Target Utopia (22 page)

Cowboy listened as Colonel Greenstreet talked with the Osprey pilots, then checked in with the air combat controllers as the units established themselves on the beach. It was good, it was quiet, they were advancing to the objectives.

Everything was going great. The night was a picnic in the making.

“Basher flight,” said Turk from the Tigershark, now nearly four hundred miles to the north. “Are you seeing these contacts?”

“Say again, Whiplash?” asked Greenstreet.

“Two bogies, high speed, coming at you from the west,” said Turk. “The combat UAVs are back, and they're running straight for you.”

The Cube

T
HEY WERE AGGRESSIVE
bastards, weren't they?

Rubeo looked at the large screen at the front of the room, which was mapping the location of every unit in the area. The UAVs were coming for blood.

They'd just appeared on the screen, as if from nowhere. That certainly wasn't possible, and it certainly wasn't acceptable. His team had clearly missed something. He picked up the phone that connected to his company's analytic center in New Mexico.

“Check the launch profiles and see where they're likely to have come from,” he demanded, without even bothering to give an explanation, let alone greet the techie on the other end of the line. “Coordinate that with everything we know about them—the bases they've used, things Braxton owned, the submarines—we are not doing a good job here. I want more information.”

“Right now?”

“I would have preferred yesterday,” snapped Rubeo before hanging up.

South China Sea, north of Malaysia

E
VEN THOUGH THE
UAVs were approaching, Turk was already committed to supporting the Whiplash operation on the merchant ship and couldn't leave. The best he could do to help the two F-35s was send a pair of Sabres to back them up. Even if they juiced their engines, it would take them close to twenty minutes to get there. The enemy UAVs were less than ten minutes from the Marines.

It was better than nothing. Turk detailed Sabres Three and Four, the ones to his south, to help the Marines, but before dispatching them prioritized protection of the landing force above the F-35s. This way, they'd position themselves to cut off the enemy if they got by Greenstreet and Cowboy.

Once tasked, the Sabres were autonomous, and would not only decide how to carry out their orders but adapt to new situations without needing to be reprogrammed. And they wouldn't quit until there were no threats in the air. Turk told Greenstreet they were en route, then turned his attention to the beached merchant ship and area around it.

Originally beached in the shallows a few yards from the top of the reef, the ship had been driven up the hard rock by the current, waves, and storms. The bow and a good portion of the starboard side of the ship had been lifted high enough to leave the keel exposed. The stern, which seemed to
have twisted slightly, sat with the waves lapping just above the screw.

An infrared scan showed that there were two men on the port deck near an ancient .50-caliber machine gun. There were four other men belowdecks in a compartment believed to be used for eating and sleeping. Turk assumed these six men were the Filipino marines assigned to occupy the ship against the Chinese, though until the ship was boarded, no one would actually know.

The question was whether there were other people aboard. A modest heat signal indicated the engine room might have more people in it, but it was situated in a way that the analysts couldn't be sure. The Whiplash team would go on the assumption that they were there until proven otherwise.

Six Chinese fishing vessels were arrayed outside the reef south of the vessel. None were armed, but a Chinese Type 010-class minesweeper was about ten miles farther north, on the side of the beached Filipino ship. The minesweeper was the mama bear to the other boats. Here as elsewhere in the South China Sea, the Chinese tended to assert their most aggressive claims with a soft face, posting the seemingly less obnoxious “civilian” vessels close to the enemy, while leaving the muscle just over the horizon.

The Type 010 was similar to the Russian T-43 minesweeper, an older oceangoing craft that was as much a patrol vessel as a minesweeper. Roughly 180 feet long, it had a crew of seventy and carried an array of light weapons, ranging from machine guns to an 85mm cannon. The ship wasn't a threat
to the Tigershark, nor would it be an immediate concern to the Whiplash team unless it sailed south. At the moment it was becalmed, facing parallel to the merchant vessel but presumed to be in constant contact with the fishing boats.

As Turk crisscrossed over the area, he piped the feed from his sensors directly to Danny and the MC-17. When the combat cargo craft was about sixty seconds away from the drop point, Turk radioed to make sure they were still “go.”

“Roger, Tigershark,” said Danny, his voice clear over the dedicated Whiplash com channel.

“The UAVs appear headed for the Marines,” added Turk.

“I copied that. We're jumping in thirty seconds. Keep an eye on the boats and that minesweeper.”

“Godspeed,” said Turk.

D
ANNY FELT A
knot grow in his stomach as the wind ripped against his body from the open ramp of the MC-17. He'd jumped from airplanes countless times in nearly every condition, but he'd never lost the little nudge of anticipation mixed with anxiety that accompanied the first time he'd given himself over to gravity. No jump was ever truly routine, especially a high altitude–low opening night jump; it was a long way down, with plenty of opportunities for something to go wrong.

“We're ready, Colonel,” said Grisif.

He gave the jumpmaster a thumbs-up, and she in turn gave it to the crew chief and then the team. They went out briskly, in single file, walking
into the darkness of the night like commuters moving to catch an early morning train.

The rush of the wind untied the knots in Danny's stomach, chasing away the tension. He spread his arms and legs the way he always did, adopting a frog position. When you were a human airplane, freedom and exhilaration far outweighed fear.

The Whiplash team wore suits with special webbing that extended beneath their armpits and between their legs. These acted like wings, enhancing their ability to maneuver toward the target. Dropped some miles west of the ship, each man and woman flew forward as well as fell downward, maneuvering toward the target. Their helmets not only displayed their current altitude, bearing, and rate of fall, but showed their GPS position, a computed course and time to their objective.

It was quite a difference from how things were when Danny had first jumped from an airplane, to say nothing of the WWII Pathfinders who were the godfathers of all American airborne troops. But certain things would never change: the strong brush of the wind, and the hard jerk of the parachute rig when it opened a few thousand feet above the landing zone.

It was a strong tug, and while it didn't catch Danny unaware, it still nearly took his breath away, jerking hard against his vulnerable groin.

“Better than the alternative,” the old paratrooper who'd taught him used to say.

Chute deployed, Danny checked his lines with a small wrist flashlight. Assured that he had a good canopy, he tapped the side of his helmet.

“Team, ready?” asked Danny. “Check in.”

One by one, they did. Unzipping their leg and arm wings, they sailed to a preset point on the western side of the ship.

“Ten seconds to touchdown,” Danny told the team as the deck loomed below him. “Let's do this the way we practiced.”

A
S SOON AS
Turk saw the chutes blossom on his screen, he directed Sabre One and Sabre Two to head toward the minesweeper, just in case the Chinese boat saw them and got curious. The chutes were small and made with an absorbent material that tended to cut down on their radar signature, but only slightly. Anyone aboard the fishing boats with a pair of NODs or even a good set of eyes would be able to see them.

If any of the fishing boats opened fire, he would sink them all. The computer had already stored their locations and computed targeting solutions for an attack; all he had to do was tell the rail gun to fire.

Though still deemed experimental, the aircraft's small-scale energy weapon had been so thoroughly tested that Turk was as confident about using it as he was firing the F-35's cannon. More so, actually, since he had worked extensively with the gun before going to Iran.

Like all rail guns, the weapon used a powerful electromagnetic field to propel a metallic slug at a target. The principle was well-known, and versions had been around for several decades; the
real innovation here was the size of the weapon, which fit into the body-long bay of the sleek Tigershark II. The only downside was its need to recycle energy and lower its heat every dozen rounds. Even this, though, was a vast improvement over the earlier incarnations.

Turk looked at the sitrep screen to see how Sabre Three and Four were doing. The Tigershark's helmet provided him with a configurable control and display board; he had arranged several default configurations for the mission. The base configuration, which he was using now, was generally similar to what would be seen in a standard aircraft cockpit—an instrument panel, a 360-view of the outside, and a HUD projection of critical flight data.

Aside from the fact that the HUD display was always in front of him no matter which direction he faced, the major difference between the Tigershark's and conventional cockpits were the virtual video screens, which replaced the glass canopy and could be configured in any form he wanted. Turk had located three “screens” in the bottom-left corner of his forward view. He configured the top screen to give a God's-eye view of his aircraft and what was going on around them—a sitrep, or situational awareness view. The bottom showed the Whiplash link, with messages and other data. He used the middle to select different feeds from the Sabres.

They were still nearly thirteen minutes from the Marines. The F-35s were on radio silence, preparing to deal with the UAVs.

“Five seconds from landing,” said Danny over the Dreamland circuit.

Turk returned his full attention to the Whiplash landing. Eleven figures descended on the merchant ship, each aimed at a different point on the deck; once there, they would shed their chutes and head in different directions, aiming to quickly subdue opposition. The two men who were ostensibly on watch were completely oblivious to what was going on; Turk guessed that they were sleeping, as the computer indicated they hadn't moved since the first Sabre passed overhead.

They were about to wake up inside a very bad dream.

The fishing boats seemed oblivious as well. Meanwhile, the Whiplash Ospreys hovered some thirty miles to the south, staying just above the waves so they were completely invisible to the minesweeper's radar. It would take them roughly ten minutes to get to the merchant ship, either to pick up the team or to support it with their chain guns if things got difficult.

Everything in place, thought Turk. Let's get this show going.

D
ANNY FLARED AS
he hit the deck, then pulled the toggle to release the parachute. In nearly the same motion he grabbed the SCAR rifle out of its Velcroed scabbard on his chest. The rifle was no different than the weapon issued to other U.S.
special ops troops, with one exception: its sights interfaced with Danny's helmet system.

He was on the starboard side of the deck, the high end of the ship, five feet from a door on the superstructure that led to the compartments below. He ran to the door without waiting for the rest of the team; once through, he began descending the stairlike metal ladder to the corridor that would take him to the engine room.

The ship was completely dark. If there was electricity, it wasn't working here.

“Behind you, Colonel,” said Tony “Two-Fingers” Dalton, coming down the ladder.

“Dead ahead,” said Danny, running to the second ladder, which would take them to a large, presumably empty area immediately forward of the engine compartment. As he started down, he caught himself—there were no steps.

“Stairs are gone,” he told Dalton. Grabbing the side railing, he sidestepped his way down to a crosswalk that ran across the width of the hold. The decking was still there, but so rusted that Danny nearly fell through on his first step. He grabbed hold of the railing there, then decided it would be much easier simply to jump down to the deck below, some eight feet away.

“Catwalk's gone,” he said, tacking his gun to his vest before going over the side. He dangled off the rail, then let himself drop. He landed badly, rolling over onto his back.

“Coming down,” said Dalton.

Danny scrambled to his feet and stepped out
of the way. As Dalton landed—two feet, perfect balance—he started toward the stern end of the compartment, heading for an opening into the rear compartment.

The trooper tapped Danny's shoulder as he ran. “I'll take point, sir.” He passed in front of him before Danny could object.

The waterproof hatchway on the bulkhead was wide open. A dim yellow light shone at the far end, beyond the array of engines. A few inches of water lapped across the deck.

Dalton turned left, out of Danny's view. Another Whiplasher, Baby Joe Morgan, whispered over the radio circuit that he was starting down behind them.

“We're in the engine room,” Danny told him. “Searching. Nothing obvious yet.”

He had just reached the decrepit boiler when a shout went up nearby. Danny leapt forward, turning the corner, finger on the trigger.

“Las manos en alto!”
yelled Dalton, struggling with his Spanish. “Put your hands up. All of you!”

The beam from the flashlight on Dalton's wrist played over three men sleeping in blankets on a platform built over the machinery.

“Rendirse,”
said Dalton, trying to tell them to surrender. “Give up!”

Danny took over. The smart helmet had a language translation program built in, but his Spanish was more than adequate enough to tell them what he wanted them to do.

His rifle didn't hurt either. By the time Morgan joined them, the three men had been trussed with
flex cuffs and were sitting against the hull. To say that they looked confused would be an understatement.

Danny was confused as well. This was the area the analysts thought most likely to be used as the conspirators' control center. Not only were there no computers or other electronic gear of any type, the three men were wearing Filipino uniform tops. While that didn't necessarily mean anything—anyone could put a green shirt on over dirty shorts—they certainly didn't look like tech wizards either.

Disheveled and dispirited soldiers, maybe. They kept asking what was going on, in English as well as Spanish, and one of the men said loudly that the Philippines were allies with America and Danny had better be careful or “our American brothers will
keel
you when they come.”

“I'm American,” Danny told them. “We'll sort it all out in a minute. Just do what we say for now and everything will be fine. We're not going to hurt you, but we're not taking chances either.”

Danny told Dalton and Morgan to take the prisoners topside, where Grisif, Chris Bulgaria, and Ivan Dillon had already secured the two men who'd been on guard. He headed to join the others in what they believed was the Filipinos' bunking area near the bow.