by Dale Brown
Turk went up the four steps of the ladder to a horizontal bridge, where he climbed off the gridwork and onto the seat of his airplane. He folded his legs down under the control panel and into the narrow tunnel beneath the nose of the plane, slipping into the airplane much like a foot into a loafer.
Albris bent over the platform to help him. As crew chiefs went, she was particularly pleasing to the eye, even in her one-piece coverall. Turk had actually never seen the civilian mechanics supervisor in anything but a coverall. Still, her freckled face and the slight scent of perfume sent his imagination soaring.
Maybe he’d look her up after the postflight debrief.
Turk’s fantasies were interrupted by a black SUV that pulled across the front of the hangar, its blue emergency lights flashing. The passenger-side door opened and his boss, Breanna Stockard, emerged from the cab.
“Turk, I need to talk to you,” she yelled. “There’s been a change in plans.”
Turk pulled himself back upright.
“Flight scrubbed, boss?” he asked. The helmet projected his voice across the hangar.
“The test flight is. But you’re still going to fly.”
“Really? Where to?”
“We’ll discuss it inside,” said Breanna.
* * *
Breanna watched Turk climb out of the plane and run over to the truck. That was the great thing about Turk — he was enthusiastic no matter what.
“Another demo flight for visiting congressmen?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said, turning toward the hangar. “We have to go downstairs to discuss it.”
The Office of Special Technology used a small area in the Dreamland complex to house Tigershark and some related projects. Besides a pair of hangars, it “owned” an underground bunker and a support area there.
The Office of Special Technology was an outgrowth of several earlier programs that brought cutting-edge technology to the front lines. Most notable of these was Dreamland itself, which a decade and a half before had been run by Breanna’s father, Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian. But the walk down the concrete ramp to the secure areas below held no special romance for Breanna; she’d long ago learned to steel herself off from any emotion where Dreamland was concerned.
“You’re flying to Sudan,” Breanna told Turk when they reached the secure area below. Once a medical test lab, the room was now used to brief missions. It was functionally the equivalent of a SCIF, or secure communications area, sealed against possible electronic eavesdropping.
Breanna walked to one of the computer terminals.
“Less than twelve hours ago, a UAV called Raven went down in a mountainous area in the southeast corner of Sudan, not far from Ethiopia,” she said. “I have a map here.”
“That’s pretty far to get some pictures,” said Turk, looking at the screen. “Going to be a long flight, even supersonic.”
“It’s not just a reconnaissance mission, Turk. Whiplash has been deployed. Our network satellite in that area is down for maintenance. It’ll be at least forty-eight hours before we get the replacement moved into position.”
“Gotcha.”
Whiplash was the code name of a joint CIA — Defense Department project run by the Office of Special Technology. It combined a number of cutting-edge technologies with a specially trained covert action unit headed by Air Force colonel Danny Freah. Freah had helped pioneer the concept at Dreamland as a captain some fifteen years before. Now he was back as the leader of a new incarnation, working with special operators from a number of different military branches as well as the CIA.
Unlike the Dreamland version, the new Whiplash worked directly with the Central Intelligence Agency and included a number of CIA officers. The head of the Agency contingent was Nuri Abaajmed Lupo, a young covert agent who, by coincidence, had spent considerable time undercover in roughly the same area where the Raven UAV had gone down.
Nuri had been the first field agent to train with a highly integrated computer network developed for Whiplash. Officially known as the Massively Parallel Integrated Decision Complex or MY-PID, the network of interconnected computers and data interfaces, the system allowed him to access a wide range of information, from planted bugs to Agency data mining, instantaneously while he was in the field.
The high volume data streams traveled through a dedicated network of satellites. The amount of data involved and the limitations of the ground broadcasting system required that the satellites be within certain ranges for MY-PID to work. The Tigershark II could substitute as a relay station in an emergency.
“You’re to contact Danny Freah when you arrive on station,” Breanna continued. “We’ll have updates to you while you’re en route.”
“All right, I guess.”
“Problem, Captain?”
“No ma’am. Just figuring it out.”
Turk folded his arms and stared at the screen. The target area in southeastern Sudan was some 13,750 kilometers away — roughly 7,500 nautical miles. Cruising in the vicinity of Mach 3, the Tigershark could cover that distance in the area of four hours. At that speed, though, it would run out of fuel somewhere over the Atlantic. He’d need to set up at least two refuels to be comfortable.
“The first tanker will meet you in the Caribbean,” said Breanna. She tapped a password into the computer and a map appeared. “It’s already being prepped. You fly south with it, then head across to the Med. A second tanker will come on station over Libya.”
“How long do I stay on station?”
“As long as it takes. We’ll find another tanker; you can just stay in transmission range if you have to refuel off the east coast of Africa. Obviously, you won’t be able to provide any surveillance, but we’ll have to make do until we get more gear there. Frankly, it doesn’t seem like it’ll even be necessary. The mission looks very straightforward.”
Breanna double-tapped the screen, expanding the map area of southern Sudan. Next she opened a set of optical satellite images of the area, taken about an hour before the accident.
“This satellite will pass back over that area in three hours,” she said. “It’s possible that they’ll find the wreckage before you arrive. If not, you’re to use your sensors to assist in the search. All right?”
“Sure.”
“Colonel Freah will have operational control.”
Breanna looked up from the screen. The frown on Turk’s face hadn’t dissipated.
“What’s wrong, Captain?”
“Nothing.”
“Out with it.”
“Tigershark’s unarmed.”
“And?”
“I could do a much better job with the gun.”
The gun referred to was the experimental rail gun. The weapon was undergoing tests in a second aircraft, which was also housed at the leased Dreamland base.
“The weapon’s not operational. And there shouldn’t be any need for it.” Breanna clicked on another folder. A set of images opened. “This is Raven. It’s smaller than a Flighthawk or a Predator. It’s armed with Hellfire missiles at the moment, but eventually it will be able to house a number of weapons.”
“Looks more like a Tigershark than a Predator.”
“It is. The contractor is the same for both systems.” Breanna closed the file, returning to the map. “It was flying with a Predator, which also crashed. Danny will be working out of Ethiopia. You’ll be able to land there in an emergency.”
“I didn’t think Ethiopia was an ally,” said Turk.
“They’re not.”
Chapter 8
Western Ethiopia
Danny Freah stared out into the black night as the MV-22 Osprey whipped over the hills.
“Hasn’t changed,” said his companion bitterly. Nuri Abaajmed Lupo was sitting in the sling seat nearby, slumped back, arm draped over the canvas back.
“Maybe it has. Too dark to see,” said Danny.
“Never changes,” said Nuri. “It’s a shit hole.”
Danny was silent
for a moment. He’d been here a few months back, on his very first mission with Whiplash — the new Whiplash. They’d pulled Nuri out of a tense situation, and nearly died in the process.
A good christening.
Since that time, the lawless situation in southeastern Sudan had gotten worse. Worried about violence spilling over the border, the Ethiopian government had declared its “neutrality” in the civil war, but was ineffective in keeping either side out.
At the same time it was engaged in an unrelated feud with the United States, Ethiopia had dismissed the U.S. ambassador a few weeks before. This made the existence of a secret American base in the northwest corner of the country even more problematic.
“Wish you were still in Alexandria?” Danny asked Nuri.
Nuri shrugged.
“We’ll wrap this up and get back,” said Danny. “She’ll remember you.”
Nuri frowned. “She” was a colonel in the state police administration, assigned as one of their liaisons. The sudden assignment had interrupted Nuri’s plans to take her out.
The Osprey dipped into a valley, skimming close to the treetops. As the aircraft slowed, the engine nacelles on the wings swung up. Danny cinched his seat belt, the aircraft fluttering down onto the landing strip.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from Egypt, where it had been oppressively hot. Danny zipped his jacket to his neck. He was dressed in civilian clothes, unsure exactly what to expect.
“They didn’t even send anyone to meet us,” said Nuri, surveying the field.
“We probably got here faster than they expected,” said Danny. He pulled the strap to his rucksack over his shoulder and started walking toward the low-slung buildings beyond the small strip where they’d been deposited. Ras Dashen, the highest peak in the Semien Mountains, rose in the distance, its brown hulk clearly outlined by the glow of the full moon. The mountain was a popular destination for adventure tourists, but this sparsely populated valley was more than fifty miles from the nearest route taken by tourists. Accessible only by a scrub road or aircraft, the CIA had been using the field for Raven for nearly two months.
The Osprey rose behind them, spitting sand and grit in every direction. The aircraft would fly back to southern Egypt, refuel, then go north to Cairo to wait for the rest of the Whiplash team.
Assuming they were needed. Danny wasn’t exactly sure what the situation was; Reid hadn’t given him many details, saying only to get there and find out what had to be done.
“Lonely place,” said Danny as they walked.
Nuri grumbled an answer.
“This place operational when you were here?” Danny asked. “Before Whiplash?”
“Not that I knew.”
A thick clump of clouds floated in front of the moon, casting the base in darkness. As they passed, a pickup truck emerged from the shadows near the building, riding toward them without its lights.
“Here comes our ride,” said Nuri.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“I wouldn’t trust anything the Agency is doing out here.” Nuri stopped. “Black projects have a way of becoming rodeos.”
The pickup arrived before Danny could ask what he meant. The driver rolled down the window. He was white, and spoke with a British accent.
“You’re Colonel Freah?”
“That’s right.”
“You can put your bags in the back.” The man didn’t introduce himself. He waited silently for Danny and Nuri to get in, then put the truck into reverse, made a slow-motion U-turn, and drove toward the buildings. There were five; two about the size of a small ranch house back home, and three slightly smaller.
“Which building?” Danny asked.
“You can wait in the one on the far right.” The building was one of the larger structures.
“Wait?” snapped Nuri.
“What do you mean wait?” asked Danny. “We’re here to meet Melissa Ilse.”
“I don’t know where she is.” The driver seemed almost offended that they would imply he did know.
“How long you been on contract?” asked Nuri.
The man looked at him. “That’s not your business.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Danny and Nuri got out and went into the building. It consisted of a single room. A set of tables formed two long rows in the center, with chairs running down one side. Dim red lights shone from overhead fixtures; there wasn’t enough light to read a watch by.
“Most of them bugged out already,” said Nuri, surveying the room. “Shit.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Too few people. If they were running UAVs from here, they would have needed dozens of people. Even if it was just a skeletal crew. Even if they were flying from somewhere else. And the security would have been tighter. I’ll bet they had tents, and just took everything away. I don’t like this.”
Dubious, Danny looked around the room. It looked more like an empty Knights of Columbus hall than a command post.
“So where’s this Melissa, you think?” he asked Nuri.
Nuri pulled out a chair and sat down. “Damned if I know. I never even heard of her.”
He shook his head. Danny was used to dealing with Nuri — he tended to be a bit of a crank — but this was cantankerous even for him.
“There aren’t that many people who can deal with East Africa,” Nuri added. “I know them all. And she’s not one of them.”
“Maybe it’s a pseudonym.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, this is a bullshit way to treat us,” said Danny. As he turned to go back to the door, it opened. A short, thin man with several days’ worth of stubble on his face entered.
“Colonel Freah?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Damian Jordan.” He reached out and shook Danny’s hand. He had a grip that could crush rocks.
“We’re supposed to meet Melissa Ilse,” said Danny.
“She’s not here,” said Jordan. He offered his hand to Nuri. Nuri just stared at him.
“Where is she?” asked Danny.
“She got a lead on the aircraft and she went to check it out.”
“By herself?” asked Nuri.
“Melissa is like that.”
“You’re in charge?” asked Danny.
“Melissa is.”
“Where’s the rest of your team?” asked Nuri.
“With the aircraft down, we were ordered to move to a more secure location. We’re pretty wide-open over here. So it’s just me, Ferny — who drove out to get you — and two Ethiopian nationals working as bodyguards.”
“You trust them?” asked Nuri.
“Only until the shit hits the fan,” said Jordan. “Then they’ll take off for the hills. Come on into the other building and we’ll get something to eat. I’ll brief you on the way.”
Chapter 9
Southeastern Sudan
It took Li Han several hours to reach the crash site, most of it on foot. A boy in a village allied with the Brothers had seen the aircraft fall from the sky. He showed Li Han the way himself, plunging down hillsides and scrambling over the rocks like it was a game. The Brothers who were with Li Han couldn’t keep up, and in fact even Li Han, who prided himself on his excellent condition, had a hard time toward the end. The moon kept poking in and out of the clouds, and he stumbled several times, twisting his ankle and knee, though not so badly that he gave up.
And then they were there.
One of the wings had broken off in flight, but the rest of the aircraft was nearly whole. It looked like a black tent, sitting in the ravine where it had landed. Li Han approached it cautiously, afraid that the Americans had booby-trapped it. They were capable of anything.
Li Han knelt down next to the fuselage, examining the strange-looking aircraft. It had landed on its back. A missile was attached to the wing.
Li Han caught the boy as he started to scramble onto the wing near the missile.
“No,” said Li Han. He used English. The child may not have understood the language, but the tone was enough to warn him away. Li Han pointed, telling the boy to move back.
Li Han rose and walked to the nose of the small plane. Its skin was covered with a black, radar-absorbing paint, obviously intended to lower the radar profile. He took an LED flashlight from his pocket and ran its beam over the wreckage. The antennas might be hidden under the wreckage; they would be on the top of the aircraft most likely, where they could receive signals from satellites. But where was the sensor pod with its cameras?
Integrated into the hull. The material seemed almost porous.
The two Brothers who’d accompanied him came over the hill, huffing for breath. They slid down the ravine on the sides of their feet.
“Careful,” said Li Han, forgetting for a moment and speaking in his native Mandarin.
They looked at him sheepishly.
“We must get the wreckage out of here before the satellite comes,” he said, switching to English. “Before it is dawn. We have only three hours. Do you understand?”
The taller one, Amara of Yujst — they all had odd, African names — said something in Arabic.
“Pick it up and carry it out,” Li Han told him, still in English.
“It will be heavy,” said Amara.
“Then get more help,” said Li Han.
Chapter 10
Western Ethiopia
“We’ve been targeting him,” said Damian Jordan, pointing at the hazy black-and-white image of an Asian man on the screen. “Mao Man.”
“Sounds archaeological,” said Danny, looking at the face.
“Li Han,” said Nuri coldly.
“You know who he is?” asked Jordan. He cracked his knuckles, right hand first, then left. The sound echoed in the room. Except for a pair of cots and a mobile workstation, the room was empty.
“I never heard him called Mao Man,” said Nuri. “But I know who he is. He’s a technical expert, and a weapons dealer. A real humanitarian. You’ve heard of A.Q. Khan, right?”