“You sure this isn’t a Flighthawk?” asked Cowboy.
“It’s not one of ours.”
“Chinese clone?”
“It’s possible,” admitted Danny.
“The nearest Chinese warship is three hundred miles away,” said Lt. JG Kevin Sullivan, the intelligence officer for the task group. “And that’s a destroyer. Hard to see it launching something as powerful as a Flighthawk.”
“Unless it’s just a recon drone and the Malaysians screwed up,” said Greenstreet. “That I can definitely believe.”
“There is a Chinese carrier task force a little farther north than the destroyer,” said Danny. “But that’s being monitored very closely.”
“They don’t have UAVs aboard,” said Sullivan.
“Not that we know,” agreed Danny. “Nor do they have anything nearly this capable. But like I say—”
“You’re here to fill in the blanks,” said Cowboy and a few of the other Marines.
“That’s right.”
“So if we see it, we can engage it?” asked Cowboy.
“If you’re in Malaysian airspace and it’s hostile, and you know it’s a UAV and that it isn’t one of ours, absolutely.” Danny turned to Turk. “Captain Mako has some notes on its probable characteristics.”
He flipped the slide to a video simulation that had been prepared to show the drone’s likely flight characteristics. It was smaller than the F-35s and more maneuverable, but presumably would not be as fast. The heat signature from its engine was minimal, but still enough for an all-aspect Sidewinder to lock at two miles, farther if the attacker was behind the UAV.
“Basically, you don’t want it behind you,” said Turk. “This is just a rough outline.”
“The more we can find out about it, the better,” added Danny. “But don’t put yourself in danger.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Greenstreet.
“Shoot the mother down at first opportunity,” said Cowboy.
Everybody laughed.
The briefing turned to working with the Malaysian ground force. The unit would undertake search and destroy patrols in areas where the rebels were believed to be active. Turk would use a pair of backpack UAVs — small remote-controlled aircraft with wingspans about as wide as a typical desk — to help provide reconnaissance. Nicknamed “Seagulls,” the UAVs could feed video directly to the Marine F-35s through a dedicated satellite communications channel. The channel allowed two-way traffic, which meant Turk could in turn tie into some of the F-35s’ sensor net as well.
Details out of the way, the briefing broke up for a round of beers, recently deposited in an ice chest by a fresh round of Osprey visits. Danny watched the pilots interact; they were young, sure of themselves, pretty much typical pilots as far as he could tell. Greenstreet seemed stiff and a bit too tightly wound; on the other hand, Captain Thomas, the ground commander, was genuinely relaxed.
In his heart of hearts, Danny would have greatly preferred to be working with a Whiplash team, concentrating solely on finding the UAV. The group of Marines he’d been given looked more than solid, but you could never know exactly what you had until the lead started to fly.
In all his years in special operations, the Marine Corps had never let him down. Hopefully, that string would remain unbroken.
7
“I had an interesting discussion with the President the other day,” Breanna told Zen, plopping down in the living room chair across from him. It was late; their daughter had been asleep for several hours, and by rights both should be in bed.
“National security?” asked Zen.
“Hardly,” said Breanna. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Pumpkin-chocolate stout.” He held the pint glass out to her. “Want some?”
“I don’t trust that combination.”
“Your loss.” He took another sip. “So I’m guessing this wasn’t a top secret conversation.”
“Not this part.” Their respective roles in government — Zen a senator, Breanna in the DoD — made for an awkward set of unwritten rules and, occasionally, difficult protocol between them. Breanna generally couldn’t talk about work, even if she thought Zen might have valuable advice. “Ms. Todd said you’d make a good President.”
Zen nearly spit his beer laughing.
“I don’t think it’s that funny,” answered Breanna.
“I hope you agreed.”
“I did. I do. Of course, you’d have to start getting better haircuts.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“Twenty years out of date. Maybe if you dyed it.”
Zen rolled his eyes. They’d had this discussion many times.
“Seriously,” said Breanna. “Why did she bring that up? Do you know?”
“Buttering you up, probably.”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’ll be starting her reelection campaign soon.” Zen shrugged. “Maybe she figures she can get rid of me by having me run in a primary.”
“Ha, ha. She likes you.”
“Mmmm…” He took a long swig of the beer. While they were members of the same party, Zen and Ms. Todd had had a number of disagreements, and he certainly wouldn’t be considered among her closest supporters in Congress. On the other hand, Breanna knew that the President did genuinely trust his opinions and probably valued his willingness to disagree — she had that rare ability among Presidents to actually seek out counterarguments to her own positions.
There was also the fact that he had helped save her life.
“It’s a mystery,” said Zen. “One of many.”
“Wanna go to bed?” Breanna asked.
“There’s an invitation I’d never turn down,” said Zen, a twinkle in his eyes.
8
Turk ducked low to escape the branch as it swung back across the trail. In three days of working with the Malaysians, he’d not only learned to duck when he heard the distinctive sound of a branch swinging through the air, but had developed a kind of sixth sense about the team and how it moved through the jungle.
The eight-man patrols were led by a point man and the team sergeant. Turk was usually the third man in line, trying not to get too close but on the other hand keeping them in sight, which in the jungle wasn’t always easy. He remembered the training the Delta boys had given him before his Iranian mission: don’t bunch up, be always wary, know where the rest of your team is.
These guys weren’t Delta, but they had been working in the bush long enough to move as a team, quiet and wary. Except for Turk’s M-4, their main weapons were ancient M-16 assault rifles, supplemented by a single Russian AEK-999 Barsuk, a squad-level 7.62 x 54mm machine gun. The six handguns they had between them included two Smith & Wesson revolvers. They carried an odd mix of Chinese and American hand grenades. By far their most impressive weapons were the large machete-style knives they had at their belts, one sharper than the other. All appeared to have been handed down from at least a generation before, and even the most austere was a tribute to the man who had crafted it. While used to hack through thick underbrush, they could cut off a man’s arm or even head with a slight flick of the wrist.
Each man carried extra water, ammo, and rudimentary first aid supplies in a small tactical vest or a web belt; they had no radios, let alone GPS gear or even compasses. Armor and helmets were nowhere in sight. Had Turk not been there, the patrol would have been operating completely on their own; the Malaysian air force was already stretched thin and needed to handle operations in “hotter” areas. Artillery support was a luxury unheard of here.