Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “They’re due at the base tomorrow morning,” said Danny.

  Greenstreet nodded. “We’ll get them sorted. You’re going to handle ground coms?”

  “Not me personally. I have a captain with me,” said Danny. “He’ll train the Malaysians. We met them yesterday. They seem competent.”

  “Good.”

  “They’re going to set up a camp at the south end of the base,” said Danny. “Your Captain Thomas has already worked out the details. He said you have security, but if you need more, the Malaysians can augment you near the hangars and such.”

  “Captain Thomas knows what he’s doing,” said Greenstreet. “We’ve trained with him before. And, uh, as far as the locals go: no offense, Colonel, but most of us feel more secure without them.”

  “Understood.”

  TURK FOLDED HIS arms as he walked toward the F-35. Even before he had begun testing new aircraft for Dreamland and Special Projects, he hadn’t been a particular fan of the Lightning II. Like a lot of fighter jocks—at least of the American variety—he saw speed and acceleration as the ultimate virtues of an aircraft; the Lightning II was known to be somewhat below average in those categories when compared to the F-22, let alone the hot rods Turk guided. These shortcomings might have been excused, at least in Turk’s opinion, if it made up for it with stellar maneuverability. But the plane’s weight and configuration made it less than acrobatic.

  Turk tried hard not to be a snob. The F-35 had real assets: dependability, versatility, and a suite of electronic sensors that were at least a generation ahead of anything else in regular service around the globe. But after flying the Tigershark II in combat, it was hard to look at any other aircraft and not think it was a bit of a pig.

  His opinion of the Marine aviators who flew the plane was quite a bit higher . . . mostly.

  While the fierce service rivalries that once characterized the military were largely a thing of the past, he’d had a bad experience with a squadron of Marines at a Red Flag exercise very early in his career. The Marines—flying F-35Bs, as a matter of fact—had been led by one of the most arrogant SOBs he’d ever met. The fact that the instructors at Red Flag had regularly spanked his squadron’s collective butt would have therefore been very satisfying—except for the fact that Turk and his two-ship element of F-22s was regularly charged with flying with them.

  His combined unit only managed to beat the instructors on the very last exercise, and that was because the F-22s followed their own game plan, essentially using the Marines to bait the larger group of aggressors.

  Different group, Turk told himself as he walked over to introduce himself. Give these guys a chance. Not every Marine aviator is a jerk.

  And besides, it was their commander who was the A-hole. The rest of them were decent human beings. For Marines.

  Two of the pilots, still in full flight gear, were stretching their legs near the wings of the planes.

  “Hey!” yelled Turk.

  “Hey, back,” yelled the Marine Corps aviator closest to him. Tall for a pilot—he looked like he might be six-eight—he started toward Turk.

  “How you doin’?” asked the pilot. He had a southern California twang. “You the Air Force dude in charge?”

  “No, that’s Colonel Freah. Danny Freah,” added Turk, pointing. “He’s over there.”

  “I’m Torbin Van Garetn,” said the Marine, thrusting out his hand. “A lot of people just call me Cowboy.”

  “Why Cowboy?”

  “ ’Cause they think it’s funny that a Swede wears cowboy boots,” said the other pilot, coming over. “Don’t let his sloppy uniform fool you. He’s the best executive officer in the whole damn Marine Corps. My name’s Rogers.”

  “Turk Mako.”

  “So what’s your gig, Turk?” asked Cowboy.

  “I’m going to be working with you guys as the ground air controller.”

  “Cool. You’re Air Force.”

  “That’s what it says on the uniform.”

  Cowboy laughed. “My bro’s in the Air Force. Tech sergeant. He is stationed in California, the lucky bastard. Gets a lot of surfing in.”

  “You’re into surfing?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “Cowboy!” shouted a voice from back near the planes.

  “That’s our C.O.,” said Cowboy. “Kind of, uh, well, I’ll let you form your own opinion.” He smirked.

  “Cowboy. What are you doing?” said the commanding officer as he walked toward them. His tone wasn’t exactly friendly. “Is your aircraft squared away?”

  Cowboy winked at Turk, then spun around to meet his boss. “Not yet, Colonel. Just making the acquaintance of our Air Force liaison.”

  “Well get your aircraft taken care of, then deal with your social duties.”

  Turk braced himself. The snarl of a commander a little too full of himself was universal, but the gait seemed not only unique but all too familiar.

  No way, he thought.

  But it was—the C.O. of “Basher” squadron was none other than Lt. Colonel James “Jocko” Greenstreet, the man who had commanded the F-35s at Red Flag.

  Of all the stinking bad luck.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Greenstreet,” barked the pilot, stopping about ten feet from Turk. “Who are you?”

  “Turk Mako.” If Greenstreet didn’t remember him, he wasn’t volunteering the memory.

  “What’s your rank?”

  “I’m a captain.”

  Greenstreet frowned in a way that suggested an Air Force captain was too low for him to waste breath on.

  “We’ll brief when we have our aircraft settled,” said Greenstreet.

  “Can’t wait,” said Turk as the colonel strode away. He couldn’t tell if Greenstreet had recognized him and didn’t think it was worth acknowledging, or if he was simply extending the same warm and fuzzy feelings they’d shared at the Air Force exercise.

  “You meet the Marine squadron leader?” asked Danny, walking over.

  “Jocko Greenstreet,” Turk told him. “Lieutenant colonel. Real piece of work. Don’t call him Jocko,” added Turk.

  “You know him?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Turk explained.

  “I assume you’ll keep your personal feelings to yourself,” said Danny.

  “Absolutely,” said Turk. “I’m sure he will, too—not that it will make any difference at all in how he behaves.”

  TWO HOURS LATER Danny, Turk, and Trevor Walsh—the Whiplash techie who was going to handle the local monitoring gear—joined the Marine Corps pilots and some senior enlisted men in one of the trailers for a presentation on the UAV.

  “This is what we’re interested in,” said Danny, starting the briefing with blurry images of the UAV in action. “While your primary mission is still to assist the Malaysians, we appreciate any help you can give us. We’re very, very interested in finding out what exactly this UAV is and who’s flying it. We expect that it may fly into your area.”

  “You ‘expect,’ or it will?” asked Colonel Greenstreet sharply.

  “I can’t make any prediction,” said Danny, who didn’t mind the question or the tone. “Unfortunately. But when the Malaysian air force had its fighters on the western side of the island, it appeared.”

  “Would have been nice if they told us before deploying us here,” said Greenstreet.

  “That wasn’t my call,” said Danny.

  “We’ve flown on the eastern side for weeks,” said Greenstreet.

  “Cowboy says he saw a flying monkey,” joked one of the Marines from the back.

  “I did,” laughed Cowboy.

  “Enough,” said Greenstreet, immediately silencing his men.

  Danny clicked his remote, bringing up a few slides of the fuselage that had been recovered, then the artist’s renditions. He detailed the two sightings, with map displays, and reiterated what had happened to the Malaysian aircraft that had attempted to engage it.

  “We’re not exactly sure that it w
as the UAV that shot anything down,” said Danny. “Not to denigrate their flying but—”

  “We’ve seen ’em,” said Cowboy. “You’re not denigrating anything.”

  This time Greenstreet didn’t bother stopping the snickers.

  “Nonetheless, ground fire can’t be completely ruled out,” said Danny. “And while the flight patterns suggest a combat UAV, we have no hard evidence. That’s why we’re here,” he added. “Myself, Captain Mako, and Mr. Walsh, that is.”

  “The Malaysians aren’t exactly the best pilots in the world,” said Greenstreet. “But I’d expect them to know what type of aircraft they were dealing with. And how many. One seems ridiculous.”

  “Exactly,” said Danny. “But whether it’s one or ten or whatever, that unknown aircraft is pretty fast and highly maneuverable.”

  “And you’re sure it’s a UAV?” asked one of the Marines.

  “It’s too small to be manned, as far as we can tell,” said Danny.

  “Where does it launch from?”

  Danny shook his head. “Don’t know that either. We have elint assets coming on line,” he added, referring obliquely to a specially built Global Hawk that would pick up electronic signals. The aircraft was due in the area in a few hours. “Like I say, we’re here to fill in the blanks, and there are a lot of blanks.”

  “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.

  7

  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.

  8

  Malaysia

  Four days later

  TURK 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.