Target Utopia (4 page)

Arizona

A
T ROUGHLY THE
same time Danny Freah was running the video of the Malaysian air force's encounter with the unknown UAV, Ray Rubeo was staring at the same image. It was playing in the screen on the left side of his desk; the screen next to it was showing a simulation he had constructed that revealed what he thought the program governing the aircraft's movements was doing. Though he had adapted the simulation from one of his company's own programs, it had nonetheless taken him considerable time to construct.

Three hours.

He was dismayed. Years ago it would have been
less than half that. His brain, he was convinced, was starting to slow down.

There were still several hours before the sun would come up over his isolated Arizona ranch, but Rubeo wasn't interested in sleep. He never was when there was a problem to be solved. And this problem was more vexing than most, the issue of his getting older aside.

He turned his attention to the monitor on the right. It was showing an analysis of the code in the middle screen, computing the amount of resources needed for it to run under various systems. The screen was broken into four quadrants, displaying the performance of four different possibilities. The bottom left assumed the program was in the system originally designed for the Flighthawks, some fifteen years before; the chart was off the scale. So was the one next to it, which displayed the system that had replaced it a few years later.

Rubeo was not surprised. Both systems were primarily intended as backups to a human pilot, and the decisions that the computer had to make in controlling a complex airframe were very primitive.

The top two screens were what bothered him. The left showed the system used by the Tigershark in “guiding” its UAV escorts. The Tigershark was Dreamland's own aircraft, and the system it used to guide the UAVs was the most advanced currently in existence.

According to the program, the maneuvers and the decisions that the computer had to make to
guide the aircraft they had reconstructed at the speed it had flown taxed this system near the breaking point as well. Only the fourth quadrant showed a system that could handle the plane confidently through the complex maneuvers.

It was an experimental system that used custom-made organic processing chips. It had never been built.

He got up from the computers. Rubeo's house was a combination retreat and high-tech lab. Located in a remote area of the desert, it matched his personality—austere and yet at the same time expansive. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, then went out on the back deck.

The wind had died. The clear black sky and sparkling stars foretold a brilliant day.

The abilities of the aircraft were one thing. The behavior was something else. Rubeo's people had pieced together the engagement between the mysterious UAV and the Malaysian Sukhois. There were gaps, but the pattern looked very, very similar to an attack that had been mapped out and preprogrammed for the original service Flighthawks a decade before.

Impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.

Rubeo sighed, and took a sip of coffee.

And then there was this: the material from the fuselage Danny Freah had recovered was made of a carbon-titanium alloy similar to that used in the Flighthawks and the more modern Sabre UAVs. It was the product of a rare and very expensive process, one thought to be well beyond the reach
of the Chinese or the Russians, let alone a third-world country.

If he didn't know any better, Rubeo would swear the UAVs were Dreamland's own.

But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

Back to work,
he told himself, draining the coffee and turning to go back inside.

The “Cube,” CIA Headquarters Campus (Langley)

McLean, Virginia

The next day

D
ANNY
F
REAH RUBBED
his chin as Turk Mako continued speaking. He was more than a little surprised by what he was hearing.

“. . . I just want to go back to being a regular pilot again,” continued Turk. “I never really intended to stay on this duty with Whiplash.”

Half a dozen entries in Turk's personnel file made it clear that was a bald-faced lie.

Danny's office at the Special Projects headquarters was rather large by military standards, a full thirty by thirty feet. Besides his desk there was a sitting area with a couch, chairs, and a large-screen TV. Unlike much of the rest of the bunker, the walls were real, constructed of thick concrete, predating the installation of the energy
beams that walled off most of the interior of the three-story, deeply buried bunker.

Under ordinary circumstances, the office felt massive. At the moment, however, the room seemed absurdly small.

“You don't want to work for Special Projects anymore at all?” asked Danny, paraphrasing what Turk had told him. “You want to go back to the regular Air Force. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. That's it.”

Danny watched Turk fidget. “You want to go back to Dreamland as a test pilot?”

“That's not possible. There are no other slots.”

“You realize Whiplash is short of pilots,” said Danny. In fact, Turk was presently the only pilot; they were seeking funding to expand the roster but it wasn't clear they'd get it.

“Yes, sir. I'll stay until the transition. Whatever you need.”

“You don't want to fly?”

“No. I do, I do.” Turk fumbled. It seemed obvious to Danny that he hadn't thought this out very clearly at all. “I do want to fly. Just not . . . just not here.”

“You've been through a lot, Captain,” Danny told the pilot. “Iran—”

“Iran has nothing to do with it.”

Danny couldn't hide his exasperation. “Nothing?”

“I—I can't work for Ms. Stockard,” said Turk. “That's really the bottom line.”

“You can't work for Bree?”

Turk shook his head.

“Sometimes, when we go through something that's . . . difficult . . .” Danny struggled to find the right words. He knew Turk had been through a lot, and wanted to show him the respect he deserved. But a good part of him wanted to turn the captain around and give him a good kick in the behind—maybe that would get him thinking straight.

“Sometimes after a big battle or some other combat,” said Danny, “we end up with a tough reaction. Difficult. At first. Then, you know, after a little time off—”

“She wanted me killed, Colonel. Damn it.”

“Come on, Turk. That's not fair. That's not what happened.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You're getting a little emotional—”

“If someone sent someone to kill you, what would you think?”

“Stoner was sent to
rescue
you.”

“To kill me. That was the first option. I talked him out of it. And the Delta boys had that same order. Kill me.”

“No,” insisted Danny. In his opinion, Turk's anger was just misplaced anxiety, a delayed reaction to everything he'd been through. “If things had gone poorly, then it was understood that you might not come back. I explained that explicitly to you. And you were good with it.”

“Yeah, but that's not what the real deal was. It was understood that I would be killed.” Turk had started out calmly, but now his face was turning red. “I'd be killed by our own people, under orders. You know it. You know it. Did you give that order, too?”

“I think you need time to think,” Danny said. “I think—you really should have more time off. You've earned it.”

“I don't want time off. I just don't want to work for Breanna Stockard. That's pretty straightforward, sir. And, uh, I know the situation here. But . . . I think I've earned the right to request a transfer, under the circumstances.”

“All right,” said Danny finally. “I'll get the paperwork moving. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime I'm back and ready to work. I can fly today if you want. I passed the physical yesterday.”

Danny got up from his desk. He always thought better on his feet; the blood flowed to his brain.

“Is there a problem, Colonel?” asked Turk.

“It's a little contradictory, don't you think?” Danny walked over to the credenza, where photographs from some of his earlier exploits were displayed. There was a photo of him, Breanna, and Turk after one of their earliest missions. “I mean, you don't want to work for Ms. Stockard, but you want to work.”

“I think that makes perfect sense. I just want a different unit, that's all.” Turk folded his arms. “That's never happened before?”

Danny's eyes scanned the credenza. There was a photo of him and his old mentor, Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian. Then a colonel, later a general. He'd given Danny a lot of good advice, though Danny hadn't taken all of it; he wished he had.

“I'm ready to go back to work, Colonel,” said Turk. “Use me.”

“I do have a possibility of something, but it doesn't involve flying,” said Danny. “I need someone who knows a lot about combat UAVs.”

“I'm your guy.”

“It's not in the States.”

“Even better.”

A
N HOUR LATER
Danny sat down with Breanna over at the Pentagon to discuss just that. It was one of the more difficult conversations they'd had. As usual, Breanna did her best to make it easy.

“I understand his feelings,” she told Danny. “He feels betrayed.”

“That's not fair,” Danny said.

“Feelings rarely are. And it's beside the point.” She smiled. Even if they hadn't worked together for so long, he'd have recognized it as forced. “So what's the solution?”

“I think we give him some space and time to think about it. He'll come around.”

“Fair enough. We'll give him as much space as we can. He can have leave—”

“He doesn't seem to want it. And frankly, I think working's probably the best therapy going anyway. He was supposed to be on desk duty at the Cube for a while,” added Danny, using the slang term for the special operations bunker. “But that would probably drive him nuts.”

“There's no test program at Dreamland for him,” said Breanna. “Not for at least two months.”

“I was wondering about having him come with me back to Malaysia. Assuming the mission is approved.
The duty will be pretty light, and I'll be there to watch him.”

“There's a war going on there. You were almost killed.”

“Gephardt was a fool,” said Danny. “I'll steer way clear of him.”

“If we have to integrate with the Marines and the Malaysians, what's his cover?” asked Breanna.

“Ground flight controller. They use pilots all the time. He's had training. He can actually do the job.”

“It's too close to combat.”

“I don't think combat's the problem, Bree.”

“No, I am.”

Danny didn't have an answer for that.

B
REANNA UNDERSTOOD
T
URK'S
anger. Even though she had given the only orders she possibly could, she still felt tremendous guilt. She had, explicitly, directed that one of her own people be killed if he was going to be captured. Not even the genuine relief and joy at hearing that he was alive could erase it.

Turk was a tough kid and a great pilot. And, at least according to the doctors, he didn't seem to have post-traumatic stress. He'd recovered fully from the light injuries he'd had, and in fact seemed to be in the best shape of his life. But throwing him back out in the field—was that really the best thing to do?

“You're worried that something will go wrong when we're out there?” asked Danny.

“I'm just worried that he's been under a lot of stress,” said Breanna.

“If I didn't think he could handle the job, I wouldn't be recommending him,” said Danny. “And I do need an expert with me.”

“You'll be in constant communication with our experts.”

“It's not the same as having somebody on the scene. Tech is great, but . . .”

“All right,” said Breanna. “Take him.” She reached into the in basket on her desk. “The President authorized the mission a half hour ago. You can take one other technical person, but you're just observers. Keep the lowest profile possible.”

“That's my middle name. Low profile.”

Malaysia

Three days later

D
ANNY
F
REAH AND
Turk Mako stood on the tarmac of a small jungle airport, waiting for the advance element of Marine Task Force Tango-Bravo-Mary to arrive.

If Turk was feeling any hesitation at getting back close to combat, it wasn't apparent to Danny. Then again, he didn't seem to be overly excited either. He was just . . . Turk.

Arms folded, the young Air Force captain
watched the sky as the drone of the approaching aircraft echoed over the nearby mountain range. A pair of F-35B Lightning IIs appeared from the east, flying in low over the treetops. The jets—Marine Corps versions of the standard military multipurpose fighters—had full loads of air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons under their wings. Thundering past, they banked into a turn and circled overhead.

While Danny had seen considerable action with various Marine units over the years, he had never worked directly with an F-35B group before, and he watched the aircraft with some curiosity.

The Marine version of the Lightning II was configured for short-runway operations; it could land and take off vertically, and often was called on to do just that. Vertical takeoffs limited the combat weight the planes could use, which generally meant carrying less fuel, fewer weapons, or both, and so as a general rule the Marines preferred to operate the aircraft with short runways rather than direct vertical liftoffs. The runway they were using here was precisely the reason the Marines had fought so hard to get the aircraft in the first place. Officially listed at some 1,200 feet, its usable space ran just over eight hundred; the northern end had caved in some years before due to erosion and was never properly repaired. Barely as wide as a C-130's wingspan, the strip of concrete had been patched in numerous places with cement and aggregate, and just walking along it Danny could feel bumps and see waves in the surface.

As the jets passed overhead, four V-22 Marine Corps Ospreys appeared over the jungle, flying in a staggered follow-the-leader formation. The closest aircraft had already begun tilting its propellers upward, transitioning from conventional airplane flight to that used by helicopters. The Osprey reminded Danny of an Olympic runner who was spreading his arms wide as he approached the finish line.

The aircraft pivoted above the dense jungle canopy as it came in, sliding into a hover in what could only be described as a well-practiced aerial ballet. The rest of the squadron followed, touching down together in a display that would have wowed many an air show audience. Once down, the Ospreys trundled toward the three trailers at the southern end of the strip. The trailers had been delivered by C-130s barely two hours before. Parked near an old cement building that looked like it dated to British colonial times, they were the only other structures at the base.

The rear ramps of the aircraft popped open and Marines began double-timing down to the tarmac, where they were greeted by the small advance force that had secured the base ahead of Danny two days ago. In less than five minutes a total of sixty-eight men and twelve women were deposited on the ground; the ramps were shut and the Ospreys began heading back into the air. Their takeoff was a notch less coordinated but just as efficient as the landing. All four Ospreys were over the nearby mountain before the F-35s dropped down to land.

“Want to go meet the neighbors?” suggested Danny.

“Be there in a minute, Colonel,” said Turk. “I need to take care of nature first. You go ahead.”

“Be on your best behavior.”

Turk grinned in a way that made Danny wonder if maybe this was a good idea after all.

Two more planes landed as Danny walked over. The head of the air detachment was a short, stubby Marine named Lt. Colonel James Greenstreet. His thick torso and long arms reminded Danny not a little of the orangutans he knew were out in the trees watching them. He had a sunburnt face and a scar above his right eye; these complemented the sort of no-nonsense, no-bullshit manner that Danny had long admired in the typical Marine officer. While it was clear from the way Greenstreet stalked across the concrete that he would never be called easygoing, his quick smile and eager handshake signaled that he was exactly the sort of man Danny wanted to work with, the kind of officer who found solutions and didn't stop to calculate what the effect was going to be on his career. The only thing that struck Danny as out of place was the cigarette Greenstreet popped into his mouth as they began talking; it was rare, these days, to encounter an officer in any service who smoked.

“So where are the Malaysians?” asked Greenstreet after he'd finished introducing Danny and Turk to the small group of officers and senior enlisted who'd come over to care for the planes.

“They're due at the base tomorrow morning,” said Danny.

Greenstreet nodded. “We'll get them sorted. You're going to handle ground coms?”

“Not me personally. I have a captain with me,” said Danny. “He'll train the Malaysians. We met them yesterday. They seem competent.”

“Good.”

“They're going to set up a camp at the south end of the base,” said Danny. “Your Captain Thomas has already worked out the details. He said you have security, but if you need more, the Malaysians can augment you near the hangars and such.”

“Captain Thomas knows what he's doing,” said Greenstreet. “We've trained with him before. And, uh, as far as the locals go: no offense, Colonel, but most of us feel more secure without them.”

“Understood.”

T
URK FOLDED HIS
arms as he walked toward the F-35. Even before he had begun testing new aircraft for Dreamland and Special Projects, he hadn't been a particular fan of the Lightning II. Like a lot of fighter jocks—at least of the American variety—he saw speed and acceleration as the ultimate virtues of an aircraft; the Lightning II was known to be somewhat below average in those categories when compared to the F-22, let alone the hot rods Turk guided. These shortcomings might have been excused, at least in Turk's opinion, if it made up for it with stellar maneuverability. But the plane's weight and configuration made it less than acrobatic.

Turk tried hard not to be a snob. The F-35 had
real assets: dependability, versatility, and a suite of electronic sensors that were at least a generation ahead of anything else in regular service around the globe. But after flying the Tigershark II in combat, it was hard to look at any other aircraft and not think it was a bit of a pig.

His opinion of the Marine aviators who flew the plane was quite a bit higher . . . mostly.

While the fierce service rivalries that once characterized the military were largely a thing of the past, he'd had a bad experience with a squadron of Marines at a Red Flag exercise very early in his career. The Marines—flying F-35Bs, as a matter of fact—had been led by one of the most arrogant SOBs he'd ever met. The fact that the instructors at Red Flag had regularly spanked his squadron's collective butt would have therefore been very satisfying—except for the fact that Turk and his two-ship element of F-22s was regularly charged with flying with them.

His combined unit only managed to beat the instructors on the very last exercise, and that was because the F-22s followed their own game plan, essentially using the Marines to bait the larger group of aggressors.

Different group,
Turk told himself as he walked over to introduce himself.
Give these guys a chance. Not every Marine aviator is a jerk.

And besides, it was their commander who was the A-hole. The rest of them were decent human beings. For Marines.

Two of the pilots, still in full flight gear, were stretching their legs near the wings of the planes.

“Hey!” yelled Turk.

“Hey, back,” yelled the Marine Corps aviator closest to him. Tall for a pilot—he looked like he might be six-eight—he started toward Turk.

“How you doin'?” asked the pilot. He had a southern California twang. “You the Air Force dude in charge?”

“No, that's Colonel Freah. Danny Freah,” added Turk, pointing. “He's over there.”

“I'm Torbin Van Garetn,” said the Marine, thrusting out his hand. “A lot of people just call me Cowboy.”

“Why Cowboy?”

“ 'Cause they think it's funny that a Swede wears cowboy boots,” said the other pilot, coming over. “Don't let his sloppy uniform fool you. He's the best executive officer in the whole damn Marine Corps. My name's Rogers.”

“Turk Mako.”

“So what's your gig, Turk?” asked Cowboy.

“I'm going to be working with you guys as the ground air controller.”

“Cool. You're Air Force.”

“That's what it says on the uniform.”

Cowboy laughed. “My bro's in the Air Force. Tech sergeant. He is stationed in California, the lucky bastard. Gets a lot of surfing in.”

“You're into surfing?”

“Isn't everybody?”

“Cowboy!” shouted a voice from back near the planes.

“That's our C.O.,” said Cowboy. “Kind of, uh,
well, I'll let you form your own opinion.” He smirked.

“Cowboy. What are you doing?” said the commanding officer as he walked toward them. His tone wasn't exactly friendly. “Is your aircraft squared away?”

Cowboy winked at Turk, then spun around to meet his boss. “Not yet, Colonel. Just making the acquaintance of our Air Force liaison.”

“Well get your aircraft taken care of, then deal with your social duties.”

Turk braced himself. The snarl of a commander a little too full of himself was universal, but the gait seemed not only unique but all too familiar.

No way, he thought.

But it was—the C.O. of “Basher” squadron was none other than Lt. Colonel James “Jocko” Greenstreet, the man who had commanded the F-35s at Red Flag.

Of all the stinking bad luck.

“I'm Lieutenant Colonel Greenstreet,” barked the pilot, stopping about ten feet from Turk. “Who are you?”

“Turk Mako.” If Greenstreet didn't remember him, he wasn't volunteering the memory.

“What's your rank?”

“I'm a captain.”

Greenstreet frowned in a way that suggested an Air Force captain was too low for him to waste breath on.

“We'll brief when we have our aircraft settled,” said Greenstreet.

“Can't wait,” said Turk as the colonel strode away. He couldn't tell if Greenstreet had recognized him and didn't think it was worth acknowledging, or if he was simply extending the same warm and fuzzy feelings they'd shared at the Air Force exercise.

“You meet the Marine squadron leader?” asked Danny, walking over.

“Jocko Greenstreet,” Turk told him. “Lieutenant colonel. Real piece of work. Don't call him Jocko,” added Turk.

“You know him?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Turk explained.

“I assume you'll keep your personal feelings to yourself,” said Danny.

“Absolutely,” said Turk. “I'm sure he will, too—not that it will make any difference at all in how he behaves.”

T
WO HOURS LATER
Danny, Turk, and Trevor Walsh—the Whiplash techie who was going to handle the local monitoring gear—joined the Marine Corps pilots and some senior enlisted men in one of the trailers for a presentation on the UAV.

“This is what we're interested in,” said Danny, starting the briefing with blurry images of the UAV in action. “While your primary mission is still to assist the Malaysians, we appreciate any help you can give us. We're very, very interested in finding out what exactly this UAV is and who's flying it. We expect that it may fly into your area.”

“You ‘expect,' or it will?” asked Colonel Greenstreet sharply.

“I can't make any prediction,” said Danny, who didn't mind the question or the tone. “Unfortunately. But when the Malaysian air force had its fighters on the western side of the island, it appeared.”

“Would have been nice if they told us before deploying us here,” said Greenstreet.

“That wasn't my call,” said Danny.

“We've flown on the eastern side for weeks,” said Greenstreet.

“Cowboy says he saw a flying monkey,” joked one of the Marines from the back.

“I did,” laughed Cowboy.

“Enough,” said Greenstreet, immediately silencing his men.

Danny clicked his remote, bringing up a few slides of the fuselage that had been recovered, then the artist's renditions. He detailed the two sightings, with map displays, and reiterated what had happened to the Malaysian aircraft that had attempted to engage it.

“We're not exactly sure that it was the UAV that shot anything down,” said Danny. “Not to denigrate their flying but—”

“We've seen 'em,” said Cowboy. “You're not denigrating anything.”

This time Greenstreet didn't bother stopping the snickers.

“Nonetheless, ground fire can't be completely ruled out,” said Danny. “And while the flight patterns
suggest
a combat UAV, we have no hard evidence.
That's why we're here,” he added. “Myself, Captain Mako, and Mr. Walsh, that is.”

“The Malaysians aren't exactly the best pilots in the world,” said Greenstreet. “But I'd expect them to know what type of aircraft they were dealing with. And how many. One seems ridiculous.”

“Exactly,” said Danny. “But whether it's one or ten or whatever, that unknown aircraft is pretty fast and highly maneuverable.”

“And you're sure it's a UAV?” asked one of the Marines.

“It's too small to be manned, as far as we can tell,” said Danny.

“Where does it launch from?”

Danny shook his head. “Don't know that either. We have elint assets coming on line,” he added, referring obliquely to a specially built Global Hawk that would pick up electronic signals. The aircraft was due in the area in a few hours. “Like I say, we're here to fill in the blanks, and there are a lot of blanks.”