Target Utopia (36 page)

Daela Reef

W
HILE THE
S
ABRES
were light for aircraft, Braxton couldn't bring them all the way to the launch pad on his own. But there was no need—all he had
to do was bluff the four Chinese sailors guarding them into helping him.

“We need to get the UAVs loaded,” he told them, speaking in English first and then Mandarin.

“Commander Wen-lo said to leave them here,” said one of the men in English that was better accented than Braxton's Chinese.

“If you want to go argue with him, go ahead,” said Braxton, holding out his hands. “He's talking to someone in Beijing, and he's pretty pissed. The guy has quite a temper.”

The sailor hesitated, then ordered the others to help. They had the aircraft on small trolleys; pushing and pulling, they took them to the launching area.

The launchers rode rails out from the trees, rising to launch the planes. After launching, they were programmed to prostrate themselves—to Braxton, they looked as if they were begging for more.

He went over and helped the men slide the Sabres onto the launch slots. He would have preferred refueling them—the underground tank had a hose assembly hidden in the foliage a short distance away—but there wasn't time, and he calculated that it wouldn't be absolutely necessary.

“Come on, come on,” he said, directing the men to push the second UAV into position. Only two of the four were working. “You and you, go help!” he barked.

They frowned but went over. As they did, Braxton walked to the edge of the clearing. An oblong
green box sat in the dirt half covered by castor oil plants. He reached in, fumbling until he found the thumb reader.

“What are you doing?” asked the Chinese sailor he'd been talking to.

As Braxton straightened, he raised an AR-15 from the chest. Sweeping the spray, he emptied the thirty-round box into all four men.

One of the sailors, though wounded, didn't fall. Braxton whirled around and grabbed another gun; when he turned back, the man had disappeared.

Cursing, Braxton ran after him. If the man made it to the beach, there would be trouble; already it seemed likely that the wily captain of the PT boat would send someone to check out the gunfire. Braxton was just about to give up when he saw something moving through the brush to his right; he stepped over and put a three-round burst into the man's head.

Blood was gurgling from the back of the sailor's skull when Braxton got there. It was an odd thing to see, unnatural and yet pleasing somehow.

“Back to work,” Braxton told himself, whispering as if someone might overhear. “Clear the air and launch the Sabres, and get in the plane to go.
Go!
The revolution has begun.”

The Cube

T
ECUMSEH
B
ASTIAN SAT
down in the seat at the rear of the Cube's situation room. It was almost déjà vu—he'd been in rooms like this countless times, most especially as the commander of Dreamland.

But it wasn't déjà vu. The room was different, smaller, with less people but even better tech. And his daughter was in charge: confident, mature, moving around with a grace and assurance that shocked him.

It shouldn't. She'd been a well-accomplished pilot even back at Dreamland, and that was years ago now, nearly a decade.

God, he felt so old. He
was
old.

“Are you all right?” asked Ray Rubeo, putting his hand on Dog's shoulder. That was another change—the scientist
almost
seemed human.

He was human, of course, even if he chose not to admit it. He was the last friend Bastian had. Certainly the only one who'd stood by him.

“I'm OK, thanks,” said Bastian.

“It's going to work,” Rubeo told him. “Ten more minutes and we'll be in. It's a rolling key that uses parts of the strand. Thank you. We'd never have gotten it without you.”

Bastian nodded.

“We'll get our aircraft back,” said Rubeo.

“Good.”

“More planes are launching from the island!” said one of the techies down in front. “The signature is different from the earlier ones—could be the Sabres.”

Rubeo hurried over to see. Bastian watched with some satisfaction as his daughter moved slowly toward the workstation. Only a pilot could be that calm when things were going to hell.

South China Sea

T
HE
M
ARINES RECOVERED
the bodies from the water in a matter of minutes. The man who had grabbed and detonated the bomb lost his hands in the explosion; Mofitt was intact, though it was obvious the concussion and internal injuries had killed him instantly.

They carried him to the forward part of the ship, then arranged for the Osprey to pick him up.

“He was a brave man,” said the sergeant. “He got a bad rap.”

“I heard,” said Danny.

“You can't tell what you're gonna do under fire,” added the Marine. “Every time's different. But his impulse here—he saved us. Deserves a medal.”

“Damn straight,” said Danny. “Damn straight.”

T
URK TRIED HAILING
the Chinese pilot whose neck he and Cowboy had just saved, but he refused to respond. At least he wasn't continuing the attack: the J-15 was flying in a wide orbit above the ships.

The four J-15s that had been west were about two minutes away. They, too, were refusing to answer Turk's queries.

A voice with a strong Boston accent came over the radio. “This is USS
McCain
contacting Whiplash Tigershark,” it said. “Can you update us?”

“
McCain
, roger that,” said Turk, responding to the destroyer's query. “Here's what we got . . .”

The
McCain
was the fourth ship in the Zumwalt class, a sleek, tumble-home wave piercer equipped with an array of high-tech gear. Unlike her earlier sisters in the class, the
McCain
was equipped with SPY-3 and SPY-4 radars, exactly as her designers had intended. The powerful dual band radar was “painting” all of the aircraft in the region—except for the ultrastealthy Tigershark, which was too far from the destroyer to be seen by it.

The ship was a little less than fifty miles away, cruising at top speed. The Chinese aircraft were within range of its SM-2 Standard ship-to-air missiles, so when Turk finished the conversation and saw that the Chinese planes had begun to turn back west, he assumed that was the reason. But a few seconds later the Cube told him what was really going on.

“There's been a launch from the island where
the UAVs came from,” said Greenstreet. “These are larger—it's a good possibility it's the Sabres.”

“No shit,” he said, turning the Tigershark in that direction.

W
ITH THE
M
ARINES
evacuated from the cargo vessel, Danny had Guzman take the tug a safe distance away. Though he was a SEAL, Guzman had never served aboard ship, and now joked that he was doing more “Navy stuff” with Whiplash than he'd ever done as a sailor.

Danny was just about to compliment him on his seamanship when Breanna contacted him on the Whiplash circuit.

“More UAVs have been launched from the island to the west,” she said. “The same place where the others launched from. We think they're the Sabres.”

“All right. We'll get over there ASAP.”

“Hold on, Danny. There are two Chinese PT boats on the island's shore, and the four J-15s are headed that way as well.”

“We can deal with them.”

“We're working on a way to get the Sabres back,” she said. “I don't want you to launch until we're ready. There's no sense putting you in danger.”

“The Chinese are weak right now,” answered Danny. “I can deal with a couple of PT boats. And Turk can drive off the fighters.”

“He's low on fuel,” said Breanna. “I want you to hold him back.”

“Understood,” he said, though he wasn't sure he could.

Situation room, the White House

T
HE
P
RESIDENT PUSHED
the button to allow the call to go through. The Chinese premier's face popped up onto the video screen. The bright lights of the Beijing conference room turned his face almost purple. Todd had been in that very room four years before; it was clearly modeled after the CIA situation room shown—incorrectly—on many televisions shows.

It was empty then. Now it was packed with aides.

“Mr. Premier, we have a problem in the South China Sea and there is no reason for it,” she said. “Your forces have interfered with our operations against pirates, who as you now know attacked you as well as us and the Malaysians. We have tried to use restraint dealing with your forces, even after they fired on us. I have to tell you frankly, that restraint will certainly cause me political problems here.”

Actually, anything she did would give her political problems, but she didn't feel the need to detail that. Nor did she give the premier a chance to respond, continuing quickly.

“Pirates have stolen some of our aircraft, and
we are in the process of getting them back. This is a deep and far-reaching conspiracy. They have been helping arm rebels in Malaysia. Several of their robot aircraft attacked your aircraft. Our people tried to shoot them down before they attacked you, but your pilots did not follow our instructions to help.”

“Your drones attacked my country's planes,” said the premier. His English was very good; he didn't need a translator.

“No. Those are not our drones. They attacked us as well. We will provide evidence. We have a common enemy here,” added the President. “If you allow us to continue our work without interference, we will eradicate them.”

One of the aides stepped forward and whispered something to the premier. Todd noticed that the defense minister was sitting with a very glum face on the premier's right.

“Minister Zao, I'm sure you've gotten a report from your fleet by now,” she told him. “You see how capable this enemy is. We can defeat him, but only if you don't interfere.”

The minister pressed his lips together but said nothing.

Todd knew that the Chinese were in a difficult position. While they had a carrier task force within a few hours' sailing time, the UAVs had just proven more than they could handle. With the U.S. destroyer on the way, not to mention the ships escorting the MEU to the east, they were clearly outgunned. And that was without even factoring in the submarine trailing the carrier.

But a conflict, even a lopsided one, would greatly complicate the already thorny relations between the two countries. Todd wanted to avoid that if she could. She also wanted to increase the odds of getting the Sabres and their technology back.

“We will not interfere with your forces if you combat the pirates,” said the Chinese premier finally, reaching forward to end the call. “But this matter is not over.”

“I didn't expect it would be,” she told the blank screen.

Over the South China Sea

F
ROM THE MOMENT
Turk knew that the Sabres had been launched, he was sure he was going to get them back. It didn't matter what he had to do, he
was
going to get them.

“Basher One, I need to go west,” he told Greenstreet. “There are more UAVs in the air. Can you hold here and deal with the Chinese if they get nasty?”

“Affirmative,” replied Greenstreet. “We have the ships.”

“You need a wingman,” said Cowboy. “I volunteer.”

“I'm good on my own,” answered Turk.

“No, take Basher Two,” said Greenstreet. “We'll cover the ships.”

“I don't need a wingman,” Turk told Cowboy.

“I'm not going to argue,” answered the Marine. “I'm just going to watch your back.”

“All right. Stay close.”

The Tigershark was only a little faster than the Sabres, and while fifty miles didn't seem like a lot, they had enough of a lead that—properly exploited—it would be impossible to catch up before his fuel situation got critical.

Turk knew that if he seemed like a threat, they'd come back for him. But the Tigershark wasn't a threat from long-range; it didn't carry any missiles.

The F-35 did, however.

He pressed the mike button to tell Cowboy to fire a missile at the Sabres. Then he hesitated—he was going to tell Cowboy to make himself a target.

Cowboy was a good pilot, but the Sabres were flown by a command system that was the culmination of years of combat experience and flight science. Flying against them was like flying against all of the air aces ever, from von Richthofen to Zen Stockard. And he'd be doing it in an aircraft that wasn't just inferior to them, but wasn't designed to be an air superiority fighter in the first place. Even Turk would have trouble defeating two Sabres at once.

“Whiplash Tigershark—Captain Mako, this is Breanna Stockard,” said his boss over the radio. “What's your fuel state?”

“Uh . . .” Turk knew exactly what she was getting
at, even without looking at the calc screen. “I got plenty of reserves.”

“Turk, I don't want you putting yourself in jeopardy.”

Kind of late for you to think about that
.

“We don't think you have enough fuel,” she continued. “Don't be foolish. It's one thing to take risks. It's another to be . . . to be stupid about it.”

Her voice seemed to crack.

A legend appeared on his main screen:
VIDEO ACCESS REQUESTED
.

Turk enabled it. Breanna's face filled the top left-hand screen.

“Turk, I'm serious,” she said. “You are more valuable than the planes.”

Her face was worn, tired. She was in the main situation room at the Cube, leaning toward the camera at the top of her workstation. If there were people behind her, they weren't visible to the camera.

“I don't want you to sacrifice yourself,” she said when he didn't answer. Her eyes welled up; her voice was soft. “We're working on a set of instructions you can transmit to take over the Sabres, but it may not be ready in time.”

“I'll shoot them down if I have to.”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“Sure it is.”

Breanna's lower lip quivered. She wanted to say something else, but the words were choking her up. “Turk—”

“I got this,” he said. “Sorry, I gotta go. If you get that coding, tell me right away.”

He killed the video.

F
LYING THE
F-35 was pretty much a pilot's dream—it was the newest aircraft in the fleet, arguably one of the best ever made. Getting a chance to sit in the pilot's seat was without a doubt one of the highlights not just of Cowboy's Marine Corps career, but of his life.

So why was he feeling huge pangs of jealousy just staring at the back end of the sleek aircraft Turk was piloting a few hundred yards ahead?

The Sabres weren't visible on his radar yet, but he assumed Turk could see them. He certainly acted like he knew precisely where they were.

Were they going to shoot them down? Or was Turk going to simply “capture” them once they got close?

Cowboy assumed the latter, but he was ready to do combat with them. He assumed it would be even more intense than the furball with the combat UAVs he'd just finished.

Bring it on, he thought. Bring it on!

“Basher Two, do you have the Sabres on your radar?” asked Turk.

“Negative.”

“Do you have AMRAAMs?”

“One,” answered Cowboy. “I have two Sidewinders and my cannon. I'm good to go.”

“We're not going to catch them this way,” said Turk. “I need to get the Sabres to turn back and come for us.”

“Let's do it.”

“I want you to fire your AMRAAM,” said Turk. “It may lure them back.”

“I don't have them on my radar,” said Cowboy.

“If I give you a general heading, can you fire them in bore-sight mode?”

He was asking Cowboy to fire the missile without a lock. While not often done, the missile did have the capability to fly into the general direction of any enemy aircraft and then use its own radar to lock on to the target.

“If that's going to work,” said Cowboy.

“I don't know,” admitted Turk. “Assuming the Sabres react, they're going to come after you. They're going to make you their primary target.”

“Yeah, that's not a problem.”

“They're tough little fighters to deal with,” said Turk. “I'll issue commands to take them over, but we may end up shooting them down. We can't let them fall into enemy hands.”

“Roger that.”

“They haven't responded to the general control signal already, which is . . . bad.”

“Then we'll shoot the bastards down if we have to, right? Isn't that why we're here?”

“That's why we're here. But you're going to be the target once you fire.”

“Yeah, well, you'll nail them if I don't.”

“Stand by for a bearing.”