Target Utopia

by Dale Brown

  “Cleared hot,” said Danny. “They’ve ignored our warning.”

  Actually, thought Turk, they’d answered it, pretty emphatically.

  The rail gun shook the aircraft as he fired, its slugs accelerating to several times the speed of sound as they left the plane. The first one struck the missile’s solid propellant. The explosion obscured the rest of the target area, and Turk couldn’t see that the next two slugs killed the men.

  He was already aiming at the radar above the superstructure. He took it out, then wiped out the radio mast and the compartment directly below it. The big ship ceased transmitting any radio signals at all.

  But it was far from dead.

  “Container G7—roof opening,” said the computer.

  It took Turk a few seconds to understand what the Tigershark was telling him—one of the containers was hiding a weapon.

  “Radar active,” warned the computer.

  Turk was ready. Accelerating toward the ship, he aimed his nose at the container highlighted on the screen. He got off three rounds before he passed; the last slug ignited an explosion and small fire.

  Three more containers popped their tops in the time it took for the Tigershark to climb and then turn back.

  “Aircraft launching,” warned the Tigershark computer.

  “Whiplash assault team, hold back,” radioed Turk. “We have resistance—they’re launching three UAVs, combat UAVs similar to the ones encountered last night by Basher flight.”

  “Roger that,” replied Danny. “Standing by.”

  COWBOY COULD SEE the aircraft shooting upward from the cargo vessel like arrows suddenly appearing from small puffs of black-fringed white smoke. The three aircraft attacked the sky at seventy-degree angles, propelled by rocket motors that quickly lifted them several thousand feet.

  “Request permission to engage enemy aircraft,” he asked Greenstreet.

  “Do it!” said Greenstreet. “I have One and Three. You’re on Two.”

  Cowboy designated the second target. But before either he or Greenstreet could fire, the first UAV exploded in the air—Turk had taken it out with his rail gun.

  “The UAVs are mine,” radioed the Dreamland pilot. “You guys wipe out those containers on the foredeck.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Greenstreet.

  FOR ALL THEIR sophistication, the enemy UAVs were using a simple and relatively primitive launching system. Fitted with a booster section, they were lifted on a vertical gantry about forty-five degrees, then fired into the air. The rocket at their rear propelled them for a little more than sixty seconds before their own engines took over. Only then could they maneuver.

  Taking the first two aircraft down was like hitting ducks on a carnival firing range. Turk brought the Tigershark onto a line just above the first UAV, put two shots into the body of the aircraft and a third into its booster, then turned hard to his right to get on the tail of the second UAV.

  The enemy aircraft slipped out of his targeting cone before he could line up. He held on, following as it continued to climb. The Tigershark couldn’t match its speed, and after a few seconds Turk realized he’d have a better chance at getting it after the booster separated. Leaving it for last, he slid down on his wing toward the fourth and final aircraft to launch, just now climbing below him to the south. The computer had already dotted out an intercept; all Turk had to do was follow it.

  Danny Freah was asking him something over the radio, but Turk couldn’t spare the attention. Greenstreet radioed something else about staying clear, but Turk lost it in the background noise.

  Now, he told himself as the aircraft came up into the middle of his targeting cue.

  The Tigershark rumbled with the shock of three slugs firing in quick succession. Only the first one hit: the other two passed through the debris field where the aircraft had been.

  As Turk turned his head to look for the UAV he’d given up on earlier, the Tigershark shrieked at him—the enemy was diving from above, training its laser weapon on his fuselage.

  DANNY FREAH FROZE the image of the cargo ship and the tug. A machine gun had been brought up to the forward deck of the tug. More ominously, there was a man running along the starboard side with what looked like a grenade launcher in his hands.

  “Basher One, we have individuals running along the starboard side of the cargo ship,” he said, radioing the Marine aircraft. “They appear armed. We’d like to take them out before the Ospreys come in.”

  “Affirmative, Whiplash,” replied Greenstreet. “We’re going to unzip some of those cargo containers and then we’ll clear the rest of the vermin off the decks.”

  Danny thought of ordering them not to bomb the containers; he would have greatly preferred getting whatever was in them intact. But they weren’t worth risking the lives of the Marines.

  “Understood, Basher. We’re holding position until all clear.”

  “Won’t be long, Colonel. Hang tight.”

  COWBOY TILTED HIS nose toward the cargo aircraft and pickled his bombs, dropping a dozen of the backpack-sized weapons in quick succession. Each pair of the bombs had been programmed to hit a different cargo container. He was so close and the ship moving so slowly that he probably didn’t even have to use any guidance at all. But why take chances? The weapons system in the Lightning II had locked on to each container via its radar and optical guidance system, and subtly steered each bomb directly to the programmed sweet spot. In quick succession six large containers blew up on the forward deck of the ship. One began to burn, sending a large plume of smoke into the air.

  Greenstreet had already made his run and was circling back.

  “Freah said there’s a guy on the starboard side with an RPG,” said Greenstreet. “You see him?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s take a closer look. Follow me in.”

  WITH ONLY A fraction of a second to react, Turk started to dive away from the pursuing aircraft, pushing the Tigershark’s nose down steeply and ramming the throttle. But the UAV had anticipated this, and while it lost its aim point for a moment, it was quickly back on Turk’s tail.

  It’s flying a pattern and I can beat it, Turk reminded himself.

  I’m flying against a Flighthawk. What do I do?

  Up and roll back.

  He jerked his stick back, abruptly putting the Tigershark into a climb. At the same time, he hit his chaff, blowing out a cloud of tiny strips and pieces of metal foil intended to confuse radar missiles homing in on the fighter. It also confused the Dreamland-designed UAVs at close range because of a peculiarity in how they flew in close pursuit: since the target’s maneuvers were bound to be extremely rapid, the original C3 computer programming took over the flight at close range, following the locked target and enabling the remote pilot to concentrate on firing.

  Dishing out chaff when pursued at close range by a normal fighter wouldn’t do much; the pilot would simply use his eyes to guide the plane. But here the computer had to switch from its radar guidance to infrared or video mode. Either way, there was a delay—only a few seconds in this case but long enough for Turk to put his Sabre on its back and roll behind the enemy UAV. As he did, he noticed an entirely unexpected result—the UAV was now trailing smoke from its right wing.

  How had that happened?

  The only explanation—or at least the only thing he could think of—was that its laser weapon had heated the chaff, which damaged the aircraft as it flew into the cloud.

  There was only one way to test his theory—try it again.

  That meant not only giving up his position now, which with a flick of the wrist would put him in the perfect spot to shoot down the enemy drone, but letting the UAV get back on his tail and zero in on him.

  That was exactly the sort of trade-off Turk had been taught not to make as a combat pilot. Take the sure kill, leave the experimenting to someone else. But if he didn’t do it, he wouldn’t be sure it worked.

  He held tight to the UAV’s tail. The UAV started a tight turn
left. Turk suspected this was a deke—generally, when surprised by the up and rollback sequence, the Flighthawks would fake left and then break right, trying to accelerate away to reprocess the threat’s abilities. He waited a moment before reacting; sure enough, the UAV tucked back toward him. But instead of rolling to keep it in his gunsights, Turk stayed straight.

  It took the UAV a second to realize it was not being followed. It took another half moment to evaluate what that meant—was it a trick, or was it flying against someone who was dumb? Because all it had to do was come back left and it would find itself in a perfect position to eviscerate its foe.

  Turk waited. He was no more than a mile ahead of the aircraft, a fat target for the laser.

  It began to fire. Turk hit the chaff. This time he held his course but accelerated, wanting to make sure the UAV flew directly into the chaff, or at least had reason to.

  There was an explosion behind him strong enough to send a shock wave against his wings.

  “Bogie Two destroyed,” declared the computer.

  Turk banked back in time to see the UAV disappearing in a fireball.

  “All UAVs destroyed,” he radioed Danny.

  COWBOY SAW A figure running near the rail on the starboard side of the cargo ship as he approached. Just as Greenstreet cleared the ship’s stern, the man stopped. Something flared from the rail—the man had fired an RPG at Basher One.

  It was an act of complete futility, as the F-35 was well beyond the reach of the rocket-propelled grenade. But it also sealed the man’s fate. Cowboy, his gun selected on the armament panel, pressed the trigger and danced a few dozen bullets into the side of the ship and the enemy standing there.

  He was past the spot before he could see what happened. Greenstreet radioed, asking what was going on.

  “You had somebody firing on your tailpipe,” replied Cowboy. “Little grenade launcher.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “We need to run in again before we clear the Ospreys.”

  “Roger.”

  Cowboy followed his flight leader into a wide arc that took them back around to the bow of the cargo container. Smoke was rising from several areas on the ship, and there was now a gaping hole and mangled metal where the man with the RPG had been.

  “No threats obvious,” said Greenstreet as they cleared.

  “Roger.”

  Rising back in the sky after the pass, Cowboy tried to sort out what he’d seen. He didn’t feel bad about having killed the man—he was an enemy, and had obviously been trying to kill him. He did, however, feel a certain touch of sadness or maybe regret that he had to do that.

  “Whiplash, Marine Force, container ship is on fire,” radioed Greenstreet. “You have people on deck on both ships. No missiles seen. Machine guns and launchers down.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Danny.

  13

  South China Sea

  THE CAPTAIN OF the Chinese PT boat was a short, thin man in his early fifties with a wispy moustache. Nearly bald, his forehead bulged forward, and with his head at least a size too big for his otherwise diminutive body, he looked almost like a bobble-head doll. He spoke excellent English, much better than the man who’d handled the bullhorn, and it was clear from his manner that he was not a man to be taken lightly.

  “You are a prisoner of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy,” he told Braxton after two sailors lifted him aboard his PT boat. “You will comply with my orders.”

  “N ho,” said Braxton, saying hello and adding that he and his companion were in international waters.

  The Chinese commander ignored Braxton’s attempts at Mandarin. “You are in territory claimed by the Chinese government,” he said in an accent that made him sound like a world-weary American. “You are carrying weapons of war. You are now my prisoner.”

  A man in civilian clothes stepped out from the cockpit area. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he was in his mid-twenties. But though he was the only man aboard the small boat who wasn’t in uniform, he had the swagger of a commander, and even the boat’s captain gave him a deferential glance as he came forward.

  “You are Braxton,” said the man, whose En-glish pronunciation was as polished as the captain’s but several times more energetic. He was tall, and towered over not only Braxton and the boat captain, but everyone else on board, including Talbot. “We have been seeking you out for a long time. My name is Wen-lo.” He smiled and extended his hand.

  Braxton eyed it warily, then shook it. The man’s grip was strong, firm though not oppressive. Wen-lo stood about six feet tall; the loose sweatshirt couldn’t quite hide the fact that he was on the plump side. His skin was very pale, several shades lighter than the captain’s.

  “I’ve read your manifestos and admired your work for a long time,” said Wen-lo. “I studied your first papers at Stanford and have followed you ever since.”

  If the remark was calculated to make Braxton like Wen-lo, it backfired badly—he hated Stanford and everyone associated with it. He also realized not only that he was being flattered, but that the flattery was a thin veneer intended to ease Wen’s conscience about whatever violence would ultimately follow. Because that was what government goons always did: lied and then forced you to do their master’s will.

  Nonetheless, Wen’s phony eagerness told Braxton there was hope of escape yet.

  “It’s good that we met,” he told the young man. “We might cooperate in many ways.”

  “Yes,” said Wen-lo brightly.

  “Right now the Americans are attacking my ships,” said Braxton. “I need them to stop.”

  “It’s unfortunate that’s happening,” said Wen. “But it’s none of my business, nor of my country’s.”

  “You could intervene,” said Braxton.

  “That is impossible,” interrupted the captain. “We are under orders not to engage the American force. We can take no action against them.”

  Wen-lo responded sharply in Chinese, and the two men began to argue. They spoke too fast for Braxton to understand more than the bare gist of what they were saying. The captain had been ordered directly by Beijing—that part was repeated several times—not to engage the Americans unless fired upon or given orders from the carrier task force. Wen-lo, meanwhile, emphasized that the captain was not in charge of the operation, that he, too, had orders from Beijing, and that he would be the one who decided what was done—even by the carrier group.

  “My forces can fight for themselves,” said Braxton finally. “I can use these aircraft.”

  “How?” asked Wen-lo.

  “I have launchers on the island. I’ll turn everything over to you after the attack. As long as my people are saved. Without your intervention,” he added, speaking directly to the captain.

  The captain wasn’t impressed. He and Wen-lo began arguing again. Wen-lo finally took out a satellite phone.

  “You speak Mandarin?” the Chinese boat captain asked Braxton, glancing at Wen-lo.

  “Not very well,” said Braxton.

  “I hope well enough to realize that I will not be fooled by you,” said the captain. “I know this is a trick.”

  “You wouldn’t try to get your people freed? If they were attacked, you wouldn’t help them?”

  “My men will shoot you if you try to escape. We are not friends.”

  “I don’t want to be friends. Temporary allies is more than enough.”

  The captain gave him a sour look.

  Wen-lo held the phone out to the captain triumphantly. The older man waved his hand at it, in essence surrendering.

  “Proceed to the island,” Wen-lo told the captain, ending his call. “The fleet is going to respond to your distress call and intervene, Mr. Braxton. In exchange, you will cooperate with us to the fullest extent.”

  “Do I have any other choice?” asked Braxton.

  14

  South China Sea

  “WE GO IN fast and hard,” Danny told his team of M
arines and Whiplash troopers. “They’re armed and hostile. If they surrender, good. Otherwise, we do what we have to do.”

  There were a few thumbs-up; the rest nodded cautiously. It was a professional response, but Danny missed Boston and his enthusiastic, Let’s do it!

  The Whiplash Ospreys, both heavily armed, rode in first, one skimming near the tug and the other toward the bow of the cargo vessel. Orders were broadcast over the standard marine channels and the loudspeakers, telling the captains they were going to be boarded and warning them that force would be met with force.

  Danny moved to the side door where the fast-rope apparatus waited.

  The team had practiced exiting from the aircraft so many times it was almost like a rote exercise. Muscle memory took over. As he moved to the door, Danny glanced at the machine gunner covering the ship and noted that he wasn’t firing; the tugboat at least had surrendered.

  He grabbed on and swung down, sliding quickly but under control. The deck pitched as he hit, but he adjusted and landed squarely. He let go of the rope, regained his balance and trotted forward.

  Bullets flying or not, it was still a precarious moment. Taking over a ship was never an easy task. Even in an exercise, things could go wrong. Just a few months ago a promising young Whiplash trooper had broken both legs when he slipped during a fast-rope exercise, and that had been on land.

  The teams fanned out quickly, securing the bridge and the forward deck. Making his way up the ladder, Danny heard Achmoody giving terse instructions over the radio. They had prisoners—the men at the stern were being instructed to keep their hands high in the air.

  The tugboat captain was standing near the ship’s wheel, hands at his side. He was Asian—Japanese, Danny guessed. His spotless white shirt was freshly stained with perspiration under both arms. The lone mate with him—a woman in her forties, Hispanic—stood near the wheel, hands in the air. Guzman was looking over the equipment while Bulgaria and Dalton covered them.