Target Utopia (18 page)

Malaysia

D
ANNY
F
REAH RAN
his hand over his head, mopping off the sweat, as he walked down the rear ramp of the Osprey after landing back at the Marine base. He'd never been a big fan of hot weather, and the wet heat of the South China Sea was starting to get to him.

Captain Thomas was waiting on the tarmac.

“Colonel, a word,” said the Marine officer, in a tone that suggested he was barely holding his temper. He turned and began stomping toward the bunker.

Danny had heard about Turk's fuel problems, and while he would have preferred it if the pilot had contacted him before crossing Indonesian airspace, it was nonetheless far superior to allowing the aircraft to crash. Washington had already rung with the protests, and Danny was sure the heat was being turned on the administration. But he couldn't figure how the fallout had gotten to Thomas—“stuff” might roll downhill, but the Marine ground commander had no role at all in the decision. At this point, the operation was Danny's, and there shouldn't be any “stuff” falling on any of the Marines, let alone Thomas.

Danny sighed to himself and followed along, prepared not only to defend his pilot but to tell Thomas the facts of life, as gently as possible. He
was a good commander; no need for him to get bent out of shape.

Though cleared of major debris, the bunker looked somewhat worse for wear. Several piles of dirt lined the side, and a mangled desktop had been propped against the wall. The Marines had determined that the damage had been done by some sort of rocket rather than a mortar shell. There was no evidence yet about whether or not it was guided, but the direct hit made them strongly suspect that it was.

Thomas had reestablished his “office” in a small corner at the rear. His backup satellite link and other com gear had been set up on a portable table; a laptop was on the floor. It wasn't the most private spot in the world, but the two other men in the bunker were wearing headsets.

“Where did you find Mofitt?” Thomas asked.

“Excuse me?” asked Danny, completely taken by surprise.

“Corporal Mofitt.”

“When, during the attack?”

“Yes. I need to know.”

It had only been a few hours ago, but so much had happened that Danny had trouble recalling the specifics of the incident. “I was running—he hadn't made it to the perimeter forces,” he said. “He—I found him on the ground maybe fifty yards from them. No, I guess it was closer to the bunker, because I brought him back here. Or I started to. That's when we got hit.”

“He had made it to the forces?” asked Thomas.

“No,” said Danny. “I'm pretty sure he didn't get
there. Because they hadn't heard anything when I went back. What's this all about?”

“Mofitt wasn't hurt.”

“Yeah, we were outside of the bunker when the missile or whatever it was hit.”

“Before then. Somebody saw him standing in the compound, frozen, a little while before you came by,” said the Marine captain. “I think he froze under fire.”

“I don't know.”

“I'm pretty sure.”

“He was fine the other day,” said Danny. That encounter was more vivid in his memory. “We had contact, we took fire, he shot back. He seems pretty reliable.”

“I'm going to have him shipped out ASAP.”

“Don't you think that's a little harsh?”

“No.”

Danny mopped the sweat off the side of his head. “What does he say about it?”

“His opinion isn't worth asking.”

“He didn't speak up for himself?”

“I haven't talked to him and I'm not going to. I don't need his side.”

Shipping the kid out was one thing, but not speaking with him was something else. Danny had met plenty of unreasonably hardass officers in his career, but Thomas didn't come off like that. Maybe it was the fact that his people back at the base had been hit hard; very possibly he felt guilty over it.

Danny came around the desk. He didn't want the captain's men overhearing what he was going to say.

“I might dial it back a bit,” he told the Marine. “I'd talk to him first. Sometimes, jumping to conclusions—”

“Maybe you can afford a chickenshit in the Air Force. We're Marines. We can't.”

“I think you're forgetting who you're talking to,” said Danny, still keeping his voice down.

“I'm not questioning
your
courage, Colonel,” said Thomas. “Even if your reputation didn't precede you, I've seen you in action. You got more balls than half my men combined. And I don't have any chickenshits here. At all.”

“I'm just saying you might lighten up and give him a chance to speak,” said Danny. “And not necessarily for his benefit either. You don't want to come off like someone who just jumps the gun on guys. Talk to him, then decide what to do. Your other guys will notice that.”

“What would you do if one of your people froze under fire?”

“First of all, I'm in a slightly different situation.”

“How?”

“All of my guys are Tier One volunteers, with a lot of combat behind them,” said Danny, using the military term for top-level special operations units. Like the Navy's DEVGRU and the Army's Delta Force, Whiplash had extremely high standards and expectations. “But, regardless, if that happened, before I did anything I'd talk to him. If he was good enough to work for me in the first place, then I owe him the respect of hearing his side of the story.”

“
Counsel
him,” said Thomas.

“That's the buzz word, yeah,” said Danny. “But whatever. I don't know that I'd be trying to give him advice, but I'd talk to him. Maybe something happened that I didn't see. That's all I'm telling you.”

Thomas frowned. Danny looked over and saw Walsh walking toward him.

“Colonel, sorry, but I have an urgent message from Ms. Stockard,” said the techie. “I think they got a lead on the base the aircraft flew from.”

P
ATCHED AND LOADED
with a small amount of fuel, Turk took the F-35 from the battered airstrip and headed south to the Marine base. By comparison it looked like a first-class regional airport: the mortar holes had been quickly patched, and there was a controller to welcome him in. The ground dogs waiting at the edge of the tarmac were as eager as any Air Force crew to get the plane back into action; they rushed up as soon as he came to a full stop.

“Thanks for getting my aircraft back in one piece,” said the crew captain. “Course if you hadn't, I'm not sure the boys woulda left you in one piece.”

“I'll keep that in mind next time,” said Turk, pulling off his helmet.

“Ha ha, don't let ol' Gunny spook ya,” said Cowboy, coming up and pounding his back. “Good work gettin' in back there. Boys said you came in with no power.”

“I like to use every ounce of fuel,” said Turk.
Then he turned serious. “Thanks for watchin' over me.”

“Any time.” Cowboy laughed. “The crew would have cut my legs off if I let anything happen to their plane. Although I think they're warming up to you a bit.”

If he was correct, the sentiment didn't seem to extend to Colonel Greenstreet: the squadron leader was waiting for them in the makeshift squadron room/environmental shack/all-around squadron squat. He stared at Turk as the pilot entered.

“What the hell happened out there?” the colonel demanded as Turk began taking off his speed pants.

“We shot down one of the UAVs,” said Turk. “Other one disappeared under the water.”

“Yeah, but what happened to our plane?”

“Basically, it had a hole burned in the fuel tank,” said Cowboy.

“I'm talking to Captain Mako, Lieutenant. Thank you for your input.”

“They said something about it loosening a seam,” said Turk, careful to keep his tone scientific. “The crew chief's gonna talk to some of our tech experts. They're real interested in the weapon.”

“How did you get yourself in that position to begin with?” It was more an accusation than a question.

“He was saving my butt,” said Cowboy. “If it weren't for him, I would've swam home.”

Greenstreet shook his head, then sighed and walked out.

“Glad you're feeling better,” said Cowboy to his back.

“Thanks for standing up for me,” Turk told him.

“Hey, what are brothas for?” Cowboy laughed.

Changing the subject, he said, “You fly against these kind of things all the time?”

“Enough.”

“That's what I want to do,” said Cowboy. “I'd love to get that sort of gig.”

“As a test pilot?”

“Well, you're more than that, right? That's why you're out here.”

“True.”

“That's what I want to do,” said Cowboy again.

“Really?”

“Damn straight.”

“They may be looking for pilots soon,” said Turk. He didn't think it necessary to tell Cowboy why.

“You're just saying that.”

“No, really. I don't know what sort of qualifications they're going to want. But they probably are going to be interested in anyone who's already been in combat. Of course, you wouldn't only be flying F-35s. You probably wouldn't fly them at all.”

“What do you have to do to sign up?”

“You have to talk to my boss, for starters.”

“And you can get me in with him?”

“It's a her,” said Turk.

“Oh, OK. Sorry.”

“I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

“Thanks. Do you think she'd want me?”

“I don't know what they'd be looking for, exactly,” said Turk. “But I'll try and find out. And I'll put in a good word for you.”

“Great. Let's go grab some food.”

Another shoulder chuck started Turk out of the trailer and in the direction of the mess tent. But they'd only gotten halfway there when Danny Freah hailed them down—literally waving his arms to get Turk's attention.

“We have a possible ID on the submarine,” he told Turk. “It's a civilian craft bought in New Zealand six months ago. We'd like you to take a look and see what you think.”

“I didn't see it too well,” confessed Turk. “Did you, Cowboy?”

“I think I can remember it.”

“Come on, both of you.”

“I
T DOES LOOK
like that could be it,” said Cowboy five minutes later. He was down on his hands and knees, face practically pushed into the screen of one of the Whiplash displays. A synthetic radar image of what might have been a small pleasure boat was on the screen.

It might have been a small pleasure boat. Or a submarine along the lines of a Seattle 1000, a luxury civilian submarine made by one of the preeminent companies in the business, U.S. Submarines. An engineer with the firm had studied the image and decided that, while the craft wasn't one built by his company, it
possibly
could be a submarine.

Which was roughly Cowboy's judgment as well.

Possibly.

The submarine had been purchased in New Zealand, supposedly by a Japanese businessman who intended on sailing it to Japan. That was a little unusual, given the length of the journey and the fact that he could have easily had another delivered direct from the States. More unusual was the fact that the submarine did not appear to be registered or docked anywhere in Shikoku province, where the businessman allegedly was from.

But the real reason for Danny's interest was a routine satellite observation photo from a few weeks back that showed the submarine near an island in the area of the Sembuni Reefs offshore of East Malaysia.

The only way to know for certain if the submarine was using the island was to go there. And sooner rather than later. But the Whiplash team was still twelve hours from reaching Malaysia.

That wasn't a problem, as far as Captain Thomas was concerned.

“We have plenty of people for an assault,” he told Danny after watching Cowboy and Turk tentatively ID'ing the sub. “Let's get out there.”

“How soon can you be ready?” Danny asked.

“We're Marines. We're always ready.” He grinned. “We can take off in an hour. Less if you need us to.”

Danny turned to Turk and Cowboy. “Can you guys fly cover?”

“If they let me near a plane,” said Turk.

“They will,” said Cowboy.

“I'll talk to Colonel Greenstreet,” said Danny. “Are you guys sure you're not tired?”

Turk shrugged. Cowboy shook his head. “Like the captain said, I'm a Marine. I don't get tired.”

“Y
OU'RE GOING TO
fly over that island in broad daylight?” asked Colonel Greenstreet. “If they have antiair there, you're going to draw all sorts of fire.”

“The satellite images don't show anything like that,” said Danny. “Even though they're a couple of days old, I think it's unlikely they moved anything in.”

“The photos also don't show your aircraft. Or even that sub,” added Greenstreet.

“True.”

“It's not the F-35s I'm worried about,” said Greenstreet. “It's the Ospreys. They're sitting ducks. You can put an RPG into the side and they'll go down. What you have to do,” he added, “is have the F-35s take a couple of runs and try and suck out any defenses. Then you have the Ospreys come from this end, where at least they might have a chance if someone tries shooting at them.”

“Agreed,” said Danny.

The island was small—maybe ten acres, half of it covered with trees and thick brush. Shaped like an irregular opal, it had a necklace that sprawled from one side—a jagged reef that poked over the waves at several different points and extended for about a half mile.

The working theory was that the sub recovered the aircraft and returned it there for launching. A small rocket engine was attached to the rear of the aircraft, which was then launched from a small gantry like a guided missile. That meant the base could be small and easily hidden in the jungle. Whiplash analysts put the probability of the base being there at only seventy-five percent.