Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  The gun fired nine times in quick succession, not quite at its full capacity. The shots were true; the minesweeper immediately lost power, its engine and driveshaft obliterated. Its momentum continued to drive it south, but it was off-course, and its list to starboard quickly deepened.

  The targeting computer was pleased; it listed the minesweeper’s fighting ability at zero percent, and declared that it had only a thirty-three percent chance of surviving.

  “Minesweeper is no longer a factor,” Turk radioed Danny.

  DANNY NEVER GOT the message, as he was still out of range of the other units. He wouldn’t have responded in any event, since he had a lot of other things to worry about.

  Water, primarily.

  A hole in the tunnel allowed air to escape as the seawater rushed in. Danny took one look at the mangled metal and realized they weren’t leaving that way anytime soon. He led Guzman to the far side of the compartment, where there was a hatchway that looked like it must connect to the outside. The surface was only a few yards above, at most; all they had to do was open the hatch and get out.

  The problem was the hatch: it wouldn’t open. At first Danny thought it was because the pressure of the seawater was too great. But Guzman showed him that the hatch swung inward and the wheel itself was locked, just as the one leading there had been.

  “Can we blow it off?” Danny asked.

  “The explosives are topside.”

  Danny worked his way back toward the door to the ship, hoping the radio reception would improve. But there was no answer from anyone above.

  What a place to die, he thought. How ironic—in the Air Force pretty much all my life, and I’m going to die at sea.

  The water gurgled around him. It was just about to his knees.

  The pumps were still working, though they weren’t able to keep up with the inflow.

  Sooner or later the water would rise high enough to cover wherever the air was escaping, and stop the inflow, he thought. If they could get help, they could retreat to the air pocket and wait for someone to blow the door.

  “You think there’s a radio in these controls?” he asked Guzman, going over to the panel. “Help me look.”

  They looked over the controls and started punching buttons. But there was no obvious effect. The water, meanwhile, continued to rise. Air was leaking from somewhere other than the tunnel, Danny realized—more than likely the ventilation system.

  There was a crackle and a beep in his helmet.

  “Colonel Freah, where are you?” asked Boston, his voice loud and clear in the helmet.

  “We’re trapped inside a compartment at the base of the ship,” said Danny.

  “We think it broke off from the ship,” said Boston. “I’m above the compartment where the doorway was.”

  “What about Grisif?” Danny asked, worried about the Whiplasher he’d left behind. “She was watching our backs in there.”

  “We just pulled her out of the wreck. The hull collapsed. There’s a ton of rusted steel between us and you.”

  The line went dead then. Danny moved back toward the doorway at the ship’s end, but got nothing.

  “They’re working on it,” he told Guzman, still trying to find a radio.

  “They better work fast,” said Guzman.

  “Colonel? You there?” Boston came back on the line.

  “We’re here.”

  “We’re going to try and cut through some of the metal. There’s two decks between you.”

  “The tunnel to the boat’s mangled,” said Danny. “That’s not going to work. You’re going to have to come from the outside. There’s a hatch like the one on the inside. You can blow it.”

  “With you guys inside?”

  “There’s no other way.”

  “Shit. All right,” said Boston. “We have diving gear on the Ospreys. They’re holding ten minutes south. Can you hold out?”

  “We don’t have much choice,” said Danny. He glanced at the water, which was now up above their chests. There was no way they were going to get anyone into a wet suit and into the water quickly enough to get them out. But that was their only hope.

  Unless . . .

  “Stand by,” Danny told Boston. “I need to talk to Turk.”

  TURK COULDN’T QUITE believe what Danny wanted him to do.

  “I see the container on the infrared scan,” he said, “but just barely. It’s up against the hull.”

  “Barely’s all you need,” said Danny.

  “Slicing off the end of the canister is going to take at least two passes,” said Turk. “And the gun has to cycle through between them. We’re looking at five minutes for the whole process, and that’s optimistic.”

  “Then get moving,” said Danny.

  “There’s gotta be another way. Something safer—”

  “Believe me, if there was, we’d be doing it.”

  “Listen, Colonel—”

  “That’s an order.”

  “Coming to course,” said Turk mechanically. “Stand by.”

  He needed to climb another 5,000 feet to increase his length of time on target long enough to make the shot. The plan was basically to use the rail gun as a can opener, poking holes in the end of the compartment where they were trapped. Turk would have to drive over sixty rounds through the top of the end cap, destroying it.

  It was beyond a long shot. Even explaining to the computer what he wanted to do was difficult; Turk ended up having to forgo the audio AI interface and hand designate a linear target across the top of the cylinder.

  Four passes, declared the computer. Ten minutes.

  Danny had estimated they had only five minutes of air.

  They’d have even less once he started shooting.

  “Recompute for two passes,” Turk told the computer.

  “Not possible within safety limits,” it responded.

  “Screw safety limits.”

  “Unknown command.”

  “Compute two passes.”

  “Two passes computed.”

  The computer divided the shooting sequence neatly in half. This meant that the rail gun’s temperature would run into the red zone twice.

  Turk decided he would change the sequence, taking a few less shots the first time but making sure he had enough left for the second run. It might not be better statistically, but he believed it would let him get more bullets onto the target even if the gun overheated so badly that it failed.

  He leveled off as he hit his altitude mark with another minute’s flight time, to the point where he had to start his gun run.

  What if he missed? He’d be killing Danny and the other trooper in the cabin with him.

  The plane is not going to miss. It never does. And I’m going to get them out.

  Was that the sort of debate that Breanna had with herself before sending Stoner? What if he can’t get him out? What should he do?

  No. She hadn’t debated at all. She thought he should die. It was only a miracle that he’d managed to get out of there alive.

  “Colonel, stand clear,” said Turk. “Get as far away from the end of that tube thing as you can.”

  “Come on. Do it.”

  “Two passes. First set of bullets will—”

  “Just go for it, Turk. I don’t need a play by play.”

  Turk took a deep breath, then bit the side of his cheek as the computer prompted him to nose down and start firing.

  THE BULLETS FROM the rail gun came so quickly they seemed to be a saw blade, loud and violent, slapping as well as slicing the end of the compartment. The LED lights at the top and sides remained on, casting the round tube in a strangely yellow and brown glow. Steam flashed from the end of the compartment as the hot metal slugs cooled rapidly as they passed through the water and into the bed of the ocean and reef below. The roar and vibration pitched Danny around, throwing him and Guzman into the deep end of the compartment.

  Struggling back to the air pocket, Danny realized they had only a few minutes left. Air gus
hed out the top holes while water flowed in at the bottom; Turk’s shots had made the dire situation even worse.

  “When the next wave of bullets hit,” he told Guzman. “Take a deep breath and swim for it.”

  Guzman didn’t hear a word. Danny tried to mimic what they should do. Guzman looked at him in a daze, then finally nodded his head.

  That would have to do, thought Danny, leaning his head back to get more air.

  TURK SAW THE fishing boats moving in the small screen on the left side of his console, but he had no time to deal with that. The computer counted down the sequence to the shot.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  He pressed his finger on the trigger, riding the aircraft along the course laid out by the computer.

  “Warning!” said the computer as he neared the halfway mark. “Weapon temperature above optimum.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  “Unknown command.”

  Turk held his course, continuing to fire. Shells rammed down the rail one after another, generating momentum as well as heat. The aircraft was pushing right, fighting against the trim adjustments the computer made to compensate.

  “Warning, weapon temperature approaching critical.”

  A caution screen popped in front of Turk’s view. A semicircular graph ghosted in front of him, showing the weapon temperature going from green on the left through yellow and into red.

  Another graph and warning appeared below, showing fuselage temperature. He was in yellow, edging toward red.

  Too hot and the fuel tanks might flash.

  “Safety precautions off,” said Turk. “AI off. Full pilot control, authorization four-four-two-Mako.”

  The screen turned red, blinking its most dire warning.

  Gotta get Danny out, thought Turk, his finger plastered on the trigger.

  AS THE SHELLS burst through the edge of the compartment, Danny pulled off his helmet and dropped it into the water. With as deep a breath as he could manage, he dove toward the turmoil, hoping to push through as the firing stopped. But the water was so agitated it threw him back before he managed more than a stroke. He slammed against the bulkhead on the ship’s end and surfaced, gasping for air.

  Guzman bobbed next to him, arms flailing, chin barely above the water. As Danny pointed toward the end of the compartment, urging Guzman to try again, the compartment shifted and began to fall, rolling away from the ship. Danny grabbed Guzman’s arm and pushed toward the outer end, hoping the shells from the Tigershark had opened the way.

  The water churned as if swirled by a propeller. Danny grabbed hold of the panel on his left and pushed toward the still steaming mass. The shock waves and bubbles of air pushed him toward the top of the compartment and away from the end. He fought back, pushing and groping toward what he hoped was an opening.

  Shadows appeared in front of his eyes. There was a round circle—the hatchway handle.

  The damn thing is still attached!

  They were still trapped. Danny’s fingers grabbed the wheel. He pulled himself forward, hoping to somehow find the strength to open it now. As he did, his legs shot upward behind him.

  He didn’t understand at first. The world swirled and moved violently. His lungs strained. Finally, desperate, he let go of the wheel and allowed the rest of his body to follow his legs upward.

  He burst above the surface of the ocean. Wind hit his face—it was a delicious feeling, almost as welcome as the sensation of the air that filled his lungs.

  Danny looked for Guzman but couldn’t see him.

  “Guzman! Guz!”

  Realizing he must still be below, Danny ducked under the water. It was too dark to see. He flailed around with his hands, then remembered his wrist light. The light did very little; he saw shadows and shapes.

  Something moved to his right. He grabbed at it, felt cloth, then pulled up.

  It was Guzman. The Whiplasher surfaced coughing and spitting water.

  “My lungs,” he gasped.

  “Colonel Freah!” shouted a voice nearby. A weak beam of light shone on the water. Danny turned, realizing he was only a few feet from the reef. He paddled for it. Guzman was next to him.

  The coral and hard volcanic rock scraped Danny’s fingers as he clambered up. The reef was only two feet below the ocean’s surface.

  “Colonel, you all right?” shouted Achmoody.

  “Fine, fine,” said Danny, sitting to rest.

  Guzman stood next to him.

  “Been a while since I did anything like that,” said the trooper.

  Danny looked at him. “You’ve been shot out of a submarine chamber?” he asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the shit they put us through when I was a SEAL,” said Guzman.

  12

  Over the South China Sea

  TO COWBOY, THE battle seemed like an encounter between a hawk and a pair of falcons. The Sabres were slightly smaller than the enemy UAV, and in its damaged state, a bit faster; they worked together, spinning and poking at the other aircraft with their guns as it tried to get away.

  While outnumbered, the UAV wasn’t completely overmatched; its laser was still operative, and it seemed able to outaccelerate the Sabres for a few seconds before they could catch up.

  Cowboy was both fascinated and frustrated watching the three planes—fascinated because he’d never seen a dogfight between UAVs, even in an exercise, and frustrated because he was simply a spectator. He tried maneuvering into a position to catch the enemy UAV as it dodged the Sabres, but the little planes were simply too maneuverable for him to get a firing solution with his Sidewinder or cannon.

  “Basher Two, you’re getting pretty far north,” said Greenstreet.

  “I’m trying to nail that other drone,” explained Cowboy.

  “Negative. Your mission is to support and protect our people.”

  “Roger that. Understood.”

  It felt odd to leave the Sabres, as if he were leaving comrades in the middle of a fight. They were only drones—and yet they were comrades, weren’t they?

  “Whiplash, your Sabres are going north with the other UAV, trying to get it down,” he radioed Turk. “I have to stay with my Marines.”

  “Yeah, roger that, they’re good, they’re good. They know what they’re doing.”

  “Uh—”

  “Have my hands full right now. Trust the machines.”

  “Roger that,” said Cowboy. Though that wasn’t exactly what he was thinking.

  It’s a brave new world. I want to be part of it.

  Don’t I?

  “Basher Two, the Ospreys are going to take off and go home. We’re escorting them. Check your fuel.”

  “Roger, acknowledged. I’m coming,” said Cowboy, turning back south.

  13

  Over the South China Sea

  TURK ZOOMED HIS low-light camera feed on Danny and Guzman as they clambered back aboard the wrecked merchant ship. The shell from the minesweeper had collapsed a good portion of the forward deck and enough of the hull. The ship had not only moved a dozen yards but bent inward at the middle; if it had been a rusting hulk before, it was now more like a pile of junked metal. The girder that had been used to dock submarines at the stern was fully exposed, pushed up on the reef by the shifting of the ship.

  All but one of the Chinese fishing boats were moving to assist the minesweeper. The lone exception was sailing across the area below the reef at about four knots, apparently trying to keep watch while not getting close enough to be fired on.

  Turk turned his attention back to Sabres Three and Four and their continuing tangle with the enemy UAV. The other aircraft had managed to hold them at bay so far; it couldn’t escape but it wasn’t being shot down either. It was a tribute to the original combat programming, which was now nearly a decade old.

  Turk ached to respond himself—he was sure he could take the enemy plane down—but he knew his place was here.

  “Tigershark, what’s the situation with the mi
nesweeper?” asked Danny, back aboard the decrepit merchant vessel.

  “Dead in the water. The fishing boats are going to its rescue.”

  “The Ospreys will be here in zero-five,” said Danny. “We’re going to see if we can recover the compartment with the gear.”

  “How, Colonel?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  “WE HAVE LINES we might be able to use to lift it,” the Osprey pilot told Danny over the radio. “What’s the weight?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “A cubic foot of water weighs sixty-two pounds,” said Rubeo, who was listening on the circuit back in D.C. “Based on the rough dimensions, the volume would be roughly 4,616 cubic feet. That’s—”

  “Way the hell too heavy for us to get it in the air,” said the pilot. An Osprey could lift some 60,000 pounds, but that included its own weight.

  “What if we dump the water out first,” suggested Danny.

  “It’s not going to work, Colonel,” said the Osprey pilot. “It’s going to be too big.”

  Danny didn’t want to leave the cylinder there for the Chinese to inspect after they left, but blowing it up seemed like a waste.

  “How long will it take you to get the equipment off?” Rubeo asked.

  “Hours,” said Danny. “We only have two diving suits. Everything was bolted to benches.”

  “If you can show me the gear, I can tell you what to take,” said Rubeo. “Assuming time is a constraint.”

  “It is,” said Danny. “I don’t know how long before the Chinese carrier task force responds.”

  “Do your best, Danny,” said Breanna.

  “Always.”

  Danny took off the borrowed helmet and looked over at Boston. “Who are our best divers?”

  “Guzman’s number one. After that, take your pick. Probably Dalton.”

  “They’re going to need torches. And a video up to the deck so we can send it back to Rubeo.”