Armageddon d-6 Page 26

  Paper covered the walls, which were constructed of wooden boards nailed up against studs. The paper had buckled near the mat that served as his bed. The bubble ran along one of the boards, as if the air had squeezed in from the outside. Mack glanced at it several times as he walked back and forth, trying to come up with a plan to escape. Finally he went to the wall and poked at it with his finger. The material, though thick with paint, was pretty brittle, and he was able to punch a slight hole by jabbing with his thumb. He started tearing the paper, and exposed a jagged strip about six inches wide and two feet long, where two of the boards were joined together. A bit of sunlight poked through at the corner.

  If he had a crowbar, or something he could use for one, he thought he’d be able to dismantle the panels easily. Mack stepped back from the wall, reexamining the room for something he could use as a tool, though he’d been over every inch earlier. He flipped the mat and ran his hands over the material, thinking there might be a spring inside.

  Just as he concluded there were none, the door opened. Mack looked up from his knees at the large man who came in. The man, dressed in loose-fitting white pants and a long white tunic, seemed perplexed; Mack, on his knees, realized that the militant thought he had found him praying.

  “What?” Mack snapped.

  The man said something he couldn’t understand, then glanced around the room. He finally spied what he was looking for: the piss bucket. He walked to the corner and took it.

  Mack got up, walking slowly to the doorway. A guard stood just outside; he had an AK47 in his hand. Unlike the man who had come for the can, he was short, and in Mack’s opinion easily overpowered. As Mack stared at him the idea of rushing the man began to percolate in his brain. His adrenaline began screaming at him, blood and hormones rushing together.

  Then he heard more footsteps. The man who had taken the can returned with it, empty. He glanced at him but said nothing.

  My chance, thought Mack. Rush the kid and grab for the gun.

  But by the time the idea formed in his head the man was closing the door.

  Chapter 75

  Aboard “Indy,” approaching Malaysian Air Base

  1100

  Breanna swung the EB-52 over the southeastern tip of Borneo, checking her location as she got ready to land at the scratch air base. With the rest of the crew starting to drag after a long patrol and return to the Philippines to refuel, Bree had done almost all the piloting.

  “Pretty country,” said Major Alou.

  “Yeah. It’s paradise down there, I’ll tell you,” she said. “If you ignore the madmen with the guns.”

  She hit the last waypoint and turned, spotting the airport in her windscreen. The other EB-52 and the C-17 that had brought the tech people sat at the far end of the strip. The airfield was narrow and the camouflage a bit disorienting, but Breanna had landed under much worse conditions; the wheels didn’t even chirp as she touched down.

  “Hey, stranger,” said her husband when she came down the ladder ten minutes later.

  “Hey;” she said. She leaned over and grabbed him, felt his strong arms clutching her back.

  “I missed you,” he whispered.

  “I missed you, too.”

  She felt tears coming to her eyes, then running down her cheeks. She pressed her head against the side of his head for another few seconds, then slowly, reluctantly, straightened. “Boring flight?” asked Zen.

  “Boring flight.”

  “Good,” he told her. “So I hear you’re first officer now.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Zen.”

  “Want to see our digs?”

  “Nice?”

  “Sure,” said her husband, wheeling himself away from the plane. “If you like concrete and spit.”

  * * *

  The Malaysian commander assured dog that his twelve men were more than enough to secure the base. The terrorists in the area had fled a month before.

  “You think he’s right about the terrorists?” Dog asked the Special Forces soldiers when they left the Malaysian commander’s post.

  “I doubt it,” said one of the soldiers. “The Malaysians were always underestimating them.”

  “You guys better look over the defenses and see what you need to beef them up,” said Dog. He paused, watching as a Hummer descended from the MC-17 with the Dreamland trailer in tow. The MC-17 was to take off as soon as it was unloaded, flying back to the Philippines for supplies. And Dog had plans for the Hummer.

  “That trailer will be our headquarters,” Dog told the SF men. “Make a list of what you need and we’ll try to get it.”

  “Battalion of troops wouldn’t be bad,” said one of the sergeants, Tommy Lang.

  “If you can find one, let me know,” said Dog.

  He walked over to Zen, who was overseeing the deployment of the command trailer. “How we looking?”

  “Should be up and running in a few minutes,” said Zen. “Can’t wait for the AC”

  “Bree okay?”

  “She went to look for a shower,” said Zen. “I tried to warn her.”

  Dog smirked. “I have to go down to the village south of here and meet the lieutenant governor for the area. He’s expecting me sometime today and I’d like to get that over with. The Malaysian commander said we need to truck more water in no later than tomorrow. Hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Zen, swiveling his wheelchair around momentarily. Dog realized he’d gotten so used to Zen being in the wheelchair that he now simply took it for granted, not even considering whether it might be a factor in his doing his job.

  “You’re not going by yourself, are you?” Lang asked him.

  Dog shrugged. “I don’t think I need a translator.”

  “Two of us ought to go for security,” said another of the SF sergeants.

  “Fine with me, as long as one of you stays and figures out what we need for security here,” said Dog, heading for the Hummer.

  * * *

  The capital of the tiny region was a small village five miles from the base. The road through the jungle was paved and easy to travel. Once they reached the village, however, they found that the main street was no wider than a sidewalk back home; they had to leave the Humvee near a pack of small houses and walk in on foot. Dog and the two soldiers got about ten feet before they were surrounded by a mob of children. The Army men had come prepared — they pulled pieces of candy from their pockets, making sure the kids got a good look at them before tossing them to the side. But there were so many children that the way remained clogged.

  Dog tried to push them aside as gently as possible. One kid held onto his leg, and the only way to dislodge him was to pick him up. This actually helped clear the way for some reason, the other kids stepping back to get a better glimpse of their friends in the stranger’s arms.

  “Here we go, Colonel,” said one of the sergeants, pointing to a white-washed three-story building made of masonry block. It had no sign but it was clearly the most substantial building on the block.

  Dog made it to the threshold, still holding the child. He turned around awkwardly, then settled the tyke on the ground.

  “Sheesh,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Sergeant Lang. “Almost enough to make you get a vasectomy.”

  Dog roared with laughter.

  The meeting lasted only a few minutes. Dog thanked the Malaysian region’s lieutenant governor with some stock phrases a State Department official had suggested. The Malaysian, who spoke impeccable English, assured him that his country was a “steadfast ally” and would provide any hospitality possible.

  “A truckload of water would be greatly appreciated,” said Dog, adding that the Malaysian base commander had said the arrangements were already in place.

  The lieutenant governor knew about this and said it would be arranged. And then he suggested that they have something to eat. This could not be refused without giving offense, and Dog and the soldiers went inside to an office
that had been hastily made over into an impromptu banquet hall.

  The soldiers were familiar with the local cuisine. Even better, they were extremely hungry, and while his rank demanded that Dog take the first bite, he had no trouble letting his companions consume most of the food. They raved about the satay; Dog nodded and picked strategically at his plate, making sure to sample and praise everything while ingesting as little as possible.

  After forty-five minutes of lunch, he used another State Department supplied formula to excuse himself. The Malaysian protested; he apologized and excused himself again; they protested once more, though less profusely, and Dog repeated the formula. The procedure took ten whole minutes to complete. Finally outside, he and his two escorts made it about halfway up the block before the children appeared again. Once more Dog found his way blocked by a two-year-old. He hoisted the kid to his chest, then scooped up another and made it to the Humvee.

  “You could run for mayor, Colonel,” said Lang as they eased the Hummer back onto the highway.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got kids?” asked the other soldier, who was driving.

  Dog laughed. “Yeah. One. She’s a captain in the Air Force. Matter of fact, she should be on the ground back at our little base by now”

  The sergeant did a double take. Dog decided that he would recommend the man for a decoration for his diplomatic tact.

  “I got a two-year-old,” said the sergeant. “Smartest little kid you ever saw.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Dog.

  “Then he sure can’t be related to you, huh?” said Lang.

  “Always busting my chops,” said the soldier.

  As he spoke, the Humvee ran over a mine that had been planted in the road. It exploded under the left front wheel, killing the driver and throwing Dog and the other sergeant out of the vehicle into the brush beyond the shoulder of the highway.

  Chapter 76

  Off the coast of Brunei

  1200

  Danny Freah hunched over the table in the first room of the oil platform building, looking down at the satellite photos of Brunei Airport spread on its surface. The civilian portion of the airport sat at the right; the military base was beyond, to the left. At the very bottom of the map was a narrow access ramp through a boggy area which led to a trio of large hangars.

  The hangars were owned by His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg; he used them to house his impeccable collection of Cold War aircraft, including the MiG-19 that Brunei Air Commodore McKenna wanted to commandeer.

  “That section of the airport is completely isolated,” McKenna told him. “There’s a fuel truck in the hangar on the extreme left; we blow the lock, hot-wire the truck, and we’re in business.”

  Danny got up and went over to the table where the LADS field control units were set up. Blimp Four was directly over the airport; the three hangars were unguarded and in fact there were no more than a handful of people at the airport.

  “Drop me off, I take the MiG,” said McKenna. “Simple as one-two-three.”

  “Risky operation to retrieve one aircraft,” Danny said.

  “Well, I’d take more if I could.” She laughed and hooked her thumbs into her belt loops, looking a bit like a Canadian cowboy. “You find me some more pilots. I’ve flown that MiG-19, though, and I know I can operate it off my strip. As long as the parachute at the rear works.”

  “What else is in there?”

  “A very nice but temperamental F-86, a large Tu-16 Badger C — Mack Smith’s claim to fame — and a Hawker Hunter. I don’t know what model Hunter it is, but it dates from the fifties. Everything else he has doesn’t fly, at least not reliably.”

  “I’d rather blow them up than steal them.”

  “Seems like a waste of good hardware,” she told him. “None of the planes are going anywhere without good pilots. And trust me, there aren’t too many of them on the island. But go ahead — blow them up right after I take the MiG”

  “How are you going to maintain the MiG if you take it?”

  “Two of bin Awg’s men are back at my base. Think of it this way, Captain: You say you can’t spare either of your helicopters to transport me back to my airbase at least until tomorrow night. This way, not only do I get back to my base, but you take out a potential threat. You trash the hangars and they’ll be out of business.”

  “I can order an air strike by the Megafortress,” said Danny. “Less risky.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Danny frowned at her. “This isn’t fun and games”

  “Yeah, no shit,” she said. “Look, taking that plane out of there helps everybody and it’s easier than hell. I see by your blimp video thing no one’s around. The approach is isolated from the rest of the airport — it’ll be bodaciously easier than what it took for you to launch that bag of air down south.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t help me do it, I’ll swim ashore and find my own way to the hangar.”

  “Hey, Cap,” said Bison, monitoring the LADS images. “We got movement going into the airport. One vehicle. No — two, a car and a fuel truck”

  “They heading toward the Megafortress or the civilian plane?”

  Bison waited a second, watching. “Looks like the Megafortress.”

  Chapter 77

  North of Meruta

  1209

  As Dog started to get up from the dirt he smacked his head against the side of a tree or a rock and rebounded to the side, rolling into a thick clump of brush. He pulled his head back, got his arms under him, and looked up, disoriented and not completely sure what the hell was going on. Something fell against him, a green blur — it was one of the Special Forces soldiers, scrambling back toward the road. Dog pushed after him, then threw himself down as an automatic weapon began popping somewhere to the right. The SF soldier did the same; Dog crawled up next to him and saw that the soldier had recovered his rifle, a small, lightweight version of the M16 favored by special operations troops and known as the M4.

  “Got at least two shooters, up over there,” said the soldier. It was Lang. He pointed to the right. “Must’ve planted some sort of mine in the road, detonated it when we got close.”

  The Humvee, its front end torn up, sat upside down on the opposite shoulder. One of its tires had been ripped off by the impact and landed in the middle of the road.

  “Where’s your partner?” Dog asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  A burst of bullets slashed through the vegetation. Dog took out his Beretta, but neither he nor Lang fired; it wasn’t clear where the gunners were.

  “You cover me while I go to the truck,” said Dog.

  Lang started to object, but to Dog it was a no-brainer.

  “I’d guess you’re a better shot with that gun than I’ll ever dream of being,” he explained. “If I can get over there and get our radio, we can get all sorts of help. Otherwise those assholes’ll pick us off eventually.”

  “Yeah, okay, that makes sense,” said Lang. “You wait until I lay down some fire, okay? When I yell ‘go,’ you just scoot right across. Save your pistol until you have a damn close target.”

  “Will do.”

  The soldier crawled forward, then fired a short burst, which was immediately answered by at least two enemy soldiers, who fired long, poorly aimed bursts from their weapons, draining their magazines. Lang held his fire until the shooting died down. When it did, he jumped up, shouted “Go!” and began blasting the area where the gunfire had come from.

  Dog threw himself toward the Humvee, leaping headlong across the road. He ran several miles every day, but the five or six yards he ran now felt like a marathon. By the time Dog slid down behind the wrecked Humvee, he was out of breath. He rolled onto his belly and crawled along the side of the truck, watching the vegetation on his left.

  The driver’s body had been pitched in the tall grass just at the edge of the shoulder. Dog crawled over to him. As soon as he got there he realized the man was
dead; his leg had been sheered off and his left arm was a blackened stub. Dog turned away, pushing back to the truck as more gunfire erupted.

  The SF men had carried an A/PSC-5 (V), a lightweight but very powerful radio that could use both satellite and UHF frequencies. Dog hunted for it but couldn’t find it in the jumble of the truck. He did see his pack, however. Besides extra ammunition for his pistol, a survival knife, and a small first-aid kit, he had a PRC-90 radio there, an old emergency radio from his flight gear that he habitually carried as a backup.

  The pack was wedged against the crushed windshield, next to an M4 rifle. Dog pushed in through the side of the truck, making his way in like a gopher exploring a new hole. As he reached for the pack he saw that his hand was covered with blood; three long, jagged scrapes had been torn along the flesh. He grasped the bag, expecting to have to fight to free it. But it came out easily, and so did the gun. He searched once more for the Special Forces’ radio but couldn’t find it. He got out of the truck and looked around the nearby jungle but saw nothing; finally he went back to the vehicle to look again. As he did, the Humvee began to shake and he heard gunfire in the distance.

  They must have some sort of damn mortar in the hills that they’re firing nearby, Dog thought, not realizing at first that the vehicle was shaking because it was being pummeled by bullets. By the time he finally saw he was the target, he was out of the truck and in the shallow ravine. Dog pulled the M4 up, hunched over it, and put his finger on the trigger, aiming in the direction of the gunfire. He braced himself and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked down at the gun, made sure it was loaded, and then looked at his hand, double-checking to make sure he had his finger positioned against the trigger. But still nothing happened when he tried to fire.