Target Utopia (33 page)

He was just hopping off the Osprey when Turk's voice, high-pitched with excitement, came over the Whiplash circuit, breaking through the chatter of the search team.

“Whiplash leader, we have company,” warned Turk. “I have eight Chinese fighters on long-range radar. And they are trying to set a new world's speed record getting here.”

South China Sea

B
RAXTON LED
W
EN-LO
down the concrete steps to the bunker where the Kallipolis tech room was hidden. While not as expansive as the one at Gried that he had blown up, it was nonetheless well equipped—and perfectly positioned for what he needed to do.

Wen-lo's greed and hubris would help.

The lights automatically turned on as he approached the door to the bunker. Laser beams scanned his face; once his identity was verified, the door would be unlocked unless he said anything—a precaution against his being forced at gunpoint to let anyone in.

He remained silent until they were inside.

“We have launch facilities on the south side of the island,” he told Wen-lo, steering him down the corridor from the small foyer. “I can activate them from here. And then your men must carry the UAVs into position.”

“Of course.”

The quickness of the answer told Braxton that Wen-lo didn't intend that he would get that far. He adjusted his plan accordingly.

Most of the crew of both boats had come ashore with them. All heavily armed, they followed quietly but quickly, stepping in unison at times so that they reminded him of the storm troopers in the Star Wars series. It made for quite a crowd in the narrow hall.

“I have to ask your men to step back,” Braxton told Wen-lo. “If the computer sees weapons, it won't open.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Computer, open,” said Braxton.

The door stayed shut.

Wen-lo reached beneath his shirt and took out a 9mm pistol. It was a Chinese knockoff of a Glock, one Braxton had never seen before.

“Open the door,” said Wen-lo, raising the barrel of the gun so it pointed toward Braxton's head.

“It won't as long as your gun is out. There's nothing I can do.”

“Do it.”

Braxton took a deep breath. “Open door,” he told the computer.

It stayed shut. Wen-lo pushed the pistol against his temple.

“Don't you think there'd be precautions?” asked Braxton, trying to keep his voice calm. “You've seen the technology we have. You know that we are enemies of the Americans. You think that we are fools?”

Wen-lo pushed the muzzle back and forth.

“The computer is reading my heart rate right now,” said Braxton. “If it doesn't get back down below sixty-eight beats a minute, we're not getting in at any point, whether you have a gun or not.”

That was a bluff, but one Braxton felt he could get away with—as was the caution about the weapons. He had actually thought of instituting such a precaution when he built the system, but decided it might prevent him from bringing a gun into the room when he needed one.

Wen-lo lowered his pistol, then told the others to step back.

“Give your gun to someone before you come inside,” said Braxton.

“No.”

“Then walk to the end of the hall, out of range of the camera, and put it under your shirt. There can only be two of us in the control room at a time. The computer will count the heartbeats.”

“We'll all go in.”

“You don't really think we're going to fit, do you? It's a little closet.” Braxton pointed to the wall. “That panel will open and reveal a glass window. Your men can watch everything. There's a room with a monitor farther down the hall; I'll send a feed there. But you'll see—the room is too small for more than two people. Even two can be a squeeze. It wasn't planned as a conference
room,” he added. “It's just for a pilot. And the aircraft only needs one pilot.”

“To fly two airplanes?”

“To fly a dozen. Two dozen,” Braxton added with a veiled contempt. “What do you think this is all about? That's why you want it, right? You don't give a crap about the UAVs. Drones are nothing. It's the AI, and the distributed intelligence. What these things can do. That's the value. The brains.”

He'd touched a nerve. Wen-lo told his men curtly that he was going in by himself, and they were to watch from the doorway and through the window. After they had moved back and Wen-lo holstered his pistol and pulled his shirt over it, Braxton nodded and pretended to be calming himself.

“OK,” he said, giving the key word as he looked at the floor. “Open door. Please.”

The lock buzzed. Wen-lo pushed ahead of him, entering the control room. Braxton followed.

He hadn't been lying when he said it was small; the main console was exactly six feet long and ran the entire length of the room. Six video screens were arrayed at its head in two rows, with keyboards and two joystick-style controllers. Computing units were stacked around the rest of the room. There was just barely enough room to pull the chair out.

He sat down, then started to reach for the switch that would open the panel on the window. Wen-lo grabbed his arm.

“You want your men to see us or not?” Braxton asked.

Wen-lo let him hit the switch. The panel moved up, revealing the thick window separating the room from the hall.

“It will take a few minutes for the computers to boot up and everything,” he told Wen-lo. “It will get hot in here, too. Listen, we need to get the Sabre UAVs off the boat and onto the launchers. Can you have some of your men do that?”

“Where are the launchers?”

“The south side of the island—the path to the left of the bunker will take you there.”

“How are they launched?”

“I'll show you,” said Braxton, pulling over the keyboard. “First, we need to launch the aircraft that are mounted, so we have room. What are you worried about? You have my man Talbot as hostage. I'm not going to trick you.”

Wen-lo went to the door and spoke to his men, sending four of them away. Braxton moved his hand to the switch that would close and lock the door, hoping Wen-lo would go outside into the hall. But his Chinese antagonist kept it open, his body against the jamb.

All right, Braxton thought to himself as he called up the launching panel on the computer, on to Plan D.

Over the South China Sea

T
URK CONTINUED TO
climb. As the Tigershark passed through 25,000 feet, he noted that the Chinese fighters had separated into two groups, both with four planes apiece. The first, flying on a direct course for the tug and the cargo ship, had just reached 30,000 feet. They were two hundred miles away but moving well over Mach 1; they would reach the area in roughly twelve minutes. The other group, flying to the west, were lower and slower. If they kept on their present course, they would reach a point about fifty miles west of the ships a few minutes after the first group.

Turk could engage the first group, but without the Sabres it would have to be at close range. That would make it difficult to shoot them all down before the other planes were in a position to threaten his guys below.

Of course, he wasn't authorized to shoot anyone. Just the opposite. He radioed Danny for instructions.

“You can intercept the Chinese aircraft,” Danny told him. “But don't fire on them.”

“With respect, Colonel—”

“Those are your orders. If they change, I'll let you know.”

Bullshit, thought Turk.

“Computer, prepare intercept for Bandit Group
One,” he said. “Plot an engagement for all four aircraft.”

“Computing.”

A
BOARD THE TUG
, the team had disarmed two explosives and was working on the last, which would allow them to enter the lowest deck level of the ship. Achmoody estimated it would take ten minutes to get the device disarmed; they would need another five to check the passage for other booby traps by sending a small robot equipped with an explosives “sniffer” down the corridor.

“Don't rush it,” Danny told Achmoody. Then he went back up on the deck to talk to Breanna on the Whiplash circuit.

“The Chinese are coming,” he said as soon as she acknowledged.

“Yes, we see.”

“Can we shoot them down?”

“Only if they are an active threat,” she said. “We're informing the White House now.”

“If we wait until they come, they may be difficult to deal with.”

“I realize that, Danny. If you feel you have to protect yourself,” she added, “do what you have to do. I'll back you up. It'll be on my orders.”

“Thanks,” he said.

A
S SOON AS
Cowboy heard Danny hailing Greenstreet, he knew what was up, and exactly what
Greenstreet would say as soon as the brief transmission ended.

“Basher flight, we're going back,” said Greenstreet a few seconds later. “Three and Four—dump your bombs. We're dealing with Chinese fighters.”

T
URK LIKED THE
fighting ballet the computer had projected, but he also knew it would never work out that pretty.

It had him going head-on against the lead aircraft, nailing it and then taking down the jet on its right wing. From there he was to flip around and take the farthest plane in the group before accelerating to nail the last. Maybe he could get the first three if they didn't react quickly, but there was no way he was going to catch the last plane. Once he saw what was going on, the Chinese pilot would dive and accelerate. Granted that would take him out of the immediate fight—an achievement the computer would find acceptable when diagramming an engagement—but it would leave the American units vulnerable to a later attack.

It was academic, though. Turk had orders
not
to fire.

What to do? It was highly unlikely that they would fall for his flare trick a second time, and besides, they were moving too fast for him to try it.

The only thing to do, he concluded, was climb and wait.

He thought of putting out his landing gear and tossing tinsel out to increase his radar signature
so they could pick him up. It might scare them off, or it might provoke them into turning on their targeting radars. But there was no guarantee they would do either. And it would cost him the element of tactical surprise, which might be of use if he was ever allowed to attack.

The idea of disobeying his orders kept occurring to him. He was trying to get out of Whiplash, wasn't he?

But some part of him just wouldn't let go. Even though he
thought
he knew better, his training insisted that he follow the command of his superior, assuming he still had faith in his judgment.

And bottom line, he
did
trust Danny.

“Recompute intercept at this point,” Turk told the computer, pointing near the ships.

The White House

P
RESIDENT
T
ODD WAS
welcoming a group of schoolchildren to the Oval Office when David Greenwich, her chief of staff, appeared at the door.

It never seemed to fail—just when she was doing something she truly enjoyed, there was an important interruption.

“Now children, I have a question for you,” she told the dozen fourth-graders, all of whom had
come to Washington following a national history competition. “How many would like to be President someday?”

One hand went up, albeit very slowly. Then another, still tentative, and finally the rest.

Thank goodness, thought Todd. Many days no one wanted her job.

“Well, I can't make you President,” she told the class. “But you can see what it is like to sit in my chair. Would you like that?”

The chorus of “Yes!” nearly rattled the walls.

“Teachers, please arrange that. Mr. Devons will help you.” She smiled at the assistant education secretary, who was escorting the group. “Make sure everyone gets their picture taken.”

As the children lined up, the President discreetly walked to the door.

“The Chinese have sent aircraft against Whiplash,” whispered her chief of staff.

Todd led him out into the hall, out of the others' earshot.

“Have the Chinese been warned off?” she asked.

“They're in the process of trying that. They wanted you to know that they may ultimately shoot them down.”

“If that's what it takes,” said Todd.

“You want to call in Senator Peterson and the Speaker,” suggested Greenwich.

“Round up the usual suspects, eh?” Todd smirked.

“The Chinese ambassador has called you twice this morning. I'm sure he won't be silent.”

“Congress will complain one way or another,” said Todd. “We need our technology back. Prepare the situation room. I'll go down for an update as soon as I finish with the children. We don't have to worry about the Chinese—they won't go to war over this.”

“It's Congress I'm worried about. They'll use anything to say you're going beyond your powers. They'll accuse you of trying to start a war.”

“I'll deal with Congress. I know there'll be fallout, David. But better to deal with it over the incident than to lose the technology as well.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the chief of staff.

“If I dealt with China the way the leaders of Congress wanted,” added Todd, “I'd be letting them take control of the world and kill my people in the process. And that will
never
happen on my watch.”

The Cube

R
AY
R
UBEO SAW
the alert from the Navy's stealth UAV and immediately went to the information screen. Four aircraft had just launched from an islet about fifty miles east of the two ships.

They had to be Braxton's.

Rubeo called up a map of the area, zooming in on the little ellipse of sand and overgrown jungle.
It looked very much like the tiny island close to Malaysia where the bunker had been blown up. It hadn't shown up on the geographical match search because it was thought to be outside the range of the UAVs.

Assumptions.

Rubeo picked up the phone that connected him to his New Mexico lab.

“Have we cracked the command coding yet?” he asked.

“Sorry, Ray. We're working on it. It's pretty damn complicated.”

“They're launching more combat UAVs,” said Rubeo. “Can we observe their transmissions and back-engineer the encryption?”

“We're on that but it looks hopeless. We need either the back door or just brute force, which is already what we're doing.”

“Keep at it.”

Rubeo put the phone back down. Breanna was standing next to him.

“They've launched more aircraft,” she said.

“Yes,” said Rubeo.

“Do you think they'll do anything with the Sabres?”

“It's a possibility,” admitted Rubeo. “But if their main intention was stealing, more likely they're using this to cover their retreat.”

“If they were interested in retreating, why launch the aircraft at all?” said Breanna. “We didn't know about this base—they could have hidden there.”

“Yes.” Rubeo nodded. They were missing something.

“Can you take over the planes?” Breanna asked.

“We know how we can transmit, but we can't get around the encryptions they're using. Not yet.”

Pena Gavin, the head of Cube security, entered the room and walked down to the station where they were standing.

“Breanna? Do you have a moment?” she asked. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“It's not a great time—”

“I know, but . . . there's—someone at the gate needs to see you.”

“Not now,” said Breanna, annoyed at what seemed a trivial interruption. The security officer shifted uncomfortably, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “Tell him to go to the Pentagon office,” added Breanna. “I don't have time—”

“It's your father.”