Target Utopia (25 page)

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.

T
HE 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.

T
URK 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.

A
S 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.

Over the South China Sea

T
O
C
OWBOY, 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.

Over the South China Sea

T
URK 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.”

“W
E 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.”

T
URK 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.