Target Utopia (15 page)

Danny got to his feet. Mofitt was nearby, on his knees, shaking his head. Danny tried to ask him if he was OK, then realized the blow had left him deaf.

It was a good thing they hadn't reached the bunker. The shell that had knocked him to the ground was a direct hit on a spot weakened by the earlier blasts. It had torn a massive gash in the roof near the entrance, splitting through the metal below the layer of sandbags and dirt.

Danny saw beams of light inside—flashlights. Two men ran up behind him, then began clawing at the dirt and debris that had fallen into the entrance.

Moving in what seemed like slow motion, Danny began to help. The six people who'd been in the bunker were all still alive, but in various degrees of shock. Lieutenant Juno was bleeding from an enormous gash at the top of his head, but his was the lightest injury; his radio man had a compound
leg fracture and two broken ribs. Trevor Walsh, the Whiplash technician, was sitting at his bench, dazed and holding his limp right arm against a small but sucking wound at the side of his chest.

“They have lasers,” he told Danny. “Turk just called it in.”

Danny heard the words from a distance; his hearing was coming back.

“You're wounded,” he told Walsh. He repeated it twice, unsure if he was garbling his words.

A corpsman ran in shouting orders, directing that the injured be taken to a second bunker being used as a med station. Danny pointed to him; Walsh got up slowly, trying to help.

The corpsman looked at him and told him to join the rest of the wounded, but Walsh refused, claiming he wasn't so hurt that he couldn't continue to do his job. He went back to his post, adjusted Danny's tablet, then promptly collapsed. The Marine com specialist, his face dotted with gashes and oozing blood, helped lift him onto a stretcher that had just been brought in, then took his spot.

“Colonel, I have Captain Thomas,” the Marine told Danny. “He wants to know the situation.”

Danny heard the words like faint echoes in the distance. That was a vast improvement from just a few minutes before.

“The radio?” Danny asked.

The Marine handed it to him.

“We're getting a lot of incoming,” Danny said into the mike. “We just took a big blow to the command center. The lieutenant is out of action.”

“The Ospreys are heading for us,” said Captain Thomas. “I'm going to leave a platoon to mop up. The rest of us are coming back.”

“We'll hold the fort until then,” said Danny. “Wait—”

He leaned over and looked at Walsh's large sitrep screen, which was showing the radar feed from the Global Hawk.

“There's a road about a quarter mile north of the force that's aiming at our northern perimeter,” he told the captain. “Big enough for the Ospreys to land. Get them in there, roll them up.”

“Affirmative. Can you give me coordinates?”

“I'm going to give you back to your guy who's looking at everything from the UAVs and aircraft. He'll punch this stuff straight to you. Right?”

“Got it, Colonel.”

As he put down the radio handset, Danny realized his hearing had returned just in time: he could hear gunfire on the perimeter.

“You stay here,” he told the com specialist. “Anyone else who can stand, grab your rifle and come with me.”

Washington, D.C.

Z
EN WOULD HAVE
had to have been the stupidest person in Washington
not
to realize that Todd's
overture to him meant she wasn't going to run for President. He would also have to be extremely naive to interpret anything she said as a guarantee that she definitely would support him if he decided to run.

However . . .

At the moment, at least, she was clearly disposed to helping him. And her support would be useful within the party.

Mostly, anyway. And outside the party it was surely a liability. The administration was under virulent attack for what critics and much of the media called its hawkish worldview.

The funny thing was, Zen thought it wasn't hawkish enough.

Be that as it may, his main questions now were: why was Todd not going to run for reelection, and why was she backing him?

He could guess the answer to the latter: she loathed the vice president, who, as he'd told her, would be the most likely candidate, and on foreign policy matters Zen's views were probably the closest to hers in Congress.

So why wasn't she going to run? Did she fear impeachment, which the opposition party was always talking about? Several House members even submitted bills to do just that, but they had never made it out of committee, let alone to the floor of the House. Her allies held a small but firm majority in the House that usually kept the opposition in its place, but there was always the danger that she would do something to anger just enough of them to tip things against her.

So
did
he want to be President?

It was what every little boy wanted, wasn't it?

It had been. Eons ago. These days, only madmen and maniacs wanted to be President.

Zen smiled at himself. He was a little of both. Every fighter pilot was.

There were other things he wanted. Walking again topped the list.

After all these years in a wheelchair, after everything he'd achieved, in the back of his mind that remained a deep desire. Deprived of so much . . .

Had he been, though? One could argue that he'd gotten everything out of life that a man could possibly want: adventure, a great career, a wonderful wife, the most beautiful and brightest daughter in the world—

“Dad?”

He broke from his reverie and saw his daughter Teri standing in front of him. From the looks of things, she'd been there for quite a while.

“Thinking about
senating
again,” said the eight-year-old in a voice that dripped of satire. She was never cuter than when she was being impertinent.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” said Zen.

“Well, I'm hungry. When are we eating?”

He glanced at his watch—it was closer to bedtime than to dinnertime.

Ouch! That wonderful wife was going to kill him.

“We're eating right now,” he told her. “Get your coat.”

“My coat?”

“You don't want McDonald's?”

“Yeah!” said his daughter, running from the room as if she'd just won the lottery.

If only every political decision were so easy.

Malaysia

B
Y THE TIME
Turk realized where the other aircraft was, it was nearly too late. He threw his wing down hard and hit his flares and chaff, desperate to get his butt out of the pip of the attacking UAV. Fortunately, the laser's relatively small size and its need to pause and recycle between bursts meant that it had only a few milliseconds on target before he was able to dance away. Even so, the high-energy beam put a nasty black streak on the side of the fuselage, momentarily raising the temperature in the engine into the red. Turk jerked the stick and worked his pedals, trying to jink as unpredictably as possible and confuse the always logical computer guiding the UAV. Then, falling way too low to build enough speed to run away, and worried about the engine blowing up, he pulled the fighter into as tight a turn as it could manage and held on, hoping the UAV might make a mistake and turn inside him.

That didn't happen. But when he checked the radar, he realized the enemy aircraft was gone. Somewhere in the middle of his crazy dance he'd shaken free.

“Basher Two, how's your plane?” asked Cowboy.

“I'm OK.” Turk glanced at his panel and realized that the alert on the engine was off; whatever harm the laser had done wasn't permanent, or at least wasn't affecting him at the moment.

“You're going in circles,” said Cowboy.

“Yeah, I know. I can't locate the UAV.”

“It's low.”

“Yeah.”

Finally, the UAV popped back onto his radar screen. It was below him, barely five feet over the trees, and running northwest toward the water.

Home?

“I'm turning to follow Bandit Two,” Turk told Cowboy.

“I have your six.”

D
ANNY
F
REAH GATHERED
six men as he ran across the compound. He found another half-dozen spread out along the sandbags and shallow trench at the north side of the camp.

“We need ammo!” said the sergeant who'd taken charge. He was lying on the ground next to the Marine manning a 50-caliber heavy machine gun. “Ammo!”

Danny sent two of the men back to get bullets and waved the others along the trench.

“They're about fifty meters down,” said the sergeant, pointing to the trees. “We just beat the first element back. How the hell did they get so close without us seeing them?”

“The water vapor off the stream that runs down
in that direction casts a shadow on the IR sensors,” said Danny. “Somebody was pretty damn smart about what our gear can see.”

A bullet flew nearby. One of the Marines responded with his M-16.

“Hey! Hold your fire unless you have a definite target,” shouted the sergeant. He turned back to Danny. “If they charge, they can overwhelm us. I just polled everyone and we're down to two mags apiece. The machine gun has ten rounds left.”

“We can ambush them from the side,” said Danny, looking across the terrain. “Get them off balance.”

“Good idea if we had more ammo, Colonel.”

“It's coming. If they attack before that, we'll have to make them think we do. Just enough to stall them.”

“OK.”

“I need two volunteers,” shouted Danny.

Every one of the men, including the sergeant, put up their hands.

“Just two,” said Danny.

All the hands remained.

“Pick two guys. You have to stay here,” Danny told the sergeant. “We'll wait until the force starts moving forward, then we cut them from the side. It'll stop them, or at least it should.”

“
If
you can get to the flank,” said the sergeant as a fresh volley sounded from below. “And if they don't decide to charge you.”

An island in the Sembuni Reefs

L
LOYD
B
RAXTON LOOKED
up from the screen in disgust. The American fighters had managed to shoot down one of the two Vector UAVs. The autonomous program in the surviving fighter was locked in interceptor mode, and would keep fighting the other aircraft.

That was foolish. But its next logical decision—which it would make if it concluded that the battle was hopeless—would be to return to the base it had taken off from.

That was even worse.

Braxton could override those commands, issuing new ones to direct it to the second pickup point. But if he did, his signal would tell the Americans where he was. He'd be forced to switch bases sooner than he wanted. The rebels were about to overrun the American base, but that would hardly compensate for this setback.

The UAV wasn't ready to challenge the Dreamland technology. But that was why he wanted the Sabres in the first place.

Braxton slammed his hand on the console, then got up and paced around the small cabin. When he calmed down, he went back and gave the UAV the command to fly to another area and, if possible, fight. With that done, he hit the self-destruct sequence on the control gear, then picked up his low-chance-of-intercept radio.

“We have to move,” he said, informing the others before gathering his gear to leave.

Malaysia

D
ANNY WAITED UNTIL
the men came back with the ammo before setting out. His two Marines were privates nicknamed Fern and Monk—short for Geraldo Fernandez and Terry Monsuer. Fern was a recruiting poster Marine, six-four, bulging biceps, quick smile. Monk was nearly a foot shorter, and may very well have weighed less than one of Fern's legs.

“We go south, then cut back across the ravine,” Danny told them, drawing a map on his palm. “There's a little creek there we'll take up to their flank.”

“Right,” said Fern.

Monk nodded beside him.

“You guys been in combat before?” Danny asked.

“Ten minutes ago,” said Fern.

Monk nodded again.

“That'll do,” said Danny, starting out.

The Marines had night gear and Danny had his glasses, but there was enough light around the cleared perimeter for them to use their Mark 1 eyeballs and still see well enough to fight. Danny
ran along the defense line, head lowered toward his chest. His mind was clear; adrenaline and the necessary excitement of battle had pushed away all of the little wounds and distractions. He could even hear well enough to discern the sound of brush moving in the distance—the rebels were getting ready to make another charge.

He found the cut and started down the hill, sliding on his butt after about ten feet. The rough stones bruised his hands and legs, but he ignored the light pain, moving across the open ground the Marines had cut to give themselves a clear field of vision and fire. He saw an opening in the trees on his right and headed for it, cutting off Monk as he ran. Four steps into the jungle he stopped—the foliage was so thick overhead that he could no longer see without switching the glasses to infrared.

“Your gear working?” he asked the others.

“Yup!” said Fern.

“Take point,” he told Fern.

The Marine grinned and moved ahead, using his night gear to guide them in a winding trail east. Danny and Monk followed. It took ten minutes of trotting and pushing through the brush to reach the point near the creek where Danny had decided they would take their turn. When they stopped, Monk held his finger up and then pointed to his ear.

Men were moving nearby.

A rifle sounded. The rebels were making their attack.

“Can you see them?” Danny asked Fern.

“Negative.”

“We need to get closer and get their attention,” he said. “Drop when you see them.”

T
HE
UAV
DIPPED
down so low as it came to the shoreline that Turk thought for sure it was diving in. But it continued forward, accelerating to near Mach speed while still managing to fly bare inches over the top of the waves.

Turk could go either as low or as fast as the UAV. But not both. He stayed high, but even so, his passive infrared sensor lost the aircraft.

“Two, you still have him?” asked Cowboy.

“Stand by.” The long range scan caught the aircraft as it turned. “He's got four miles on me, angling north. I'm losing ground.”

“Fast little devil.”

Little
was the operable word, as far as the radar was concerned; depending on its angle to the sensors, the aircraft's profile ranged from the size of a swallow to that of a bumblebee. The faceted silhouette had been designed to make it difficult to track from several common angles, rear included.

“I'm going to juice the afterburner and angle north,” Turk told Cowboy. “I can come on at a different angle and have a better chance of seeing him.”

“You better check your fuel, Air Force. We don't have tankers waiting to gas us up.”

“Yeah. I think I can make it,” hedged Turk. He made a mental calculation—unless the UAV landed in ten minutes, he'd be into his reserves
heading back. “You stay on the heading you're at. I'll do the tracking.”

“Roger that. Don't run dry. It's a long swim home.”

“Two,” said Turk, acknowledging with his call sign.

D
ANNY SAW FLASHES
in the brush to his left a second before Fern dropped to his knees. A dozen shadows were moving about twenty yards ahead, focused on the base perimeter.

“There,” whispered Monk, coming up behind him.

“Yeah,” answered Danny.

Fern had his hand up, watching. Gunfire erupted from the base perimeter, which was roughly two hundred yards away on their left; the rebel vanguard was at the edge of the wood line in front of them, with more rebels behind, just to Danny's right.

“Fire!” yelled Danny, pointing his rifle at the nearest shadows.

The enemy didn't react at first, oblivious in their charge. But Danny's gunfire found its mark, and before a full minute had passed the shadows stopped coming. They were on their bellies in the brush, either cut down or taking cover.

“Grenade!” yelled Fern, tossing one.

“Fire in the hole,” answered Monk, throwing one of his own.

Danny saw shapes moving on his right and fired, emptying his magazine. Fern threw another
grenade, then a third, as the rebels turned to answer their fire.

Bullets pinged around them, the rebels changing their targets. Danny slid to the ground. Another mag was taped to the one he'd emptied; he loaded it and began returning fire, aiming at the flashes.

The grenades cut down a sizable portion of the rebel force. Confused and no longer confident, they began to fall back. The machine gun at the perimeter began to fire, and suddenly the main body of rebels was retreating. A mortar shell landed in the middle of their path, and the retreat turned into a rout. The assault had been broken.

“Fall back!” yelled Danny, concerned that they might be shot by their own forces if they pursued the fleeing rebels. “Let's go.”

They moved back slowly, in proper order—the closest man to the enemy trotted back, tapping his companion as he passed, then taking up a position to lay down covering fire as the others repeated the process. In a few moments they reached the creek where they had started. Danny heard the drone of Ospreys in the distance—the reinforcements had arrived.

“Back to the perimeter,” he told his companions. “Good job.”

T
URK FOUND THE
little UAV on his left, six miles ahead of him. It was well over the water now, heading toward the collection of reefs and tiny islands off the coast.

The UAV had dropped its speed to five hundred
knots. Turk lost his radar contact but found that he could make it reappear by tucking his nose down, subtly altering the angle of the radar waves without actually changing course. At 8,000 feet above sea level, he had just enough altitude to play with to keep the target aircraft on his screen.

He tried hailing the Whiplash operator back at the Marine base to see if he was picking up anything else from the Global Hawk, but got no answer.

The reefs and rocks below had long been a collection of hazards for mariners. Most of the rocks dotting the area were either submerged or too small to be inhabited, but there were larger islands in the Ebeling Reefs and the neighboring Sembuni Reefs to the north big enough for the aircraft to land on. Ships passing up from the Java Sea mostly steered through a channel to the west to avoid the hazards. The outer islands and reefs had lately become a haven for pirates, who, though not as accomplished as the pirates off Somalia, practiced the same sort of extortion.

Finally the UAV disappeared from his screen, and Turk couldn't find it. He tucked down, rose, tucked down, moved a bit left then angled east. A brief flicker hit the radar, then nothing.

“I think he's turning east,” he told Cowboy.

“My scope is clear.”

“Yeah.”

“Whiplash Base to Basher Two,” said Rubeo, radioing from the Cube over the squadron frequency. “Captain Mako, are you reading me?”

“Two. Go ahead.”

“What's your situation?”

“I just lost contact.”

“The base has released the Global Hawk and we're flying it back in your direction. It should be in range in five minutes.”

Five minutes would be an eternity, but there was nothing to be done about that.

“Some of the people here think it may have doubled back to the island of Brunei,” added Rubeo. “Do you have an opinion on that, Captain? Is it feasible?”

“Negative on that,” said Turk. “He would have come past us. No way he did that.”

“Not even at low altitude?”

“Negative.”

“What is your theory?”

“He's got to be heading toward one of those reef islands.”

“Thank you,” said Rubeo. “Continue your pursuit as you feel fit. Do not endanger yourself further.”

“Roger that,” said Turk, surprised that the normally coldhearted scientist was actually concerned about his well-being.

Contrast that with Breanna, he thought.

“Where do you think he is?” asked Cowboy, who'd heard the conversation.

“Just like I said, heading for a landing somewhere ahead.”

“Might be flying to Vietnam or western Indonesia,” said Cowboy.

“He doesn't have the fuel,” said Turk. “The airframe is too small. He's gotta land soon. On one of these islands.”

“These aren't islands,” said Cowboy. “They're spits of dirt.”

“He won't need much to land.”

Turk started cutting different angles in the sky, altering the direction of his forward and side radars. He got a few blips in the general direction the UAV had been taking but then nothing. It would have at least a ten mile lead on them now; the chase was essentially over.

As good as the sensors aboard the Lightning II were—and they were the best in the “conventional” fighter fleet, and by extension the world—the size and stealth characteristics of the UAV were better, at least at this range. Turk decided that his only option was to hit the gas—he selected his afterburner again, juicing Basher Two over the sound barrier. He held his speed for only a few moments, knowing that every millisecond of acceleration was costing him fuel, and in turn lessening his time in the air.

The UAV popped onto the screen, closer than he thought: five miles away.

It turned to a heading almost exactly between north and east, and for a few moments he had a profile of it from the rear side quarter. Rather than adjusting his course to follow, Turk adjusted his course to parallel it. He got another fleeting glimpse, then another, then lost it.

There's a way to make this work,
Turk told himself.
Go farther north and flip around.

“I'm going to jump ahead,” he told Cowboy. “You stay on the present course.”

“You want me to follow?”

“No, stay on your heading,” said Turk. “You're going in the general direction. I'm going to slide around a bit and try and get a good radar on him. I have an idea.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

Turk hit his afterburner again, riding it for three seconds before backing off. He started a turn, aiming to push the nose of the plane at the UAV's rear fuselage. He found it only three miles away—the drone had slowed considerably.

“You better check your fuel, Two,” said Cowboy.

“Yeah, I know. Listen, Bandit is down to two hundred knots. Gotta be looking to land.”

“Where? There's nothing out here.”

Cowboy was right. The reef tips were so small even a seagull couldn't call them home.

“He may just be slowing down for fuel conservation,” answered Turk.

Or maybe he was running out of fuel. Turk was suddenly closing on the contact at a good rate; its forward speed was down to 150 knots.

“I'm thinking he's going to crash,” Turk told Cowboy.

Two seconds later the UAV disappeared from the screen.