“Basher One, this is Shark,” said Turk, checking in with the Marines. “I’m about zero-two from rendezvous point alpha. How’s your ETA?”
“Five minutes, Shark One. We don’t have you on radar.”
“Copy that.”
If the F-35 was stealthy, the Tigershark was practically invisible to radar. The F-35s could, however, spot it with other sensors, most notably its passive infrared detection system, which would find the aircraft’s baffled tailpipe as it drew near. The Sabres, on the other hand, could only be detected at extremely close range while they were at cruising speed.
As the planes rendezvoused, Turk flew close enough to the F-35s to give them a thumbs-up — or would have, had they been able to see into the cockpit of the Tigershark. But unlike every jet fighter since the Me 262, the aircraft did not have a canopy; it was a wing-in-body design so sleek that the pilot could not have sat ninety degrees upright. Instead, its skin was studded with small video cameras that gave Turk a perfect 360-degree view, one that could change instantly from daylight to night at voice command, and was always integrated with the radar and other detection systems.
“Sleek chariot,” quipped Cowboy. “Where’d you get that? Mars?”
“You sure it’s not a UFO?” said Greenstreet. It was his first attempt at humor since Turk had known him.
“I want one,” added Cowboy.
“Don’t drool,” said Greenstreet. “You’ll rust the controls.”
Two tries at a joke within thirty seconds? He was on a roll.
“I’ll see if I can arrange a demonstration flight,” said Turk.
“That’d be awesome,” said Cowboy.
The joke was on him — the demonstration flight would actually never leave the ground, as the Tigershark had a rather robust simulation mode.
“All right, let’s do this, gentlemen,” said Greenstreet, back to all-business. “Shark, you ride over Target One and get us some images. We’re with the assault team.”
“Roger that.”
Turk pulled up the mission map and adjusted his course to fly over the atoll where the submarine dock had been spotted. He could just tell the computer to take him there, but where was the fun in that?
“Throttle max,” he said, his hand reaching to duplicate the motion of pushing the throttle to military power.
“Command accepted,” said the plane.
For all the world, he could have sworn it added the words: It’s about time.
Danny Freah raised his hands so the team jumpmaster could finish checking his rig.
“Good,” Melissa Grisif announced finally, turning to give a thumbs-up to the MC-17 crew chief. “We’re good to go.”
Grisif had joined the Whiplash assault team only two months before; this was her first mission with the unit. But she was far from inexperienced. Grisif had joined the Army Rangers as one of the first female members of the regiment; after two years there, she was selected for Officer’s Candidate School, where she graduated at the top of her class. The freshly minted lieutenant went to Special Forces; two promotions later she found herself headed for a desk job. At that point she stepped sideways, getting a slot in an intraservice exchange program that saw SF-trained personnel working with Air Force pararescue jumpers. Six months in she’d seen a notice for volunteers to join Whiplash.
Volunteering to take the team trials represented a serious risk to her career. For one thing, there was no guarantee she would make the cut; if she didn’t, she would lose her assignment with Air Force special operations and return to the Pentagon desk job. And if she did make the cut, she would be treated like any other member of the team. While she would still be an officer, many of the privileges that rank usually bestowed would be missing. She wouldn’t command a team, at least not at first. As the “new guy” on the squad, she would be given much of the donkey work, just as if she were “only” an NCO. (Whiplash required a rank of E5 or higher, which meant that even the newest recruit had been in the military long enough to advance to sergeant or petty officer. As it happened, no military member — some Whiplashers were CIA — had been accepted below the rank of E6, a technical sergeant in the Air Force. If anything, the people who had come over from the CIA were even more experienced, as most had worked in the military before joining the CIA’s paramilitary side.)
Captain Grisif had made the cut. If her ego had been bruised since joining, she never let on. The fact that she had won the position of jumpmaster, an extremely important role in the Whiplash scheme of things, showed that she was already thriving.
The MC-17 was about halfway through its slow climb to 35,000 feet. By the time they reached that altitude, Turk Mako would be starting his pass over the beached merchant vessel. Danny had several plans contingent on what Turk found there, but they all ended the same way: the Whiplash team was getting aboard the vessel and taking it over.
He looked over the rest of the team. With the exception of Boston, everyone was new; the original Whiplash team had been broken up and used to seed new teams, now in training. Chris Bulgaria and Tony “Two Fingers” Dalton had come from Air Force special operations; Eddie Guzman was a former SEAL who had been working for the CIA when he was recruited. Glenn Fulsom, “Baby Joe” Morgan, and Ivan Dillon were all from Army Special Forces. Riyad Achmoody was the eighth member of the team. Achmoody was another CIA recruit, and the oldest member aside from Boston and Danny. A former Army Special Forces officer, he was also the team leader, though with Danny and Boston along, he was the third-ranking member of the unit.
Boston came over and gave Danny a quick thumbs-up. “We’re looking good,” said the chief. “Cap’lissa’s got ’em shipshape,” he added, using his new nickname for Grisif.
“Yup.”
“I see she even got you squared away,” added Boston.
“My rig was perfect,” said Danny defensively.
“A woman’s touch. That’s what you needed.” The chief wagged his finger at his commander. “Something you might think of in your personal life.”
“The day I take advice on that front from you,” said Danny, “is the day I go into a monastery.”
“Just lookin’ out for you,” said Boston.
“Thanks,” said Danny, putting on his smart helmet to check on the rest of the operation.
There was a massive depression on the side of the atoll the Marines were going to inspect. It looked like a small stadium had been there and then flattened. As Turk circled overhead, he directed Sabre One to descend and fly over the depression low and slow.
The feed from the UAV’s low-light and infrared video was piped instantly back to the Cube, where an analyst studied it for a few seconds before declaring it the top of a pancaked bunker.
“That’s definitely manmade,” said the expert. “Way too symmetrical to be anything but. Be nice to get a ground-penetrating radar and have absolute confirmation,” he added. “But I’m thinking that’s not in the budget.”
“It’s not in the timeline,” said Colonel Freah, who was linked in via the com unit in his helmet and the MC-17. “Is the place safe or not?”
“Danny, we’re not seeing any people on the island,” said Breanna from the sit room. “Proceed.”
“Understood. Out,” said Danny. As the com link to the States turned off, he tapped the back panel of the smart helmet. “The island does not appear to be occupied,” he told Captain Thomas aboard the Marine Osprey. “There’s a large depression — our experts think it was a bunker that was exploded. You have the image?”
“We’re looking at it now.” The video had been routed by Whiplash over to the Marine unit via their combat link. “No defenses?”