“No, I am.”
Danny didn’t have an answer for that.
Breanna understood Turk’s anger. Even though she had given the only orders she possibly could, she still felt tremendous guilt. She had, explicitly, directed that one of her own people be killed if he was going to be captured. Not even the genuine relief and joy at hearing that he was alive could erase it.
Turk was a tough kid and a great pilot. And, at least according to the doctors, he didn’t seem to have post-traumatic stress. He’d recovered fully from the light injuries he’d had, and in fact seemed to be in the best shape of his life. But throwing him back out in the field — was that really the best thing to do?
“You’re worried that something will go wrong when we’re out there?” asked Danny.
“I’m just worried that he’s been under a lot of stress,” said Breanna.
“If I didn’t think he could handle the job, I wouldn’t be recommending him,” said Danny. “And I do need an expert with me.”
“You’ll be in constant communication with our experts.”
“It’s not the same as having somebody on the scene. Tech is great, but…”
“All right,” said Breanna. “Take him.” She reached into the in basket on her desk. “The President authorized the mission a half hour ago. You can take one other technical person, but you’re just observers. Keep the lowest profile possible.”
“That’s my middle name. Low profile.”
6
Danny Freah and Turk Mako stood on the tarmac of a small jungle airport, waiting for the advance element of Marine Task Force Tango-Bravo-Mary to arrive.
If Turk was feeling any hesitation at getting back close to combat, it wasn’t apparent to Danny. Then again, he didn’t seem to be overly excited either. He was just… Turk.
Arms folded, the young Air Force captain watched the sky as the drone of the approaching aircraft echoed over the nearby mountain range. A pair of F-35B Lightning IIs appeared from the east, flying in low over the treetops. The jets — Marine Corps versions of the standard military multipurpose fighters — had full loads of air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons under their wings. Thundering past, they banked into a turn and circled overhead.
While Danny had seen considerable action with various Marine units over the years, he had never worked directly with an F-35B group before, and he watched the aircraft with some curiosity.
The Marine version of the Lightning II was configured for short-runway operations; it could land and take off vertically, and often was called on to do just that. Vertical takeoffs limited the combat weight the planes could use, which generally meant carrying less fuel, fewer weapons, or both, and so as a general rule the Marines preferred to operate the aircraft with short runways rather than direct vertical liftoffs. The runway they were using here was precisely the reason the Marines had fought so hard to get the aircraft in the first place. Officially listed at some 1,200 feet, its usable space ran just over eight hundred; the northern end had caved in some years before due to erosion and was never properly repaired. Barely as wide as a C-130’s wingspan, the strip of concrete had been patched in numerous places with cement and aggregate, and just walking along it Danny could feel bumps and see waves in the surface.
As the jets passed overhead, four V-22 Marine Corps Ospreys appeared over the jungle, flying in a staggered follow-the-leader formation. The closest aircraft had already begun tilting its propellers upward, transitioning from conventional airplane flight to that used by helicopters. The Osprey reminded Danny of an Olympic runner who was spreading his arms wide as he approached the finish line.
The aircraft pivoted above the dense jungle canopy as it came in, sliding into a hover in what could only be described as a well-practiced aerial ballet. The rest of the squadron followed, touching down together in a display that would have wowed many an air show audience. Once down, the Ospreys trundled toward the three trailers at the southern end of the strip. The trailers had been delivered by C-130s barely two hours before. Parked near an old cement building that looked like it dated to British colonial times, they were the only other structures at the base.
The rear ramps of the aircraft popped open and Marines began double-timing down to the tarmac, where they were greeted by the small advance force that had secured the base ahead of Danny two days ago. In less than five minutes a total of sixty-eight men and twelve women were deposited on the ground; the ramps were shut and the Ospreys began heading back into the air. Their takeoff was a notch less coordinated but just as efficient as the landing. All four Ospreys were over the nearby mountain before the F-35s dropped down to land.
“Want to go meet the neighbors?” suggested Danny.
“Be there in a minute, Colonel,” said Turk. “I need to take care of nature first. You go ahead.”
“Be on your best behavior.”
Turk grinned in a way that made Danny wonder if maybe this was a good idea after all.
Two more planes landed as Danny walked over. The head of the air detachment was a short, stubby Marine named Lt. Colonel James Greenstreet. His thick torso and long arms reminded Danny not a little of the orangutans he knew were out in the trees watching them. He had a sunburnt face and a scar above his right eye; these complemented the sort of no-nonsense, no-bullshit manner that Danny had long admired in the typical Marine officer. While it was clear from the way Greenstreet stalked across the concrete that he would never be called easygoing, his quick smile and eager handshake signaled that he was exactly the sort of man Danny wanted to work with, the kind of officer who found solutions and didn’t stop to calculate what the effect was going to be on his career. The only thing that struck Danny as out of place was the cigarette Greenstreet popped into his mouth as they began talking; it was rare, these days, to encounter an officer in any service who smoked.
“So where are the Malaysians?” asked Greenstreet after he’d finished introducing Danny and Turk to the small group of officers and senior enlisted who’d come over to care for the planes.
“They’re due at the base tomorrow morning,” said Danny.
Greenstreet nodded. “We’ll get them sorted. You’re going to handle ground coms?”
“Not me personally. I have a captain with me,” said Danny. “He’ll train the Malaysians. We met them yesterday. They seem competent.”
“Good.”
“They’re going to set up a camp at the south end of the base,” said Danny. “Your Captain Thomas has already worked out the details. He said you have security, but if you need more, the Malaysians can augment you near the hangars and such.”
“Captain Thomas knows what he’s doing,” said Greenstreet. “We’ve trained with him before. And, uh, as far as the locals go: no offense, Colonel, but most of us feel more secure without them.”
“Understood.”
Turk folded his arms as he walked toward the F-35. Even before he had begun testing new aircraft for Dreamland and Special Projects, he hadn’t been a particular fan of the Lightning II. Like a lot of fighter jocks — at least of the American variety — he saw speed and acceleration as the ultimate virtues of an aircraft; the Lightning II was known to be somewhat below average in those categories when compared to the F-22, let alone the hot rods Turk guided. These shortcomings might have been excused, at least in Turk’s opinion, if it made up for it with stellar maneuverability. But the plane’s weight and configuration made it less than acrobatic.
Turk tried hard not to be a snob. The F-35 had real assets: dependability, versatility, and a suite of electronic sensors that were at least a generation ahead of anything else in regular service around the globe. But after flying the Tigershark II in combat, it was hard to look at any other aircraft and not think it was a bit of a pig.