inside,” said Braxton.

  “No.”

  “Then walk to the end of the hall, out of range of the camera, and put it under your shirt. There can only be two of us in the control room at a time. The computer will count the heartbeats.”

  “We’ll all go in.”

  “You don’t really think we’re going to fit, do you? It’s a little closet.” Braxton pointed to the wall. “That panel will open and reveal a glass window. Your men can watch everything. There’s a room with a monitor farther down the hall; I’ll send a feed there. But you’ll see—the room is too small for more than two people. Even two can be a squeeze. It wasn’t planned as a conference room,” he added. “It’s just for a pilot. And the aircraft only needs one pilot.”

  “To fly two airplanes?”

  “
To fly a dozen. Two dozen,” Braxton added with a veiled contempt. “What do you think this is all about? That’s why you want it, right? You don’t give a crap about the UAVs. Drones are nothing. It’s the AI, and the distributed intelligence. What these things can do. That’s the value. The brains.”

  He’d touched a nerve. Wen-lo told his men curtly that he was going in by himself, and they were to watch from the doorway and through the window. After they had moved back and Wen-lo holstered his pistol and pulled his shirt over it, Braxton nodded and pretended to be calming himself.

  “OK,” he said, giving the key word as he looked at the floor. “Open door. Please.”

  The lock buzzed. Wen-lo pushed ahead of him, entering the control room. Braxton followed.

  He hadn’t been lying when he said it was small; the main console was exactly six feet long and ran the entire length of the room. Six video screens were arrayed at its head in two rows, with keyboards and two joystick-style controllers. Computing units were stacked around the rest of the room. There was just barely enough room to pull the chair out.

  He sat down, then started to reach for the switch that would open the panel on the window. Wen-lo grabbed his arm.

  “You want your men to see us or not?” Braxton asked.

  Wen-lo let him hit the switch. The panel moved up, revealing the thick window separating the room from the hall.

  “It will take a few minutes for the computers to boot up and everything,” he told Wen-lo. “It will get hot in here, too. Listen, we need to get the Sabre UAVs off the boat and onto the launchers. Can you have some of your men do that?”

  “Where are the launchers?”

  “The south side of the island—the path to the left of the bunker will take you there.”

  “How are they launched?”

  “I’ll show you,” said Braxton, pulling over the keyboard. “First, we need to launch the aircraft that are mounted, so we have room. What are you worried about? You have my man Talbot as hostage. I’m not going to trick you.”

  Wen-lo went to the door and spoke to his men, sending four of them away. Braxton moved his hand to the switch that would close and lock the door, hoping Wen-lo would go outside into the hall. But his Chinese antagonist kept it open, his body against the jamb.