Target Utopia (12 page)

Malaysia

D
ANNY HADN'T SLEPT
in close to forty hours, and while that was nowhere near his record, he was so tired that his arms ached when he raised them. Rubbing his eyes, he refilled his coffee cup, then walked to a table at the far corner of the mess tent. Pulling his tablet computer from his pants pocket—the machine and its seven-inch screen fit snuggly, but it did fit—he sat down, pressed his thumb on the reader and stared at the camera just long enough for the retina scanner to ID him and show the password screen.

It took two tries and three sips of coffee before he got the password in right; the screen popped to life and he started scanning his secure e-mail.

The first message was from Breanna: the Tigershark and the ground team were en route, due to arrive within twenty-four hours, as was another surveillance aircraft. They would operate
out of Sibu airport, about ninety miles north of the Marines in an area considered far less open to guerrilla attack.

The next e-mail was from Breanna and Reid, a formal authorization allowing Danny to call on the Marines for help in an assault on any base believed to be harboring or controlling the UAVs. It included the name of a Pentagon official who had been tasked as a liaison. This was a bit of bureaucracy Danny didn't particularly care for—in effect, a general several thousand miles away had been assigned as a gatekeeper and de facto impediment to the people who were actually on the scene.

Breanna had clearly anticipated that Danny would object to this, and added two sentences to the effect that, once the overall plan was agreed to, General Grasso could be consulted if there were additional roadblocks.

The general is a facilitator only,
Breanna wrote. Danny had to smile—he could hear her saying that in his head as he read the words.
But keep him in the loop.

“Hey, Colonel.” Turk sat down across from him, a tray full of fresh bacon, scrambled eggs, and potatoes in his hands.

“Where'd you get the chow?” Danny asked. “I thought the kitchen was closed.”

“Cowboy's friends with the cook. Want some?”

“Sure.”

“Take mine. I'll be right back.”

Turk was up and gone before he could object. Danny spun the tray around but waited until he
saw Turk returning from the kitchen area, a big grin on his face and an even heavier tray in his hands.

“These Marines know how to take care of their people,” said the pilot, plopping down. “Even found me a cinnamon roll.”

“You joining the Corps now?” joked Danny, digging into his eggs.

“I might. If they always eat like this.”

Danny thought of bringing up Turk's request for a transfer but decided this wasn't the time. He scanned the rest of his e-mails quickly; they were routine reports on training and procurement, nothing exciting, even if they were critical to the operation of the ground team. Whiplash was in the middle of an expansion program and so many details had to be taken care of that Danny needed another administrative aide. In fact, he'd already been approved for one, but had simply not been able to find the time to begin interviewing.

“So, any word from Washington?” asked Turk after Danny shut the tablet down and put it aside.

“Whiplash Team Two and the Tigershark will be here in twenty-four hours,” said Danny. “We have other surveillance assets en route. I want to set up an assault plan that will let us go in as soon as we know where they're flying from.”

“Great.”

“Which means you should be getting some sleep,” added Danny.

“Yes, Dad.”

Danny smiled sardonically. He was tempted to give Turk a lecture about the need for him to be
in top condition mentally and physically, but held back; he didn't like being a hypocrite.

“What do we do in the meantime?” asked Turk.

“You're going to sleep.”

“The Malaysians have another platoon coming up this morning,” said Turk. “They have a target to hit tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“They managed to get some intel off one of the prisoners. They want to keep up their momentum. They think they have the rebels on the run.”

“Where's this target?”

“They say there's a village about twenty miles southwest of where they were that the rebels are using. It's close to the border with Indonesia. It may even be over it.”

“If it's over the border, we're not helping them,” said Danny. He didn't add that they might not help in any event; the UAVs were now the Marines' top priority as well as his.

“Captain Deris says he knows. They're going to deal with it themselves, if they have to.”

“Can they handle coms with the Marines?”

“Captain Deris can talk well enough to get a target nailed down. Thing is, Colonel, the Marines may not be able to support them at all, even if the target is approved,” added Turk. “Colonel Greenstreet is out with the flu, and so are Rogers and Haydem.”

“I knew about Rogers,” said Danny, “but not the others.”

“Both of the guys were throwing up like crazy in the air. Only Cowboy's good to go.”

“So the Malaysians have to go without air.”

“If necessary,” said Turk.

Danny suspected that Turk was hinting that he should go, but he didn't rise to the bait; he wasn't sure whether he wanted him to or not. “Can the Marines get other pilots in from the assault ship?”

“They're heavily committed at the eastern part of the island. Big assault under way. I had an idea,” Turk added. His voice dropped a few decibels; Danny had to lean closer to hear. “I was thinking I'd volunteer to fly with them.”

“I don't know, Turk. The colonel wasn't crazy about you flying earlier. He's kind of proprietary.”

“Is that a new word for a jerk?”

“Even so—”

“Cowboy's all for it. And it makes a lot of sense—if the UAVs come back, we'll be able to shoot them down.”

“In the Tigershark, not an F-35B.”

“I could shoot them down in a Fokker triplane,” said Turk.

Danny was no pilot, but he recognized the aircraft as a WWI fighter. He also recognized Turk's statement as typical fighter jock bluster—rare in Turk, though not in the breed.

“I'd prefer to wait until the Tigershark gets here,” said Danny. “And I have the rest of the team in place.”

“What happens if the UAVs come back?”

“We'll take that as it comes.”

Turk rose without saying a word.

“Get some sleep, Captain,” said Danny sharply as the pilot sulked away. “That's an order.”

T
URK STALKED OUT
of the mess tent, angry with himself as well as Danny. He'd gone about asking to fly on the mission all wrong, dancing around the subject until the very end, and then blurting rather than calmly laying out all the reasons he should.

The hell with it.

Cowboy met him a few yards from the tent.

“What's he say?” asked the Marine.

“That I should go to bed.”

“No shit.” Cowboy laughed.

“We have more assets coming so the operation is in a holding pattern,” Turk said, trying to calm down. “And the colonel's worried about the border.”

“We aren't going over the border. I can guarantee that.”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe I should talk to him,” said Cowboy. “I'm definitely doing that mission. Greenstreet's OK'd it. And I need a wingman.”

“Good luck.”

“What are you going to do?”

Turk shrugged and stalked off.

If he'd been in any other place in the world, Turk probably would have hit a bar. He thought of calling Li but decided not to. He'd have to explain why he was mad and would probably end up sounding like a cranky baby. And besides, talking to her would only make him miss her more.

Frustrated and bored, he headed back to his room in the trailer, where he took out his e-reader to read a book on World War II.

He fell asleep within five minutes.

“T
HE THING IS
, Colonel, I don't one hundred percent know that I'd survive another encounter with the UAVs,” Cowboy told Danny. “I do know I wouldn't have made it out of that last one without Turk telling me what to do.”

“I agree Turk is a great pilot,” said Danny. “It's a question of priorities.”

“The priority is getting information on the UAV, right? You're not going to be able to do that if it shoots me down.”

“I'm sure that would give us plenty of information,” said Danny sarcastically.

“Maybe.” Cowboy smiled. “That was a bad example. I'm just saying, we need another pilot, there's another pilot here. It would be great if we could use him.”

“What'd Greenstreet say about it?”

“Haven't asked him yet. Figured there be no use dealing with him unless you were good with it.”

“I'll take it under advisement,” said Danny. “When I know about the Malaysian plans. And when your squadron commander says
he's
good with it.”

“Great!” Cowboy jumped up from the table. “Thanks, Colonel.”

Why do I think I've just been had? wondered Danny.

Offshore the Sembuni Reefs

T
HE SECURITY ENCRYPTION
and procedures Kallipolis employed imposed a significant performance penalty on real-time communications; it split the video and audio streams, and so there was always a slight delay between the video and the sound during the best of times, and at sea the additional security and network overhead made it even worse. It was so bad tonight that Lloyd Braxton had to look away as Church Michaels spoke; the audio was nearly a full second ahead of the visual.

“You shouldn't have launched the attack,” continued Michaels. “We aren't prepared.”

“I have four bases. I have a dozen aircraft. I have ships, I have submersibles. We're making more UAVs and weapons. I need the structures for the distributed intelligence units. When do I wait for? The next millennium?”

“The involvement of the Dreamland people makes things much more . . . difficult,” said Michaels. “They're not going to back down. It's a vast escalation.”

“On the contrary. The fact that they're involved means there will be no escalation,” said Braxton. “And besides—they are the ones who have the computing technology. This is the best way to get it. And we need it. Or else we have to hire an army and become a government. Which none of us want.”

“I don't see them backing down.”

“You're in the Ukraine. I doubt you have much to worry about.”

“The bribes are killing me.”

Braxton snorted. Michaels had sold his carbon-fiber fabrication business to General Electric for roughly $3 billion worth of GE stock. He had numerous other investments, and had bankrolled at least one black hat hacker operation specializing in credit card theft. He could certainly afford whatever trivial amount the authorities were holding him up for; it was cheaper than legitimate taxes.

“You have all these high-minded ideals,” countered Michaels, obviously wounded by Braxton's response, “but how much of this is because you had the hots for Jennifer Gleason and she dissed you?”

“She never dissed me. Ever. Bastian did. Him and Rubeo. Rubeo was the real problem, the sexless prick.”

“I'll take your word for it,” said Michaels, calling a quick truce. “Rubeo was always decent to me.”

“You met him twice.”

“Do you really think you can control 30 May? They're Stone Age crazoids. They don't just believe in God, they think He talks to them through the Koran. Give me a break.”

“They're useful. For the moment. As I say—we either get the technology that allows the machines to work together or we hire an army. Which do you want?”

The arrangement with the rebels was based solely on mutual convenience, and Braxton put no trust in them. True, when they started, he had
hoped to carve out a refuge here in Malaysia, a place Kallipolis could use as its physical base. But after a few months it had become obvious that neither the rebels nor Malaysia would be suitable in the long term. Even if the locals could be dealt with, the Chinese were too active. Apparently aware of some of the technology Braxton was exploiting, they'd tried to infiltrate the rebel network and even reached out through intermediaries to make a deal. Braxton would have nothing to do with them; they were even worse than the Americans.

“What are you going to do if the U.S. sends more than a few Marines?” asked Michaels.

“What we're doing now. We bloody them, and we do it publicly. The President will back off. Her approval rating is sinking. She has all sorts of problems. Don't fret, Christopher. As soon as I have one of the Sabres, I'm gone and on to the next phase. As planned.”

“I say, get the ships, get everything the hell out of there. That's the best bet. We don't need this fight. We have all the freedom money can buy. That's what we need.”

“What?”

“You heard me. We don't need this. This—it's a pipe dream.”

“What happened to your ideals?” asked Braxton, truly shocked. Michaels had been one of his most fervent backers from the beginning.

“I still have them.” Michaels's mouth moved for a moment, finishing the sentence. His eyes were intense, but something had changed.

“You're getting married,” said Braxton. “You've decided.”

“We're not going to a government, or a church,” said Michaels. There was the faint hint of a smile on his face. “But we are making a commitment. To each other.”

“That's very nice.”

“Thank you.” Michaels didn't pick up on the sarcasm.

“I'm going ahead as planned. I'll see you in Kazakhstan in six weeks. We can discuss your future involvement then.”

Braxton knew there would be none, but it made no sense to declare that now.

“I can't talk you out of this?” asked Michaels.

Braxton frowned, and hit the kill switch, ending the conversation.

Love, he thought bitterly to himself. It was a worse opiate than religion.