His opinion of the Marine aviators who flew the plane was quite a bit higher… mostly.
While the fierce service rivalries that once characterized the military were largely a thing of the past, he’d had a bad experience with a squadron of Marines at a Red Flag exercise very early in his career. The Marines — flying F-35Bs, as a matter of fact — had been led by one of the most arrogant SOBs he’d ever met. The fact that the instructors at Red Flag had regularly spanked his squadron’s collective butt would have therefore been very satisfying — except for the fact that Turk and his two-ship element of F-22s was regularly charged with flying with them.
His combined unit only managed to beat the instructors on the very last exercise, and that was because the F-22s followed their own game plan, essentially using the Marines to bait the larger group of aggressors.
Different group, Turk told himself as he walked over to introduce himself. Give these guys a chance. Not every Marine aviator is a jerk.
And besides, it was their commander who was the A-hole. The rest of them were decent human beings. For Marines.
Two of the pilots, still in full flight gear, were stretching their legs near the wings of the planes.
“Hey!” yelled Turk.
“Hey, back,” yelled the Marine Corps aviator closest to him. Tall for a pilot — he looked like he might be six-eight — he started toward Turk.
“How you doin’?” asked the pilot. He had a southern California twang. “You the Air Force dude in charge?”
“No, that’s Colonel Freah. Danny Freah,” added Turk, pointing. “He’s over there.”
“I’m Torbin Van Garetn,” said the Marine, thrusting out his hand. “A lot of people just call me Cowboy.”
“Why Cowboy?”
“ ’Cause they think it’s funny that a Swede wears cowboy boots,” said the other pilot, coming over. “Don’t let his sloppy uniform fool you. He’s the best executive officer in the whole damn Marine Corps. My name’s Rogers.”
“Turk Mako.”
“So what’s your gig, Turk?” asked Cowboy.
“I’m going to be working with you guys as the ground air controller.”
“Cool. You’re Air Force.”
“That’s what it says on the uniform.”
Cowboy laughed. “My bro’s in the Air Force. Tech sergeant. He is stationed in California, the lucky bastard. Gets a lot of surfing in.”
“You’re into surfing?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Cowboy!” shouted a voice from back near the planes.
“That’s our C.O.,” said Cowboy. “Kind of, uh, well, I’ll let you form your own opinion.” He smirked.
“Cowboy. What are you doing?” said the commanding officer as he walked toward them. His tone wasn’t exactly friendly. “Is your aircraft squared away?”
Cowboy winked at Turk, then spun around to meet his boss. “Not yet, Colonel. Just making the acquaintance of our Air Force liaison.”
“Well get your aircraft taken care of, then deal with your social duties.”
Turk braced himself. The snarl of a commander a little too full of himself was universal, but the gait seemed not only unique but all too familiar.
No way, he thought.
But it was — the C.O. of “Basher” squadron was none other than Lt. Colonel James “Jocko” Greenstreet, the man who had commanded the F-35s at Red Flag.
Of all the stinking bad luck.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Greenstreet,” barked the pilot, stopping about ten feet from Turk. “Who are you?”
“Turk Mako.” If Greenstreet didn’t remember him, he wasn’t volunteering the memory.
“What’s your rank?”
“I’m a captain.”
Greenstreet frowned in a way that suggested an Air Force captain was too low for him to waste breath on.
“We’ll brief when we have our aircraft settled,” said Greenstreet.
“Can’t wait,” said Turk as the colonel strode away. He couldn’t tell if Greenstreet had recognized him and didn’t think it was worth acknowledging, or if he was simply extending the same warm and fuzzy feelings they’d shared at the Air Force exercise.
“You meet the Marine squadron leader?” asked Danny, walking over.
“Jocko Greenstreet,” Turk told him. “Lieutenant colonel. Real piece of work. Don’t call him Jocko,” added Turk.
“You know him?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Turk explained.
“I assume you’ll keep your personal feelings to yourself,” said Danny.
“Absolutely,” said Turk. “I’m sure he will, too — not that it will make any difference at all in how he behaves.”
Two hours later Danny, Turk, and Trevor Walsh — the Whiplash techie who was going to handle the local monitoring gear — joined the Marine Corps pilots and some senior enlisted men in one of the trailers for a presentation on the UAV.
“This is what we’re interested in,” said Danny, starting the briefing with blurry images of the UAV in action. “While your primary mission is still to assist the Malaysians, we appreciate any help you can give us. We’re very, very interested in finding out what exactly this UAV is and who’s flying it. We expect that it may fly into your area.”
“You ‘expect,’ or it will?” asked Colonel Greenstreet sharply.
“I can’t make any prediction,” said Danny, who didn’t mind the question or the tone. “Unfortunately. But when the Malaysian air force had its fighters on the western side of the island, it appeared.”
“Would have been nice if they told us before deploying us here,” said Greenstreet.
“That wasn’t my call,” said Danny.
“We’ve flown on the eastern side for weeks,” said Greenstreet.
“Cowboy says he saw a flying monkey,” joked one of the Marines from the back.
“I did,” laughed Cowboy.
“Enough,” said Greenstreet, immediately silencing his men.
Danny clicked his remote, bringing up a few slides of the fuselage that had been recovered, then the artist’s renditions. He detailed the two sightings, with map displays, and reiterated what had happened to the Malaysian aircraft that had attempted to engage it.
“We’re not exactly sure that it was the UAV that shot anything down,” said Danny. “Not to denigrate their flying but—”
“We’ve seen ’em,” said Cowboy. “You’re not denigrating anything.”
This time Greenstreet didn’t bother stopping the snickers.
“Nonetheless, ground fire can’t be completely ruled out,” said Danny. “And while the flight patterns suggest a combat UAV, we have no hard evidence. That’s why we’re here,” he added. “Myself, Captain Mako, and Mr. Walsh, that is.”
“The Malaysians aren’t exactly the best pilots in the world,” said Greenstreet. “But I’d expect them to know what type of aircraft they were dealing with. And how many. One seems ridiculous.”
“Exactly,” said Danny. “But whether it’s one or ten or whatever, that unknown aircraft is pretty fast and highly maneuverable.”
“And you’re sure it’s a UAV?” asked one of the Marines.
“It’s too small to be manned, as far as we can tell,” said Danny.
“Where does it launch from?”
Danny shook his head. “Don’t know that either. We have elint assets coming on line,” he added, referring obliquely to a specially built Global Hawk that would pick up electronic signals. The aircraft was due in the area in a few hours. “Like I say, we’re here to fill in the blanks, and there are a lot of blanks.”