Armageddon

  Titles by Dale Brown

  DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND: ARMAGEDDON

  (with Jim DeFelice)

  DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND: PIRANHA

  (with Jim DeFelice)

  DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND: NERVE CENTER

  (with Jim DeFelice)

  DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

  (with Jim DeFelice)

  FLIGHT OF THE OLD DOG

  SILVER TOWER

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH

  HAMMERHEADS

  SKY MASTERS

  NIGHT OF THE HAWK

  CHAINS OF COMMAND

  STORMING HEAVEN

  SHADOWS OF STEEL

  FATAL TERRAIN

  BATTLE BORN

  THE TIN MAN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND: ARMAGEDDON

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / August 2004

  Copyright © 2004 by Dale Brown

  Cover art and design by Steven Ferlauto

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without

  permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via

  the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher

  is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized

  electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy

  of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is

  appreciated. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-515-13791-X

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DREAMLAND

  DUTY ROSTER

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL TECUMSEH “DOG” BASTIAN

  Dreamland’s commander has been mellowed by the demands of his new command—but he’s still got the meanest bark in the West, and his bite is even worse.

  MAJOR JEFFREY “ZEN” STOCKARD

  A top fighter pilot until a near-fatal crash at Dreamland left him a paraplegic, Zen runs the Flighthawk program and has now accumulated more air-to-air kills than any other active pilot in the air force. But he’s got a grudge bigger than the wheelchair life has confined him to.

  CAPTAIN BREANNA “RAP” STOCKARD

  Zen’s wife has seen him through his injury and rehabilitation. But can she balance her love for her husband with the demands of her career … and ambitions?

  MAJOR MACK “THE KNIFE” SMITH

  Mack Smith is the best pilot in the world—and he’ll tell you so himself. He left Dreamland to reshape the Brunei air force in his own egotistical image.

  CAPTAIN DANNY FREAH

  Danny commands “Whiplash”—the ground attack team that works with the cutting-edge Dreamland aircraft and high-tech gear. Freah’s wife and friends want him to run for Congress. The war hero would be a shoo-in—but does he want to give up the excitement of Dreamland?

  JENNIFER GLEASON

  Computer specialist Jennifer Gleason is one of the creative geniuses at Dreamland, responsible for the multi-mode combat computer that helps control the Flighthawks. She’s also

  Dog’s lover—but her emotional and intellectual sides don’t always get along.

  JED BARCLAY

  The young deputy to the national security advisor is Dreamland’s link to the president. Barely old enough to shave, the former science whiz kid now struggles to master the intricacies of world politics. Zen Stockard is his cousin—and Zen still can’t figure out how the skinny kid who used to follow him around on a tricycle grew up and got a real job.

  LIEUTENANT KIRK “STARSHIP” ANDREWS

  Starship flew through flight school and was on the fast track to a career flying the air force’s frontline interceptors, like the F-15 and F-22. But family commitments made him change his plans. Now he has a post at Dreamland flying the U/MF-3 Flighthawk robot planes, where he’s finding that no amount of training can prepare him for real combat.

  AND IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC …

  PRINCE PEHIN BIN AWG

  The nephew of the sultan of Brunei and the unofficial protector of the air force, bin Awg has an enviable collection of Cold War aircraft—and a well-earned reputation as a partier. Can he mature in time to save his uncle’s realm … and his own neck?

  CAT MCKENNA

  A one time Royal Canadian pilot, McKenna has found work plying the skies for a shadowy Russian arms dealer. But when her paycheck bounces, she looks for a new job—and ends up locking horns with Mack Smith.

  CAPTAIN DAZHOU TI

  Years ago, Dazhou’s Chinese grandfather was disinherited by the sultan of Brunei. Now he wants revenge—and has a secret Malaysian warship to insure that he gets it.

  SAHURAH NIU

  A devout believer, Sahurah is convinced that he has a place in Paradise—and is willing to kill thousands to reach it.

  I

  PARADISE

  Malay, Negara Brunei Darussalam (State of Brunei, Abode of Peace)

  6 October 1997, (local) 1302

  BREANNA STOCKARD TOSSED HER BACKPACK TO THE GROUND, put her hands on her hips, and took a deep breath. The Pacific Ocean spread out before her, a blanket of azure silk. A few white clouds wandered casually in the distance, drifting across the sky like a pair of vacationers easing across a solitary beach. Civilization might lay in the distance-there were oil derricks somewhere offshore, and merchant ships did a brisk trade at the nearby harbor—but from where she stood Breanna had no hint that she and her husband Jeff “Zen” Stockard weren’t the only people in the world.

  This is what God looks at everyday, she thought to herself. Paradise.

  Breanna took another deep breath. A month ago, she had found herself stranded in the Pacific during a fierce storm, tossed back and forth in a tiny life raft. It seemed impossible that this was the same ocean now.

  Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that hadn’t even happened. Ten days here in the wonderful paradise of Brunei—helping train pilots to fly the EB-52 Megafortress “leased” to the kingdom as part of an eventual three-plane arms deal—had purged her of all unhappy memories.

  One more week and it might even be impossible to have an unpleasant thought ever again.

  Zen had surprised her yesterday by turning up for a weekend visit. They had twenty-four more hours together before he had to return to Dreamland, their base back in the States.

  Breanna smoothed out the blanket she’d borrowed from the hotel and spread it down on the white sand next to the path. She dropped her bag and Zen’s small backpack and turned to go back up the path.

  “I’ll bring down lunch, then I’m going to take a swim before I eat,” she told her husband, who was negotiating the bumps down from the parking area in his wheelchair.

  “Yup,” said Zen.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” she said.

  “Yup.”

  “Jet lag getting to you?”

>   “I’m fine.”

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then trotted up the hill for the rest of their things.

  BEFORE THE ACCIDENT THAT HAD COST HIM THE USE OF HIS legs, Zen had considered going to the beach a useless waste of time and a dreadful bore. In his list of things to do, it ranked right above lying spread-eagle on Interstate 15 at rush hour.

  Now it ranked somewhat lower.

  He had tried talking Breanna out of the idea back at the hotel, when Prince bin Awg had called to say he and his family couldn’t join them on the planned picnic. His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg was nephew of the sultan, a royal prince and government minister; he owned the beach and had insisted they use it. Zen liked bin Awg, the country’s unofficial patron of the Air Force—he had an enviable collection of Cold War aircraft and could talk about them entertainingly for hours and hours. Like many Bruneians, he was also generous to a fault. But his baby daughter was sick and he had been called away on government business. Zen loved Breanna and wanted to spend as much time as he could with her; he just would have preferred somewhere other than a beach.

  A Lakers game, maybe.

  It wasn’t so much the fact that beaches and wheelchairs didn’t go together. Truth be told, wheelchairs didn’t really fit smoothly anywhere. Much of everyday life in the A-B world—as in “able-bodied,” a term not used by the handicapped without at least a touch of sarcasm—was a succession of physical barriers and dignity-stealing obstructions. Going to the beach was probably no worse than going to the grocery store. And the fact that this beach was a private, secluded refuge meant there were no people to gawk at the geek in the wheelchair—or worse, take pity on him by “helping.”

  No, what bothered him was deeper than that. There just seemed to be no point, existential or otherwise, in lying on your belly and watching water lap against the sand.

  “My, but you’re a slowpoke,” said Breanna, returning with their coolers. “Need a push?”

  “No,” he said stubbornly, gripping the wheels of his chair and half-sliding, half-rolling off the hard-packed pathway and onto the sand. Surprisingly, the chair wheels sank only about a quarter of an inch, and Zen was able to pull over right next to the blanket. There he started a well-practiced if inelegant lift, arch, and twist routine, sliding himself down to the ground.

  “You coming in?” asked Bree, kicking off her shoes.

  “Yup” Zen pulled himself up, sitting next to the cooler with the beer. He took out a Tetley’s Draught—an English ale that might be the last vestige of Britain’s influence on Brunei—and popped the top. A satisfying hiss and fizz followed.

  “ ‘This can contains a floating widget,’ “ he read from the top of the can. “What do you think a floating widget is, Bree?”

  “An excuse to charge two dollars more,” said Breanna, who had complained earlier about the high price of beer. As an Islamic country, Brunei officially frowned on alcohol consumption, and between that and the fact that the beer had to be imported from a good distance, the six-pack Zen had purchased through the hotel concierge had cost over twenty-five dollars, American.

  But some things were worth the price.

  And others couldn’t be bought for any amount of money: Zen watched as his wife stripped off her jeans and T-shirt, revealing a red one-piece bathing suit that reminded Zen there were some good reasons for going to the beach after all.

  “Mmmm,” he said.

  “Don’t get fresh.”

  “What? I’m talking about the beer.”

  He ducked as Breanna tossed her T-shirt at him.

  DESPAIR’S BLACK HANDS TOOK HIS THROAT, AND SAHURAH NIU struggled to breathe.

  The prince’s wife and infant daughter had not come to the beach. His informants had been wrong.

  Sahurah pushed his fists into his arms, struggling to calm himself. It was of vital importance to remain in control in front of his men.

  The commander had made clear that he must complete the mission today. They had discussed the possibility of taking other hostages if necessary; clearly that was his course now.

  The two people on the beach were Westerners—Australians, he thought, though Sahurah Niu was not close enough to know for certain. Undoubtedly they were guests of the prince, or they would not have been allowed here on the private beach. They would do.

  One was in a wheelchair. A pity.

  Sahurah was not without a sense of mercy: he would be killed rather than taken.

  “What are we doing?” asked Adi, the little one. He handled the Belgian machine-gun they had obtained two months before from their brothers across the border. Despite his small size, Adi had learned to handle the weapon and his body well enough so that he could fire the gun from his hip. This was not easily done; the others and Sahurah himself preferred to fire prone, as their instructor had first taught them.

  “We will go ahead with our plan,” said Sahurah. “Tell the others be ready.”

  THE WATER FELT LIKE A MINERAL BATH, BALMY AND THICK against her skin. Breanna stroked gently across the small bay in front of the beach. The salt water tickled her cheeks, and the sun felt good on her back and shoulders. She took a few strokes parallel to the beach and looked back at Zen, who despite being crippled was a strong swimmer.

  “Are you coming in or not?” Breanna yelled.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Oh come on in!” she yelled. “The water is fantastic.”

  “I’ll be in,” he said, sipping his beer.

  The shoreline was crescent-shaped and slightly off-center to the east, bordered on both sides by strips of jungle. To the west, a pile of rocks formed a small mini-peninsula about a hundred and fifty yards from the mainland. The rocks were just barely above the surface of the water, and they weren’t very wide; there looked to be just about the surface area of a good-sized desk there. Still, it was a destination and Breanna turned and began doing a butterfly stroke toward it, her old high-school swim team warm-up routine popping into her brain.

  ZEN DUG THROUGH THE COOLER, SORTING THROUGH THE food they’d taken from the hotel, looking for something that might seem at least vaguely familiar. He took out what seemed to be a roast beef sandwich—meat stuck out from the edges—and then leaned toward the backpack to get a plate. As he did, he caught a glint of something in the trees to his right, well back in the jungle off the beach by fifty or sixty yards.

  Zen put down the sandwich and opened the cooler again, pretending to fish for something else while looking surreptitiously into the jungle. He hoped he’d see a curious child, a teenager copping a cigarette or some such thing, looking at the intruders with curiosity. But instead he caught the outline of a short, squat man with a large gun.

  Someone sent by the prince to protect them?

  Zen closed the cooler. Sliding his arm through the strap of the backpack, he sidled to the edge of the blanket, estimating the distance to the water.

  Twenty feet.

  They didn’t have a radio or cell phone. The Brunei air force was so ill-equipped it barely had enough survival radios for its flight crews; American cell phones didn’t work here. And besides, this place was paradise—nothing ever went wrong here.

  Breanna was about thirty yards out, stroking steadily for a little jetty or rock island at the edge of the cove.

  “How’s the water?” he shouted. Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Maybe I will come in. What the hell. Might as well have a quick swim before lunch.”

  He twisted around on his elbow, turning to drag himself toward the water.

  If he’d had his legs, Zen thought to himself, he’d have confronted the son of a bitch beyond the trees, gun or no gun. But he didn’t have his legs, and the worst thing he could do now was let the bastard know he saw him. He went slowly toward the water, lumbering like a turtle.

  As he reached the water line, something crashed through the brush above. A strong shove brought Zen to the edge of the surf; a second got him into six inches of water.

/>   On his third push he felt his body start to float. Salt water stung his face, pricking at his nostrils.

  Something rippled near him. He heaved his body forward and dove beneath the waves.

  AS BREANNA WATCHED FROM THE WATER, THE BRUSH BEHIND the beach opened like a curtain. Three men came out from the trees, and then a fourth. Two had rifles.

  Zen was at the water—Zen was in the water.

  They were going to fire at him.

  “No!” she shouted. “No!”

  SAHURAH NIU GRABBED THE TALL ONE’S ARM AS HE FIRED.

  “Wait,” he told Abdul, first in his own Malaysian, then in Abdul’s native Arabic. “Don’t waste your bullets while he’s in the water.”

  “He’ll get away.”

  “This will not be so. He is a cripple.” Sahurah Niu repeated his command not to fire so the others could hear. “Wait,” he added, pointing to the horizon. “The boat is coming. Do you see it?”

  ZEN PUSHED HIS HEAD UP FOR A QUICK BREATH, THEN DOVE back down, stroking toward Breanna. The world had narrowed to a tiny funnel in front of him. He could see rocks on the bottom of the ocean, twenty or more feet below as he pushed downward.

  Where was his wife? He pulled his body in the direction of the rocks she’d been heading for. In the back of his mind he heard himself yelling at his body, as if they were two separate people, coach and athlete:

  You’ve gone further and faster than this in rehab. Push, damn it, push.

  The pressure in his lungs grew and finally he came up for a gulp of air. Bree was a few yards away.

  “The rocks!” he told her. “That island on my left!” She hesitated.

  “The rocks:’ he repeated.

  “What’s going on? Who are they?”

  “Come on.” He took hold of her, pushed her down under the water, then took a stroke away. When he was sure she was going in the right direction he dove down, following.

  They reached it at the same time. The rock furthest from shore was shaped like a giant turtle shell and tottered at the top of a deep pile. Zen pushed around to the other side, opening the backpack as he did. He wedged his stomach against the side of the rock, balancing as he pulled the Ziploc bag with his service pistol out from the bottom of the knapsack.