Target Utopia

1

If the encounter with the Chinese aircraft had softened Greenstreet’s attitude toward Turk, it hardly showed once they landed. All three pilots debriefed the mission together, recording what had happened and filing reports and mission tapes; under other circumstances the squadron leader might have been expected to put in a few words of encouragement if not praise for the pilots he was flying with, but Greenstreet did neither. Not that he said Turk or Cowboy did poorly; he just didn’t comment. But that was the way he was — Cowboy seemed surprised when Turk brought it up on the way back to the trailers.

“He’s not a rah-rah guy,” said Cowboy, shrugging.

“I can see that,” said Turk.

“Flies damn well,” said Cowboy. “Guy you want on your back in the shit.”

“Sure. He could be a little more cheery about it, though.”

“I think he’s pissed that we weren’t allowed to engage the bastards,” added Cowboy. “You could have shot them down.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just too much, Air Force. I heard your voice — you were dying to take those guys out.”

“Maybe, I guess.”

Cowboy laughed. They’d reached the trailers. “You can admit it. It’s our job.”

“True.”

Cowboy gave him a shoulder chuck that nearly sent him into the wall. “Catch you later,” he said, sauntering off to his room.

Twenty minutes later, lying on his cot drifting toward sleep, Turk thought about what Cowboy had said. Was he right? Had he been itching to take the other pilots down?

Maybe he had.

What was wrong with admitting it? Was he worried that it would make him seem too cold-blooded?

He’d been in combat before, killed people, on the ground and in the air. He wasn’t jaded about it, or complacent; he didn’t take it lightly. It was, as Cowboy said, his job.

And his duty. Just as it was his duty this morning not to shoot.

Turk’s head floated between sleep and consciousness. He’d never angsted over his job before, and the whole idea of whether he should like shooting down people hadn’t really occurred to him. Or if it did, it hadn’t been something he spent a lot of time worrying about.

Not that he was worrying now.

I need sleep, he told himself. Enough of this.

And just like that, he dozed off.

Six hours later, refreshed by a nap, Danny Freah took one of the Ospreys to Tanjung Manis Airport to meet the incoming Whiplash MC-17. Located near the northeastern coast, the civilian airport was virtually deserted. The MC-17 had just come in, carrying not only the Whiplash troopers but the Tigershark II and eight Dreamland aircraft specialists. After unloading the diminutive Tigershark, they were waiting for a second cargo plane carrying four escort Sabre UAVs.

“There’s a sight for sore eyes!” said Chief Master Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland, striding toward his boss as he hopped off the Marine Osprey.

“How was the flight?” asked Danny.

“Wouldn’t know, Colonel. Slept the whole way.”

“How’s the team? Will they be able to go out on a mission tonight?”

“Try and hold them back. What do we got?”

As always, Boston’s enthusiasm energized Danny. The chief master sergeant was a short, pugnacious, and high-energy veteran. Once one of the few African-Americans trained as a parajumper, Boston had mellowed a bit around the edges over the years — and lost most of the hometown accent that had given him his nickname — but he was still the sort of combat leader Danny found indispensable on an op. He filled Boston in on the latest intel from the Cube: two new bases had been located; each had underwater gridwork similar to the site Danny had been to earlier. One seemed to have been abandoned recently, the other was much farther north, in territory watched over by the Chinese. There was an old merchant ship there, with six Filipino marines who’d been parked there in a somewhat quixotic attempt by the Philippines to stake a claim to the territory.

“The Filipinos are helping them?” asked Boston.

“Officially, no,” said Danny. “But they talk to them once a day. No one seems to be sure what’s going on out there. That’s why we have to take a look.

“And there’s the Chinese,” added Danny. “Their carrier task force has moved south, closer to that site. What their interests are, no one seems to know. They sent a pair of planes to check us out earlier, then skedaddled when the Marines got tough.”

“Smart move on their part,” said Boston.

“What I’m thinking is we use our Marine friends to hit the island I think was abandoned,” said Danny. “They go in with their Osprey and support aircraft. Meanwhile, we do a night HALO jump from the MC-17 onto the merchant ship, check it out. We have Turk and the UAVs to back us up, and we run the Ospreys for firepower and to get us out.”

“We need permission from the Filipinos?”

“I don’t think asking them what’s up is a good idea,” said Danny.

“How heavily armed are they?”

“We don’t know. The only weapons we’ve seen on the old merchant ship are M-2 machine guns. Ma Deuces,” added Danny, using the American nickname, “probably from World War Two. I’d expect they still work, though.”

“What about the guys with the UAVs?”

“Not clear.”

“But their planes had a laser,” said Boston.

“That’s right. There may be all sorts of defenses. We have to be prepared for anything.”

A roar in the distance announced the pending arrival of the two Whiplash Ospreys. They had rendezvoused north of the island just an hour before. WhipRey One came down from Okinawa, where it had been parked since Danny’s first mission here. The second had flown all the way from Hawaii, a trip that involved nine in-air refuels and just under eighteen hours of straight flight time. Though flown entirely by computer, two full crews had accompanied the MV-22/W aircraft from Hawaii; both aircraft would be fully manned for the op.

“So how do the UAVs operate off a reef?” Boston asked.

“We’re not sure.” Danny shook his head. “They seem to have some sort of launching system that can be easily hidden — one of the theories is that’s like a rocket. I’m afraid this is one case where we’re going to have to play it by ear and see what happens.”

“One case?” Boston rolled his eyes. No Whiplash mission was ever straightforward, by conventional standards.

“I’m not worried about the UAVs,” continued Danny. “Turk seems pretty confident that he can handle them.”

“I’d bet on that.”

“We want the guys who are behind this. And they have to have some large computer operation somewhere.”

“One question, Colonel — UAVs, small submarines — sounds almost like a Dreamland setup.”

“You don’t know how right you are, Boston.”

2

She was there in the dream as she always was, long hair draped back behind her ears, eyes penetrating, her smile so casual and confident. She was as tall as him, though that didn’t say much. Braxton stood only five-six, his height an issue and an impediment when he was young — and surely an issue in his personality, a reason he felt the need to prove himself to every human being he met, except Jennifer Gleason.

In the dream, he saw her get up from the console in the Dreamland operations center, tired after watching the progress of a long night’s experiment. She walked toward his station, then leaned over his shoulder. He felt her warmth in the cool room, the light press of her breast against his back.

“Man is meant to evolve,” she said. “To become free. The best and the brightest must throw off the shackles that hold them. Governments are oppressive…”

A loud buzzer brought Braxton from the dream.

Jennifer Gleason had never spoken like that to him, and never would have; she was the most apolitical person in the world. But the first part of the dream, of her getting up and walking toward him, that had happened. That was real.

Human minds were hopelessly tangled and easily confused.

How much of what he wanted was due to Jennifer, and not the philosophical underpinnings of Kallipolis? Was he just motivated by unobtainable lust?

Braxton had contemplated the question at great length. He was certainly devoted to Jennifer Gleason’s memory, far more than anyone. Part of that was due to the beauty of her work — the AI constructs, the melding of hardware and software, the very basis of the brains that flew the Flighthawks and their prodigy: it was beautiful work, so far advanced for its time that it still wasn’t completely appreciated, even though the basic architecture was embedded in every combat UAV currently in the fleet.

Braxton had built on her work, and understood it like no one else, with the possible exception of Ray Rubeo. But just as Jennifer had surpassed Rubeo, building on his insights, Braxton had surpassed her.

So it was lust and obsession, but on some higher plane — something worthy of Kallipolis and the future of the elite.

“More work to be done,” he said aloud, rising from the chair where he’d fallen asleep. “Enough self-flagellation. Work. That is the only useful purpose a mind can be put to.”

Even though the words were his, in his head they echoed with her voice.

What a strange construct, the brain.

3

Walk? Or run for President?

Zen stopped his wheelchair at the middle of the Vietnam War memorial. He always felt deeply humbled here, as if he were physically as well as symbolically in the presence of so many brave Americans who had sacrificed their lives and futures for their country. In his mind, their sacrifices made his look petty.

He had, it was true, done many heroic things. But he hadn’t traded his existence on earth for his country. On the contrary, he had lived a great life — not one without tremendous hardships, but a bountiful one nonetheless.

He hadn’t discussed running for the presidency with Rodriguez, but it was clear from what the scientist said that were he to undergo the operation and rehabilitation, he wouldn’t have the time to campaign. In fact, he might even have to give up his Senate seat.

He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do that. Between walking and being a politician — walking was better.

But President?

If he were President, he could get important things done. He could take care of the military, improve veterans’ benefits — especially for the wounded and disabled. It wouldn’t be easy — being in the Senate had taught him that. But there was still a lot more that he could do. He could have a lasting effect on people, on the country.

On the other hand, he really, really, really wanted to walk again. Just the notion of walking down the aisle with Teri when she got married — how fantastic would that be?

Unbelievable.

In the years after the accident, he’d tried and tried to get his legs back. He’d always thought he would. Gradually, he had come to accept who he was. Accept that he was limited physically.

He’d never been limited mentally.

If the experiment worked, it would help others as well. His medical history made him the perfect candidate from a scientific point of view, but it was even bigger psychologically: if someone who had been crippled for so long regained the use of his legs, how many other lives would that affect? Wouldn’t that be even more tangible to them than what he might do as President?

If he even got the nomination. There’d be no guarantee. Mantis would be a very formidable opponent. And then there was Jason Hu, and Cynthia Styron from Wyoming — who would be an excellent President, even if she was probably a long shot for the nomination.

He’d certainly have to do things he didn’t want to if he ran. Beg for money. Compromise on his principles. Not big compromises, not at the start. But eventually. That was politics. He hadn’t given up his principles in the Senate, and he was well respected by both sides for that. But as President…

“Uh, Senator, you wanted to be at that reception,” said his driver, who’d come down to the monument with him. “We are, uh, running pretty late.”

Zen broke himself from his reverie.

“Let’s go, James,” he said, wheeling back from the wall. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

4

Getting into the Tigershark after flying the F-35 was like trading a well-appointed F-150 pickup for a sleek little Porsche. It wasn’t just the size of the cockpit or the fact that the Tigershark’s seat slid down to an almost prone position once he was aboard. The aircraft was designed for an entirely different purpose than the F-35. Not needing to be all things to all people, it was optimized as an interceptor — small and quick, highly maneuverable in any imaginable regime, carrying active and passive sensors that could detect an enemy well before it could be detected. The plane was also optimized to work with UAVs — the Sabre drones, combat-optimized aircraft scheduled to replace the Flighthawks in the near future. The Tigershark and the Sabres shared their sensor data in much the same way that the F-35s did, but had the additional advantage of being able to tap into the Whiplash satellite communications network, and from there into a vast array of American military data worldwide.

Turk went through the computer’s preflight checklist quickly, making sure the aircraft was at spec after its long trip west. The flight computer happily complied, checking off each box with an audible declaration of “Green.” The intonation that suggested there was no possible way the condition could be anything other than perfect.

The Tigershark was not a STOL aircraft, but its small size and powerful thrust allowed it to get off the runway at Tanjung Manis in only 2,000 feet. Turk rocketed upward, stretching his muscles — the change in aircraft was as physical as it was mental, his body adapting to the beast’s feel.

“Go to twenty thousand feet, on course and at speed as programmed,” Turk told the computer. He had loaded a memory chip with the outlines of the mission prior to takeoff. The chip included a backup of his personal preferences — the cockpit temperature, the precise angle of the seat, along with some of his favored preset maneuvers. Some of this was already programmed into the aircraft’s memory, somewhat like the driver’s setting in a car would be, but the designers had felt it should have a backup that could be easily changed if a new pilot was at the helm.

Turk’s path took him west over the ocean, where he would rendezvous with the Marines. Basher One and Two had just taken off from their forward operating base. The Marine squadron was now back to full strength, with its pilots recovered from the stomach flu, and the aircraft that had been damaged by the laser fully repaired. Danny and Greenstreet had opted to keep two of the planes in reserve; the rebels’ recent propensity to attack while the planes were gone could not be taken lightly.

Turk’s plane flew between the four Sabres in a two-one-two formation — two Sabres about five miles ahead of the Tigershark. The forward aircraft were spread a bit wider than the back, with 5,000 feet separation in altitude. The formation was arranged to provide not only a wide sensor field but also mobility for combat.

“Basher One, this is Shark,” said Turk, checking in with the Marines. “I’m about zero-two from rendezvous point alpha. How’s your ETA?”

“Five minutes, Shark One. We don’t have you on radar.”

“Copy that.”

If the F-35 was stealthy, the Tigershark was practically invisible to radar. The F-35s could, however, spot it with other sensors, most notably its passive infrared detection system, which would find the aircraft’s baffled tailpipe as it drew near. The Sabres, on the other hand, could only be detected at extremely close range while they were at cruising speed.

As the planes rendezvoused, Turk flew close enough to the F-35s to give them a thumbs-up — or would have, had they been able to see into the cockpit of the Tigershark. But unlike every jet fighter since the Me 262, the aircraft did not have a canopy; it was a wing-in-body design so sleek that the pilot could not have sat ninety degrees upright. Instead, its skin was studded with small video cameras that gave Turk a perfect 360-degree view, one that could change instantly from daylight to night at voice command, and was always integrated with the radar and other detection systems.

“Sleek chariot,” quipped Cowboy. “Where’d you get that? Mars?”

“You sure it’s not a UFO?” said Greenstreet. It was his first attempt at humor since Turk had known him.

“I want one,” added Cowboy.

“Don’t drool,” said Greenstreet. “You’ll rust the controls.”

Two tries at a joke within thirty seconds? He was on a roll.

“I’ll see if I can arrange a demonstration flight,” said Turk.

“That’d be awesome,” said Cowboy.

The joke was on him — the demonstration flight would actually never leave the ground, as the Tigershark had a rather robust simulation mode.

“All right, let’s do this, gentlemen,” said Greenstreet, back to all-business. “Shark, you ride over Target One and get us some images. We’re with the assault team.”

“Roger that.”

Turk pulled up the mission map and adjusted his course to fly over the atoll where the submarine dock had been spotted. He could just tell the computer to take him there, but where was the fun in that?

“Throttle max,” he said, his hand reaching to duplicate the motion of pushing the throttle to military power.

“Command accepted,” said the plane.

For all the world, he could have sworn it added the words: It’s about time.

Danny Freah raised his hands so the team jumpmaster could finish checking his rig.

“Good,” Melissa Grisif announced finally, turning to give a thumbs-up to the MC-17 crew chief. “We’re good to go.”

Grisif had joined the Whiplash assault team only two months before; this was her first mission with the unit. But she was far from inexperienced. Grisif had joined the Army Rangers as one of the first female members of the regiment; after two years there, she was selected for Officer’s Candidate School, where she graduated at the top of her class. The freshly minted lieutenant went to Special Forces; two promotions later she found herself headed for a desk job. At that point she stepped sideways, getting a slot in an intraservice exchange program that saw SF-trained personnel working with Air Force pararescue jumpers. Six months in she’d seen a notice for volunteers to join Whiplash.

Volunteering to take the team trials represented a serious risk to her career. For one thing, there was no guarantee she would make the cut; if she didn’t, she would lose her assignment with Air Force special operations and return to the Pentagon desk job. And if she did make the cut, she would be treated like any other member of the team. While she would still be an officer, many of the privileges that rank usually bestowed would be missing. She wouldn’t command a team, at least not at first. As the “new guy” on the squad, she would be given much of the donkey work, just as if she were “only” an NCO. (Whiplash required a rank of E5 or higher, which meant that even the newest recruit had been in the military long enough to advance to sergeant or petty officer. As it happened, no military member — some Whiplashers were CIA — had been accepted below the rank of E6, a technical sergeant in the Air Force. If anything, the people who had come over from the CIA were even more experienced, as most had worked in the military before joining the CIA’s paramilitary side.)

Captain Grisif had made the cut. If her ego had been bruised since joining, she never let on. The fact that she had won the position of jumpmaster, an extremely important role in the Whiplash scheme of things, showed that she was already thriving.

The MC-17 was about halfway through its slow climb to 35,000 feet. By the time they reached that altitude, Turk Mako would be starting his pass over the beached merchant vessel. Danny had several plans contingent on what Turk found there, but they all ended the same way: the Whiplash team was getting aboard the vessel and taking it over.

He looked over the rest of the team. With the exception of Boston, everyone was new; the original Whiplash team had been broken up and used to seed new teams, now in training. Chris Bulgaria and Tony “Two Fingers” Dalton had come from Air Force special operations; Eddie Guzman was a former SEAL who had been working for the CIA when he was recruited. Glenn Fulsom, “Baby Joe” Morgan, and Ivan Dillon were all from Army Special Forces. Riyad Achmoody was the eighth member of the team. Achmoody was another CIA recruit, and the oldest member aside from Boston and Danny. A former Army Special Forces officer, he was also the team leader, though with Danny and Boston along, he was the third-ranking member of the unit.

Boston came over and gave Danny a quick thumbs-up. “We’re looking good,” said the chief. “Cap’lissa’s got ’em shipshape,” he added, using his new nickname for Grisif.

“Yup.”

“I see she even got you squared away,” added Boston.

“My rig was perfect,” said Danny defensively.

“A woman’s touch. That’s what you needed.” The chief wagged his finger at his commander. “Something you might think of in your personal life.”

“The day I take advice on that front from you,” said Danny, “is the day I go into a monastery.”

“Just lookin’ out for you,” said Boston.

“Thanks,” said Danny, putting on his smart helmet to check on the rest of the operation.

There was a massive depression on the side of the atoll the Marines were going to inspect. It looked like a small stadium had been there and then flattened. As Turk circled overhead, he directed Sabre One to descend and fly over the depression low and slow.

The feed from the UAV’s low-light and infrared video was piped instantly back to the Cube, where an analyst studied it for a few seconds before declaring it the top of a pancaked bunker.

“That’s definitely manmade,” said the expert. “Way too symmetrical to be anything but. Be nice to get a ground-penetrating radar and have absolute confirmation,” he added. “But I’m thinking that’s not in the budget.”

“It’s not in the timeline,” said Colonel Freah, who was linked in via the com unit in his helmet and the MC-17. “Is the place safe or not?”

“Danny, we’re not seeing any people on the island,” said Breanna from the sit room. “Proceed.”

“Understood. Out,” said Danny. As the com link to the States turned off, he tapped the back panel of the smart helmet. “The island does not appear to be occupied,” he told Captain Thomas aboard the Marine Osprey. “There’s a large depression — our experts think it was a bunker that was exploded. You have the image?”

“We’re looking at it now.” The video had been routed by Whiplash over to the Marine unit via their combat link. “No defenses?”

“None noted. These guys are sneaky and smart,” said Danny. “I wouldn’t take anything for granted.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

Cowboy completed his pass over the island and banked west. The place looked as deserted as a government office at 4:05.

“I’m going to clear them in,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

“Acknowledged.”

Leveling his jet out of the turn, Cowboy double-checked the position of the approaching Ospreys, making sure he wasn’t going to interfere with their flight path. Then he nudged the stick to climb behind Basher One and gave his readouts a thorough going over. The F-35 was performing like a champion racehorse on a midday warm-up, barely breaking a sweat.

Cowboy’s stint out here and his association with the Whiplash people had sparked a conflict in his soul. He loved being a Marine. There was something truly awe-inspiring about the Corps’ history. For Cowboy, the link to the very first leathernecks — a name that had come from the collars worn by the recruits during the Revolution — was a tangible thing, something that didn’t simply inspire him, but linked him with a select fraternity of warriors. To be a Marine and a pilot made him a member of an even more elite fraternity.

Not that he had necessarily thought naval aviators or Air Force pilots were wimps, but… they weren’t Marines.

But Whiplash was something else again. It might be primarily Air Force, but it was clearly cutting edge. And at least to judge by Turk and Colonel Freah, the people associated with it were extreme warriors themselves.

Not Marines. But definitely warriors.

Did he have the stuff to join them?

Cowboy certainly felt he did. He knew he did. But he’d have to prove it.

The Ospreys came into the beach fast, settling down to let the men off. No matter how calm the situation might look, that was always a tense moment. So many things could go wrong, even without an enemy around.

“Basher flight, this is Shark,” said Turk, radioing them from the north. “I’m about to make my run over Whiplash objective. How are you looking?”

“We’re good,” said Greenstreet. “Everything is clean and quiet. Thanks for your help.”

“Roger that. Have fun out there.”

“Acknowledged.”

Greenstreet sounded ever so slightly annoyed, but as Cowboy had told Turk earlier, that was just his way. Greenstreet was an excellent pilot and a decent leader; he was certainly a good Marine.

Cowboy wouldn’t have minded working with someone else, though. Colonel Freah’s style — very confident and self-assured, yet easygoing at the same time — was a sharp contrast. It was clear that Freah had been in a lot of shit, far more than even the crustiest gunnery sergeants in the MEU. Maybe that was why he was so laid back; whatever happened, it probably didn’t compare to the worst of what he’d already seen.

Not that you’d want to cross him: there was a flash in his eyes every so often that let you know he was capable of real anger, and could back it up not only with connections all the way to the White House but physically as well. Then again, why would you want to cross him? He had the air about him that all great commanders had: Everything he said just seemed to make so much sense that you would be a complete idiot to go against his advice.

Cowboy listened as Colonel Greenstreet talked with the Osprey pilots, then checked in with the air combat controllers as the units established themselves on the beach. It was good, it was quiet, they were advancing to the objectives.

Everything was going great. The night was a picnic in the making.

“Basher flight,” said Turk from the Tigershark, now nearly four hundred miles to the north. “Are you seeing these contacts?”

“Say again, Whiplash?” asked Greenstreet.

“Two bogies, high speed, coming at you from the west,” said Turk. “The combat UAVs are back, and they’re running straight for you.”

5

They were aggressive bastards, weren’t they?

Rubeo looked at the large screen at the front of the room, which was mapping the location of every unit in the area. The UAVs were coming for blood.

They’d just appeared on the screen, as if from nowhere. That certainly wasn’t possible, and it certainly wasn’t acceptable. His team had clearly missed something. He picked up the phone that connected to his company’s analytic center in New Mexico.

“Check the launch profiles and see where they’re likely to have come from,” he demanded, without even bothering to give an explanation, let alone greet the techie on the other end of the line. “Coordinate that with everything we know about them — the bases they’ve used, things Braxton owned, the submarines — we are not doing a good job here. I want more information.”

“Right now?”

“I would have preferred yesterday,” snapped Rubeo before hanging up.

6

Even though the UAVs were approaching, Turk was already committed to supporting the Whiplash operation on the merchant ship and couldn’t leave. The best he could do to help the two F-35s was send a pair of Sabres to back them up. Even if they juiced their engines, it would take them close to twenty minutes to get there. The enemy UAVs were less than ten minutes from the Marines.

It was better than nothing. Turk detailed Sabres Three and Four, the ones to his south, to help the Marines, but before dispatching them prioritized protection of the landing force above the F-35s. This way, they’d position themselves to cut off the enemy if they got by Greenstreet and Cowboy.

Once tasked, the Sabres were autonomous, and would not only decide how to carry out their orders but adapt to new situations without needing to be reprogrammed. And they wouldn’t quit until there were no threats in the air. Turk told Greenstreet they were en route, then turned his attention to the beached merchant ship and area around it.

Originally beached in the shallows a few yards from the top of the reef, the ship had been driven up the hard rock by the current, waves, and storms. The bow and a good portion of the starboard side of the ship had been lifted high enough to leave the keel exposed. The stern, which seemed to have twisted slightly, sat with the waves lapping just above the screw.

An infrared scan showed that there were two men on the port deck near an ancient .50-caliber machine gun. There were four other men belowdecks in a compartment believed to be used for eating and sleeping. Turk assumed these six men were the Filipino marines assigned to occupy the ship against the Chinese, though until the ship was boarded, no one would actually know.

The question was whether there were other people aboard. A modest heat signal indicated the engine room might have more people in it, but it was situated in a way that the analysts couldn’t be sure. The Whiplash team would go on the assumption that they were there until proven otherwise.

Six Chinese fishing vessels were arrayed outside the reef south of the vessel. None were armed, but a Chinese Type 010-class minesweeper was about ten miles farther north, on the side of the beached Filipino ship. The minesweeper was the mama bear to the other boats. Here as elsewhere in the South China Sea, the Chinese tended to assert their most aggressive claims with a soft face, posting the seemingly less obnoxious “civilian” vessels close to the enemy, while leaving the muscle just over the horizon.

The Type 010 was similar to the Russian T-43 minesweeper, an older oceangoing craft that was as much a patrol vessel as a minesweeper. Roughly 180 feet long, it had a crew of seventy and carried an array of light weapons, ranging from machine guns to an 85mm cannon. The ship wasn’t a threat to the Tigershark, nor would it be an immediate concern to the Whiplash team unless it sailed south. At the moment it was becalmed, facing parallel to the merchant vessel but presumed to be in constant contact with the fishing boats.

As Turk crisscrossed over the area, he piped the feed from his sensors directly to Danny and the MC-17. When the combat cargo craft was about sixty seconds away from the drop point, Turk radioed to make sure they were still “go.”

“Roger, Tigershark,” said Danny, his voice clear over the dedicated Whiplash com channel.

“The UAVs appear headed for the Marines,” added Turk.

“I copied that. We’re jumping in thirty seconds. Keep an eye on the boats and that minesweeper.”

“Godspeed,” said Turk.

Danny felt a knot grow in his stomach as the wind ripped against his body from the open ramp of the MC-17. He’d jumped from airplanes countless times in nearly every condition, but he’d never lost the little nudge of anticipation mixed with anxiety that accompanied the first time he’d given himself over to gravity. No jump was ever truly routine, especially a high altitude — low opening night jump; it was a long way down, with plenty of opportunities for something to go wrong.

“We’re ready, Colonel,” said Grisif.

He gave the jumpmaster a thumbs-up, and she in turn gave it to the crew chief and then the team. They went out briskly, in single file, walking into the darkness of the night like commuters moving to catch an early morning train.

The rush of the wind untied the knots in Danny’s stomach, chasing away the tension. He spread his arms and legs the way he always did, adopting a frog position. When you were a human airplane, freedom and exhilaration far outweighed fear.

The Whiplash team wore suits with special webbing that extended beneath their armpits and between their legs. These acted like wings, enhancing their ability to maneuver toward the target. Dropped some miles west of the ship, each man and woman flew forward as well as fell downward, maneuvering toward the target. Their helmets not only displayed their current altitude, bearing, and rate of fall, but showed their GPS position, a computed course and time to their objective.

It was quite a difference from how things were when Danny had first jumped from an airplane, to say nothing of the WWII Pathfinders who were the godfathers of all American airborne troops. But certain things would never change: the strong brush of the wind, and the hard jerk of the parachute rig when it opened a few thousand feet above the landing zone.

It was a strong tug, and while it didn’t catch Danny unaware, it still nearly took his breath away, jerking hard against his vulnerable groin.

“Better than the alternative,” the old paratrooper who’d taught him used to say.

Chute deployed, Danny checked his lines with a small wrist flashlight. Assured that he had a good canopy, he tapped the side of his helmet.

“Team, ready?” asked Danny. “Check in.”

One by one, they did. Unzipping their leg and arm wings, they sailed to a preset point on the western side of the ship.

“Ten seconds to touchdown,” Danny told the team as the deck loomed below him. “Let’s do this the way we practiced.”

As soon as Turk saw the chutes blossom on his screen, he directed Sabre One and Sabre Two to head toward the minesweeper, just in case the Chinese boat saw them and got curious. The chutes were small and made with an absorbent material that tended to cut down on their radar signature, but only slightly. Anyone aboard the fishing boats with a pair of NODs or even a good set of eyes would be able to see them.

If any of the fishing boats opened fire, he would sink them all. The computer had already stored their locations and computed targeting solutions for an attack; all he had to do was tell the rail gun to fire.

Though still deemed experimental, the aircraft’s small-scale energy weapon had been so thoroughly tested that Turk was as confident about using it as he was firing the F-35’s cannon. More so, actually, since he had worked extensively with the gun before going to Iran.

Like all rail guns, the weapon used a powerful electromagnetic field to propel a metallic slug at a target. The principle was well-known, and versions had been around for several decades; the real innovation here was the size of the weapon, which fit into the body-long bay of the sleek Tigershark II. The only downside was its need to recycle energy and lower its heat every dozen rounds. Even this, though, was a vast improvement over the earlier incarnations.

Turk looked at the sitrep screen to see how Sabre Three and Four were doing. The Tigershark’s helmet provided him with a configurable control and display board; he had arranged several default configurations for the mission. The base configuration, which he was using now, was generally similar to what would be seen in a standard aircraft cockpit — an instrument panel, a 360-view of the outside, and a HUD projection of critical flight data.

Aside from the fact that the HUD display was always in front of him no matter which direction he faced, the major difference between the Tigershark’s and conventional cockpits were the virtual video screens, which replaced the glass canopy and could be configured in any form he wanted. Turk had located three “screens” in the bottom-left corner of his forward view. He configured the top screen to give a God’s-eye view of his aircraft and what was going on around them — a sitrep, or situational awareness view. The bottom showed the Whiplash link, with messages and other data. He used the middle to select different feeds from the Sabres.

They were still nearly thirteen minutes from the Marines. The F-35s were on radio silence, preparing to deal with the UAVs.

“Five seconds from landing,” said Danny over the Dreamland circuit.

Turk returned his full attention to the Whiplash landing. Eleven figures descended on the merchant ship, each aimed at a different point on the deck; once there, they would shed their chutes and head in different directions, aiming to quickly subdue opposition. The two men who were ostensibly on watch were completely oblivious to what was going on; Turk guessed that they were sleeping, as the computer indicated they hadn’t moved since the first Sabre passed overhead.

They were about to wake up inside a very bad dream.

The fishing boats seemed oblivious as well. Meanwhile, the Whiplash Ospreys hovered some thirty miles to the south, staying just above the waves so they were completely invisible to the minesweeper’s radar. It would take them roughly ten minutes to get to the merchant ship, either to pick up the team or to support it with their chain guns if things got difficult.

Everything in place, thought Turk. Let’s get this show going.

Danny flared as he hit the deck, then pulled the toggle to release the parachute. In nearly the same motion he grabbed the SCAR rifle out of its Velcroed scabbard on his chest. The rifle was no different than the weapon issued to other U.S. special ops troops, with one exception: its sights interfaced with Danny’s helmet system.

He was on the starboard side of the deck, the high end of the ship, five feet from a door on the superstructure that led to the compartments below. He ran to the door without waiting for the rest of the team; once through, he began descending the stairlike metal ladder to the corridor that would take him to the engine room.

The ship was completely dark. If there was electricity, it wasn’t working here.

“Behind you, Colonel,” said Tony “Two-Fingers” Dalton, coming down the ladder.

“Dead ahead,” said Danny, running to the second ladder, which would take them to a large, presumably empty area immediately forward of the engine compartment. As he started down, he caught himself — there were no steps.

“Stairs are gone,” he told Dalton. Grabbing the side railing, he sidestepped his way down to a crosswalk that ran across the width of the hold. The decking was still there, but so rusted that Danny nearly fell through on his first step. He grabbed hold of the railing there, then decided it would be much easier simply to jump down to the deck below, some eight feet away.

“Catwalk’s gone,” he said, tacking his gun to his vest before going over the side. He dangled off the rail, then let himself drop. He landed badly, rolling over onto his back.

“Coming down,” said Dalton.

Danny scrambled to his feet and stepped out of the way. As Dalton landed — two feet, perfect balance — he started toward the stern end of the compartment, heading for an opening into the rear compartment.

The trooper tapped Danny’s shoulder as he ran. “I’ll take point, sir.” He passed in front of him before Danny could object.

The waterproof hatchway on the bulkhead was wide open. A dim yellow light shone at the far end, beyond the array of engines. A few inches of water lapped across the deck.

Dalton turned left, out of Danny’s view. Another Whiplasher, Baby Joe Morgan, whispered over the radio circuit that he was starting down behind them.

“We’re in the engine room,” Danny told him. “Searching. Nothing obvious yet.”

He had just reached the decrepit boiler when a shout went up nearby. Danny leapt forward, turning the corner, finger on the trigger.

“Las manos en alto!” yelled Dalton, struggling with his Spanish. “Put your hands up. All of you!”

The beam from the flashlight on Dalton’s wrist played over three men sleeping in blankets on a platform built over the machinery.

“Rendirse,” said Dalton, trying to tell them to surrender. “Give up!”

Danny took over. The smart helmet had a language translation program built in, but his Spanish was more than adequate enough to tell them what he wanted them to do.

His rifle didn’t hurt either. By the time Morgan joined them, the three men had been trussed with flex cuffs and were sitting against the hull. To say that they looked confused would be an understatement.

Danny was confused as well. This was the area the analysts thought most likely to be used as the conspirators’ control center. Not only were there no computers or other electronic gear of any type, the three men were wearing Filipino uniform tops. While that didn’t necessarily mean anything — anyone could put a green shirt on over dirty shorts — they certainly didn’t look like tech wizards either.

Disheveled and dispirited soldiers, maybe. They kept asking what was going on, in English as well as Spanish, and one of the men said loudly that the Philippines were allies with America and Danny had better be careful or “our American brothers will keel you when they come.”

“I’m American,” Danny told them. “We’ll sort it all out in a minute. Just do what we say for now and everything will be fine. We’re not going to hurt you, but we’re not taking chances either.”

Danny told Dalton and Morgan to take the prisoners topside, where Grisif, Chris Bulgaria, and Ivan Dillon had already secured the two men who’d been on guard. He headed to join the others in what they believed was the Filipinos’ bunking area near the bow.

“Boston, what’s the situation?”

“Closed door,” said Boston. “I’m going to blow it.”

“Not too much,” warned Danny. “Damned ship’s falling apart. One charge may tear it to pieces.”

He heard the muffled explosion a few seconds later. The rest of the Filipino contingent — which only consisted of a single man — was in the compartment, sleeping peacefully despite the commotion. In fact, he didn’t even react to the boom that took out the door. The reason was obvious as soon as anyone entered the compartment — it smelled like formaldehyde, a result of the burn-off from the homemade still that dominated the center of the compartment.

Roused to semiconsciousness, the man was taken above, to join the other prisoners. Boston and Achmoody began questioning the Filipinos while the rest of the team proceeded to search the ship.

Danny was making his way up into the superstructure when Breanna hailed him from the Cube.

“What’s your situation?” she asked.

“I have no command center here, no computers, no nothing,” he told her. “We’re searching.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Negative. Six Filipinos. Every one of them was asleep when we landed. Including the people who were supposed to be on watch.”

“Have you questioned them?”

“About to.”

“Don’t forget, you have a Chinese warship nearby.”

“I’m not about to forget that.”

“All right. We’re watching.”

Danny continued into the superstructure. The analysts had guessed it would be in a state of advanced decay, and they were correct. Huge flakes of metal and pieces of broken bulkheads littered Danny’s path as he made his way to the bridge.

The space that had been the bridge was now used only as a lookout area, a fact attested to by a pair of binoculars hanging near the entrance. The navigation and communications gear had been stripped from the ship years before; a handful of wires hung forlornly from the panel, as if longing for their old companions. The ship’s wheel was gone, as were most of the metal panels that had once held other controls. Even some of the boards that made up the deck had been lifted out, probably to be used as fuel by the men stationed here.

Danny saw no reason to test the jigsaw puzzle of rotted wood and rusted metal that formed a scrabblelike walkway across the space. He leaned in far enough to scan the compartment immediately behind the bridge — the bulkhead there had rusted into nothingness — and once assured that it was completely empty, backtracked to continue hunting through the rest of the ship’s superstructure.

“Colonel, we got one of the fishing boats moving,” said Turk from the Tigershark. “It’s moving parallel to the reef, not getting any closer, but I think it’s trying to get a view of what’s going on.”

“Thanks, Turk. Keep an eye on it.”

“Roger that.”

Dalton and Morgan had come up and were working their way through the compartments in the superstructure. Danny decided to go back and see how Boston and Achmoody were getting on with the Filipinos.

When Danny Freah had drawn up the plan, he’d predicted that the boarding team would be discovered by the Chinese fishing boats or the minesweeper within thirty seconds of landing. Things were going much better than that: they’d been on the ship for more than five minutes before the system told Turk that one of the first fishing boats was starting to move.

“Track surface target one,” Turk directed the computer. “Network, scan for communications.”

“Null set,” responded the computer.

It was telling him that the Whiplash network, which was tied into the elint data from the Global Hawk above, was not picking up any transmissions from the fishing boat. There were several possible reasons for this, beginning with the most likely: the fishing boat wasn’t using its radio. But it was also possible that the boat was using an extremely sophisticated low-powered radio too weak and too far from the Global Hawk for the signal to be detected.

The fishing boat was clearly curious. It sailed parallel to the merchant ship, passing the stern, then slowed and turned back in the direction it had come. After passing the beached vessel once more, it made another turn and headed in closer.

“Danny, that fishing boat is taking a real interest,” Turk told Freah. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just monitor it. Let me know if something changes.”

The first two team members to land had carried down what looked like lightweight machine guns with extra high stilts. These were actually fully automated gunbots, called “mechs” by the team, that could be guided by remote control and used for extra firepower. While some were capable of fully autonomous operation — they could be preprogrammed to guard a base perimeter and fire at anything coming toward them — in this case they were controlled by the troopers who carried them, or Danny himself through an override. He checked on both, making sure they could repel any boarders from the fishing boats, then ran up to Boston and the captured Filipinos.

“What do they know?” Danny asked.

“Nothing,” said Boston with disgust. “The guys on duty were drunk and all passed out.”

“Drunk?”

“They cook up some moonshine and that’s how they spend their days.”

“Great.”

“Probably can’t blame them. Nothing to do on this tub but wait for the rust to make it collapse.”

“What about the others?”

“Working on it. They claim to know nothing.”

“We have to get them talking. Our friends out there are taking an interest.”

Danny picked one of the captive Filipinos nearby and squatted down in front of him, asking in Spanish how many people were aboard.

“I can speak English,” said the man. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here because we’re looking for people who have stolen computer material and other technology from the U.S.,” said Danny, phrasing the situation as diplomatically as possible. “They’re also helping rebels in Malaysia, which is against a UN resolution. That resolution authorizes me to use force to stop them.”

“And what does that have to do with us?”

“They have a base here,” said Danny.

“Who? Where?”

“They’re technical experts,” said Danny.

“What? We have been here a full month and we are the only ones here.”

“No one else?”

The man gave him a confused look. Before Danny could rephrase the question, Melissa Grisif broke in on the team radio.

“Colonel, I found a hatchway off the forward cargo compartment. You’re going to want to look at this, sir.”

“On my way.” Danny looked over at Achmoody and pointed to the Filipino marine. “Talk to this guy.”

Clambering down the steps to the hold, Danny kept slipping on the wet rails. There were two inches of water where the ladder met the deck planks; by the time he walked back to where Grisif was waiting, the water came nearly to his knees.

“It looks like the kind of hatchway you’d see on a submarine,” she told him, pointing to the round wheel in front of her.

“You try opening it?” Danny asked.

“Yes, but it’s locked in place,” she said. “At first I thought it was welded or rusted, but there’s a little movement when you turn the wheel, and I think it’s hitting a bar or something on the other side.”

Danny bent down to take a look.

“Get some plastic explosive down here,” he told her. “Let’s blow it open.”

7

Cowboy locked on both targets, then pressed the mike button.

“Basher One, request permission to fire.”

“Do it!” said Greenstreet.

Four seconds later a pair of AMRAAMs dropped from the F-35’s internal bay. The air-to-air semiactive radar missiles launched toward the pair of enemy UAVs, accelerating to a speed of Mach 4.

When they set out, the AMRAAMs used the radar in the F-35 to locate and fly toward their targets. But as they got closer, they switched to their own onboard radars. A few seconds after that happened, the UAVs made sharp turns into the path of the missiles, then disappeared from Cowboy’s screen.

His first thought was that the AMRAAMs had hit them. But in fact they were still several miles from their targets. They’d missed, and failing to find the drones as they maneuvered, blew themselves up a few moments later.

“Basher One — Cap, I lost the contacts,” radioed Cowboy. “Missiles just self-destructed.”

“They must be jamming the radars,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

“No indication.”

Cowboy turned his aircraft north, heading in the direction the UAVs had been going when they disappeared from his radar.

“Basher Two to Whiplash Tigershark.”

“This is Shark. Go ahead, Two.”

“I need some quarterbacking. Just locked up and shot two missiles at the UAVs. The aircraft disappeared from the screens before the missiles got close enough to detonate.”

“Are they jamming you?”

“If they are, we can’t pick it up. I can’t find the UAVs,” Cowboy added. “Can you see them on your screens?”

“Stand by.”

A few moments later Turk came back on line.

“Our tech guys think they’re using a selective jammer to mimic your waves,” said Turk. “I still have the aircraft on the Sabre long-range scan — they’re flying almost perpendicular to your course, forty miles south.”

Turk gave him a heading and then GPS readings that could get Cowboy into the area for an intercept.

“How do I deal with them?”

“Close on them. They can only hit certain wavelengths and they need to be picking up your signal steadily. It might help to keep changing the scan. The technique pumps out something like an echo of your signal. Eventually, they won’t be able to keep up.”

Cowboy wondered when eventually was. He got his answer a few seconds later, as the UAVs popped back onto his screen. They were coming head-on toward him, less than a minute away.

8

Turk studied the feed from Sabre Three, trying to work out a strategy for Cowboy and Greenstreet.

“See if you can take them north toward the Sabres,” Turk told Cowboy. “Get them closer to the Sabres so if they try that radar trick again I’ll be able to see what’s going on and help. The Sabres need another ten minutes or so to get into the fight.”

“Roger that,” said Cowboy.

“Think of them as MiGs with only cannons left,” added Turk. “They can outturn you, and probably outaccelerate for a small distance. So don’t let them get behind you.”

“We’re trying to climb over them,” said Cowboy.

“Might work. Once they get closer I may be able to see what tactics they’re following. They’re pretty straightforward now.”

“Roger that.”

Turk glanced back at his main screen, looking below at the fishing boat that was moving. A light flashed at its bow.

Another light blinked, this one on the third fishing boat. Then a light on the fifth began to blink.

That’s weird, thought Turk.

Then he realized what was happening — the little boats were communicating via signal lamps.

And they weren’t just talking among themselves. The minesweeper had begun throwing off her slumber. Smoke poured from the stack and the ship began moving toward the island.

“Colonel Freah, the minesweeper’s moving,” radioed Turk. “The fishing boats are signaling each other with lights.”

“Tell me when he’s within nine miles,” snapped Danny. “That’s the range of his biggest gun.”

“Not going to take too long, Colonel.”

“Noted.”

Danny Freah tapped the back of his helmet to end the radio call.

“Out of the compartment,” he told the others, fixing the timer on the plastic explosive. “Go!”

He set it for fifteen seconds, then scrambled back to the ladder. He reached the low bulkhead where the others were waiting just as the charge went off.

Though the explosive had been relatively small, the entire ship shook with it. The deck beneath Danny’s legs began to wobble; for a moment he thought it would give way.

“Let’s go,” said Grisif, jumping up. Eddie Guzman, who’d brought the explosives down, followed, leaving Danny temporarily behind.

He caught up to them on the ladder. Water oozed from a fresh crack in the deck ten feet from the landing; it looked as if a giant had tried to fold the ship and given up.

The hatchway had blown open. Wrist lights showing the way, Danny and the others waded over to it. The hatch opened to a space between the compartment bulkhead and the hull; a ladder leading downward sat directly below it.

“I’ll check it out,” said Guzman.

Danny stepped back to give him room, then reached to turn the radio back on. “Turk, what’s with the minesweeper?” he asked.

“Still coming toward you. The fishing boats are moving back,” added the pilot.

Not good, thought Danny. They’re getting out of the line of fire.

9

“I have a tentative fix on where the UAVs came from,” said Yanni Turnis, one of Rubeo’s top engineers. He was talking to him from New Mexico. “There’s an atoll in the Grainger Bank. A cargo container is docked near the lagoon. The satellites reported two flashes on the deck about thirty minutes ago.”

“I see.” Rubeo zoomed out the map on his display, then focused back on the area of a horseshoe-shaped island with a ship parked to the south. A pair of small boats were tied to a dock at the shore. The image had been taken by a satellite two days before.

“Was the flash analyzed?” Rubeo asked.

“Not considered significant by the Reconnaissance Office algorithms,” said the techie. “But look at the data. They have to be UAV launches, don’t you think? Check it against the simulation. It matches, perfectly.”

Rubeo’s technical expert was right. But the distance! It was some five hundred miles from the point where the Marines were operating. To have covered that distance in that short a time was beyond the capability of even the Sabres.

On the other hand, Rubeo hadn’t thought Braxton would be able to spoof the radars, even for a limited time, but clearly he had. It wasn’t so much the technical problems as the difficulty of manufacturing and packaging it reliably in something as small as the drones. Even the Sabres didn’t have that ability.

What other tricks did Braxton have in store?

“The performance specs look almost exactly like the Gen 4s,” added Turnis. “They may be a little faster, but turn a little wider. The simulation says they’ll bleed off speed pretty fast if you get them to pull over eight g’s in a turn — you might get them to go into a flat spin.”

The F-35 pilots would black out well before that happened, Rubeo realized. They were best off not engaging the enemy planes — which of course wasn’t an option, or probably even a thought.

“Are you talking to the Marine fighters?” he asked Turnis.

“We don’t have a direct hookup. They’re about to engage the fighters,” said Turnis. “I can relay tips to Frost in the Cube if you want.”

“Go ahead. I doubt they’ll be of much use,” added Rubeo bitterly.

10

Cowboy pulled the F-35 into a turn, aiming to get behind the UAVs as they passed. The two aircraft were doing over eight hundred knots, so fast that there was no way in the world they could slow down enough to maneuver and target him before blowing past.

Except they did.

A laser range finder locked on the tailpipe of the F-35. Cowboy got an IR warning; realizing he was in trouble, he threw the aircraft into a dive a second or two before the UAV’s energy weapon fired.

The weapon’s beam touched the side of his tail, but the shot was too brief to do serious damage. The UAVs continued past, moving too fast for him to try his own shot. He tightened his turn and aimed south, hoping to position himself better to ward off their next attack.

“Cowboy, they’re not running away,” said Turk. “They’re going to go south and then sweep around you to hit the Ospreys.”

“How do I stop them?”

“They’ll prioritize on the biggest threat,” said Turk over the radio. “At this point they’ll only pay attention to you if they think you’re going to attack them.”

“Turk, what are you saying?”

“Go right after them. Target them with your radar, open your bay and make them think you’re going to attack them. Fire a Sidewinder if you have to — you want them to think you’re a real threat. Otherwise, they’re going to just keep on after the Marine Ospreys.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they didn’t just shoot you down. They got you out of the way, then went on. They don’t think you’re important.”

“What do I do once I have their attention?”

“Tangle with them long enough for the Sabres to get there. They’ll take care of them. Go! If one of them gets close to the Ospreys, everybody aboard is dead.”

“Colonel, you hear that?”

“Copy.”

Cowboy slammed his throttle. He didn’t mind making himself a target; he just didn’t want to be an easy target. What he wanted was a solution to kill the damn things, not to let someone else kill them.

But one thing at a time. Charging after the UAVs, he switched his targeting radar on, even though he had no radar missiles aboard. If it had any effect on the UAVs, he couldn’t tell; they were still moving west.

Maybe, thought Cowboy, they’re going back to where they came from.

No such luck. The two aircraft began to bank back south, swinging in a wide arc. They were meaning to cut off the Ospreys, aiming at where the rotorcraft would be in a few minutes. Just as Turk had predicted.

“Tell the Ospreys to change course and come north,” said Turk, once more breaking in over the radio. “Tell them to go back to the reef.”

“They’re twelve minutes from the mainland,” said Greenstreet.

“They’ll never make it. If they turn back, the UAVs will think they have time to shoot you down and then go for them. They’re obviously programmed to stop the Ospreys from getting to Malaysia. I can tell by the course.”

“Cowboy and I can hold them up long enough for the Ospreys to get away,” said Greenstreet.

“Negative,” insisted Turk. “Not gonna happen. They’ll split and one will go after the Ospreys. I’ve flown against these things dozens of time, Colonel. Trust me.”

“Turk knows what he’s talking about, Colonel,” said Cowboy over the squadron frequency. “He’s been right so far on everything they’ve done.”

Greenstreet ordered the Ospreys to change direction. As they complied, the UAVs turned as well — and kept going, heading straight for Cowboy, whom they now considered an immediate threat.

Cowboy angled his fighter toward the enemy aircraft, heading for their noses. The UAVs had gradually slowed, and were now doing about four hundred knots. He slowed his own speed; the trick now was to get them to come north with him when he turned.

The UAVs held their course, undoubtedly expecting him to fire his missiles before closing. This would be the most logical move, giving his weapons their best chance of hitting the targets while still minimizing his exposure. Instead, Cowboy jammed hard to the right, falling into a twisting turn that left the UAVs on his back, closing from ten miles out.

A human pilot would have strongly suspected a trick — the move had made Cowboy’s F-35 infinitely more vulnerable. But if the UAVs were wondering why he had just served himself up on a silver platter, they gave no sign of it, instead held their course.

“Basher Two, Ospreys are two minutes from the reef,” said Colonel Greenstreet.

“Roger.”

“They’re going to put down there. I’ll target the UAVs as soon as they land.”

“Get closer and wait for me to turn hard north,” said Cowboy. “The closer you are, the better the odds of taking them.”

“Are you sure you can last that long?”

“Piece of cake.”

Cowboy flexed his fingers around the stick, waiting as the two UAVs closed in on him. They’d managed to climb, which would make it even more difficult for him to get away. He’d push left and accelerate. At least one of them would do the same, and extra altitude might take away some of the advantage he hoped to get from surprise.

“Just as they lock, pull back and climb,” suggested Turk.

“Are you kidding?” answered Cowboy. “They’re above me. That’s suicidal.”

“No, they won’t expect it. They’ll have angled down to make their shots and you’ll slip right out of their targeting cone. As long as they’re five thousand feet above you when you pull back, you’re good. You’ll have just enough time to break their lock as they pass you.”

“What about six thousand?”

“Not gonna work. Keep it as close to five thousand as you can — you can’t give them too much time to react. Or too much room. Five thousand’s just about the sweet spot.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Pick one, get on his tail, and fire your Sidewinders. The Sabres will be about three minutes away.”

It sure sounded easy, thought Cowboy. But actually doing it was going to be very difficult. “You sure this is going to work?”

“No. But it’s what I would do if I were in your plane.”

That was less than the ringing endorsement Cowboy had hoped for.

He nudged down slightly, keeping his plane a little more than 5,000 feet below the closer of the two UAVs. They’d slowed a bit more, which was a temptation — maybe if he hit the afterburner he could shoot away without getting nailed. But even if that worked, he’d leave Greenstreet open to attack.

The UAVs closed to four miles, then three and a half. The RWR was bleeping, pleading with Cowboy: he was about to become dead meat.

“I agree,” muttered Cowboy.

And then they were on him, trying to slice him into yesterday’s hash. Cowboy yanked back on the stick, then got an inspiration. Why stop now? Rather than simply climbing, he urged the F-35 into a full loop, continuing around until he saw the black speck of one of the UAVs in front of him.

The Sidewinders sniffed the air, trying to find the UAV’s heat signature.

“It’s right there, right there,” said Cowboy, yelling at the missile. He turned left to keep the UAV in his sights, then poured on the throttle to hold onto his target.

The missile finally growled, indicating it had locked on its target. Cowboy fired, then pulled hard right, worried about the other bandit.

He was right to worry. The enemy aircraft had come in behind him. Its weapon caught the top of the cockpit before he managed to turn inside and drop out of the UAV’s sights. As he shoved the F-35 back to the north, he heard and felt a loud bang above him: the canopy literally ripped in half, the thick acrylic shattered by the combination of the laser and the high g turn. Cowboy floated for a fraction of a second, as if his brain and body had separated. Then everything roared around him, as though he’d flown into the center of a tornado.

Turk was saying something over the radio, but Cowboy couldn’t hear.

Where was the UAV?

Behind him. The gravity and wind nearly overcame him. The plane bucked, the stick jerking from his grip. Cowboy was blind; he pushed into a dive, desperate to get away.

The canopy gave way completely, shattering and flying behind the plane. Cowboy was pushed back in the seat, his hands still on the controls but unable to move because of the force of the wind. The aircraft had slowed and descended precipitously, but it was still a wild beast, some 5,000 feet above sea level, wings tipped.

I’m dead, he thought.

A pair of black shadows passed in front of him. There was a flash in the sky, a jagged red and yellow hand rising behind him.

The Sabres had arrived.

11

Turk watched the Sabres follow the UAV that had been on Cowboy’s tail as it tried to accelerate away. Cowboy’s missile had damaged the other aircraft, but it was still flying, heading westward, most likely back toward its base.

They’d take down the one they had first, then go for the other. The enemy had never seen them coming.

With the Marines now in reasonably good shape, Turk turned his full attention back to the minesweeper, which had continued toward the island. He sent Sabre One on a low pass directly over the ship, running from bow to stern, and got a good close-up showing the sailors manning battle stations. The 85mm gun swung in the direction of the beached merchant vessel.

“Colonel Freah, I’m guessing they’re getting ready to fire,” Turk told Danny. “Like really soon. Minutes, if not seconds. They’re nearly in range.”

“Radio the warning.”

“Yes, sir.” They had prepared a brief message in English and Mandarin, declaring that the merchant ship had been boarded by U.S. forces in accordance with a UN resolution against helping the Malaysian rebels and telling the Chinese not to interfere. Turk had the computer broadcast it on all channels used by the Chinese navy.

There was no response. Not that he really expected one.

“Colonel, no response. They’re in range.”

“Do what you gotta do,” replied Freah. “But only if they fire.”

In other words — don’t shoot until they do. In many if not most situations, U.S. pilots would be allowed to fire on a ship or aircraft that turned its weapons radars on and locked on them. But the recent contentious history of U.S.-Chinese interactions in the South China Sea, where weapons radars were routinely used for provocation by both sides, had led to the more stringent requirement. There was an additional consideration in this case, as the capabilities of the Tigershark’s weapon were still secret, and simply using the weapon provided the enemy with information.

The Chinese were also notoriously poor shots. Still…

Turk started to object. “Colonel, if I wait until they fire, there’s always the possibility—”

“Those are your orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a hell of a lot of gear here,” yelled Guzman from below. He’d gone through the hull into another opening and a small compartment beyond. “Looks like the frickin’ bat cave. And there’s another hatchway down at the end.”

“I’m coming down,” said Danny. “Stand by.”

Leaving Grisif near the blown-out hatchway, Danny maneuvered himself down to the ladder and then across the thick screen that ran between the hull and the compartment bulkhead. Water flowed at his feet, trickling down from the compartment above. Danny’s wrist light was of little use inside the darkened chamber. He switched the helmet to night vision, which cast everything an eerie gray. He had to turn sideways to get through the opening in the hull, squeezing his body down into a squat.

The compartment was actually a cylinder attached to the outside of the ship via a narrow tunnel. It opened into what looked like a large round hallway lined with computer equipment. Running nearly thirty feet, the cylinder was fourteen feet in diameter, with LED lighting along the top and a metal screen deck at the bottom. There were pumps below, sucking in the water as it leaked down and expelling it somewhere outside in the seabed. They were losing the battle, water slowly inching up toward the deck.

Power came from a device that converted wave energy into electricity, storing it in a large pack of batteries that filled the rest of the area below the decking. Computer servers and other electronic equipment were stacked along the walls; there were two processing stations with multiple screens and keyboards. One of the computers seemed to be on standby, with a small LED lit, but the rest were off and the screens blank.

“Quite a setup, huh?” said Guzman.

“It is. We gotta get this stuff out of here,” added Danny.

“It’s bolted to the metal frames.”

As Danny leaned down to examine it, there was a loud crack from above. The ship lifted two feet in the air, then settled hard, knocking both of them to the deck.

“Damn,” muttered Guzman.

“Yeah,” said Danny, hitting the radio Send button. “Team check in.”

There was no answer. The short-range communications relied on being near another unit, and with all the metal and water between them, Grisif was now out of range.

“Colonel, look at that.” Guzman pointed back toward the entrance to the cylinder connecting them to the rest of the ship. A sheet of water streamed down from a fresh crack at the top. “We gotta get out of here.”

But before they could move, the cylinder abruptly jerked downward, pushing them toward the hatchway where they’d come in. The pair fell into the water as it rolled, flopping against the side of the ship as the hatch came loose from its mooring. The tunnel-like connection between the ship and the compartment broke apart. A section rolled under the container and the ship. Crushed and twisted, it blocked their way out.

The minesweeper’s shot on the merchant ship hit the reef on the starboard side of the vessel, throwing a geyser of water and coral into the air. It was short, and the Chinese crew didn’t get a chance to correct.

“Fire,” said Turk. “Disable target.”

Current shot through the rail at the center of the Tigershark, propelling what looked like an aerodynamic railroad spike out of the plane, through the air, and into the center of the shroud covering the 85mm deck gun on the Chinese minesweeper.

Two more shots sped from the Tigershark before Turk told the computer to stop; he was out to disable the gun, not sink the ship. His restraint was not appreciated on the ship, however, especially among the gun crew nor the men in the compartment directly below. Traveling in excess of Mach 6, the rail gun’s spikes shattered the Chinese gun and the mechanism that fed it. The spewing shrapnel ignited the explosive in a loaded shell, which not only exploded but started a secondary fire in the gun housing. This quickly spread to the deck immediately below the gun.

Meanwhile, two of the three projectiles continued through the ship after striking the gun. Penetrating the hull, they left relatively small but critical holes, and the ship started listing to its starboard side.

Damage control was complicated by the fire on the deck below the gun and confusion among the crew and the captain; it was not immediately clear where the attack had come from, as neither the Tigershark nor its escorts could be picked up on radar. The minesweeper therefore continued toward the reef — a serious mistake.

The fire showed as a hot glow on Turk’s targeting screen, with a damage percentage of one hundred percent in the legend next to it, indicating that the gun was now considered out of action even by the overly cautious computer. But the ship had other guns, and the fact that it was still moving convinced Turk that it remained a danger.

“Target propulsion system on target one,” he told the computer.

“Computed,” replied the computer. It lit three separate target areas that it proposed to strike, two in the engine room and a third a little farther back, on the propeller shaft.

“Eliminate propulsion system,” said Turk, choosing to let the computer pull the trigger while he flew the aircraft. The course was computed for him on the screen: dead on his present heading for five seconds, then a slight nudge right; the rail gun was fixed in the Tigershark’s fuselage, and could only be aimed as the airplane was aimed.

The gun fired nine times in quick succession, not quite at its full capacity. The shots were true; the minesweeper immediately lost power, its engine and driveshaft obliterated. Its momentum continued to drive it south, but it was off-course, and its list to starboard quickly deepened.

The targeting computer was pleased; it listed the minesweeper’s fighting ability at zero percent, and declared that it had only a thirty-three percent chance of surviving.

“Minesweeper is no longer a factor,” Turk radioed Danny.

Danny never got the message, as he was still out of range of the other units. He wouldn’t have responded in any event, since he had a lot of other things to worry about.

Water, primarily.

A hole in the tunnel allowed air to escape as the seawater rushed in. Danny took one look at the mangled metal and realized they weren’t leaving that way anytime soon. He led Guzman to the far side of the compartment, where there was a hatchway that looked like it must connect to the outside. The surface was only a few yards above, at most; all they had to do was open the hatch and get out.

The problem was the hatch: it wouldn’t open. At first Danny thought it was because the pressure of the seawater was too great. But Guzman showed him that the hatch swung inward and the wheel itself was locked, just as the one leading there had been.

“Can we blow it off?” Danny asked.

“The explosives are topside.”

Danny worked his way back toward the door to the ship, hoping the radio reception would improve. But there was no answer from anyone above.

What a place to die, he thought. How ironic — in the Air Force pretty much all my life, and I’m going to die at sea.

The water gurgled around him. It was just about to his knees.

The pumps were still working, though they weren’t able to keep up with the inflow.

Sooner or later the water would rise high enough to cover wherever the air was escaping, and stop the inflow, he thought. If they could get help, they could retreat to the air pocket and wait for someone to blow the door.

“You think there’s a radio in these controls?” he asked Guzman, going over to the panel. “Help me look.”

They looked over the controls and started punching buttons. But there was no obvious effect. The water, meanwhile, continued to rise. Air was leaking from somewhere other than the tunnel, Danny realized — more than likely the ventilation system.

There was a crackle and a beep in his helmet.

“Colonel Freah, where are you?” asked Boston, his voice loud and clear in the helmet.

“We’re trapped inside a compartment at the base of the ship,” said Danny.

“We think it broke off from the ship,” said Boston. “I’m above the compartment where the doorway was.”

“What about Grisif?” Danny asked, worried about the Whiplasher he’d left behind. “She was watching our backs in there.”

“We just pulled her out of the wreck. The hull collapsed. There’s a ton of rusted steel between us and you.”

The line went dead then. Danny moved back toward the doorway at the ship’s end, but got nothing.

“They’re working on it,” he told Guzman, still trying to find a radio.

“They better work fast,” said Guzman.

“Colonel? You there?” Boston came back on the line.

“We’re here.”

“We’re going to try and cut through some of the metal. There’s two decks between you.”

“The tunnel to the boat’s mangled,” said Danny. “That’s not going to work. You’re going to have to come from the outside. There’s a hatch like the one on the inside. You can blow it.”

“With you guys inside?”

“There’s no other way.”

“Shit. All right,” said Boston. “We have diving gear on the Ospreys. They’re holding ten minutes south. Can you hold out?”

“We don’t have much choice,” said Danny. He glanced at the water, which was now up above their chests. There was no way they were going to get anyone into a wet suit and into the water quickly enough to get them out. But that was their only hope.

Unless…

“Stand by,” Danny told Boston. “I need to talk to Turk.”

Turk couldn’t quite believe what Danny wanted him to do.

“I see the container on the infrared scan,” he said, “but just barely. It’s up against the hull.”

“Barely’s all you need,” said Danny.

“Slicing off the end of the canister is going to take at least two passes,” said Turk. “And the gun has to cycle through between them. We’re looking at five minutes for the whole process, and that’s optimistic.”

“Then get moving,” said Danny.

“There’s gotta be another way. Something safer—”

“Believe me, if there was, we’d be doing it.”

“Listen, Colonel—”

“That’s an order.”

“Coming to course,” said Turk mechanically. “Stand by.”

He needed to climb another 5,000 feet to increase his length of time on target long enough to make the shot. The plan was basically to use the rail gun as a can opener, poking holes in the end of the compartment where they were trapped. Turk would have to drive over sixty rounds through the top of the end cap, destroying it.

It was beyond a long shot. Even explaining to the computer what he wanted to do was difficult; Turk ended up having to forgo the audio AI interface and hand designate a linear target across the top of the cylinder.

Four passes, declared the computer. Ten minutes.

Danny had estimated they had only five minutes of air.

They’d have even less once he started shooting.

“Recompute for two passes,” Turk told the computer.

“Not possible within safety limits,” it responded.

“Screw safety limits.”

“Unknown command.”

“Compute two passes.”

“Two passes computed.”

The computer divided the shooting sequence neatly in half. This meant that the rail gun’s temperature would run into the red zone twice.

Turk decided he would change the sequence, taking a few less shots the first time but making sure he had enough left for the second run. It might not be better statistically, but he believed it would let him get more bullets onto the target even if the gun overheated so badly that it failed.

He leveled off as he hit his altitude mark with another minute’s flight time, to the point where he had to start his gun run.

What if he missed? He’d be killing Danny and the other trooper in the cabin with him.

The plane is not going to miss. It never does. And I’m going to get them out.

Was that the sort of debate that Breanna had with herself before sending Stoner? What if he can’t get him out? What should he do?

No. She hadn’t debated at all. She thought he should die. It was only a miracle that he’d managed to get out of there alive.

“Colonel, stand clear,” said Turk. “Get as far away from the end of that tube thing as you can.”

“Come on. Do it.”

“Two passes. First set of bullets will—”

“Just go for it, Turk. I don’t need a play by play.”

Turk took a deep breath, then bit the side of his cheek as the computer prompted him to nose down and start firing.

The bullets from the rail gun came so quickly they seemed to be a saw blade, loud and violent, slapping as well as slicing the end of the compartment. The LED lights at the top and sides remained on, casting the round tube in a strangely yellow and brown glow. Steam flashed from the end of the compartment as the hot metal slugs cooled rapidly as they passed through the water and into the bed of the ocean and reef below. The roar and vibration pitched Danny around, throwing him and Guzman into the deep end of the compartment.

Struggling back to the air pocket, Danny realized they had only a few minutes left. Air gushed out the top holes while water flowed in at the bottom; Turk’s shots had made the dire situation even worse.

“When the next wave of bullets hit,” he told Guzman. “Take a deep breath and swim for it.”

Guzman didn’t hear a word. Danny tried to mimic what they should do. Guzman looked at him in a daze, then finally nodded his head.

That would have to do, thought Danny, leaning his head back to get more air.

Turk saw the fishing boats moving in the small screen on the left side of his console, but he had no time to deal with that. The computer counted down the sequence to the shot.

“Three… two… one…”

He pressed his finger on the trigger, riding the aircraft along the course laid out by the computer.

“Warning!” said the computer as he neared the halfway mark. “Weapon temperature above optimum.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Unknown command.”

Turk held his course, continuing to fire. Shells rammed down the rail one after another, generating momentum as well as heat. The aircraft was pushing right, fighting against the trim adjustments the computer made to compensate.

“Warning, weapon temperature approaching critical.”

A caution screen popped in front of Turk’s view. A semicircular graph ghosted in front of him, showing the weapon temperature going from green on the left through yellow and into red.

Another graph and warning appeared below, showing fuselage temperature. He was in yellow, edging toward red.

Too hot and the fuel tanks might flash.

“Safety precautions off,” said Turk. “AI off. Full pilot control, authorization four-four-two-Mako.”

The screen turned red, blinking its most dire warning.

Gotta get Danny out, thought Turk, his finger plastered on the trigger.

As the shells burst through the edge of the compartment, Danny pulled off his helmet and dropped it into the water. With as deep a breath as he could manage, he dove toward the turmoil, hoping to push through as the firing stopped. But the water was so agitated it threw him back before he managed more than a stroke. He slammed against the bulkhead on the ship’s end and surfaced, gasping for air.

Guzman bobbed next to him, arms flailing, chin barely above the water. As Danny pointed toward the end of the compartment, urging Guzman to try again, the compartment shifted and began to fall, rolling away from the ship. Danny grabbed Guzman’s arm and pushed toward the outer end, hoping the shells from the Tigershark had opened the way.

The water churned as if swirled by a propeller. Danny grabbed hold of the panel on his left and pushed toward the still steaming mass. The shock waves and bubbles of air pushed him toward the top of the compartment and away from the end. He fought back, pushing and groping toward what he hoped was an opening.

Shadows appeared in front of his eyes. There was a round circle — the hatchway handle.

The damn thing is still attached!

They were still trapped. Danny’s fingers grabbed the wheel. He pulled himself forward, hoping to somehow find the strength to open it now. As he did, his legs shot upward behind him.

He didn’t understand at first. The world swirled and moved violently. His lungs strained. Finally, desperate, he let go of the wheel and allowed the rest of his body to follow his legs upward.

He burst above the surface of the ocean. Wind hit his face — it was a delicious feeling, almost as welcome as the sensation of the air that filled his lungs.

Danny looked for Guzman but couldn’t see him.

“Guzman! Guz!”

Realizing he must still be below, Danny ducked under the water. It was too dark to see. He flailed around with his hands, then remembered his wrist light. The light did very little; he saw shadows and shapes.

Something moved to his right. He grabbed at it, felt cloth, then pulled up.

It was Guzman. The Whiplasher surfaced coughing and spitting water.

“My lungs,” he gasped.

“Colonel Freah!” shouted a voice nearby. A weak beam of light shone on the water. Danny turned, realizing he was only a few feet from the reef. He paddled for it. Guzman was next to him.

The coral and hard volcanic rock scraped Danny’s fingers as he clambered up. The reef was only two feet below the ocean’s surface.

“Colonel, you all right?” shouted Achmoody.

“Fine, fine,” said Danny, sitting to rest.

Guzman stood next to him.

“Been a while since I did anything like that,” said the trooper.

Danny looked at him. “You’ve been shot out of a submarine chamber?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the shit they put us through when I was a SEAL,” said Guzman.

12

To cowboy, the battle seemed like an encounter between a hawk and a pair of falcons. The Sabres were slightly smaller than the enemy UAV, and in its damaged state, a bit faster; they worked together, spinning and poking at the other aircraft with their guns as it tried to get away.

While outnumbered, the UAV wasn’t completely overmatched; its laser was still operative, and it seemed able to outaccelerate the Sabres for a few seconds before they could catch up.

Cowboy was both fascinated and frustrated watching the three planes — fascinated because he’d never seen a dogfight between UAVs, even in an exercise, and frustrated because he was simply a spectator. He tried maneuvering into a position to catch the enemy UAV as it dodged the Sabres, but the little planes were simply too maneuverable for him to get a firing solution with his Sidewinder or cannon.

“Basher Two, you’re getting pretty far north,” said Greenstreet.

“I’m trying to nail that other drone,” explained Cowboy.

“Negative. Your mission is to support and protect our people.”

“Roger that. Understood.”

It felt odd to leave the Sabres, as if he were leaving comrades in the middle of a fight. They were only drones — and yet they were comrades, weren’t they?

“Whiplash, your Sabres are going north with the other UAV, trying to get it down,” he radioed Turk. “I have to stay with my Marines.”

“Yeah, roger that, they’re good, they’re good. They know what they’re doing.”

“Uh—”

“Have my hands full right now. Trust the machines.”

“Roger that,” said Cowboy. Though that wasn’t exactly what he was thinking.

It’s a brave new world. I want to be part of it.

Don’t I?

“Basher Two, the Ospreys are going to take off and go home. We’re escorting them. Check your fuel.”

“Roger, acknowledged. I’m coming,” said Cowboy, turning back south.

13

Turk zoomed his low-light camera feed on Danny and Guzman as they clambered back aboard the wrecked merchant ship. The shell from the minesweeper had collapsed a good portion of the forward deck and enough of the hull. The ship had not only moved a dozen yards but bent inward at the middle; if it had been a rusting hulk before, it was now more like a pile of junked metal. The girder that had been used to dock submarines at the stern was fully exposed, pushed up on the reef by the shifting of the ship.

All but one of the Chinese fishing boats were moving to assist the minesweeper. The lone exception was sailing across the area below the reef at about four knots, apparently trying to keep watch while not getting close enough to be fired on.

Turk turned his attention back to Sabres Three and Four and their continuing tangle with the enemy UAV. The other aircraft had managed to hold them at bay so far; it couldn’t escape but it wasn’t being shot down either. It was a tribute to the original combat programming, which was now nearly a decade old.

Turk ached to respond himself — he was sure he could take the enemy plane down — but he knew his place was here.

“Tigershark, what’s the situation with the minesweeper?” asked Danny, back aboard the decrepit merchant vessel.

“Dead in the water. The fishing boats are going to its rescue.”

“The Ospreys will be here in zero-five,” said Danny. “We’re going to see if we can recover the compartment with the gear.”

“How, Colonel?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“We have lines we might be able to use to lift it,” the Osprey pilot told Danny over the radio. “What’s the weight?”

“I have no idea.”

“A cubic foot of water weighs sixty-two pounds,” said Rubeo, who was listening on the circuit back in D.C. “Based on the rough dimensions, the volume would be roughly 4,616 cubic feet. That’s—”

“Way the hell too heavy for us to get it in the air,” said the pilot. An Osprey could lift some 60,000 pounds, but that included its own weight.

“What if we dump the water out first,” suggested Danny.

“It’s not going to work, Colonel,” said the Osprey pilot. “It’s going to be too big.”

Danny didn’t want to leave the cylinder there for the Chinese to inspect after they left, but blowing it up seemed like a waste.

“How long will it take you to get the equipment off?” Rubeo asked.

“Hours,” said Danny. “We only have two diving suits. Everything was bolted to benches.”

“If you can show me the gear, I can tell you what to take,” said Rubeo. “Assuming time is a constraint.”

“It is,” said Danny. “I don’t know how long before the Chinese carrier task force responds.”

“Do your best, Danny,” said Breanna.

“Always.”

Danny took off the borrowed helmet and looked over at Boston. “Who are our best divers?”

“Guzman’s number one. After that, take your pick. Probably Dalton.”

“They’re going to need torches. And a video up to the deck so we can send it back to Rubeo.”

“We have one torch, Colonel.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Danny went to the bow where the Filipinos had been confined. Still cuffed, the men were somewhere between stunned and resigned. He suspected that most if not all were happy to see the black smoke curling from the minesweeper. At the same time, they knew there would be hell to pay, and they were undoubtedly concerned about the consequences.

To a man, they claimed not to know anything about the secret compartment at the bottom of the ship. They had rotated in it for a six-month stint only a few weeks before; the Filipino in charge — a short noncommissioned officer who gave his name as Bautisa and only came forward after being outed by the others — theorized that the last group had installed it.

Danny didn’t believe them, but at this point that was irrelevant. His main problem was getting the gear out and everyone back to land.

“Guzman, Dalton, get up on the Osprey and get into gear. Everybody else, get the prisoners ready to go back to Malaysia aboard Osprey Two.” Danny noted a few smiles among the Filipinos as they realized they were getting off the ship. “Boston, you take them back. I’ll stay here with the divers and Bulgaria and Grisif to load the equipment. Everyone else goes.”

“What are you going to do if the Chinese attack?” asked Boston.

“Turk sinks ’em and we get the hell out. Same as we would if you were here.”

“But in that case, I’ll miss all the fun.”

“Get going.”

Turk widened the orbit he was taking around the reef, made another check of the Chinese vessels, then refocused on the UAV dogfight.

He wondered if the Sabres would have done better with a lightweight laser. Probably not — it required a longer hold on target to do damage than the cannons they held. Sometimes advances in tech seemed awesome, but in the real world they didn’t fare as well.

In theory, the dogfight should have been over in ninety seconds or less. Two against one was a pilot’s dream, as long as you were in the two part of the equation. But the enemy UAV seemed to know every move they would make in advance.

Which of course it did, since they were all playing by the same playbook. Turk was a little too far away to override their programming, and wouldn’t have tried anyway — once he did so, he’d have had to pay full attention to the battle or risk losing it. And his main focus had to be with Danny and the team below.

Turk checked the UAVs’ fuel. Without the prospect of a refuel, he’d have to call them back in a few minutes.

Suddenly, his long-range scan lit on alert — two Chinese J-15 fighters were coming from the northwest. He clicked the mike button.

“Colonel Freah, we have another wrinkle,” he told Danny.

14

While not entirely unanticipated, the Chinese decision to interfere complicated the situation immensely, and Breanna and Reid had no choice but to alert the President.

She wasn’t thrilled.

Her first question was: Are our people OK?

Assured they were, and that the operation was continuing, her second was more pointed: How the hell did you let that happen?

“It wasn’t up to us, Madam President,” said Reid, who with Breanna had retreated to Breanna’s private office to make the call to the White House. They sat across from each other, Breanna’s desk in the middle; the President was on the speaker-phone, talking from her car as she traveled in the Midwest.

“The Chinese decided to shell the reef and put our people in danger,” continued Reid. “They were warned that it was an investigation.”

“And the Filipinos?” demanded the President.

“All safe and accounted for,” said Breanna.

“You realize they are our allies!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did it occur to you that you should check with me to see if they should be attacked?”

“They weren’t attacked,” said Reid.

“Jonathon, I’m surprised at you,” said Mrs. Todd. “The political implications here—”

“I think they would have been even more extreme had you been apprised of the operation ahead of time,” said Reid.

The President didn’t say anything, but Breanna swore she heard the sound of teeth gnashing together.

“I assigned this to Whiplash precisely to avoid complications like this,” Todd finally said.

Breanna watched Reid’s face as he struggled to come up with an appropriate response. Given his long personal relationship with the President, he was always the one to talk to her in situations like this, but it clearly took a little something out of his soul every time he did. Just for a moment, he stopped speaking as a public servant and talked as a friend, and that friend felt as if he’d let another friend down.

“The Chinese unfortunately became far more aggressive than we had hoped,” said Reid. “I believe their presence was noted in the briefing and—”

“Don’t go all CYA with me,” snapped the President. Though extremely measured in her choice of words for the media, she was more than capable of the occasional salty expression, and the abbreviation for Cover your ass was hardly her worst. “What’s the situation now?”

Reid’s pained expression made Breanna jump in. “The Chinese minesweeper is dead in the water,” she told the President.

“They have casualties?”

“We believe so,” said Reid. “We expect the Chinese aircraft carrier task force to respond.”

“The raid was a success,” said Breanna, repeating what they said earlier and trying to elaborate. “We have discovered a technical center used by the conspirators. It’s a submerged cylinder about thirty feet long and filled with high-tech gear.”

“Can it be recovered?” asked the President.

“Not with the forces we have presently employed,” said Reid. “We would need a salvage vessel. But the Chinese are very close. They would undoubtedly get to it first.”

“We can’t give it to them,” said the President. That was one thing about Todd — she could shift gears quickly. “On the other hand, I don’t want to start a war over this — assuming you haven’t already.”

“Yes, Madam President,” said Reid.

“Can this cylinder be destroyed?”

“We believe so,” said Breanna. “We’re trying to salvage some of the gear first.”

“Do so,” said the President. “But avoid further confrontation with the Chinese. And be nice to the Filipinos. Be very nice.”

“Always our intention,” said Reid.

There was a slight pop on the line; the President had hung up.

“Not happy,” said Breanna.

“I didn’t expect her to be,” confessed Reid.

15

Danny had come to the same conclusion before Breanna gave him the orders: the container would have to be blown up in place ASAP.

In the meantime, though, they needed to keep the Chinese fighters from making things more complicated.

“Turk, is there a way to delay the Chinese fighters without shooting them down?” he asked the pilot.

“I’m not sure.”

“Be creative. Try and delay the Chinese without engaging them, if at all possible,” he told Turk. “I need twelve minutes.”

“Easier said than done, Colonel. What if they fire at me?”

“If you are in imminent danger, then take them out. But otherwise—”

“I’ll come up with something.”

Danny switched over to the local circuit. “Guzman, you ready up there?” he asked the Whiplasher, who was dressing in the diving gear on the Osprey.

“Two minutes.”

“We have ten minutes to get what we can and blow the damn thing up,” Danny said. “Let’s move!”

The Osprey with the Filipinos finished loading and pushed up from the boat, circling away from the reef. The breeze on Danny’s wet clothes got his teeth chattering.

With the other Osprey gone, the one with his divers moved closer, descending to a few feet above the water and playing its searchlights across the side of the stricken ship. The rear ramp opened and two figures jumped down into the water.

Danny checked his watch. The Chinese fighters were nine minutes away.

Turk left Sabre Two to orbit over the reef, keeping watch in case one of the fishing boats got frisky. Then he and Sabre One went to play with the Chinese.

After ordering Sabre One to lock down its weapon, he put the plane in a climb to the north. Then he turned the Tigershark onto a direct intercept for the course the Chinese fighters were taking.

It would be much simpler to shoot them down, but then again, as Whiplash’s chief pilot, he was supposed to be creative. And Danny’s orders were an open invitation to have some fun with them.

“Plot an intercept with Bandits One and Two for Sabre One,” he told the computer.

A dotted line appeared in the sitrep screen on the right. Turk turned the virtual screen into a three-dimensional display by curling his fingers and figuratively pulling the screen out into his hand. The gesture allowed the holographic image to show depth and different angles. Turk turned the map on its base so he could see how close the aircraft would get at the intercept.

The computer, following its normal protocols, kept them at a relatively safe thousand yards — much, much too far away for his purposes.

“Reduce distance at closest intercept to enemy aircraft to ten meters,” Turk told the computer. “Plot intercept for both aircraft.”

The computer complied, its only protest a flashing yellow line on the plot to show it was ill-advised.

Turk agreed.

“Reduce distance to enemy aircraft to five meters,” he told the computer. “Add event — fire flares — at closest intercept point.”

A little more diddling — he altered the course so flares would be launched right in front of the Chinese planes — and all was ready.

Still invisible to the Chinese fighters, the Tigershark was moving at just under Mach 1. The J-15s were flying at 20,000 feet, side by side and relatively close together — less than a hundred yards, very tight for a Chinese flight.

Turk, about 5,000 feet above them and aimed at a point between them, juiced his throttle. He felt a twinge of perverse pleasure as the Sabre began its dive toward the unsuspecting Chinese pilots.

He was close enough to see the flash of the first flare. The J-15 pilot took a moment to react, then threw his plane into a frantic twist to get away. The other pilot followed a few seconds later.

The radio exploded with Chinese expletives and questions about what was going on. Fortunately, both planes had been high enough that they had plenty of air to use to recover from their maneuvers; they could easily have spun themselves into the ocean if they’d been at low altitude.

Recovering from their panic, they began to climb out to the west. By now Turk’s plane was close enough for their radars to pick him up.

They weren’t sure what he was — one of the pilots thought improbably that he was a cruise missile, the other a UAV. They circled and radioed back to their carrier for instructions.

“I bought you some time,” Turk told Danny. “But I can’t guarantee they’ll stay away.”

“Give me two more minutes,” Danny told him. “We’re setting the charges to blow the container now.”

Danny needed more than two minutes, a lot more, but he knew there was only so much Turk could do. As Dalton handed one of the computing units up to Grisif on the reef, Danny yelled at him to set the charges.

“That’s all we’re taking,” he shouted. “We gotta go!”

Dalton held up his hand, flashing five fingers. Did he mean they had five more things to retrieve, or they needed five more minutes?

Danny rolled his hand, signaling that they had better hurry up. Dalton gave him a thumbs-up, then disappeared below the waves.

“I’m seeing those Chinese planes on the radar,” said the Osprey pilot, who was holding the aircraft in a hover nearby.

“We’re working on it, Two Fingers,” said Danny.

“Understood.”

The language section in the Tigershark’s flight computer was not its strong suit, and the translation of the Chinese fighter pilots’ conversation left something to be desired. It wasn’t clear from the text on Turk’s screen whether the carrier told the aircraft they could fire or not.

The activation of their weapons radars a moment later settled the issue: cleared hot to nail the American pirate.

Turk, now ahead of the enemy and not in a position to launch his own attack, hit his ECMs and turned east, protecting the reef. The lead Chinese plane fired a missile, then abruptly started its own turn in the opposite direction. His wing mate followed. The missile was a PL-12 radar-guided weapon. Occasionally compared to the American AMRAAM, the missile used a radar touted in the press as being “antistealth,” presumably meaning that its long-wave characteristics were able to detect and defeat stealthy aircraft other missiles couldn’t. That might have been the case for planes using the stealth techniques employed by China’s air force, but the Tigershark was a far different animal. The Chinese missile lost the Tigershark within seconds, then fell victim to the electronic countermeasures, which tricked it into believing it was near enough to its target to explode.

The turn by the Chinese pilots momentarily convinced Turk they had given up, and he slid around to pursue them. But they flipped back almost instantly, and within seconds he got a fresh launch warning.

The Chinese had fired more missiles — not just PL-12s this time, but PL-9 heat-seekers: seven missiles in all.

Obviously they thought there was strength in numbers.

Danny Freah helped Guzman grab the horse collar from the Osprey, then hung on as a winch began pulling the line back up to the side door of the MV-22. The rotor-tilt aircraft seemed to strain with their combined weight, though in fact the pilot was simply maneuvering against the wind.

The crew chief grabbed Danny and pulled him into the aircraft with a jerk that sent him tumbling to the floor. By the time he recovered, Dalton was holding the radio-controlled detonator for the explosives in his hand.

“I thought they were on timers,” said Danny.

“They are,” said Guzman, his wet suit still dripping. “But they didn’t go off.”

“What?”

Guzman pointed at his watch. “Should have gone thirty seconds ago.”

“Hit it,” Danny told Dalton.

The trooper did. Nothing happened.

“Damn it,” cursed Guzman. He turned toward the door of the Osprey.

“No, no,” said Danny.

“Somebody’s gotta check that charge, Colonel. I set it, I’m the guy.”

“There’s not going to be enough time,” said Danny. “And besides—”

A muffled explosion outside cut him off. They looked out of the cabin in time to see a small geyser rising where the container had been.

“Better late than never,” said Dalton. “Timer must have been mis-set. What was with the radio?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Danny. He glanced toward the crew chief, back by the cockpit. “Get us the hell out of here.”

16

Rubeo folded his arms across his chest.

“Braxton bought controlling shares of that shipping company a year ago,” he told Reid and Breanna. “Right around the time he bought the manufacturer of the submarines. That cargo container ship ought to be our first target.”

“I agree it has to be checked out,” said Breanna.

“The Agency has made a pretty thorough examination of shipping through the area,” said Reid. “And no ties to Braxton or the companies he owns were found.”

“That’s because the agency is not looking in the right places,” said Rubeo. “This is the name of the company: Aries 13.”

“Yes, I know. But what’s the connection to Braxton?”

“Aries 13,” said Breanna. “May thirteenth — the day Jennifer Gleason died.”

“Yes,” said Rubeo. “Precisely.”

“How do you have this information on Braxton?” asked Reid.

“My people have been doing research that the Agency should have,” said Rubeo, barely holding back his contempt.

“Are you implying that we’re not doing our job?”

“I’m implying that I’m being put in a bad position here,” said Rubeo, “with implications that my companies have an intelligence leak.”

“We’ve never said that,” countered Reid.

“It’s implied.”

“I don’t think this is the time or place for this discussion,” said Breanna. “We have work to do.”

“I’ve turned over the intelligence my people have obtained—”

“Legally, I hope,” said Reid.

“If you have a problem with me or my companies, our contracts can be revisited,” said Rubeo.

Breanna put her hand on the scientist’s shoulder. She had never seen him quite this agitated before; in fact, she might not have believed it possible for him to show any emotion. But apparently even the hint that he was less than patriotic — which she gathered was his real objection to some of Reid’s remarks — was enough to set him off.

Good for him. Maybe.

“I believe Ms. Stockard is right,” said Reid. “Let’s work through this.”

“Agreed,” said Rubeo, though his tone made clear he was anything but satisfied.

17

Turk hit his ECMs and dished off enough pyrotechnics to mark the Fourth of July. The Chinese missiles exploded in a series of plumes that covered the northwestern sky.

Though south of the explosions, Turk was close enough to be buffeted by the air shocks, but shrugged it off.

The Chinese pilots had turned back north and hit their afterburners. They also decided that they had shot down Turk’s plane with the barrage. You couldn’t blame them, really — after all, it was no longer visible on their radar.

They radioed their “victory” back to their carrier and were promptly ordered to return. Additional planes were on the way to escort the minesweeper and chase the Americans off the reef.

As tempted as Turk was to pursue them and burst their bubble, he had other priorities.

Unfortunately.

“Whiplash Shark, how do you read?” asked Danny over the Whiplash circuit.

“Read you good, Colonel.”

“We’re returning to base.”

“Roger that. Chinese aircraft heading back. There’s another flight on its way to the reef. The Chinese think they shot me down,” Turk added.

“Let them think that. What about the UAV that tangled with the Marines?”

“I’m just about to go check,” said Turk. “I was planning on sending both Sabres to escort you back while I do that.”

“Acknowledged. Good. Listen, Turk, that UAV that attacked the Marines — it’s not a priority right now. We pulled some gear out of the container that the geeks want to look at, and I’m sure they’ll get a lot more information from that. I don’t want you risking yourself, or the planes for that matter.”

“Roger that, Colonel.”

“All right. Let me know if the situation changes.”

Turk gave the instructions to Sabre One, did a quick check on Two, which was already with the Osprey, then pulled up the map to show where the other two Sabres were.

West of him, about to lose their connection to his plane.

What?

“No way,” Turk told the computer.

“Unknown command.”

“Range, Sabre Three and Sabre Four, from Tigershark.”

“Two hundred miles.”

“How are they connected to my command?”

“Connection via Whiplash satellite system, satellite 34G. Connection about to terminate.”

“Maintain connection,” Turk told the computer.

“Connection is automaintained,” replied the computer, meaning that it had no control over it. In theory, at least, it should be very strong; the planes themselves were doing something to cut it.

“Plot course for intercept,” Turk told his flight computer as he put the Tigershark in the general direction of the wayward Sabres. He jammed the throttle, increasing his speed. He couldn’t keep the afterburner on very long, though, as he was already close to bingo.

He put his radar on long scan but found nothing. Turk did a quick calculation; at their present course and speed, he’d catch up in ten minutes.

It was going to be a long ten minutes. The sky in front of him seemed completely empty; not even the enemy UAV was around.

“Connection to Sabres lost,” declared the computer.

“Reset.”

“Command unavailable.”

“Locate Sabre Three and Sabre Four.”

“Aircraft are not responding.”

“Detect them.”

“Aircraft cannot be found.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Unknown command.”

“Someone ought to program you to understand curse words,” said Turk.