Armageddon Read online

  “What the hell is going on?” Breanna asked.

  “Trouble in paradise,” said Zen. He heard the sound of a motorboat. Turning, he saw a black triangle approaching from the eastern horizon.

  “You’re going to have to go for help,” he told her.

  “I’m not leaving you”

  “You have to,” Zen told her. “Swim down the beach line to the spot where those houses we passed were. They can’t be more than a half-mile.”

  “God, Jeff, it’ll take me forever to swim a half-mile. They’ll get you.”

  “Get going then.”

  “Come with me.”

  “If we both go, they’ll just follow in the boat. Besides, I can’t get ashore.”

  “I’ll carry you.”

  “Just fuckin’ go, Bree. Now!” He pushed her away awkwardly, holding the pistol, still in its plastic bag, up out of the water.

  The look she gave him wounded him as badly as any bullet, but she ducked down beneath the water, stroking away. Zen pulled himself up against the rock, waiting to see what the men on the shore would do next.

  SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND TO HIS FOREHEAD, SHADING HIS eyes. The two tourists were huddled at the edge of the cove, foolishly thinking it would protect them.

  They had rehearsed this. The next steps were easy.

  “Abdul, go through the trees and then to the first rock. Do not go into the water.” It was necessary to tell the Yemen this because he was a very simple man. “When you see that we have them, come back and meet Fallah at the edge of the beach, there”

  Sahurah pointed to the eastern edge of the protected area. “Fallah, you will guard that side, in case they attempt to swim away. You may shoot them, but only if they are more than ten meters from us. Ten meters, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Adi looked at him expectantly. The motorboat was now approaching, moving toward the beach at a good clip, precisely as planned.

  “You and I will go in the boat,” Sahurah told the short one. “We will have to wade. Make sure the weapon does not get wet. If they do not come easily we will need it.”

  BREANNA PULLED THROUGH THE WATER, PROPELLED BY HER fury. She was angry at Zen for sending her away, angrier still at whomever it was who was trying to kidnap or rob them.

  Brunei was a paradise; how could this happen here?

  The houses they had seen were no more than a mile away: 1,600 meters. One of her events in high school.

  She’d never finished higher than third in it.

  Breanna continued her stroke, falling into the rhythm, willing away everything, even her anger, as she plunged through the water.

  * * *

  ZEN WATCHED AS THE BOAT CUT ITS ENGINES AND DRIFTED toward the shore. The thugs on the beach had rolled up their pants and started to wade out. One of them had a largish rifle, possibly a machine-gun like the M249 or Belgium Minimi, a squad-level weapon that fired 5.56-millimeter ammunition from magazines or belts, which could be held in a plastic box-like container clipped beneath the chamber area just ahead of the trigger.

  They moved almost lackadaisically, obviously not seeing him as much of a threat. More than likely they didn’t know he had a gun.

  The closer they got, the better his chances at hitting them with the pistol. On the other hand, the closer they got, the more difficult it would be to swim away.

  But that wasn’t an option. They had a boat. He’d never outswim it in the open water. Nor would there be much chance of surprising them from the sea.

  His goal wasn’t to escape. It was to distract them long enough that Breanna could escape. He would let them get close, then take out as many of them as possible. He’d target the man with the machine-gun first.

  SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND DOWN ON THE GUNWALE OF THE speedboat as it came next to him in the water, trying to steady it before he pulled himself over the side. His ancestors had been fishermen, but Sahurah himself disliked boats; no matter how big, they seemed flimsy and unprotected against the awful power of the sea.

  The two men in the boat looked at him with puzzled expressions, but did not speak. Unlike the others, the men who had been selected from the boat were Indonesians with a limited command of Malaysian and no knowledge of Arabic; he had to use English so they would understand.

  “There has been a change in plans,” he told them, grabbing onto the back of one of the seats. “The people we have come for are there.”

  He pointed to the rock. One of the tourists was treading water next to it; the other must have been hiding behind him.

  “There?” asked the man near the wheel of the boat.

  “Yes,” said Sahurah. “Take us there.”

  He took the machine-gun from Adi’s hands, cradling it against his shirt. While it was heavier than the AK47 he had first learned to shoot as a boy, it was surprisingly small for a gun that could fire so rapidly and with so much effect. Sahurah had only a pistol himself, strapped in a holster beneath his shirt.

  Adi took the gun back greedily as soon as he was in the boat.

  “We will not shoot them unless it is necessary,” Sahurah reminded him.

  Adi frowned, but then set himself against the side of the boat in a squat, holding the weapon’s barrel upward and protecting it from the spray as they turned and started toward the rock. The helmsman brought the boat around in an arc, circling around from the west.

  The man at the wheel cut the engine when they were twenty meters from the rock. Sahurah reached to his shirt for his gun; he would fire a shot and then tell the tourists to surrender. He would use sweet words to make the idiots believe he meant no harm. The Westerners were, without exception, cowards, eager to believe whatever they were told.

  Adi tensed beside him. Sahurah knew he was about to fire. He turned to stop him, but it was too late: the gun roared. Sahurah turned and saw Adi falling backward as the machine-gun fired—he thought the little man had been pushed back by its recoil and tried to grab him, but both Adi and the gun fell off into the water. Stunned, Sahurah reached for him when he felt something punch against him, a stone that tore into his rib. He grabbed for his weapon and found himself in the bottom of the boat, finally realizing that the man on the rocks had a gun.

  ZEN’S FIRST SHOT MISSED, BUT HIS SECOND AND THIRD caught the man with the machine-gun in the head. He fired three more shots; at least one struck the man next to the gunman. The boat jerked to the left and roared away out to sea.

  Zen lost his grip on the rock as the wake swelled up. He couldn’t keep the gun above the water, let alone himself—he slid down and then pushed up with his left hand, clambering up on top of the rock.

  The boat was headed off. Thank God, he thought to himself. Thank God.

  Something ricocheted against one of the rocks about thirty feet from him. Zen threw himself into the waves, still clutching the pistol. He pushed around to the seaward side of the rock then surfaced.

  There was a man on shore about fifty yards away with an AK47. Zen went down beneath the waves as the man aimed and fired again. The rocks would make it almost impossible for the gunman to hit him unless he came out on the isthmus. A second gunman stood near the brush on the eastern end of the beach; Zen paddled to his right, finding a spot where he couldn’t be seen from that angle. He was safe, at least for a while.

  Then he heard the motor of the speed boat revving in the distance. They were coming back.

  WHEN BREANNA SAW THE OBJECT IN THE DISTANCE, SHE thought at first it was a large crocodile. She stopped mid-stroke, frozen by fear.

  Then she saw that it was bobbing gently and thought it must be a raft. She started toward it, and in only a few strokes realized it was part of a dock that had been abandoned ages ago and now sat forlornly in the water. Abandoned or not, it was the first sign of civilization she had seen since setting out and she swam with all her energy, kicking and flailing so ferociously that she reached it in only a few seconds. She pulled herself against it to rest. As she did, she saw a small skiff maybe seventy-fi
ve yards away, the sort of small boat a fisherman might use to troll a quiet lagoon on a hazy afternoon. An old American-made Evinrude motor, its logo faded, sat at the stern. Breanna threw herself forward, stroking overhand in a sprint to the boat. She got to the side and pulled herself up.

  The boat sat about five or six yards offshore, a line at the stern anchoring her. The shore here was lined with trees; Breanna saw a path at the right side, though it wasn’t clear what was beyond it.

  “Hey! Hey!” she yelled. “Help! Help!”

  She couldn’t see anyone. Breanna turned to the motor. It was old, possibly dating from at least the 1960s, with part of the top removed. It had a pull rope.

  She grabbed the rope and yanked at it. The engine turned itself over but didn’t start.

  Breanna stared at the motor, which had been tinkered with and repaired for more than thirty odd years. The motor seemed to be intact, without any fancy electronic gizmos or cutoff switches; even the turn throttle seemed to work. She tried the rope again and this time the engine coughed twice and caught. The propeller growled angrily as Breanna got the hang of the jury-rigged replacement mechanism that set the old outboard properly in the water. The boat jumped and started to move forward; she just barely managed to turn it in time to keep the craft from sailing into the rocky shore. She realized she hadn’t released the anchor—the boat groaned, dragging the rock along. She couldn’t steer and reach the line at the same time; since she was moving forward at a decent pace she didn’t bother pulling it in, concentrating instead on getting her bearings as she sped back to rescue her husband.

  ZEN PUSHED HIMSELF BACKWARD FROM THE ROCK, DUCKING down under the water and swimming to the west. He stayed below for as long as he could, the pressure in his lungs building until it became unbearable. As his face hit the air he heard a cacophony of sounds—the motorboat, guns firing, a distant jet. He gulped air and ducked back, pushing again. He didn’t last as long this time. When he surfaced the boat was nearly on top of him. He pushed down and waited, the wake angry but not as close as he feared.

  When he resurfaced, the crack of a rifle sent him back underwater with only half a breath.

  WHERE WAS THE INFIDEL BASTARD? SAHURAH LEANED against the side of the boat, searching for the tourist in the water. The man had gone beneath the waves somewhere around here; he couldn’t have swum too far away.

  Sahurah knew that it was the cripple who was shooting at them. How exactly he knew that—and surely that was not the logical guess—he couldn’t say, but he was sure.

  So the moment of pity he had felt on the beach had been a grave mistake. A lesson.

  He heard one of his men firing from shore and turned toward the east. A head bobbed and disappeared in the water nearby.

  “There,” shouted Sahurah, momentarily using Malaysian instead of English. “There, over there,” he yelled. “Go back. Get the dog. Run him down!”

  BREANNA STRETCHED FORWARD, TRYING TO GRASP THE knotted line holding the stone while still steering the boat. She was about three inches too short; finally she leaned her leg against the handle, awkwardly steadying it, and grabbed the rope, pulling it back with her as she once more took control of the motor. The anchor turned out to be a coffee can filled with concrete; she pulled it up over the side and let it roll with a thud into the bottom of the craft.

  A boat circled in the distance offshore. Breanna bent down and held on, steadying herself as she made a beeline for it.

  SAHURAH BROUGHT UP HIS PISTOL TO FIRE. HIS FIRST THREE shots missed far to the right. As he shifted to get a sturdier position he felt the pain in his side again; the bullet had only creased the flesh but it flamed nonetheless.

  He would have revenge. He aimed again, but as he fired, the boat jerked abruptly to the north.

  “What?” demanded Sahurah, turning toward the helm.

  The men pointed toward the west. A second boat was coming.

  For a long moment, Sahurah hesitated. He felt his anger well inside him. Unquenchable thirst—frustration—rage.

  He had failed.

  “Get the others,” he said finally. “Get the ones on shore. Quickly.”

  * * *

  THIS TIME THE PRESSURE TO BREATHE WAS SO FIERCE ZEN started to cough as he broke water, his throat rebelling. His body shook with the convulsions and he found himself twisting backward in the water, unsure where he was.

  He’d saved Bree, at least, he thought. They might have gotten him but his wife at least was safe.

  Zen heard the boat behind him. Surprised that it was there, he pushed his tired arms to turn him in that direction. But instead he slipped beneath the waves, his energy drained.

  BREANNA SAW THAT THE OTHER BOAT WAS GOING IN TO THE beach. She cut the throttle back but even at its low idle setting it still pushed the boat forward. She dared not pull the ignition wire or fiddle with the eccentric controls too much; instead, she put the boat into a circle, taking some of its momentum away before approaching the rock, about two hundred yards away.

  She didn’t see Zen.

  Did they have him already? Was that why there were going to shore?

  “Zen! Zen!”

  Something bobbed to the left, about thirty yards away.

  “Jeff! Jeff!”

  It was him. He-started to swim for the boat, but he was moving in slow motion, not swimming as strongly as he normally did. She maneuvered to the left and right, but couldn’t quite get close enough on the first pass and still didn’t dare to turn off the motor.

  “I’ll circle around. Grab on!” she called. “This is as slow as I can go “

  Breanna pushed against the throttle switch on the engine, managing to slow the speed a little more but still not entirely cut it as she came around. Zen grabbed the side of the boat, clamping his arms against it like a hobo pulling himself onto the side of a freight car.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled as she pushed at the throttle, trying to get it to increase speed gently. “Let me get in for cryin’ out loud,” said Zen, pulling up against the side.

  “Wait,” she told him, fighting to keep the boat balanced and moving in the right direction as the engine began churning the water faster.

  “They’re going away,” Zen told her. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s all right,” she repeated, not quite ready to believe it.

  Brunei International Airport, military section

  1830

  Mack Smith looked at his watch again and shook his head. Everyone in the damn country ran at least a half-hour late.

  It was bad enough that his pilots were cavalier about reporting on time, but now even Breanna had caught the bug.

  Mack paced in front of the A-37B Dragonfly he was supposed to fly for the night exercise. He was so short of trained pilots that he had to take the plane up himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—Mack loved to fly the old Cessna, which was similar to the T-37 “Tweet” air force pilots cut their teeth on—but the fact of the matter was, as head of the air force, he should at least have had the option of assigning someone to go in his place, just in case he wanted to party or kick back a bit. He currently had only five other pilots with suitable ratings and training to fly jet aircraft, and he was training them all to handle the Megafortress as well as his four A-37Bs. Besides getting these guys up to speed, he needed to at least triple his stable of jocks before the two other Megafortresses arrived.

  Hence the importance of tonight’s session.

  Stinking Breanna. Where was she?

  Come to think of it, he didn’t spend any time partying anymore. There was just too much to do to get this tin can air force in shape. New planes, pilots, ground people—he had a few kids who could strip a jet engine with their eyes shut and get it back together, but he needed more, more, more.

  “Excuse me, Minister.”

  Mack turned to find one of his maintenance officers, a friendly but sad-sacked sort named Major Brown, who was descended from a nineteenth century British regent or some such
thing.

  “You can just call me Mack. You don’t need to use my title,” Mack told him for the hundredth time.

  Brown’s attempt at a smile looked more forlorn than his frown.

  “We have only a week’s worth of fuel supply left, sir. You asked me to bring it to your attention.”

  “Did you put through that requisition or whatever the paperwork was?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did we get it?”

  “No, sir.” Brown explained that simply forwarding a form into the morass that was the Brunei defensive forces purchasing system was hardly enough to elicit a yawn, let alone needed fuel supplies. Mack had heard some variation of this lecture three times a day since taking this job nearly a month ago.

  “I want you to go over there tomorrow and baby-sit the damn request,” said Mack. “We need a ninety-day supply of fuel at a bare minimum.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever you have to go. No—bypass the stinking bureaucracy. Go to the central defense ministry office and tell the chief of staff I sent you.”

  Brown blanched. Things in the kingdom of Brunei were done by strict protocol. A mere major, or even a general of insufficient breeding, did not talk to the chief of staff, who like most people of importance was related to the sultan.

  “All right,” said Mack, recognizing the look. “What do you suggest?”

  “If I go to the finance office, perhaps I can get an expeditious result.”

  Two weeks ago, Mack would have asked why Brown would have to go to the finance office to get something as simple as a fuel order sent up the line. Now he knew that the explanation would not clarify anything.

  “Do your best,” he told Brown. “We’re all set for the exercise, right?”