Target Utopia (5 page)

“You sure this isn't a Flighthawk?” asked Cowboy.

“It's not one of ours.”

“Chinese clone?”

“It's possible,” admitted Danny.

“The nearest Chinese warship is three hundred miles away,” said Lt. JG Kevin Sullivan, the intelligence officer for the task group. “And that's a destroyer. Hard to see it launching something as powerful as a Flighthawk.”

“Unless it's just a recon drone and the Malaysians screwed up,” said Greenstreet. “That I can definitely believe.”

“There is a Chinese carrier task force a little farther north than the destroyer,” said Danny. “But that's being monitored very closely.”

“They don't have UAVs aboard,” said Sullivan.

“Not that we know,” agreed Danny. “Nor do they have anything nearly this capable. But like I say—”

“You're here to fill in the blanks,” said Cowboy and a few of the other Marines.

“That's right.”

“So if we see it, we can engage it?” asked Cowboy.

“If you're in Malaysian airspace and it's hostile, and you know it's a UAV and that it isn't one of ours, absolutely.” Danny turned to Turk. “Captain Mako has some notes on its probable characteristics.”

He flipped the slide to a video simulation that had been prepared to show the drone's likely flight characteristics. It was smaller than the F-35s and more maneuverable, but presumably would not be as fast. The heat signature from its engine was minimal, but still enough for an all-aspect Sidewinder to lock at two miles, farther if the attacker was behind the UAV.

“Basically, you don't want it behind you,” said Turk. “This is just a rough outline.”

“The more we can find out about it, the better,” added Danny. “But don't put yourself in danger.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Greenstreet.

“Shoot the mother down at first opportunity,” said Cowboy.

Everybody laughed.

The briefing turned to working with the Malaysian ground force. The unit would undertake search and destroy patrols in areas where the rebels were believed to be active. Turk would use a pair of backpack UAVs—small remote-controlled aircraft with wingspans about as wide as a typical desk—to help provide reconnaissance. Nicknamed “Seagulls,” the UAVs could feed video directly to the Marine F-35s through a dedicated satellite communications channel. The channel allowed two-way traffic, which meant Turk could in turn tie into some of the F-35s' sensor net as well.

Details out of the way, the briefing broke up for a round of beers, recently deposited in an ice chest by a fresh round of Osprey visits. Danny watched the pilots interact; they were young, sure of themselves, pretty much typical pilots as far as he could tell. Greenstreet seemed stiff and a bit too tightly wound; on the other hand, Captain Thomas, the ground commander, was genuinely relaxed.

In his heart of hearts, Danny would have greatly preferred to be working with a Whiplash team, concentrating solely on finding the UAV. The group of Marines he'd been given looked more than solid, but you could never know exactly what you had until the lead started to fly.

In all his years in special operations, the Marine
Corps had never let him down. Hopefully, that string would remain unbroken.

Suburban Virginia

“I
HAD AN
interesting discussion with the President the other day,” Breanna told Zen, plopping down in the living room chair across from him. It was late; their daughter had been asleep for several hours, and by rights both should be in bed.

“National security?” asked Zen.

“Hardly,” said Breanna. “What's that you're drinking?”

“Pumpkin-chocolate stout.” He held the pint glass out to her. “Want some?”

“I don't trust that combination.”

“Your loss.” He took another sip. “So I'm guessing this wasn't a top secret conversation.”

“Not this part.” Their respective roles in government—Zen a senator, Breanna in the DoD—made for an awkward set of unwritten rules and, occasionally, difficult protocol between them. Breanna generally couldn't talk about work, even if she thought Zen might have valuable advice. “Ms. Todd said you'd make a good President.”

Zen nearly spit his beer laughing.

“I don't think it's
that
funny,” answered Breanna.

“I hope you agreed.”

“I did. I do. Of course, you'd have to start getting better haircuts.”

“What's wrong with this?”

“Twenty years out of date. Maybe if you dyed it.”

Zen rolled his eyes. They'd had this discussion many times.

“Seriously,” said Breanna. “Why did she bring that up? Do you know?”

“Buttering you up, probably.”

“I don't think so.”

“She'll be starting her reelection campaign soon.” Zen shrugged. “Maybe she figures she can get rid of me by having me run in a primary.”

“Ha, ha. She likes you.”

“Mmmm . . .” He took a long swig of the beer. While they were members of the same party, Zen and Ms. Todd had had a number of disagreements, and he certainly wouldn't be considered among her closest supporters in Congress. On the other hand, Breanna knew that the President did genuinely trust his opinions and probably valued his willingness to disagree—she had that rare ability among Presidents to actually seek out counterarguments to her own positions.

There was also the fact that he had helped save her life.

“It's a mystery,” said Zen. “One of many.”

“Wanna go to bed?” Breanna asked.

“There's an invitation I'd never turn down,” said Zen, a twinkle in his eyes.

Malaysia

Four days later

T
URK DUCKED LOW
to escape the branch as it swung back across the trail. In three days of working with the Malaysians, he'd not only learned to duck when he heard the distinctive sound of a branch swinging through the air, but had developed a kind of sixth sense about the team and how it moved through the jungle.

The eight-man patrols were led by a point man and the team sergeant. Turk was usually the third man in line, trying not to get too close but on the other hand keeping them in sight, which in the jungle wasn't always easy. He remembered the training the Delta boys had given him before his Iranian mission: don't bunch up, be always wary, know where the rest of your team is.

These guys weren't Delta, but they had been working in the bush long enough to move as a team, quiet and wary. Except for Turk's M-4, their main weapons were ancient M-16 assault rifles, supplemented by a single Russian AEK-999 Barsuk, a squad-level 7.62 x 54mm machine gun. The six handguns they had between them included two Smith & Wesson revolvers. They carried an odd mix of Chinese and American hand grenades. By far their most impressive weapons were the large machete-style knives they had at their belts, one sharper than the other. All appeared
to have been handed down from at least a generation before, and even the most austere was a tribute to the man who had crafted it. While used to hack through thick underbrush, they could cut off a man's arm or even head with a slight flick of the wrist.

Each man carried extra water, ammo, and rudimentary first aid supplies in a small tactical vest or a web belt; they had no radios, let alone GPS gear or even compasses. Armor and helmets were nowhere in sight. Had Turk not been there, the patrol would have been operating completely on their own; the Malaysian air force was already stretched thin and needed to handle operations in “hotter” areas. Artillery support was a luxury unheard of here.

Only two of the men spoke English with any fluency: the commander, Captain Deris, who had studied for two years in Australia; and Private Isnin, whose nickname was Monday. Monday was the point man, and he had the instincts of a cat. Slight, and barely out of his teens, he managed to get through the brush without making much of a sound, and seemed as comfortable in the thick trees as he was on the road. Though he was at least five years younger than the next youngest man, it was clear they all trusted his instincts, and even Deris deferred to his sense of direction.

Monday and Sergeant Intan, about forty and a devout Muslim, seemed to communicate by telepathy. Neither spoke during a patrol, but the NCO constantly flashed hand signals back to Turk and
the rest of the patrol as they walked, somehow perceiving what Monday wanted to do.

Turk wore a set of Whiplash glasses, which allowed him to see the feed from the two Seagull UAVs overhead as they patrolled. The drones were strictly reconnaissance aircraft. Relatively simple but capable of automated flight through a designated orbit, they fed back infrared images without interpretation by a computer or other device.

Operating in a remote section of the jungle a few miles from the Indonesian border, the patrols were designated as “presence and contact” missions by the Malaysian command: the unit swept through different areas, showing that they were there and hoping to come in contact with enemy guerrillas. The settlements here were isolated and tiny, generally with less than a hundred people. Most of the time was spent simply walking along trails. In the three days they'd been out, they had yet to see the enemy.

Today they had a target to check out—an abandoned mine about three miles from the highway. The Malaysians had been given intelligence claiming the rebels were using it to store weapons. A flyover by the Marine F-35s the day before had failed to find anything. The Seagull circling the area showed no activity now. But the terrain around the target area was the most complicated they'd worked through yet, and there was always a possibility that something was hidden in the foliage.

Turk followed as Monday continued up the trail, weaving toward a small rise that would let
them see the approach to the mine. Suddenly, Sergeant Intan waved him to the ground; Turk dropped, then turned to signal to the others. Moments later he heard the sound of a truck straining up the hill nearby.

Turk crawled toward Monday and the sergeant; Captain Deris followed.

“Bandits,” the captain told Turk. That was the English word they used to describe the rebels, whom they regarded as criminals. “They must be driving to the mine. We will move back and parallel the road.”

He gestured with his fingers to make sure Turk understood.

“OK,” said Turk. He clicked the back of his glasses, opening the window on Seagull 2's feed. The truck was an older pickup. The bed had been pulled off and replaced with a wooden platform surrounded by wide stakes. It was moving through a pass that led to the mine.

Turk dialed the Marines into his radio circuit.

“Basher One, this is Ground,” he said. “Do you copy?”

“Loud and strong, little guy,” said Cowboy. The Marines worked in two-ship units, with two planes always on alert as the Malaysians patrolled. The length of the patrols and the lack of refueling assets made it impractical for them to stay airborne when there was no contact with the enemy, but the base was close enough to the patrol area that they could be in firing range in under ten minutes.

“We think we have activity out here,” said Turk. “Request you get onboard.”

“Roger that. We'll be airborne in zero-two. Check in when you have a definitive word.”

“We're moving toward the target now. Check the feed on Seagull 2.”

“Looking at it, Ground. I see the truck.”

“Roger that.”

After a few minutes of walking, the patrol left the trail and moved into the jungle, intending to sweep around from the east in case anyone had been posted near the road. As they were about to start back toward the hill overlooking the mine, the Seagull spotted another pair of trucks heading in the same direction as the other one. A total of a dozen men sat in the back of the pickups.

It was a sizable force for the guerrillas. Captain Deris was pleased.

“A good catch. The airplanes will help,” he said confidently. “Bomb them at the mine.”

“We need to ID them first,” said Turk, citing the rules of engagement.

“Why? It's an enemy site.”

“We need to confirm that they're enemy, and not Malaysian army,” said Turk. “Or civilians.”

“No civilians are here. We're the only army.”

“I didn't make the rules,” said Turk. “You know them as well as I do. Visual IDs, or we're under fire. Otherwise the Marines can't do anything.”

The captain frowned but didn't argue. After talking with the NCO for a few moments, he broke the squad into two units. Deris led the first, with Monday, Turk, and another man in a semicircle toward the hill where they could see the mine. The other half of the squad was assigned
to hold the ground between them and the road, in case of an attack or reinforcements.

It took roughly ten minutes for them to reach the position, but it felt like hours. With each step, Turk felt his heart beat a little faster. He checked his M-4 several times as he walked, making sure he was locked and loaded; he kept his finger against the side of the trigger guard, tapping occasionally to reassure himself that he was prepared to fire if he had to.

Inevitably, he thought of Iran. The memories were confused, more about the emotion he'd felt than what had actually happened. He remembered the exhaustion and anger rather than the men he'd killed. His adrenaline kicked in; he was excited in the same way he'd be excited if he were in the air.

But it was different. In the air, Turk felt like a king—he knew his aircraft and his own abilities so well that he was never afraid, never less than completely confident. On the ground, his weapons felt cruder and less dependable, even though he'd been shooting rifles since he was a boy.

The mine was an open pit a little over a hundred yards in diameter, pitched on the side of what had been a low hill. Abandoned several years before, its sides were devoid of vegetation, thanks to whatever poisons, manmade and natural, were left from the operation. A misshapen green pool of water sat at the center.

The three trucks were parked in a semicircle at the entrance ramp to the flat land surrounding the pit. Three men were standing near one of the
trucks, consulting a map. The rest of the men had gotten out of the trucks and were milling around the area. Turk counted a dozen.

“Attack now,” said Captain Deris.

“We still don't know if they're rebels,” said Turk. “They could be miners, just checking the site.”

Deris frowned. “You see they have guns.”

“Your government wrote the rules, not mine,” said Turk. “I'm as frustrated as you.”

“What's ‘frustrated'?”

“It means—just hold on.” Turk examined the feed from Seagull 2. There was a list of items that indicated rebels—a flag was the most obvious, but he couldn't see one. Nor could he identify the black armbands the 30 May Movement regularly wore on operations.

Guns were permitted—as long as they were from a list that included American rifles and the ubiquitous AK-47, all popular out in the bush. But if Turk could identify them as modern Chinese assault rifles, it could be assumed the group were rebels.

The normal Dreamland systems would have ID'ed the gun automatically. Turk had to work harder with the Seagull.

“Seagull 2, move to two thousand feet,” he commanded. “Maintain present orbit.”

The robot plane began moving downward slowly. Turk cranked the magnification to its highest level.

“Hey, Ground, what are we seeing?” asked Cowboy.

“I'm working on it,” answered Turk.

“We cleared or what?”

“Relax a minute.”

“I'm way relaxed, dude. Do we have a confirmed target or what?”

“Stand by.”

The Seagull cruised over the hillside. Its light body color was practically invisible against the clouds, but veering across a patch of blue it stood out. While the wings were shaped like a bird's, anyone who studied it carefully would realize from its movements that it was an aircraft.

Suddenly, three pops echoed against the hills.

“Gunfire!” said Captain Deris.

Turk studied the guns being raised. They were bull pups—Chinese weapons.

“Basher One, confirmed hostiles at target area,” said Turk, involuntarily flinching as a muzzle flashed in his viewer.

There was more gunfire, closer—the rebels had spotted the Malaysians on the ridge.

“Roger that, Ground,” said Cowboy. His voice dropped an octave, and there was no hint of humor. “I have three vehicles; roughly a dozen armed men.”

“Confirmed,” said Turk. “All are hostile.”

“We have your position noted,” added the Marine.

“Cleared hot. Go get 'em.”

“Inbound. Advise you take cover.”

In the few moments that had passed since the first gunfire, Monday and Captain Deris had
begun firing back. The rest of the rebels had opened up, training their weapons on the hill. Bullets began ripping through the nearby trees.

“Basher is inbound,” Turk yelled to the Malaysians. “The fighters are on the way.”

He no sooner had given the warning when something whistled in the distance. The ground shook as eight GBU-53 small diameter bombs, all steered by radar seeker to the precise location of the trucks, ignited in quick succession. The explosions destroyed the vehicles and killed or wounded two-thirds of the rebels who'd been nearby.

Monday bolted to his feet, ready to charge down the hill toward the depleted enemy.

“Stay down! Stay down!” yelled Turk. “The planes are still attacking!”

His voice was drowned out by a second round of explosions, these closer to the hill, as the second Marine F-35 mopped up the knot of rebels who'd initially opened fire.

Squatting near a tree, Turk looked at the feed from Seagull 2. All of the rebels were on the ground.

“Basher, stand off. We're going down.”

“You got it, dude,” said Cowboy, his voice jocular once more. The difference was so striking that Turk would have thought he was talking to another pilot.

Turk followed Captain Deris to the mine. The scent of dirt and explosive mixed with the thick, moist smell of the jungle. Nothing was moving. The F-35s had done the job.

A
BOARD
B
ASHER
O
NE
, Cowboy unsnapped his oxygen mask and popped a stick of gum into his mouth.

Greenstreet's voice boomed in his helmet. “Basher One, give me a sitrep.”

“Three vehicles, fifteen tangos down,” replied Cowboy. “We're standing by for the ground team.”

“What's your fuel state?”

“Oh, yeah, we're good.”

“Cut the bull, Lieutenant.”

Used to Greenstreet's prickly ways, Cowboy smiled to himself and read off the exact data, confirming that both F-35s had enough fuel for several hours' worth of flying, with plenty left in reserve.

“Basher One, did you ID the target before dropping your weapons?” asked Greenstreet.

“Friendlies were under fire from the targets,” said Cowboy. “We were cleared in via Captain Mako.”

“You're sure.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good.”

Lord, don't let me grow up to be a squadron commander, Cowboy thought.

He was just about to tell Greenstreet that he had won the squadron pool on who was going to see action first when the aircraft's warning system blared. The F-35's AN/APG-81 radar had picked up a fast-moving object flying in his direction.

“Stand by,” he told Greenstreet. “I have a contact.”

He wasn't picking up an active radar. To Cowboy, that meant it had to be an aircraft, rather than a missile fired blindly in his direction.