Armageddon d-6 Page 19

  “The question is, do we care about Brunei?” said Arthur Chastain, the secretary of defense. Chastain could be blunt, but the comment was brutal even for him. “Brunei is a minor country in a small corner of the world, certainly not worth the expenditure of our blood.”

  “You’re wrong,” blurted Jed. “Aside from its importance as an oil producer, it’s important b-both strategically and as a sy-symbol,” said Jed. His stutter had a habit of appearing at the worst possible times; he sped on, knowing the best strategy for dealing with it was to ignore it. “Brunei helps balance Malaysia and Indonesia in the region. It provided a base during the operations against China. It’s been a more stable ally than the Ph-Ph-Philippines, all things considered. And also, these terrorists have to be taken seriously. This is just the start for them. We have to beat them here.”

  “They’re just poor rabble-rousers,” said Chastain. “Poverty’s the problem with all of these people.”

  “No one is poor in Brunei,” said Kelly.

  “And they have the Megafortress,” added Jed. “It is not a weapon we’d want in terrorists’ hands.”

  “Absolutely not,” said the president. “At the minimum, we want to take it back or destroy it.”

  “And the maximum?” asked Chastain.

  “The maximum is what we’re here to discuss,” the president told him.

  Chapter 46

  Dreamland

  11 October 1997, 2203

  The new orders came just as they were boarding the planes. Dog pulled Danny aside on the apron near the hangar a few feet from the MC-17. Danny’s men — along with two small scout helicopters and Dreamland’s mobile command trailer — were already aboard Dreamland’s version of the versatile McDonnell Douglas cargo plane.

  “Brunei’s going all to hell,” Dog told him. ‘The Megafortress is at the International Airport in the capital. Mack Smith can’t be located at the moment. The president wants to make sure the terrorists don’t operate the aircraft.”

  “We going to blow it up?” asked Danny.

  “It may come to that, depending on the situation,” said Dog. “There’s been some contact with Prince bin Awg, who’s asked for the aircraft to be preserved if not recovered. The president wants us to scope out the situation and destroy the plane only if necessary. I’d like to see exactly what’s going on.”

  “What about Deci Gordon?”

  “He’s hiding with some people outside the capital. He called into our center a while ago. He seems okay for now. I’ve spoken to Breanna by phone,” Dog added. “She’s in Tokyo. She’ll be joining us in the Philippines.”

  Dog explained that, rather than going to Brunei International Airport as they had planned, the Megafortresses and MC-17 would land at a Philippines airfield, using it as a temporary base.

  “I’ll take Pennsylvania and do a survey of Brunei as soon as we arrive,” continued Dog. “We’ll check the oil platform we were going to use as the LADS base, double-checking that it’s okay. If possible, we’ll operate the helicopters out of there.”

  “I don’t know if that’s going to work,” said Danny. “The platform doesn’t have a dedicated helipad.”

  “Then we may have to improvise. You told me the structure of the building had been designed for a landing deck, it just wasn’t installed.”

  “The plans say that. We’ll have to get in and check it before we can land.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “If we’re going to get people off the island, we should land directly at the airfield,” said Danny.

  “Not until we know what the situation is,” Dog told him. “And I doubt we could hold it with just the Whiplash team”

  “Where’s the navy?” asked Danny.

  “There’s a carrier group several days away. They won’t be offshore and in a position to conduct operations until the end of next week. This has caught everyone by surprise, including us.

  “We’ll get some satellite intelligence over to the MC-17 via the Dreamland network,” added Dog. “It’s daytime over there right now. By the time we get over there with the travel time and time change, it’ll be late at night.”

  “Understood,” said Danny. “We’ll try to sleep on the flight over”

  Dog was piloting Pennsylvania, an AWACS-equipped radar version of the EB-52, which was also carrying two Flighthawk U/MF-3s strapped to her wings. The robot planes would be piloted by Zen, who was already in his specially adapted seat on the Flighthawk control deck on the Megafortress’s lower level. The area had once been used by the B-52’s offensive team; Zen sat roughly where the navigator would have had his post before the aircraft was overhauled.

  Kevin McNamara, Dog’s copilot, was going through the preflight checklists with the help of the computer when Dog slipped into the driver’s seat next to him.

  “Welcome aboard, Colonel,” said McNamara. “We’re just about ready to give these turbines a twist and see what they can do.”

  Across from the Pennsylvania sat the Indianapolis, getting a last minute check from the ground crew. The “Indy “ — like the “Penn,” named after a famous battleship — was an almost mirror image of the Pennsylvania, with a long snout and a slight bulge for her radar gear about midship. Indy had not yet seen action, but the man at the helm, Major Merce Alou, was a veteran of several Dreamland deployments. The two Flighthawk pilots — Starship and Kick, who would each control one U/MF-3 — had done themselves proud over the South China Sea and Taiwan barely a month before.

  Dog glanced across at the other plane’s lit cockpit and saw Major Alou. He gave him a thumbs-up and got one in return.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” he told McNamara, punching up the computer screen that controlled the engine start.

  Chapter 47

  Brunei

  12 October 1997, 1408

  Sahurah watched quietly as the brothers brought the limp bodies to the shaded area at the side of the sultan’s compound, composing them respectfully.

  Commander Besar was brought up last. The blast that had killed him had struck him in the back and neck, nearly severing his head from his body. The men who set him down were grim-faced; one appeared to be near tears. Sahurah considered scolding them, for surely Besar was now at bliss in Paradise.

  If so great a sinner as Besar could find peace, why could Sahurah not?

  “Cars!” said one of the men near the front of the compound, relaying the word from a lookout.

  Sahurah left the others to care for the bodies and went out to the front. Three vehicles came up the drive. The first and last were filled with heavily armed men, crammed four across, front and back.

  The middle car contained the imam and the Saudi. The imam pushed open the door and got out with a smile. “You have done well, Sahurah. So well!” he shouted, and he clasped Sahurah to his chest.

  “The brothers have done their duty,” said Sahurah.

  “And you remain humble!”

  The imam seemed to be chiding him. But did the Prophet not direct a believer to know his proper place, to master overweening pride? If the great patriarchs, if the rulers and teachers had not boasted, how could such as Sahurah?

  “We have not found the sultan,” reported Sahurah. “He escaped from the compound during the fighting.”

  “A small matter in the context,” said the imam, waving his hand. “The capital is ours. Within a few days, we will control the entire country. The future is great, Sahurah”

  “Yes”

  “More work remains,” said the imam. “But we must give praise to Allah for the triumphs so far.”

  “Yes” Sahurah saw now that he had denied the Lord his just thanks, and felt ashamed.

  “I have heard that an American was taken prisoner at the airport,” said the commander.

  “I was not aware of that,” said Sahurah. “My work has been here”

  “Yes. It would be good if you were to take charge of him. He may prove valuable in the future. He was the head
of the sultan’s air force.”

  “I will look into it immediately.”

  “There are anti-aircraft missiles there,” added the commander. “A crew has been sent from Malaysia to train our people to use them. You should select some of your best men to learn. There may be a counter-attack.”

  “Understood.”

  “We will have control of the nation very shortly,” said the commander. “Very shortly.”

  “For the glory of Allah,” said Sahurah.

  The imam smiled and got back into the car.

  Chapter 48

  Brunei, near the Malaysian border

  12 October 1997, 1708

  McKenna crouched amid the rocks as the speedboat cut its engine and coasted toward the shoreline. The two Brunei policemen with her started to rise.

  “No,” she said sharply. “Wait until we’re sure of them.”

  The men immediately dropped back into a crouch. McKenna picked up her binoculars as the speedboat turned parallel to the shoreline, drifting for a moment. There were five men in it, all armed with large guns — machine-guns, she thought, something on the order of Minimis, the Belgian weapons known in the U.S. as M249s.

  The man at the wheel was bin Awg.

  “All right,” she told the two policemen. “Carefully.”

  As the men moved down to the water, McKenna worked her glasses up and down the shoreline, making sure no one had managed to sneak past the guards she’d posted. Two dozen members of the Brunei police force had rallied to the small camp at the very tip of the country. McKenna’s wing-man had recommended the old airfield when it became clear they couldn’t land at the airport; until today it had mostly been used by helicopters and very light aircraft. The strip was barely wide enough for the A-37Bs. It was long, at least, and, if you ignored two mud holes at the right side about a quarter of the way from the northern end, smooth and solid. She thought she could get the Dragonflies off it with a full or nearly full load of fuel and weapons. Of course, to do that, she’d need jet fuel.

  Ammunition would be nice, as well.

  McKenna waited until Prince bin Awg was ashore before going down to greet him.

  “The sultan is here?” asked the prince.

  “He’s fine”

  “He must leave now,” said bin Awg. “I’ve arranged safe haven in the Philippines.”

  “Why?” said McKenna. She headed for the trail back to the camp.

  “You don’t understand. He’s in great danger.”

  “Of course I understand. But his duty is to liberate his kingdom and protect his people,” said McKenna.

  “His duty is to preserve himself while we do that,” said bin Awg. His strides lengthened as he found the trail.

  “I disagree,” said McKenna.

  “It’s not up to you”

  “Or you.”

  * * *

  The prince argued with his uncle for more than a half hour, but the sultan would not be convinced. The only concession he made was that he would not personally use a rifle unless desperate measures were called for.

  McKenna — who heard the argument through the thin walls of the office they had taken as their headquarters — wasn’t sure whether those conditions might not be met at any moment. They were getting different reports from the radio and the one telephone line that remained working. Guerillas — Islamic terrorists who had been operating against Malaysia until a few days before — had taken over the capital and much of the northern portion of the country. While a good number of Brunei policemen and soldiers had fought bravely, the country had largely been taken by surprise. Sadly, a number of government officials had been less than brave, fleeing their posts at the first alarm.

  Brunei was by nature a land of peace. That was its greatest problem now — when the unthinkable came, it was difficult to respond.

  McKenna worried about Mack Smith and the Megafortress. She assumed that he had turned around once he saw the airport had been taken over, but in the confusion there was no way to know.

  The sultan came to the door of the small room he had adopted as his headquarters and called in McKenna, along with the local police chief, who had rallied his men to the camp.

  “The prince and I have discussed his request, but I am staying with my people where I belong;” announced the sultan in Malaysian.

  “Good,” said McKenna.

  Bin Awg frowned but told the others what he knew of the situation in the rest of the country. Small army and police units were continuing to resist in the area south of the capital. Many men had gone underground and were said to be loyal, waiting only for leadership. The army’s third brigade had been untouched by the first wave of the attacks, and had set up a defensive perimeter around Medit in the southern part of the country, where it had been conducting maneuvers. It had armored personnel carriers and reconnaissance vehicles. Additional units were in control of Sukang, but were under heavy fire.

  The navy had lost its two Russian patrol ships as well as two other smaller coastal patrol boats. Some of the remaining vessels had rendezvoused in the South China Sea under command of the assistant defense minister for the navy.

  The prince recommended that the sultan join up with the main army group, which was roughly fifty miles away across a rough jungle.

  “We may be able to bring in a helicopter at nightfall,” said the prince.

  “How about getting some fuel for my airplanes?” said McKenna. “We can support the troops there.”

  “I don’t know if we can find any. Fuel is hard to come by.”

  McKenna told him about the tanker filled with jet fuel that Mack had arranged; it should be nearly offshore by now. In the meantime, fuel could be purchased from the Indonesians in the south.

  “Get it up here by boat. We’ll carry it up to the airfield. Or better yet, use those helicopters you have. Get us some ammunition for the guns and we’re in business.”

  Prince bin Awg started to speak, but the sultan cut him off. “Make it so,” he said.

  The prince bowed his head.

  Chapter 49

  Brunei International Airport

  12 October 1997, 2100

  Mack Smith folded his arms and pushed his back against the chair in the small room in the basement of the civilian terminal building. The side of his face had swelled where he’d been hit earlier; his lower lip sagged and his nose felt like it had been broken. But he was otherwise physically okay.

  His pride sure hurt like hell. Taken by surprise on the tarmac by jerks in white pajamas with beach towels on their hair — how the hell was he ever going to live that embarrassment down?

  Mack had been interviewed twice; in both cases the interviewers’ English was so poor that he hardly understood them when they asked his name, let alone their other questions. The men ended up shouting at him, but seemed under some restraint not to hit him. He’d simply waited them out until they left.

  Mack figured that eventually the sultan would rally his troops and retake the airport. The question was how to survive in the meantime. He’d been a prisoner before — and in fact, had been captured by real Islamic madmen and transported all the way from Somalia to Libya. These guys were amateurs in comparison.

  The hallway outside the room was carpeted, and Mack had no warning that someone was approaching until the door opened. A thin man in his mid- or late twenties entered the room. Unlike the others, he wore khaki fatigues and had on a bulletproof vest. He seemed confident, his step deliberate. Two of the pajama-boys with submachine guns came in behind him, standing by the door and pointing their weapons at Mack.

  “You are an American:’ said the man. His English had an accent that sounded similar to the accents the Brunei officials Mack dealt with had; it was polished, and vaguely British.

  “That’s right,” said Mack. “What are you?”

  “I am Commander Sahurah Niu,” said the man. It was a simple declaration, not a brag. “Your name is what?”

  “Mack Smith.”

  “
Smith is a very common name.”

  Mack shrugged. “That’s what I’m told.”

  “You are a pilot?”

  “Sure”

  “You flew the large aircraft?”

  “Yup.” There was no use lying about that.

  “Yup?”

  “Means yes,” said Mack.

  Sahurah’s eyes seemed to search Mack’s face, as if he were trying to look for clues that his prisoner could be trusted.

  Yeah, trust me, Mack thought to himself. Trust me so I can screw you big time.

  Once I come up with a plan.

  “The big aircraft — it is a bomber?” asked the man.

  “No,” said Mack. He wasn’t sure how much information Jalan or the other pilots would give the guerillas, so he had to be careful with his lies. But he wanted to steer them away from the possibility of using the aircraft as an offensive weapon.

  On the other hand, if they thought it might be useful, maybe they’d put him in the cockpit A few high-g maneuvers and he’d be free.

  “It’s a radar plane,” said Mack. “It, uh — the radar searches for other aircraft. It’s like an early warning system. It can be very useful when you’re under attack.”

  “It contains no weapons?”

  “Defensive weapons,” said Mack. “It can defend itself.”

  Sahurah changed direction, asking how long Mack had been in the country.

  “Couple of weeks,” he said.

  “Where did the sultan go?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “We control the city. We will find him. When will the Americans come?”

  “Which Americans?” Mack asked.