Target Utopia (19 page)

How exactly they came up with the percentage hadn't been revealed.

“So you land here and here,” said Greenstreet, pointing at the sides of the island opposite the treed area. “You may need support fire on that tree line.”

“That's exactly what we think,” said Captain Thomas, the ground commander. “So you have to be ready to bomb the area.”

“And there's a possibility they may launch when they see us coming,” said Danny. “You have to be ready for that as well.”

“Obviously.”

“How many aircraft can you give us?” asked Danny.

“I have two pilots, myself and Cowboy. Lieutenant Van Garetn, that is,” added Greenstreet, using Cowboy's real name.

“I think we oughta fly Turk out there, too,” said Cowboy. “He knows how these things fight.”

Danny glanced at Turk, who was standing quietly against the wall on the opposite end of the room. He was staring blankly at the projection of the island. He seemed more like his old self; less angry, a little easier-going. There was always going
to be a hard edge to him now, and an even harder core. Danny knew that seeing people who were close to you get killed changed your brain chemistry forever. But maybe Turk was coming out of the worst part of the dark place Iran had left him in.

“We could fly three planes,” said Greenstreet. The vaguest note of reluctance mixed into his clipped, professional aviator tone. “We can kit one of them up for air-to-air, and mix the others. If Captain Mako is up for it.”

“I'm good,” said Turk.

Thomas wrapped up with an impromptu, “Let's get going and kick butt the Marine Corps way.”

Danny smiled, but it was Turk who had the last word:

“And if that doesn't work, we'll give them a touch of Whiplash.”

The Cube

“W
E'RE GETTING REALLY
good data flow from the Marine F-35s,” said the techie supervising the data collection, Hy Wen. “We're good to go whenever they are.”

Breanna nodded. The Cube's situation room—a complex of data stations arranged theater-style in front of a massive wall screen on the very bottom level of the Cube—was packed to overflowing.
Exactly ninety-eight analysts and technicians had been brought in for the project, both to gather and analyze data on the UAVs and to support Danny, Whiplash, and the Marines. It was the most people they'd ever had in the Cube at one time.

The only problem was feeding them. Literally. Greasy Hands Parsons—Breanna's special assistant and majordomo—was currently trying to solve that problem with a cook over at the CIA kitchens. Hopefully, he would solve it soon—Breanna was starving.

She tried to get her mind off food by walking around the workstations. She found Ray Rubeo halfway down, arms folded, hunched over an analyst from the Air Force. The analyst was a cryptographer, tasked with trying to break any encryptions in real time.

“Just like the old days, huh, Ray?”

He frowned.

Breanna sometimes suspected he didn't like people.

Other times she was sure of it.

Over Malaysia

T
URK HAD GONE
much longer stretches without sleeping, but the stress of combat, and flying an aircraft he wasn't thoroughly used to, was starting to
wear him down. The sides of his head felt numb, his eyes were scratchy, and his throat was sore. On top of which, his arms and upper back kept cramping.

Couple more hours,
he told himself.
Then we sleep.

Turk knew from experience that once things got hot—when the Marines went in, or if the UAVs appeared—everything that was bothering him would disappear. The problem was the long intervals of boredom a fighter pilot inevitably had to endure. The briefs, the preflight, the prep, the long flight to target, the ride home—these were all the very thick bread that sandwiched the few minutes of excitement he lived for.

Very thick bread, especially with Greenstreet cutting the slices.

“All right, Basher flight. We're zero five from the target. Basher Two, you are my wing. Basher Three, you are top cover. Acknowledge.”

“Basher Two acknowledges,” said Cowboy.

“Three,” said Turk tersely.

“Sounding a little tired up there, Three,” offered Cowboy.

“Negative,” said Turk. He was at 22,000 feet, a good 10,000 over the other aircraft. He'd picked that altitude because it was a few thousand feet over the starting point for the Flighthawks' favorite long-range attack routine against ground attack aircraft. Of course, there were literally dozens of different routines the computer guiding the UAV interceptor might use. And in Turk's opinion, the Marine F-35s should worry more about MANPADs—shoulder launched ground-to-air missiles—than UAVs.

“Let's do this,” said Greenstreet, hitting the throttle to spurt ahead.

Turk juiced his gas. His heartbeat began picking up. He scanned the sky from left to right and back, checked his readouts, then his radar.

“Nothing,” said Greenstreet as his F-35 approached the reef at the side of the island.

The spit of land was so tiny that the aircraft were over it in literally half a heartbeat. Turk stretched himself upright in the ejection seat, alert, on edge—this was the point to watch for a response, for now it was obvious to anyone that they were there.

Nothing.

“Infrared, radar, all systems clear. Nobody home,” said Greenstreet. “We take another pass. Stay with me.”

They banked wide and came around for another pass in the same direction, this time lower but just as fast. Turk felt himself starting to lose a bit of his edge. He warned himself this was the most dangerous point of the mission, a bit of a lie but a well-intentioned one. He needed to stay alert; he needed to be ready.

“Nothing down there but sand rats,” said Cowboy after they cleared the island.

“Low and slow,” said Greenstreet.

They took two more passes without drawing a response or seeing anything move on the island.

“I'm going to talk to the Ospreys,” said Greenstreet as Basher One rose from the final flyover at 3,000 feet. “They should be here inside ten minutes.”

A
FEW MINUTES
later aboard Marine Osprey One, Danny Freah steadied himself at the back of the aircraft's rear ramp, waiting for the Osprey to touch down. He had his gun in his hand, loaded and ready to fire. The F-35s hadn't drawn a response or seen anyone on the island, but that wasn't a guarantee the place was deserted. Danny knew from experience that even the best radar and infrared detection systems could be fooled with patience and creativity. He'd been ambushed too many times in his career to take a landing like this—against a well-equipped and undeniably intelligent opponent—for granted.

“Charlie Platoon! Ready!” shouted an NCO as the rotorcraft settled into its landing squat.

“Ready!” shouted the rest of the company. They were loud enough to briefly drown out the engines.

The ramp fell and the Marines hustled out. They might not be considered a “Tier One” group, but they were as professional, moving quickly across the sand as they stormed the open beach.

The platoon's first objective was to take holding positions along a low rise near the center of the open area of the island. The jets were then called in for another flyover, while the Marines watched for a reaction. That done, two three-man groups got up and ran to the tree line. When they didn't find anything or draw fire, they plunged a few yards deeper. With still no contact, the commander unleashed the unit in a systematic search of the island.

Danny, trailing behind, couldn't have organized them better. But if he'd been hooked up to a lie detector and questioned, he would have had to admit that he was disappointed: if the people with the UAVs weren't here, where were they?

A
S THE GROUND
units scoured the island, Greenstreet had Turk extend his orbit outward, theorizing that the UAVs might be using this as bait and would launch from another base.

A civilian airliner twenty miles to the north provided the briefest of diversions before Turk double-checked its identifier with the Cube. Otherwise, the sky was empty, except for the Marine force.

There were dozens and dozens of little islands and reefs below, but the vast majority weren't big enough for a walrus to sunbathe on. Turk took his circle wider, double-checking his position with the other aircraft as he flew. Trying to stay alert, he ran himself through the possible reactions to a UAV, trying to guess where it would come from. He thought about Cowboy and the pilot's desire to fly with Whiplash.

Then he thought of Li. That was very dangerous—she was distracting even at the best of times. He refocused his thoughts as well as his eyes, examining the islands and waves below.

Turk's attention drifted again. Suddenly he was back in Iran, flying the Phantom that he and Stoner had used to escape in. MiGs were coming after them.

God, am I ever going to get away from them? Flying this old crate, desperate for fuel, a sitting duck . . .

He jumped upright against his restraints. He hadn't fallen asleep, but he'd been slightly dazed, inattentive. He thought of taking one of the emergency “go” pills he had in his leg pocket before something serious happened.

The AN/APG-81 AESA radar system had picked out two contacts at ninety miles, coming fast in his direction from 30,000 feet.

Fast movers. J-15s. Chinese.

J-15s!
Chinese carrier planes.

“I have two contacts coming hot from the northwest,” said Turk, hitting the mike. “Chinese.”

D
ANNY REACHED THE
edge of the island and pushed out onto the shallow ledge overlooking the water. If there had been people here in the past ten years, they hadn't left a trace.

The ocean spread out before him, the water shimmering with the afternoon sun. The waves were so gentle that they barely made a sound as they lapped against the rocks skimming the rim of the island.

The place was picturesque, at least. Maybe in a few years some international hotel chain would discover it and set up a massive resort.

“What do you think, Colonel?” asked Captain Thomas.

“Analysts were wrong,” said Danny.

“Not wrong—they hedged their bets.” Captain
Thomas smiled. “We just happened to be in the twenty-fifth percentile.”

He was referring to the estimate that there was a seventy-five percent chance the base would be here.

“How do they come up with those percentages?” asked the Marine. “Dart boards?”

“I think it's dice,” said Danny.

“Military intelligence. Oldest oxymoron going.”

Danny picked his way across the rocks, skirting the water. The truth was, the estimates the analysts made were usually pretty good; they were able to deal with an incredible amount of data and make guesses based on historical patterns. But in cases where there wasn't a past to speak of, it was all just a guess, wasn't it? Garbage in, garbage out, as they liked to say.

“Hey, Colonel,” yelled one of the Marines who'd come out on the shore about twenty yards away. “What do you make of that?”

Danny walked over to the private, who was pointing at the reef. “Make of what?”

“Next to the reef?”

“In the water there. See how it jugs out a bit? Under the water?”

“I don't see anything but the reef,” said Danny, staring. The rocks formed a small, shallow cove; the water was lighter, almost a pale green in the sun.

“The rocks and coral and what have you are irregular. There's a straight line there.”

Danny stared but he couldn't tell what the private was talking about.

“I'm going to take a look,” said the Marine. He began walking out on the sand that had piled up on both sides of the reef.

“Don't fall in,” warned Danny.

The private waved his hand. He took a few more steps, then retreated back to shore where he gave his rifle to one of his companions, then pulled off his tactical vest and boots. Stripping to his shorts and undershirt, he hopped into the water, then swam and walked to the part of the reef he'd been pointing to. He glanced around before diving under the water.

“What the hell is that private doing?” growled Captain Thomas, walking out from the brush.

“He thinks he found something,” said the man holding his rifle.

“Maybe it'll be his sanity,” groused the captain.

The private resurfaced. “It's dug out,” he yelled. “Colonel, it's dug out.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are metal beams here, and on the other side it's real deep. Watch.”

He dove back under the water, bobbed up, then disappeared again. A few moments later he resurfaced farther down the reef. The water there came up to his waist.

“Like it's a little minislip for a boat,” said the man. “I think there's a channel that extends out into the ocean.”

Danny turned to Captain Thomas. “Do you have any combat divers?”

“No. I may be able to get a diver flown in from the Navy ships with the MEU.”

Danny glanced at his watch. “My guys'll be here in a few hours. They'll have gear.”

“Maybe we're not in the twenty-fifth percentile after all,” said Thomas, a little more cheerful.

“Colonel Freah!” A Marine lance corporal pushed through the trees. “Basher flight needs to talk to you. They have Chinese aircraft heading their way.”

T
URK'S AIRCRAFT WAS
“clean”—there were no weapons or other stores on his wings—and therefore almost surely invisible to the approaching Chinese fighters. He had a pair of AMRAAMs in his weapon bay; he could thumb them up and shoot the planes down before they realized he was there.

But of course he couldn't do that. They were all in international airspace. He was not under threat, and without any legal or logical reason to attack.

He
could
do it, though. There was a certain power in the knowledge.

“Basher Three, say situation,” radioed Greenstreet.

“Two bogies,” he repeated. “Same course and speed as before.”

“Stay passive on your sensors. We'll supply the data.”

“Roger that,” said Turk.

He'd turned off the active radar as soon as the other aircraft were ID'ed. The F-35s could share their sensor data with each other, which made it
more difficult for enemies to attack or even know how many planes they were dealing with. At this point it was probable that the two Chinese pilots didn't know he was there.

“We're going to stay north of the island to keep them from getting too curious about what's going on down there.”

“May not work,” said Turk. “Whatever surveillance aircraft they're using may have picked up the Ospreys earlier.”

“True, but it's the best we got,” said Greenstreet. “And your colonel suggested it. You keep your eyes on everything.”

“Acknowledged.”

“And don't shoot.”

The two Chinese aircraft were depicted on his radar screen as red diamonds with sticks showing their directional vectors. The bands on the radar circle helped categorize threats as well as organize contacts. As a general rule, the closer the circle they were in, the more serious the threat. The Chinese planes had just crossed from the farthest band into the third circle, sixty miles from the aircraft. They were about ten degrees off his nose to the west, flying an almost parallel course. They were closing on him at a rate of roughly seventeen nautical miles a minute; Turk had somewhere between two and three minutes before they would be able to detect him with their standard radars.

Eons in an air-to-air fight.

Unlike Basher Three, the other two F-35s had bombs under their wings, making them more easily visible on radar. The two Chinese fighters
apparently could see them—a few seconds after Turk gave Greenstreet his status, they hailed them.

“Unidentified American planes, you are flying in Chinese territory,” said one of the pilots in easily understood but accented English. “Say intentions.”

“We are on a routine training mission in international waters,” replied Greenstreet. “State your intentions.”

“You are in Chinese territory. You must leave.”

It was a typical Chinese bluff, and Greenstreet answered it as it deserved to be answered—with quick sarcasm. “Check your maps, boys. This is international airspace and we are not moving.”

Turk banked and began to climb in the direction the Chinese fighters were taking. If Greenstreet could be a prig and a pain on the ground, now his attitude was not only appropriate but reassuring. Turk knew he wasn't going to take guff from the Chinese, and there was no doubt about how he would act if fur flew.

The Chinese hadn't switched their weapons radars on, and nothing they were doing could be considered antagonistic.

Obnoxious, maybe, but even there they were low-key by typical Chinese PAF standards. Turk had heard many tales about surveillance planes being buzzed so closely by fighters in the South China Sea that they had lost paint.