Target Utopia (10 page)

“Hold back! Hold back!” yelled Lieutenant Young. “We're sending the planes in for another run. Sit tight.”

C
OWBOY RELAXED AS
the piper in his targeting screen settled on the knot of rebel soldiers in the lead. He pressed the trigger on the stick, pickling two bombs, then pulled the plane upward, rising above the target area quickly and preparing to circle back for another run. He glanced right, looking for the infrared image of the cluster bombs he'd dropped exploding, but he was moving too fast and was already beyond the explosions.

“Good hits,” said Lieutenant Young over the radio. “Basher, stand off.”

“Roger that,” said Greenstreet. His voice was weak.

“One, you good?” asked Cowboy.

The flight leader didn't answer. Cowboy saw his F-35 flying above and to his left, about two miles away. He began climbing, aiming to get closer to his commander and make sure he was OK.

“Yeah, I'm all right,” said Greenstreet finally. He sounded anything but.

“Sick?”

“Ughhh . . .”

“Why don't you go back, Colonel? We're done here. These guys are just going to mop up. I can handle it.”

“Roger.”

The answer came so quickly that Cowboy knew Greenstreet must be
really
sick. He altered course slightly, widening his orbit as Basher One angled away.

“Nothing left to do but sing,” said Cowboy, humming a song from Drowning Pool as he radioed the ground for a sitrep.

T
HE FIRST MAN
came through the brush, pushing a large clump of brush away as he ducked onto the road. Turk studied him in his scope, waiting until the rebel turned toward him so he had a broad, easy target. Finger against the trigger, Turk squeezed so gently that it seemed to take forever before the mechanism released the hammer and set the charge.

But then everything went quick: three rounds
sped through the barrel, slicing through the man's chest. A misshapen rose bloomed in Turk's viewfinder, and the man folded into the ground.

“Three more, left,” said one of the Marines on his right.

The last word was nearly drowned out by gunfire as the others started to fire. The edge of the jungle was suddenly full of rebels. Turk zeroed in on one, only to see him fall before he could squeeze the trigger. He moved his scope right, toward the road; a half-dozen rebels were crouched, trying to return fire. All were down before Turk could aim.

Suddenly there was a loud yell behind him, then a whoop that made Turk think of the battle cries Indians made in old westerns. Captain Deris leapt forward and started to run down the embankment toward the road and the rebel position. In a flash his men rose to follow. The Marines hesitated for a moment, and then they, too, began running.

The battle was over by the time they reached the road. Fourteen rebels lay dead or dying; another two found severely wounded in the high grass on the southern side. Turk used the infrared on his glasses to search the area and found four rebels huddled about 150 yards west in the jungle. They were the only survivors of the rebel force that had attacked the base earlier in the day.

“Are they dead or alive?” asked the Marine captain.

“Alive, but maybe wounded,” said Turk. “They're not moving much.”

“We'll take the Malaysians up there and see if
we can get them to surrender,” said the Marine commander. “Maybe we'll get some intel.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

T
HE BOMBS AND
cluster bombs had made a mess of the rebel camp, and even Danny wasn't prepared for what he saw when he reached it.

Body parts hung from shattered trees; severed torsos littered the ground. The area stank of burnt flesh. One of the bombs had hit an underground spring, and water was seeping everywhere, filling the wide crater made by a five hundred pounder.

Danny's boots squished in the bloody mud. The water made it seem as if the earth itself were bleeding.

Seeing that the area was secure and there were no more rebels in the immediate vicinity, the Marines lit flares for illumination. The light was fickle, as if not even Heaven wanted to look at the destruction.

“We're never going to know how many are dead,” said Lieutenant Young, coming over to Danny as he surveyed the scene. “Pretty damn brutal.”

“Yeah,” agreed Danny.

“Bunch of assholes,” said Young bitterly. “Who the hell do they think they're fighting against? Look at them—no armor, shitty Chinese weapons. That kid's what, fifteen?”

Danny glanced at the face. A thick shadow fell across the bottom half, obscuring his cheeks and mouth, but the eyes were clear, large and shiny with reflected light.

“Yeah,” admitted Danny. “Sixteen at most.”

“What a fucking waste,” said the Marine officer bitterly. “What the hell are they even fighting for? Islam? Like God wants them to kill each other. Shit. Idiots.”

Young detailed four men to “organize the remains,” as he put it. The looks on their faces made it clear they would have welcomed any other order in the world, but it was a necessary job; no support units were going to roll in and sweep up. With Sergeant Intan's help, they chose a dry bomb crater and began moving the dead to it. The burial was intended to be temporary; the Marine command would formally notify the Malaysian government, which would then decide how to repatriate the remains with their families.

In theory, anyway, Danny suspected that the government would not put a high priority on the job.

He checked in with Turk, who told him that South Force had completed the ambush, vanquishing the rebels.

“There are four guys alive in the jungle,” Turk added. “They're surrendering. They may have intel on the UAV.”

“OK, good.” It was unlikely they had real information about the UAV, but they might have details about how the forces coordinated with it and possibly who worked with the rebels. There was scant data on the rebel group to begin with, and any information might be helpful.

“Pretty brutal over here,” Danny added as two men passed with a body.

“Yeah,” said Turk. “Here, too. That's what they get.”

While Danny certainly understood Turk's comment—in a way it was little different than the Marine commander's—he was surprised by it. It was out of character, particularly coldhearted for the pilot.

Fallout from Iran, Danny thought.

With the area now completely secure, the Marines not assigned to provide security pitched in to help move and organize the remains. It was a grim, silent task, performed as much as possible with eyes closed.

Danny watched as one of the Marines picked up a trenching tool and began shoveling dirt into the hole. Two more shovels, the small portable ones carried as gear, were located and the dead began to be covered. Walking away from the grave, Danny saw Mofitt resting on his haunches. He had his head in his hands.

“You OK, Corporal?” he asked.

Mofitt looked up. “I've seen shit, but this is bad.”

“Yeah,” agreed Danny.

Mofitt shook his head. “They would have done the same to us.”

“They tried to. With the mortars.”

“True. Mothers.”

“You OK?”

“I'm fine,” said the corporal, continuing to stare. “Tired, but fine.”

Suburban Washington, D.C.

R
AY
R
UBEO SAT
in his office for hours, his mind blank, shaken by the discovery that the DNA key in the UAVs belonged to Jennifer Gleason.

It ought not to have surprised him, he realized. She had been the lead scientist on the project. Whoever had stolen the coding and presumably the plans it was part of had taken her work files and used them with little or no alteration.

Rubeo was an unemotional man, but he felt his stomach queasy and his hands trembling. Jennifer Gleason had been his prize pupil, his best employee, and in many ways his best friend.

Few people could have had access to her work files, which not even Rubeo could see without running a long bureaucratic gamut of checks, balances, and obstructions.

And according to the records office, no one had, since they were sealed shortly after her death.

He saw the expression on her face, her death mask—she'd been beheaded.

Rubeo leaned his head down, shattered by the memory.

Finally, almost unconsciously, he took out his satellite phone and called one of the few people whom he could speak to about her, the one person closer to Jennifer than he was.

Tecumseh Bastian answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Ray,” he said. “What's going on that you're calling this late?”

“I . . .” Rubeo stopped speaking. It took a moment for him to regroup. “I think someone stole some of the work we did at Dreamland,” he told his former commander. “I need—I just wanted to bounce some names off you.”

“Shoot.”

“Lloyd Braxton.”

“Hmmmph,” said Bastian.

“I know you don't like him.”

“I have good reason. What has he taken?”

“I don't know if it's him,” said Rubeo. He was lying—it had to be Braxton, who was not only a genius but had left Dreamland just before Jennifer's death, and under difficult circumstances. Just saying his name out loud convinced Rubeo he was right.

“So, why are you calling, then?” asked Bastian.

“I need to talk this out with someone I trust.”

“Talk.”

“I'd . . . I'd like to come up in person.”

“I'm too busy, Ray. Talk now.”

Rubeo knew Bastian wasn't busy; he hadn't been busy since he left the Air Force following Jennifer's death. He just didn't like interacting with the world, even with Rubeo, who was probably his only friend from the Dreamland days still in touch. Bastian didn't even talk to his daughter, Breanna Stockard.

“I wonder if Braxton could have left with the computer files on the Gen 4 Flighthawk project,” said Rubeo.

“I doubt it.”

“He might have stolen them before he was cashiered,” said Rubeo.

“That's possible,” said Bastian. “But I doubt he could have taken much.”

“He might not need much,” said Rubeo. “A chip, early prototypes. He'd be able to remember much of what he did—he had a phenomenal brain.”

“You know he's rich, right? He owns that company.”

“I'll have to do a little background work,” said Rubeo. “I lost track of him.”

“He has a whole foundation,” continued Bastian. “He's an anarchist.”

“An anarchist?”

“You never were much of a people person, Ray,” said Bastian. “That's why I liked you.”

Rubeo had nothing to say to that.

“Tell you what—I'm going back to bed. If you want to talk, you know where I am.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm not your commander anymore, Ray.” Another man might have chuckled, but Bastian simply hung up.

Malaysia

T
URK TOLD
B
ASHER
flight what was going on, then got up and ran to Captain Deris and his Malaysians. The soldiers were advancing warily up the hill as the Marines came down with the captured rebels.

“Pick one of them to question,” Turk suggested. “And hold the rest for pickup.”

Deris chose the oldest rebel, and led the group down to the road to Captain Thomas and the Senior Marine NCO, “Gunny” Smith. The trio started questioning him, with Deris acting both as inquisitor and interpreter. Turk stood by, listening to the halting dialogue—Deris peppered the man with questions, the rebel answered in monosyllables, Deris translated.

“No more alive, he says. I don't trust him,” Deris told the Marines.

“Ask him the size of the force,” said Gunny Smith. “We can work the rest out for ourselves.”

Deris asked a question. When the rebel answered by shaking his head, Deris began shouting at him.

“Ease up, ease up,” said Thomas. “That's not getting us anywhere.”

“I have to make him talk.”

“He'll just lie to get you off his back,” said the captain. “Get someone else. We got three more.”

“This one was a squad leader. The others are frightened children. They'll know nothing. Not even their prayers.”

Gunny Smith reached into one of the pockets on his tac vest and took out a candy bar. He tossed it to Deris.

“Try making friends and see if that works,” suggested the sergeant.

Deris frowned, but started to hand the bar to the rebel. The rebel backed away.

“Tell him it's food,” said the Marine.

Another round of shouting ensued.

“He thinks we're trying to poison him,” explained Deris finally.

Gunny Smith took the bar back, broke it in two and pulled off the wrapper. Then he began eating half of it.

“Not bad,” he said, holding the other half out to the prisoner.

The rebel batted it away. Deris swung his fist, hitting the man in the side of the head.

Turk jumped forward and grabbed the Malaysian captain around the chest. The Malaysian was shorter than him but powerfully built, and Turk had to struggle to hold him off the POW.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” said Thomas. “Relax. These fuckers are prisoners of ours. We can't be hitting them.”

“He's a criminal,” said Deris.

“You're right,” said Smith. “But we have to follow the law.
Capisce
?”

“Law? What law? He is criminal and killer.” Deris looked up at Turk, who was still holding him. “Why are you protecting him, Turk? He killed my men. He tried to kill you. Why would you protect him?”

Turk stuttered, unable to find an answer—in truth, he agreed with the Malaysian captain emotionally, even though he knew he was not permitted to strike a prisoner. It was Gunny Smith who spoke up.

“Listen, I'd love to slam the son of a bitch myself,” he said. “It'd feel pretty damn good. But we need the bastard for interrogation. Intel. This way other people don't get hurt. If that means laying off, not belting him—that's what we got to do. Damn. We're just saving other lives. Maybe people we love, you know?”

“He's right,” agreed Turk, wishing he'd been the one to say it.

Deris didn't look impressed. He said something in Malaysian, then put up his hands, signaling to Turk that he wouldn't struggle any more. Turk let him go.

Deris yelled something at the rebel—Turk guessed it was along the lines of,
You're lucky these guys held me back or you'd be dog meat by now—
then turned and stalked back to his men.

“Kind of a hothead, huh?” Gunny Smith smiled at Turk. Then raised his rifle at the prisoner. “Don't try anything or I'll shoot your balls off.”

The man may not have understood English, but he certainly understood the threat. He put up his hands. When Gunny Smith gestured for him to sit down, he quickly complied.

“Can you hold on to him while I get some cuffs?” the Marine asked Turk.

“Sure.” Turk raised his rifle.

Gunny took a step back, then another, making
sure the prisoner wouldn't try anything. Turk steadied the gun on the prisoner. Dirty and exhausted, the rebel looked even younger than the Malaysians. He stared at Turk with hard eyes, defiant. Turk wondered if he was thinking of trying to run—not to actually escape, but to get shot and die like his friends had.

If he does that, will I be able to shoot him?

Easily.

The answer surprised Turk, yet as soon as it formed in his brain, he knew it was true. He was angry, deeply angry—not at the rebel, not the way the Malaysians were. Their anger was immediate. It made sense—they were mad at the people who had killed their friends.

Turk's rage ran deeper. He was mad at Breanna for ordering him killed. He was mad at the Iranians for cheating on their nuclear agreement and making the attack that had killed so many lives necessary. He was mad at the senselessness of the rebel movement, angry beyond reason at whoever was helping them with cutting-edge technology.

He was mad at mankind in general for being so thoughtless, so careless with life.

And he was mad at himself for not being able to do anything about any of it.

The sergeant came back with the handcuffs. Glancing at Turk to make sure he was watching carefully, he dropped to a knee behind the prisoner and quickly trussed his hands. Then he pulled him to his feet and pushed him in the direction of two of his men.

“Hey, Captain, you all right?” Gunny Smith asked Turk as the prisoner was led away.

“I'm OK. Why?”

“I thought for a minute you were going to shoot me, too,” said the Marine. He laughed and reached into one of his pockets for a tin of chew. Wadding the tobacco, he tucked it into the corner of his lip. “Dip?”

“Nah.”

“Dirty habit.” The Marine smiled. “Best keep away from it.” He worked the plug a bit. “You seen a lot of action?”

Turk shrugged.

“I heard you were in Iran,” added the Marine. “Top secret shit.”

“I was over there,” admitted Turk. “How'd you hear that?”

“Word gets around.” Gunny Smith worked the plug of tobacco in his mouth. “You don't think we'd work with just any Air Force punk, do you?”

“Well, I wouldn't work with just any Marines,” said Turk.

The sergeant laughed, then spit. “You
sure
you don't want some chew?”

“No thanks.”

“Let's go try talking to another of these guys, right?”

As Turk started to follow, the radio buzzed. It was Cowboy, in Basher Two.

“Ground, I have more of those UAVs en route,” he said. “Six of them, two hundred miles away. And they are moving! Twelve hundred knots, right at my face.”