Target Utopia (21 page)

Offshore an island in the Sembuni Reefs

S
HE WAS THERE
in the dream as she always was, long hair draped back behind her ears, eyes penetrating, her smile so casual and confident. She was as tall as him, though that didn't say much. Braxton stood only five-six, his height an issue and an impediment when he was young—and surely an issue in his personality, a reason he felt the need to prove himself to every human being he met, except Jennifer Gleason.

In the dream, he saw her get up from the console in the Dreamland operations center, tired after watching the progress of a long night's experiment. She walked toward his station, then leaned over his shoulder. He felt her warmth in the cool room, the light press of her breast against his back.

“Man is meant to evolve,” she said. “To become free. The best and the brightest must throw off
the shackles that hold them. Governments are oppressive . . .”

A loud buzzer brought Braxton from the dream.

Jennifer Gleason had never spoken like that to him, and never would have; she was the most apolitical person in the world. But the first part of the dream, of her getting up and walking toward him, that had happened. That was real.

Human minds were hopelessly tangled and easily confused.

How much of what he wanted was due to Jennifer, and not the philosophical underpinnings of Kallipolis? Was he just motivated by unobtainable lust?

Braxton had contemplated the question at great length. He was certainly devoted to Jennifer Gleason's memory, far more than anyone. Part of that was due to the beauty of her work—the AI constructs, the melding of hardware and software, the very basis of the brains that flew the Flighthawks and their prodigy: it was beautiful work, so far advanced for its time that it still wasn't completely appreciated, even though the basic architecture was embedded in every combat UAV currently in the fleet.

Braxton had built on her work, and understood it like no one else, with the possible exception of Ray Rubeo. But just as Jennifer had surpassed Rubeo, building on his insights, Braxton had surpassed her.

So it was lust and obsession, but on some higher plane—something worthy of Kallipolis and the future of the elite.

“More work to be done,” he said aloud, rising
from the chair where he'd fallen asleep. “Enough self-flagellation. Work. That is the only useful purpose a mind can be put to.”

Even though the words were his, in his head they echoed with her voice.

What a strange construct, the brain.

The Mall, Washington, D.C.

W
ALK
? O
R RUN
for President?

Zen stopped his wheelchair at the middle of the Vietnam War memorial. He always felt deeply humbled here, as if he were physically as well as symbolically in the presence of so many brave Americans who had sacrificed their lives and futures for their country. In his mind, their sacrifices made his look petty.

He had, it was true, done many heroic things. But he hadn't traded his existence on earth for his country. On the contrary, he had lived a great life—not one without tremendous hardships, but a bountiful one nonetheless.

He hadn't discussed running for the presidency with Rodriguez, but it was clear from what the scientist said that were he to undergo the operation and rehabilitation, he wouldn't have the time to campaign. In fact, he might even have to give up his Senate seat.

He couldn't say he wouldn't do that. Between walking and being a politician—walking was better.

But President?

If he were President, he could get important things done. He could take care of the military, improve veterans' benefits—especially for the wounded and disabled. It wouldn't be easy—being in the Senate had taught him that. But there was still a lot more that he could do. He could have a lasting effect on people, on the country.

On the other hand, he really, really, really wanted to walk again. Just the notion of walking down the aisle with Teri when she got married—how fantastic would that be?

Unbelievable.

In the years after the accident, he'd tried and tried to get his legs back. He'd always thought he would. Gradually, he had come to accept who he was. Accept that he was limited physically.

He'd never been limited mentally.

If the experiment worked, it would help others as well. His medical history made him the perfect candidate from a scientific point of view, but it was even bigger psychologically: if someone who had been crippled for so long regained the use of his legs, how many other lives would that affect? Wouldn't that be even more tangible to them than what he might do as President?

If he even got the nomination. There'd be no guarantee. Mantis would be a very formidable opponent. And then there was Jason Hu, and Cynthia Styron from Wyoming—who would be an
excellent President, even if she was probably a long shot for the nomination.

He'd certainly have to do things he didn't want to if he ran. Beg for money. Compromise on his principles. Not big compromises, not at the start. But eventually. That was politics. He hadn't given up his principles in the Senate, and he was well respected by both sides for that. But as President . . .

“Uh, Senator, you wanted to be at that reception,” said his driver, who'd come down to the monument with him. “We are, uh, running pretty late.”

Zen broke himself from his reverie.

“Let's go, James,” he said, wheeling back from the wall. “Time's a-wastin'.”

Malaysia

G
ETTING INTO THE
Tigershark after flying the F-35 was like trading a well-appointed F-150 pickup for a sleek little Porsche. It wasn't just the size of the cockpit or the fact that the Tigershark's seat slid down to an almost prone position once he was aboard. The aircraft was designed for an entirely different purpose than the F-35. Not needing to be all things to all people, it was optimized as an interceptor—small and quick, highly maneuverable in any imaginable regime, carrying
active and passive sensors that could detect an enemy well before it could be detected. The plane was also optimized to work with UAVs—the Sabre drones, combat-optimized aircraft scheduled to replace the Flighthawks in the near future. The Tigershark and the Sabres shared their sensor data in much the same way that the F-35s did, but had the additional advantage of being able to tap into the Whiplash satellite communications network, and from there into a vast array of American military data worldwide.

Turk went through the computer's preflight checklist quickly, making sure the aircraft was at spec after its long trip west. The flight computer happily complied, checking off each box with an audible declaration of
“Green.”
The intonation that suggested there was no possible way the condition could be anything other than perfect.

The Tigershark was not a STOL aircraft, but its small size and powerful thrust allowed it to get off the runway at Tanjung Manis in only 2,000 feet. Turk rocketed upward, stretching his muscles—the change in aircraft was as physical as it was mental, his body adapting to the beast's feel.

“Go to twenty thousand feet, on course and at speed as programmed,” Turk told the computer. He had loaded a memory chip with the outlines of the mission prior to takeoff. The chip included a backup of his personal preferences—the cockpit temperature, the precise angle of the seat, along with some of his favored preset maneuvers. Some of this was already programmed into the aircraft's memory, somewhat like the driver's setting in a
car would be, but the designers had felt it should have a backup that could be easily changed if a new pilot was at the helm.

Turk's path took him west over the ocean, where he would rendezvous with the Marines. Basher One and Two had just taken off from their forward operating base. The Marine squadron was now back to full strength, with its pilots recovered from the stomach flu, and the aircraft that had been damaged by the laser fully repaired. Danny and Greenstreet had opted to keep two of the planes in reserve; the rebels' recent propensity to attack while the planes were gone could not be taken lightly.

Turk's plane flew between the four Sabres in a two-one-two formation—two Sabres about five miles ahead of the Tigershark. The forward aircraft were spread a bit wider than the back, with 5,000 feet separation in altitude. The formation was arranged to provide not only a wide sensor field but also mobility for combat.

“Basher One, this is Shark,” said Turk, checking in with the Marines. “I'm about zero-two from rendezvous point alpha. How's your ETA?”

“Five minutes, Shark One. We don't have you on radar.”

“Copy that.”

If the F-35 was stealthy, the Tigershark was practically invisible to radar. The F-35s could, however, spot it with other sensors, most notably its passive infrared detection system, which would find the aircraft's baffled tailpipe as it drew near. The Sabres, on the other hand, could only be detected
at extremely close range while they were at cruising speed.

As the planes rendezvoused, Turk flew close enough to the F-35s to give them a thumbs-up—or would have, had they been able to see into the cockpit of the Tigershark. But unlike every jet fighter since the Me 262, the aircraft did not have a canopy; it was a wing-in-body design so sleek that the pilot could not have sat ninety degrees upright. Instead, its skin was studded with small video cameras that gave Turk a perfect 360-degree view, one that could change instantly from daylight to night at voice command, and was always integrated with the radar and other detection systems.

“Sleek chariot,” quipped Cowboy. “Where'd you get that? Mars?”

“You sure it's not a UFO?” said Greenstreet. It was his first attempt at humor since Turk had known him.

“I want one,” added Cowboy.

“Don't drool,” said Greenstreet. “You'll rust the controls.”

Two tries at a joke within thirty seconds? He was on a roll.

“I'll see if I can arrange a demonstration flight,” said Turk.

“That'd be awesome,” said Cowboy.

The joke was on him—the demonstration flight would actually never leave the ground, as the Tigershark had a rather robust simulation mode.

“All right, let's do this, gentlemen,” said Greenstreet,
back to all-business. “Shark, you ride over Target One and get us some images. We're with the assault team.”

“Roger that.”

Turk pulled up the mission map and adjusted his course to fly over the atoll where the submarine dock had been spotted. He could just tell the computer to take him there, but where was the fun in that?

“Throttle max,” he said, his hand reaching to duplicate the motion of pushing the throttle to military power.

“Command accepted,”
said the plane.

For all the world, he could have sworn it added the words:
It's about time.

D
ANNY
F
REAH RAISED
his hands so the team jumpmaster could finish checking his rig.

“Good,” Melissa Grisif announced finally, turning to give a thumbs-up to the MC-17 crew chief. “We're good to go.”

Grisif had joined the Whiplash assault team only two months before; this was her first mission with the unit. But she was far from inexperienced. Grisif had joined the Army Rangers as one of the first female members of the regiment; after two years there, she was selected for Officer's Candidate School, where she graduated at the top of her class. The freshly minted lieutenant went to Special Forces; two promotions later she found herself headed for a desk job. At that point she stepped sideways, getting a slot in an intraservice
exchange program that saw SF-trained personnel working with Air Force pararescue jumpers. Six months in she'd seen a notice for volunteers to join Whiplash.

Volunteering to take the team trials represented a serious risk to her career. For one thing, there was no guarantee she would make the cut; if she didn't, she would lose her assignment with Air Force special operations and return to the Pentagon desk job. And if she did make the cut, she would be treated like any other member of the team. While she would still be an officer, many of the privileges that rank usually bestowed would be missing. She wouldn't command a team, at least not at first. As the “new guy” on the squad, she would be given much of the donkey work, just as if she were “only” an NCO. (Whiplash required a rank of E5 or higher, which meant that even the newest recruit had been in the military long enough to advance to sergeant or petty officer. As it happened, no military member—some Whiplashers were CIA—had been accepted below the rank of E6, a technical sergeant in the Air Force. If anything, the people who had come over from the CIA were even more experienced, as most had worked in the military before joining the CIA's paramilitary side.)

Captain Grisif had made the cut. If her ego had been bruised since joining, she never let on. The fact that she had won the position of jumpmaster, an extremely important role in the Whiplash scheme of things, showed that she was already thriving.

The MC-17 was about halfway through its slow climb to 35,000 feet. By the time they reached that altitude, Turk Mako would be starting his pass over the beached merchant vessel. Danny had several plans contingent on what Turk found there, but they all ended the same way: the Whiplash team was getting aboard the vessel and taking it over.

He looked over the rest of the team. With the exception of Boston, everyone was new; the original Whiplash team had been broken up and used to seed new teams, now in training. Chris Bulgaria and Tony “Two Fingers” Dalton had come from Air Force special operations; Eddie Guzman was a former SEAL who had been working for the CIA when he was recruited. Glenn Fulsom, “Baby Joe” Morgan, and Ivan Dillon were all from Army Special Forces. Riyad Achmoody was the eighth member of the team. Achmoody was another CIA recruit, and the oldest member aside from Boston and Danny. A former Army Special Forces officer, he was also the team leader, though with Danny and Boston along, he was the third-ranking member of the unit.

Boston came over and gave Danny a quick thumbs-up. “We're looking good,” said the chief. “Cap'lissa's got 'em shipshape,” he added, using his new nickname for Grisif.

“Yup.”

“I see she even got you squared away,” added Boston.

“My rig was perfect,” said Danny defensively.

“A woman's touch. That's what you needed.” The
chief wagged his finger at his commander. “Something you might think of in your personal life.”

“The day I take advice on that front from you,” said Danny, “is the day I go into a monastery.”

“Just lookin' out for you,” said Boston.

“Thanks,” said Danny, putting on his smart helmet to check on the rest of the operation.

T
HERE WAS A
massive depression on the side of the atoll the Marines were going to inspect. It looked like a small stadium had been there and then flattened. As Turk circled overhead, he directed Sabre One to descend and fly over the depression low and slow.

The feed from the UAV's low-light and infrared video was piped instantly back to the Cube, where an analyst studied it for a few seconds before declaring it the top of a pancaked bunker.

“That's definitely manmade,” said the expert. “Way too symmetrical to be anything but. Be nice to get a ground-penetrating radar and have absolute confirmation,” he added. “But I'm thinking that's not in the budget.”

“It's not in the timeline,” said Colonel Freah, who was linked in via the com unit in his helmet and the MC-17. “Is the place safe or not?”

“Danny, we're not seeing any people on the island,” said Breanna from the sit room. “Proceed.”

“Understood. Out,” said Danny. As the com link to the States turned off, he tapped the back panel of the smart helmet. “The island does not appear to be occupied,” he told Captain Thomas
aboard the Marine Osprey. “There's a large depression—our experts think it was a bunker that was exploded. You have the image?”

“We're looking at it now.” The video had been routed by Whiplash over to the Marine unit via their combat link. “No defenses?”

“None noted. These guys are sneaky and smart,” said Danny. “I wouldn't take anything for granted.”

“I don't plan on it.”

C
OWBOY COMPLETED HIS
pass over the island and banked west. The place looked as deserted as a government office at 4:05.

“I'm going to clear them in,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

“Acknowledged.”

Leveling his jet out of the turn, Cowboy double-checked the position of the approaching Ospreys, making sure he wasn't going to interfere with their flight path. Then he nudged the stick to climb behind Basher One and gave his readouts a thorough going over. The F-35 was performing like a champion racehorse on a midday warm-up, barely breaking a sweat.

Cowboy's stint out here and his association with the Whiplash people had sparked a conflict in his soul. He loved being a Marine. There was something truly awe-inspiring about the Corps' history. For Cowboy, the link to the very first leathernecks—a name that had come from the collars worn by the recruits during the
Revolution—was a tangible thing, something that didn't simply inspire him, but linked him with a select fraternity of warriors. To be a Marine
and
a pilot made him a member of an even more elite fraternity.

Not that he had necessarily thought naval aviators or Air Force pilots were wimps, but . . . they weren't Marines.

But Whiplash was something else again. It might be primarily Air Force, but it was clearly cutting edge. And at least to judge by Turk and Colonel Freah, the people associated with it were extreme warriors themselves.

Not
Marines. But definitely warriors.

Did he have the stuff to join them?

Cowboy certainly felt he did. He
knew
he did. But he'd have to prove it.

The Ospreys came into the beach fast, settling down to let the men off. No matter how calm the situation might look, that was always a tense moment. So many things could go wrong, even without an enemy around.

“Basher flight, this is Shark,” said Turk, radioing them from the north. “I'm about to make my run over Whiplash objective. How are you looking?”

“We're good,” said Greenstreet. “Everything is clean and quiet. Thanks for your help.”

“Roger that. Have fun out there.”

“Acknowledged.”

Greenstreet sounded ever so slightly annoyed, but as Cowboy had told Turk earlier, that was just his way. Greenstreet was an excellent pilot and a decent leader; he was certainly a good Marine.

Cowboy wouldn't have minded working with someone else, though. Colonel Freah's style—very confident and self-assured, yet easygoing at the same time—was a sharp contrast. It was clear that Freah had been in a
lot
of shit, far more than even the crustiest gunnery sergeants in the MEU. Maybe that was why he was so laid back; whatever happened, it probably didn't compare to the worst of what he'd already seen.

Not that you'd want to cross him: there was a flash in his eyes every so often that let you know he was capable of real anger, and could back it up not only with connections all the way to the White House but physically as well. Then again, why would you want to cross him? He had the air about him that all great commanders had: Everything he said just seemed to make so much sense that you would be a complete idiot to go against his advice.