Target Utopia (13 page)

Malaysia

F
INALLY GIVING IN
to the demands of his body, Danny hit his cot around 1000 hours, planning to sleep for two hours. But he slept until close to 6:00
P
.
M
., when Turk Mako was shaking his shoulder.

“Colonel, you need to check this out,” said Turk. “We have hot video—there's a column of
rebels coming up from the south. It has to be a couple of hundred guys.”

“Wh-What?” stuttered Danny, still half-buried in sleep.

“Come on over to the command post and have a look,” said Turk.

Danny folded himself out of bed. His body was stiff, his muscles complaining that the humid air didn't agree with them.

“You OK, Colonel?” asked Turk.

“Yeah.” He stretched. “Any coffee over there?”

“Plenty, and it's stronger than the liquid scat the mechanics brew at Dreamland.”

“Good.”

Danny pulled on his boots and grabbed his tablet on the way out. The Marines were already suiting up for battle, their Ospreys warming on the airstrip.

“Looks like we got their attention,” said Captain Thomas. “We're going to hit them when they come through the valley. Both sides.”

The Marines would land near the route the rebels were taking. Splitting in half, they would attack from the north and the west, hammering them from two sides. The Malaysians would accompany them.

“We need air support and protection when the UAVs come,” said Captain Thomas. “The squadron is down to one pilot, which means one plane. I'm asking for more coverage from the assault ship, but they're way overstretched and it's quite a haul. I don't think they can make it in time.”

Danny glanced at Turk. The pilot studiously avoided his gaze.

“Turk may be able to take one of the slots,” Danny said. “I'll discuss it with Greenstreet.”

“Great. Thanks,” added Thomas. “What about you, Colonel? Where do you want to be?”

“I'm going to sit this battle out,” added Danny. “I need to coordinate with Washington on our next move.”

“Understood.”

“With regret,” added Danny, resisting an urge to change his mind and go. There was just too much to do before his people got there, and if the UAVs appeared, he would be in a better spot here to monitor them.

C
ONTRARY TO WHAT
he expected, Greenstreet told Danny he had no problem with Turk flying. He didn't necessarily seem pleased, but he was certainly professional.

“If my ground commander wants another plane for more support, he'll have it,” said the colonel.

“With Turk flying,” added Danny, just to be sure.

“He's a competent pilot.”

A lot more than that, thought Danny, but he saw no reason to poke the bear.

“Very good, Colonel. I appreciate your cooperation. He'll get a full update on the UAVs and brief you preflight.”

Greenstreet nodded.

“You don't have a problem with Turk, do you?” Danny asked.

“He's a hotshot,” said Greenstreet, a tiny bit
of his professional mask slipping. “But we'll live with it.”

T
URK TIGHTENED HIS
face as Breanna came on the screen to brief him on the UAVs. He was going to be professional, and only professional.

Her frown told him he didn't quite succeed.

“Turk, I hope you're feeling well,” she said.

“I'm fine,” he said.

“We've been able to analyze the encounter and we have a great deal of information for you. The aircraft looked to be modeled after the Gen 4 Flighthawk, though prior to the improvements we made for the New Mexico range.”

“Right,” said Turk tightly.

“Are you familiar with that project?”

“Somewhat,” said Turk. “It was before my time.”

“Their onboard maneuver library is exactly the same as Gen 3.”

“I recognize that.”

“John Rosen will go through it with you if you need him to,” she said, referring to one of the analysts on the program who had been brought over to Whiplash to help. Rosen worked for one of Rubeo's companies. “We still have no firm data on the weapons. It's most likely a 25mm cannon based on the tactics and the visual. Fred McCarthy is going to run down the probable capabilities.”

McCarthy's face flashed on the screen. A retired Navy intelligence specialist, he had spent several years working for the CIA and was now on
loan to Special Projects. McCarthy knew as much about weapons as any engineer—or database, for that matter.

“This is what we think they're firing,” he said, holding up what looked like a thick metal needle. “Depleted uranium. High mass, very small volume. Consider it roughly the equivalent of a 25mm round in an M-242—yes, I prefer the Army weapon as an analogue for the following reasons . . .”

While McCarthy certainly knew his stuff, there was a downside to his store of knowledge—he tended to unleash vast amounts of it when explaining even the simplest concept or finding.

The M-242, he said, was used in the Bradley Fighting Vehicle and the Marine Corps LAV-25 personnel carrier; the 25mm gun had itself used depleted uranium rounds, though they were not standard equipment. The material's density gave the DU BBs—as McCarthy called them—an inherent advantage over conventional slugs; a smaller size bullet could carry as much momentum as a larger round, giving it more kinetic energy and thus more penetrating power. But the metal's qualities went beyond that; McCarthy theorized that the rounds were engineered so the rear portion spread as the nose hit, creating a wider “wound” in its target.

The weapon would have an effective range of just over 1,500 meters, about the same as a 20mm cannon. That would account for the tactics the UAVs employed; it had to be relatively close to fire. The weapon would have a fairly good recoil, which in the small aircraft would have a significant impact on its flight energy. It would be fired in very
short bursts, perhaps as low as three at a time, and in any event would not carry much ammunition.

The weapon assumptions were being made based on thin data, and so Turk took them with a grain of salt. The Sabres had been fitted with a similar weapon at one point in their trials. But the uranium slugs had proven to be overkill—you didn't need to make big holes in an aircraft to shoot it down—and have a weight penalty as well. The Sabres now used conventional bullets.

McCarthy moved on to tactics, where he and Turk were mostly in agreement. It seemed likely the enemy UAVs were programmed to fly to a certain area, then used a combination of passive sensors to home in on their targets—a simple electronics detector would get them close, where an infrared sensor could take over for the final targeting. The simplicity gave them certain advantages: the aircraft could be small and therefore hard to detect and highly maneuverable. But it also extracted a price. They were surely vulnerable at long range, and they seemed to have to make a rear-quarter attack to guarantee a kill. Cowboy's encounter appeared to prove all of that, and also implied that Turk's suggestion for him to attack at long range had been sound.

As McCarthy continued, the camera pulled back to show the others sitting near him in the situation room. Rubeo was there, and Reid, and a dozen other specialists.

And Breanna, right in the middle, standing, arms folded, lips pressed tightly together, clearly worried.

Is that how you looked when you ordered them to kill me? Turk wondered. Does your conscience bother you now? How would you have gotten this mission done if they'd succeeded?

Hate welled inside him. Then he felt guilty, sad even—he had admired Breanna and her husband Zen greatly. Both were heroes, and at the same time unpretentious, just regular people, at least to the extent possible in Washington, given their jobs.

But Breanna had let him down. She stood revealed as someone who could not be trusted.

Zen was different. Turk still admired the former pilot, who had done so much to make combat UAVs successful and become the first Flighthawk ace. To have come back from a crippling injury, especially at a time when people looked at disabilities as if they were contagious diseases and a mark of bad character, had taken a tremendous amount of courage, courage that Turk himself wasn't sure he possessed. It wasn't just bravery under fire—which Turk certainly did possess—it was the ability to take a long-range view of the battle and to put up with the constant setbacks, large and small, that were inevitable. Perseverance under fire was a different kind of courage, a quality that someone who was impatient, as Turk was, couldn't count on.

“So, bottom line, Captain Mako,” said Rubeo, thankfully interrupting the analyst's dissertation. “Target them at long range, and don't let them behind you.”

McCarthy turned to him. “I'll defer to Captain Mako on the precise tactics,” he said. “But you have it in a nutshell.”

“That's pretty much the best way to deal with any enemy,” said Turk, even though he knew it was much easier said than done in this case.

“Good luck, Turk,” said Breanna.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He switched off the feed and went to get suited up.

The Cube

J
ONATHON
R
EID STOPPED
Breanna as she started to leave the situation room.

“A minute alone?” he asked.

“Of course.” She glanced around. Except for the two duty officers at the front, everyone else had left to take a break or get something to eat.

“I couldn't help but notice, you looked a little upset,” said Reid, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you worried about the operation?”

“I'd feel better if we had all our assets in place,” said Breanna. “And if we had a full force.”

“We will in another eighteen hours.”

“The UAVs will probably come with this attack,” said Breanna. “We really should have our people there. In a perfect world—”

“In a perfect world we'd all be millionaires. But that's not what's bothering you, is it?”

“Things aren't right with Turk. He doesn't trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Iran. The order I gave Stoner.”

“You did what you had to do,” said Reid. “Right?”

“I know, but . . . I can't take back the fact that if he was killed, it would have been on my orders. My fault. My responsibility.”

“And what about the several million people your order saved?” asked Reid. “That mission—if we hadn't destroyed the bombs, don't you think Iran would have used them at some point?”

“It's more complicated than that. And maybe they wouldn't have,” added Breanna. “We don't know.”

“That's true. We can't see the future. What we
do
know is what happened—the bombs were destroyed, and Turk is still alive.”

“No thanks to me.”

“On the contrary. You sent the one person who had a chance of saving him. You don't give yourself credit for that. Why not?”

“Because Turk doesn't,” said Breanna.

Malaysia

T
URK STEADIED THE
F-35B into a comfortable orbit at 20,000 feet. The night was clear, with not even a whisper of wind. The plane felt solid around him, responding precisely to every input. Taking off the other day, he'd been unsure of
himself, and the aircraft seemed to have sensed it, reacting with slight jerks and the occasional stutter through the early parts of the flight. Now his muscles moved with smooth assurance, and the plane responded accordingly.

Cowboy flew about a half mile ahead in Basher One. They had the sky to themselves.

“Two, scope's clean. How you lookin'?” asked the Marine, telling Turk he had no radar contacts.

“Copy. Same. Systems are good. Looks like you dialed up an easy one for us.”

“The night is still young,” answered Cowboy. “Ospreys are off the mat in zero-two.”

“Roger that, I copy,” said Turk.

As soon as the aircraft carrying the Marine assault units were off the ground, Cowboy swung south, aiming to overfly the area where the rebels were advancing. A Marine UAV was already in the vicinity, providing real-time infrared reconnaissance.

Turk stayed with the Ospreys, tucking down toward 12,000 feet. The transport aircraft were far lower, close to the jungle treetops, hugging the curve of the Earth as they sped south.

Three miles from the landing zone the lead Osprey began to slow. The flaps on its wings deployed as they approached the LZ, and with the airspeed gently dropping, the long engines and their massive rotors began to rotate. The aircraft seemed to swing out as if they were on a trapeze, descending smartly to the ground.

The landing area was a hard-packed dirt road, and there was only room for one of the aircraft at a
time. The second Osprey banked a short distance to the north, revolving slowly around a hilltop. Within a minute and a half the Marines on Osprey One were off; it rose and its companion came in. Ninety seconds after touching down, the second aircraft pulled up, having disembarked its platoon.

Still escorting the rotobirds, Turk swung back in the direction of the base. His sensors scanned the air at long range to make sure the enemy UAVs hadn't chosen this moment to appear. The Ospreys had a short run back, but they were extremely vulnerable to enemy aircraft, with no weapons to defend themselves.

Cowboy remained over the LZ. He made radio contact with Captain Thomas and the CCTs—combat controllers—with each platoon.

While the Corps had its own personnel trained to act as ground controllers, they sometimes “borrowed” similarly trained men from different services. In this case they had two of the profession's finest: Air Force special ops pararescuers, both of whom had seen action in Libya just a few months before, working clandestinely with the rebels there.

The Air Force combat controllers were descendants of the World War II pathfinders, paratroopers who'd dropped into Europe ahead of D-day. As the war evolved, the pathfinders had called in air strikes, helping the allies move quickly across Europe. Given jeeps and allowed to ride with the tanks in Patton's spearhead, the small band of sky-dropping daredevils had revolutionized warfare.

In the contemporary military, their Air Force descendants trudged through the mud and gravel alongside troops from every service, from “ordinary” grunts to Tier One SEALs. Able to do anything from locating the landing zone for a parachute drop to creating an airfield in the middle of a jungle, their job today was to direct air strikes if things got hairy. They'd spent a month working with the MEU on the other side of the island. Cowboy had worked with both; they recognized his voice as well as his call sign, and gave him a little bit of ribbing along with their sitrep.

It was a sign that things were going well, Turk thought—they didn't fool around when the situation was tight.

With the Ospreys safely home, Turk returned, taking a high track above and slightly behind the figure eight Cowboy was cutting in the area. He stayed at 18,000 feet—high enough to assist in a ground attack if necessary, while still at an altitude he thought sufficient to deal with the UAVs.

Both F-35s carried two AMRAAM air-to-air missiles in one of their bays, along with a pair of Sidewinder infrared heat-seekers on their wings. Because of the way the aircraft was designed, the wingtips of the F-35B were bare; the Sidewinders were mounted on the last of three hard points on each wing. That left the other four external points and one internal bay for a mix of Redeye cluster bombs and “small” SBD-II bombs. The SBDs were fitted four to a rack, giving the two aircraft considerable versatility if called on for ground support.

Twenty minutes of flying loops and crazy eights left Turk bored, and he found himself half wishing the UAVs would appear. He knew it was wrong—bad karma and all that—but still, he was ready.

Finally, the lead segment of rebels left the jungle and headed for the road north, aiming directly at the ambush point Captain Thomas had plotted. But only a few minutes passed before they left the road again, splitting into two columns along the western side and moving north. The move complicated things for the Marines, but they quickly adjusted, setting up an ambush about a mile deeper in the jungle. That was a good thing for the F-35s—it gave them a little more room to maneuver without going over the border. While Indonesia was powerless to stop them, it had radars in the area able to detect the F-35s when they were carrying weapons under their wings, and any transgression of the border would bring protests at the UN.

On the ground, time was moving quickly; the Marines were hustling through the jungle as quickly as they could, scrambling to make sure they were in place. In the air, time dragged. Turk rehearsed a dozen scenarios in his head, then rerehearsed them.

“They're saying zero-five from contact,” Cowboy told Turk after the Marine controller with West Force checked in.

“Roger, I heard.”

“I have nothing on long-range scan.”

“Copy,” said Turk.

“They engage the lead elements, and then we
get called in if they have enough of a target for us,” said Cowboy, who was simply repeating the basic briefing. Turk realized he was bored, too. “We may not have a target in the early stages.”

“Roger. Got it.”

“There's a hill about two miles south of the ambush point, overlooking the road,” added Cowboy. “I'm thinking that if the rebels retreat, they may try to take a stand there. We may end up hitting that position.”

“Copy.”

As Turk began scanning for the position, West Force radioed that they had made contact and taken the rebels under fire. Now came the hardest part of the mission for the pilots: waiting for something to happen, while knowing that the guys on the ground were taking fire.

The battle on the ground—in a jungle, at night, in terrain unfamiliar to both sides—was a confusing mélange of explosions, bullet rounds, and blind cursing. The Malaysians and Americans had the advantage of night vision and superior communications; the rebels had numbers. Surprise was a factor at first, and greatly aided the American force. Their initial volleys of fire drove the rebels back in confusion. But the thick jungle made it difficult to see even with the night gear, and before the allied force could take real advantage, the rebels rallied. The two columns retreated and then consolidated. Better trained or at least better disciplined than the force the day before, the rebels managed to organize a line of defense along a stream that ran down the center
of a shallow rift. Lying on the high side of the ground, they used machine guns to stop the Malaysian and Marine squads pursuing them.

But that just gave Cowboy and Turk something to do. With a clear line marking where the enemy was, Basher One and Two went to work.

In the not too distant past, precision ground support meant getting very close and personal to the target—the lower, the better. That subjected the airman to a fair degree of danger from the ground. Most enemy soldiers didn't particularly like being bombed, and could be expected to fire whatever they had at their attackers. Even a rifle could potentially bring down an airplane; there were, in fact, stories of American soldiers in the Pacific taking down Japanese airplanes with their M-1s by striking the pilot.

Getting close to the enemy
still
worked well in certain situations and with certain weapons, but in this case it was unnecessary. The small-diameter smart bombs the F-35s were using allowed the pilots to hit targets beyond sixty nautical miles—making the word “close” in close-air support a misnomer. With a multimode sensor—the bomb could be directed to its target by radar, infrared, and laser as well as GPS and an inertial guidance system—the weapon was as versatile as it was accurate.

Officially, the bombs had a margin of error that allowed them to strike within about a four meter radius of any given target. Unofficially, the margin of error was much less than that, depending on the guidance mode.

Just inside five miles from the target area,
Basher One unleashed four bombs, all guided by GPS locations that he had double-checked with the friendlies on the ground. The bombs hit in a staggered line on the rebel side of the creek, devastating the middle of their position and eliminating both machine guns.

“Woo-hooo,” said the controller over the radio as the explosions lit the sky. “Good hits!”

Now it was Turk's turn. He lined up his crosshairs on a cluster of rebels about three hundred yards farther south and closer to the road. Coded with the GPS coordinates from the F-35's weapons system, the two bombs he dished sped toward their destiny. With those off, Turk moved to a second cluster of bad guys in the jungle to the west about a quarter of a mile away. There were about thirty rebels there, gathering for a counterattack; with more area between them and the Marines and a larger count to boot, Turk selected his cluster bombs. The weapons were like dump trucks carrying small packages of destruction; rather than concentrating hundreds of pounds of explosives in a single area, they spread out smaller bomblets, showering the enemy positions.

Turk got another ya-hoo for his efforts.

The air strikes broke the rebels' will. They retreated in confusion and panic, small groups of two and three men bolting through the trees in the general direction of the Indonesian border. The American and Malaysian ground units moved south, capturing stragglers and the wounded. The battle was done. It had lasted less than half an hour.

Back to being bored, Turk blew into his mask. The muscles in his shoulders and his forearms ached, not from exertion but from the almost unconscious tension. His flight suit was damp; he'd been sweating the entire time without even realizing it. It might be a push-button war in a lot of ways, but it was still war; danger waited at the edges, always ready to push its own buttons.

“How's your fuel?” asked Cowboy from Basher One.

“Good,” said Turk, checking the gauges. “I have about an hour before bingo.”

“Copy. Me, too. You fight well, Air Force. So when are you joining the Corps?”

“When are you joining the Air Force?”

“The hell with the Air Force. I want to be in Whiplash,” said Cowboy. The serious note in his voice surprised Turk.

“Really?”

“Hell, man. You bet.”

“It's not as glamorous as you think.”

“From what I've heard, it's even better.”

“I don't know about that . . .”

“I'm serious.”

“I can tell,” said Turk.

“We'll talk about it when we get down.”

Turk started to acknowledge, but Cowboy suddenly sounded an alert.

“Two bogie contacts, bearing 290 degrees, moving like all hell,” said the Marine pilot. “Gotta be the UAVs—looks like our night is about to get a lot more interesting.”