Target Utopia by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online

attacker was behind the UAV.
    â€œBasically, you don’t want it behind you,” said Turk. “This is just a rough outline.”
    â€œThe more we can find out about it, the better,” added Danny. “But don’t put yourself in danger.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” asked Greenstreet.
    â€œShoot 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 MarineCorps had never let him down. Hopefully, that string would remain unbroken.

7
    Suburban Virginia
    â€œI 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.
    â€œNational security?” asked Zen.
    â€œHardly,” said Breanna. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
    â€œPumpkin-chocolate stout.” He held the pint glass out to her. “Want some?”
    â€œI don’t trust that combination.”
    â€œYour loss.” He took another sip. “So I’m guessing this wasn’t a top secret conversation.”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œI don’t think it’s that funny,” answered Breanna.
    â€œI hope you agreed.”
    â€œI did. I do. Of course, you’d have to start getting better haircuts.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with this?”
    â€œTwenty years out of date. Maybe if you dyed it.”
    Zen rolled his eyes. They’d had this discussion many times.
    â€œSeriously,” said Breanna. “Why did she bring that up? Do you know?”
    â€œButtering you up, probably.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œHa, ha. She likes you.”
    â€œMmmm . . .” 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