Target Utopia (32 page)

South China Sea

T
HE CAPTAIN OF
the Chinese PT boat was a short, thin man in his early fifties with a wispy moustache. Nearly bald, his forehead bulged forward, and with his head at least a size too big for his otherwise diminutive body, he looked almost like a bobble-head doll. He spoke excellent English, much better than the man who'd handled the bullhorn, and it was clear from his manner that he was not a man to be taken lightly.

“You are a prisoner of the Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy,” he told Braxton after two sailors lifted him aboard his PT boat. “You will comply with my orders.”

“N
h
o,”
said Braxton, saying hello and adding that he and his companion were in international waters.

The Chinese commander ignored Braxton's attempts at Mandarin. “You are in territory claimed by the Chinese government,” he said in an accent that made him sound like a world-weary American. “You are carrying weapons of war. You are now my prisoner.”

A man in civilian clothes stepped out from the cockpit area. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he was in his mid-twenties. But though he was the only man aboard the small boat who wasn't in uniform, he had the swagger of a commander, and even the boat's captain gave him a deferential glance as he came forward.

“You are Braxton,” said the man, whose En-glish pronunciation was as polished as the captain's but several times more energetic. He was tall, and towered over not only Braxton and the boat captain, but everyone else on board, including Talbot. “We have been seeking you out for a long time. My name is Wen-lo.” He smiled and extended his hand.

Braxton eyed it warily, then shook it. The man's grip was strong, firm though not oppressive. Wen-lo stood about six feet tall; the loose sweatshirt couldn't quite hide the fact that he was on the plump side. His skin was very pale, several shades lighter than the captain's.

“I've read your manifestos and admired your work for a long time,” said Wen-lo. “I studied your first papers at Stanford and have followed you ever since.”

If the remark was calculated to make Braxton like Wen-lo, it backfired badly—he hated Stanford and everyone associated with it. He also realized
not only that he was being flattered, but that the flattery was a thin veneer intended to ease Wen's conscience about whatever violence would ultimately follow. Because that was what government goons always did: lied and then forced you to do their master's will.

Nonetheless, Wen's phony eagerness told Braxton there was hope of escape yet.

“It's good that we met,” he told the young man. “We might cooperate in many ways.”

“Yes,” said Wen-lo brightly.

“Right now the Americans are attacking my ships,” said Braxton. “I need them to stop.”

“It's unfortunate that's happening,” said Wen. “But it's none of my business, nor of my country's.”

“You could intervene,” said Braxton.

“That is impossible,” interrupted the captain. “We are under orders not to engage the American force. We can take no action against them.”

Wen-lo responded sharply in Chinese, and the two men began to argue. They spoke too fast for Braxton to understand more than the bare gist of what they were saying. The captain had been ordered directly by Beijing—that part was repeated several times—not to engage the Americans unless fired upon or given orders from the carrier task force. Wen-lo, meanwhile, emphasized that the captain was not in charge of the operation, that he, too, had orders from Beijing, and that he would be the one who decided what was done—even by the carrier group.

“My forces can fight for themselves,” said Braxton finally. “I can use these aircraft.”

“How?” asked Wen-lo.

“I have launchers on the island. I'll turn everything over to you after the attack. As long as my people are saved. Without your intervention,” he added, speaking directly to the captain.

The captain wasn't impressed. He and Wen-lo began arguing again. Wen-lo finally took out a satellite phone.

“You speak Mandarin?” the Chinese boat captain asked Braxton, glancing at Wen-lo.

“Not very well,” said Braxton.

“I hope well enough to realize that I will not be fooled by you,” said the captain. “I know this is a trick.”

“You wouldn't try to get your people freed? If they were attacked, you wouldn't help them?”

“My men will shoot you if you try to escape. We are not friends.”

“I don't want to be friends. Temporary allies is more than enough.”

The captain gave him a sour look.

Wen-lo held the phone out to the captain triumphantly. The older man waved his hand at it, in essence surrendering.

“Proceed to the island,” Wen-lo told the captain, ending his call. “The fleet is going to respond to your distress call and intervene, Mr. Braxton. In exchange, you will cooperate with us to the fullest extent.”

“Do I have any other choice?” asked Braxton.

South China Sea

“W
E GO IN
fast and hard,” Danny told his team of Marines and Whiplash troopers. “They're armed and hostile. If they surrender, good. Otherwise, we do what we have to do.”

There were a few thumbs-up; the rest nodded cautiously. It was a professional response, but Danny missed Boston and his enthusiastic,
Let's do it!

The Whiplash Ospreys, both heavily armed, rode in first, one skimming near the tug and the other toward the bow of the cargo vessel. Orders were broadcast over the standard marine channels and the loudspeakers, telling the captains they were going to be boarded and warning them that force would be met with force.

Danny moved to the side door where the fast-rope apparatus waited.

The team had practiced exiting from the aircraft so many times it was almost like a rote exercise. Muscle memory took over. As he moved to the door, Danny glanced at the machine gunner covering the ship and noted that he wasn't firing; the tugboat at least had surrendered.

He grabbed on and swung down, sliding quickly but under control. The deck pitched as he hit, but he adjusted and landed squarely. He let go of the rope, regained his balance and trotted forward.

Bullets flying or not, it was still a precarious
moment. Taking over a ship was never an easy task. Even in an exercise, things could go wrong. Just a few months ago a promising young Whiplash trooper had broken both legs when he slipped during a fast-rope exercise, and that had been on land.

The teams fanned out quickly, securing the bridge and the forward deck. Making his way up the ladder, Danny heard Achmoody giving terse instructions over the radio. They had prisoners—the men at the stern were being instructed to keep their hands high in the air.

The tugboat captain was standing near the ship's wheel, hands at his side. He was Asian—Japanese, Danny guessed. His spotless white shirt was freshly stained with perspiration under both arms. The lone mate with him—a woman in her forties, Hispanic—stood near the wheel, hands in the air. Guzman was looking over the equipment while Bulgaria and Dalton covered them.

“I am in international waters,” said the tugboat captain. “You are committing an act of piracy.”

“You're under arrest for the theft of U.S. property,” said Danny. “And for assisting the shipping of contraband to a UN member nation. I'm asserting my right to search your ship.”

“You are breaking the law,” repeated the man.

“Hey, dude, you shot at us,” said Guzman. “You're fucked.”

“There were no shots from our ship,” said the captain, addressing Danny. “You had no resistance.”

“We're going to search your boat,” Danny told him.

“You have no authority.”

Not in the mood to argue, Danny told Dalton to search the captain and his mate for weapons, then cuff them. Guzman, meanwhile, had figured out the controls. He stopped the tug in the water, applying just enough of the screw to keep her position steady.

“How many people do you have aboard?” Danny asked the captain.

“I have eight hands, not counting myself. You will find my papers already laid out there, with the log.”

“Small crew for this big a vessel,” said Danny.

The captain shrugged. The bridge was fully automated, and it was certainly possible that the ship could be run with only a handful of people. But Danny didn't quite believe him.

“Dalton, you're with me,” he said as soon as the captain and the mate had been handcuffed. “Guzman, secure those papers and get us closer to the cargo vessel.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

T
URK MADE A
slow circuit above the two ships as the Ospreys rose. The boardings had gone off without a hitch, with no resistance on either ship. He was surprised—given the initial reaction from the cargo container vessel, he had expected a serious gunfight. But apparently the bombs from the F-35s had dampened the crew's appetite for a fight.

They had also killed and injured at least a dozen
people, and started several small fires. Black smoke drifted upward in bunches, angry fists pounding the air.

Turk stretched his shoulders and then his legs. It was far too early to relax—the mission had several hours to run, at least—but it appeared the heavy lifting was over, at least for him. A destroyer that had been with the Marine expeditionary force on the eastern side of the island had just checked in. Tasked overnight to sail west, it headed toward them at flank speed and was roughly three hours away.

Turk checked in with Basher flight. The Marines were flying their own patrol orbit at 5,000 feet, making a large figure eight over the two ships.

“Whiplash Shark, we're all getting close to bingo,” said Greenstreet. “If you've got things under control, we're going back to the base to refuel.”

“Roger that, Basher One,” Turk told him. “Clear skies ahead. Looks like things are settling down.”

“Affirmative. Nice flying,” Greenstreet added.

“Thanks.”

“He's slipping,” said Cowboy. “Took him all of five minutes to get them all.”

“It wasn't more than three, I think,” said Greenstreet.

“You should have let me have one of those bogies,” added Cowboy.

“I was feeling greedy,” quipped Turk. “See you guys later.”

W
ITH THE TUG
secured, Danny left Achmoody in charge of the search and called the Osprey to take him over to the container vessel. While the Marines had secured the ship with surprising speed and ease, the search of the massive vessel was proceeding slowly. Not only did the containers have to be opened and inspected one at a time, but a bomb had knocked out power through most of the ship. Worse, fire had spread to a compartment below the container deck.

The Marines had captured a dozen crewmen. Four more were killed in the air attack and another six wounded. The wounded were being triaged on the forward deck, a few yards from the prisoners, who sat with their hands on their heads, nervously whispering to one another as Danny's Osprey lowered itself to a clear space nearby.

“Most of the crew are Filipinos,” said Captain Thomas, leading Danny to the superstructure a few moments later. “They don't seem to know much.”

“Somebody had to be operating the aircraft,” said Danny. “They can't launch on their own.”

“Maybe, but we haven't found them yet. Ship's intact,” added the Marine captain. “But I'm not sure we're going to be able to put the fire out.”

“I'm going to send one of the Ospreys over to the
McCain
to pick up a skeleton crew,” said Danny. The
McCain
was the destroyer detailed to sail west and help them. “They'll help.”

“Good. This way,” added Thomas, pointing to a set of metal steps that went up the side of the superstructure.
“The captain is a Frenchman, or at least he has a French accent. Won't give his name. Ship's papers say it's Fortine.”

“Fourteen?”

“Spelled F-o-r-t-i-n-e.”

“Hold on.”

Danny stopped and tapped the radio button at the back of his glasses to transmit back to Whiplash headquarters. He gave the name to the desk tech, who told him that Rubeo wanted to have a word.

“Colonel, there were radio transmissions detected from the vicinity of the two ships as the aircraft launched,” said the scientist.

“Yeah, roger that. We're looking now.”

“The signals do not appear to have come from the cargo container vessel,” continued Rubeo. “Looking at the mast antenna of the tug, we believe that it is configured to allow it to control the aircraft.”

“The tug? Really?”

“I would suggest you search both,” said Rubeo.

No shit, thought Danny.

“You gave Betrand the name of Fortine,” added Rubeo. “Be careful with him. He was a French naval captain.”

“Right.”

Rubeo turned him over to another analyst, Jeremy Von Schmidt.

“We've updated the schematic of the cargo carrier,” said Von Schmidt, one of a dozen naval officers helping interpret the intel at the Cube. “We can lead your teams around the fire.”

“Punch that right through to Thomas,” said Danny.

Achmoody checked with an update from the tug: The team had discovered that several of the compartments below the main deck were locked and booby-trapped. They were assessing whether they could be disarmed or blown in place without endangering the ship.

“All right,” Danny told him. “In the meantime, get somebody up to the radio room and send video back to the Cube. We're looking for something capable of controlling the UAVs.”

“Probably in one of those locked-down areas,” suggested Achmoody.

“Agreed—but let's eliminate the other possibilities.”

Danny checked the communications space on the cargo vessel himself. Outfitted with the latest satellite communications and a 4K high-definition television screen that had to be at least seven feet in diagonal, it was big enough to host a sports bar. But the room was almost entirely empty except for a few office chairs and the radio equipment. There were no joysticks or the dedicated consoles that typically were used to control UAVs, let alone the array of servers and other computer gear ground stations generally needed.

Danny sent video back to the Cube, then went up to the bridge to talk to the ship's captain. Fortine was sitting on a chair at the side of the bridge, face pale but with his arms crossed, and even before he answered Danny's questions it was clear he wasn't going to be very cooperative.

“So you're French?” asked Danny. “You served in the French navy?”

“I'm sure you know my entire background,” said Fortine.

“Why did you join Kallipolis?” Danny asked.

“I didn't join—I started it.”

“I thought Lloyd Braxton started it.”

“There were several of us—hundreds,” added Fortine, continuing in an accent that sounded more British than French. The movement was one of historical proportions, he claimed; from the small seed he and the others planted, a massive movement would grow.

“You're a military person,” said Danny. “Usually anarchy doesn't sit well.”

“We don't believe in anarchy,” said Fortine.

“What do you believe in?”

“Freedom.”

“From everything?”

Fortine gave him a sarcastic grin. “If you are willing to open your mind, I will be happy to debate the matter with you. But not at the point of a gun.”

“I'm not pointing a gun at you.”

“But you are armed, and you clearly intend me harm. You attacked my ship—”

“Your ship attacked my aircraft,” answered Danny. “You were warned not to resist. You are in violation of several international laws. Smuggling weapons and providing assistance to rebels and terrorists,” Danny added quickly, seeing that Fortine was about to object. “Your own country voted for the UN resolution forbidding that, and in fact has its own laws—”

“I have no country,” said Fortine. “I have renounced my citizenship. And I am in violation of no laws.”

“Firing on aircraft is certainly against international law,” said Danny.

“Defending my vessel and my crew against pirates is my right, and my duty.”

“What other arms are you carrying?” Danny asked. “Where is your cargo manifest?”

“I showed that to the first officer who entered the bridge.”

“Where's the real manifest?”

Fortine smirked. “Always the government goons play their games and word tricks.”

“You can help us save your vessel from sinking,” suggested Danny, “by telling us what else we have to worry about.”

“I will not assist you in any way,” said Fortine. “You can't hold me. You have no authority.”

“I have plenty of authority,” said Danny.

“Guns, yes.”

“And those, too.”

Danny decided not to bother wasting any more time. Thomas met him on the external ladder as he was going off the bridge.

“We've searched the engine room,” said the captain. “No contraband so far. Nothing that looks out of place.”

Several of the crewmen were eager to talk, but to a man they insisted they were merely hired hands, paid nearly four times the going rate and treated far better than they would have fared ordinarily. They knew nothing of Kallipolis, and while they thought
it was “beyond odd” that they had spent the last several weeks sailing in the same waters, none had seen any UAVs or heard of any plans to attack anyone, let alone Americans. All were shocked when the containers were opened to reveal the launchers.

“What about the guys who tried to shoot down our planes from the stern?” Danny asked.

“They say they were the mates in charge,” explained the Marine who'd taken charge of the interrogation. It happened that his mother was Filipino, and he spoke Spanish with an accent similar to theirs. “I don't know how much to believe them, but none of the dead guys look Filipino. They're all dressed differently, with button-down shirts. For what that's worth.”

“A shirt makes them an officer?” Danny glanced at Thomas, who shrugged. “Any of the wounded talking?” he asked.

“Not about anything important,” answered the interpreter. “Most of them are pretty messed up.”

“See if you can get any information about the tug, about people coming and going, where they've been, that sort of thing.”

“Questioning them that extensively is going to take time, Colonel,” said Thomas. “Much better off bringing them back ashore.”

“As soon as we do that, we have to alert their embassy,” said Danny. “Besides, we're going to be out here for a while longer. How many EOD guys you got with you?”

The unit had four men with explosives or EOD training and experience, though none were technically considered specialists. Danny decided to
leave two aboard the cargo ship in case the search there turned up anything; the other two came back to the tug with him.