Target Utopia by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œIt’s a mystery,” said Zen. “One of many.”
    â€œWanna go to bed?” Breanna asked.
    â€œThere’s an invitation I’d never turn down,” said Zen, a twinkle in his eyes.

8
    Malaysia
    Four days later
    T URK 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 appearedto 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.
    Only two of the men spoke English with any fluency: the commander, Captain Deris, who had studied for two years in Australia; and Private Isnin, whose nickname was Monday. Monday was the point man, and he had the instincts of a cat. Slight, and barely out of his teens, he managed to get through the brush without making much of a sound, and seemed as comfortable in the thick trees as he was on the road. Though he was at least five years younger than the next youngest man, it was clear they all trusted his instincts, and even Deris deferred to his sense of direction.
    Monday and Sergeant Intan, about forty and a devout Muslim, seemed to communicate by telepathy. Neither spoke during a patrol, but the NCO constantly flashed hand signals back to Turk andthe rest of the patrol as they walked, somehow perceiving what Monday wanted to do.
    Turk wore a set of Whiplash glasses, which allowed him to see the feed from the two Seagull UAVs overhead as they patrolled. The drones were strictly reconnaissance aircraft. Relatively simple but capable of automated flight through a designated orbit, they fed back infrared images without interpretation by a computer or other device.
    Operating in a remote section of the jungle a few miles from the Indonesian border, the patrols were designated as “presence and contact” missions by the Malaysian command: the unit swept through different areas, showing that they were there and hoping to come in contact with enemy guerrillas. The settlements here were isolated and tiny, generally with less than a hundred people. Most of the time was spent simply