Armageddon d-6 Page 9

  Jed turned to his computer and tapped into one of the databases. During the operations in the South China Sea, the U.S. had moved its satellites to provide extensive coverage of the region. They had also conducted surveillance with a variety of systems, gathering electronic signals and other information to compile a profile of activity. But most of the effort had been focused on China and India. America did not yet have the capability of observing every square inch of the globe twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Doing so with satellites was not only absurdly expensive but technically unfeasible given present limits in technology. Improvements were steadily being made, but the day when someone could sit in a bunker in Omaha and read license plates around the clock in Beijing — let alone a less important place like Borneo — was still a good way off.

  Jed paged through some images, which had been filed as part of a routine series covering the Whiplash deployment. Borneo was a large island shared by three different countries. Brunei territory formed a misshapen W on the northern coast. Sabah, the Malaysian province on the northern part of the island, wrapped itself around Brunei. Below it was the Indonesian territory, Kalimantan.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked.

  “Piece of road that could be used as an airstrip. About three thousand meters.”

  Jed hunted through the images, which mostly showed desolate rock or impenetrable jungle. “This?” he said finally, pointing at what looked like a thickened pencil line near Rataugktan.

  “Compare that to an image a year ago,” said Stoner.

  The only picture Jed could find was from two years before. The road seemed narrower and ended in a T, which no longer seemed to be there.

  “What I think they did was widen and flatten a road that was there, making it into more of a highway. The photo interpreter I talked to says the concrete is pretty new,” said Stoner. “And that what looks like a gully on the northern end there is actually painted on. It’s fairly clever, and if you weren’t looking for it, you might not catch it.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stoner. “But if you can tap into the Russian network and look at their archives, there are two photos that show aircraft on the strip. I came across it by accident when your person called. They were looking for a way to get an image of the island, and I knew someone who would have access to the mirror site that the Greenpeace hackers set up when they broke in a few months ago.”

  “Someone?” asked Jed.

  “Just someone,” said Stoner. “Private guy. Thrives on information. He probably can get into the Russian system on his own, but I didn’t ask.”

  Jed couldn’t get into either the Russian or Greenpeace systems from his computer, since doing so would potentially leave a trail and therefore represent a security breach. He could have any of a number of people do it for him, however.

  “What sort of planes?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Stoner. “The interpreter thought they were Sukhois.”

  “Breanna Stockard reported that the Brunei air force encountered Sukhois,” said Jed.

  “Two plus two,” Stoner deadpanned.

  “I could see having a base for counter insurgency there,” said Jed. “The guerillas are operating throughout that entire area. But why would you put interceptors there? Those are pretty useless against terrorists.”

  “I don’t know,” said Stoner. “There was a ship that was blown up, right?”

  “They’re still investigating. No one thinks it was sunk by a plane.”

  “Maybe no one’s right, then,” said Stoner.

  Jed turned back to his computer, tapping into SpyNet — the informal name for the intelligence community’s intranet featuring briefings and information from around the world. The CIA was tentatively agreeing with the unofficial Brunei assessment — a terrorist bomb had been planted in the ship.

  “This your assessment?” Jed asked.

  “No”

  “You agree with it?”

  Stoner said nothing. Obviously he didn’t, Jed realized — that was his whole point in coming over.

  “What about a submarine?” asked Jed.

  “Australians keep track of the Malaysian subs, as do the Chinese,” said Stoner. “Very unlikely.”

  “Okay,” said Jed. “But why would the Malaysians want to attack a Brunei ship?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stoner. “Maybe they’re trying to help the guerillas.”

  “Are you still working on this?”

  “I’m not working on anything at all,” said Stoner. “I’m being parked.”

  “Parked where?”

  Stoner made a face that was halfway between a grimace and a smile. “I’m going to be an adjunct history professor at a college up in Poughkeepsie.”

  Jed listened as Stoner explained that his supervisors had decided, for his own good, to give him a kind of working vacation, arranging for him to go to the college as part of procedure to build a cover for a future mission. Or at least, that was the story they told him. The reality, as both Jed and Stoner knew without it being laid out, was that the CIA powers had lost confidence in Stoner for some reason, or more likely were preparing to lay the blame for certain agency failures on him. Stoner had been in charge of developing information about several Indian weapons, and had in fact been in the middle of doing that when he nearly got killed from the fallout. At the same time, his section had missed the development of two small tactical nuclear weapons and their delivery system by a private company in Taiwan. It looked to Stoner like the skids were being greased for him to tacitly take the fall. He’d never be accused of screwing up; people would just know he was “parked” and assume the worst.

  “Maybe I’m just paranoid,” he said.

  “You want to teach history?” asked Jed.

  Stoner shrugged.

  “Why don’t you come work for us?”

  “Let me think about it,” said Stoner. He got up. “Sorry, but I got to work on a lesson plan. I missed the first couple of weeks of class.”

  Chapter 17

  Brunei International Airport, military area, Megafortress hangar

  9 October 1997, 1311

  Breanna had just finished running through the last simulated flight session of the day when one of the air force liaison officers poked his head up onto the Jersey’s flightdeck.

  “Madame Captain,” said the man, “a Mr. Jed Barclay wishes to speak to you without delay.”

  While it was the rule rather than the exception, Breanna found the formal politeness an unending source of amusement, and it wasn’t until she reached the phone in the small office at the side of the hangar that she realized it must be one o’clock in the morning back in Washington.

  “Jed, what’s up?” she asked.

  “I need you to go to a secure phone,” he told her. “Can you get to the embassy? It’s at Teck Guan Plaza in the city.”

  “I guess. This about the planes?”

  “I’ll call you there in a half-hour.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Okay”

  * * *

  “They were definitely Su-27s,” Breanna told Jed when she reached the embassy. “But beyond that I don’t know anything else. They were over Malaysian air space the entire time, and the standing orders for Jersey’s training flights are that they be conducted either over Brunei or over international waters”

  “Would an American crew have picked them up if they took off from that airstrip you found?” Jed asked.

  “I don’t know. Deci thinks so, but the routines we were running had us pretty low at a couple of points, and I think they would have been missed.”

  “Could they have hit the freighter?”

  “No way. Just no way. We might not have caught them at the precise moment of attack, but we sure would have seen them earlier. Besides, I doubt they would have returned after an attack. To get back around — no way”

  Jed asked her questions about the Brunei a
ir force and the defense ministry in general. It was Breanna’s opinion that, the purchase of the Megafortresses and the hiring of Mack notwithstanding, the Brunei air force remained at best a paper tiger.

  “Their attitudes — they’re not very serious,” she explained. “Not even about counter-insurgency. They have trouble getting fuel and supplies. I think that the sultan is trying to turn things around, and certainly Mack is, but there are a lot of other people who are more interested in other things.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Jed. She could hear him stifling a yawn. “What’s going on, do you think?” she asked. “Were the planes and the attack on the merchant ship related?”

  “I don’t know. So far it doesn’t fit together. The Malaysians have a pretty serious insurgency problem. Islamic terrorists have been trying to overthrow the government for years. But Brunei hasn’t been targeted by the terrorists, at least not seriously. Their base of operations has been too far away.”

  “The people who tried to kidnap Zen and I a few days ago were supposedly terrorists,” said Breanna. “So maybe they’re coming into Brunei now. That incident, the ship — maybe they’re looking for easier targets here.”

  “Could be,” said Jed.

  “I’m due to leave for Dreamland in a couple of days. You want me to put together a brief on the military situation here when I get back?”

  “Be a good idea,” said Jed in between another yawn. “If you come up with anything in the meantime, let me know”

  “Will do. Now get some sleep.”

  Chapter 18

  Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia

  2011

  Sahurah waited for nearly an hour before he was picked up. Two scooters drove up and stopped; the man on the first turned to him and nodded his head. Sahurah took that as the signal to get on and he did so without comment. He held on as the bike whipped through the city streets, turning down alleyways and then doubling back, carefully eliminating any possibility of being followed. Finally it stopped in the middle of a street four blocks from the spot where he had started. As Sahurah slipped off, a battered Toyota drove up behind him. For a moment, Sahurah feared that the government had decided to arrest him.

  The window on the car rolled down an inch. “Come,” said the man.

  Sahurah walked slowly to the vehicle, opened the door, and got inside. There was another man sitting next to him, middle-aged, someone he had never seen or met before. The car began to move, driving along the narrow road out of town and then climbing up the hill to the cliffside highway. Even at night, the view of the ocean as it spread out north was spectacular, an inspirational hint of God’s expansive universe, but Sahurah did not take the chance to glance toward it.

  “What happened?” asked the man.

  “The imam is the only one I will address. He instructed me”

  Sahurah pressed his fingers together so they would not tremble. Only a few weeks ago he would have felt anger rather than fear at being tested this way. How weak he had grown in such a short time.

  The man took a pistol from his pocket. “What if I shoot you?”

  That would be a great relief, Sahurah thought to himself. But he said nothing.

  The man nodded and put his weapon away. “I was told you were a brave man, brother. I am impressed.”

  * * *

  Roughly an hour later, the car pulled off the shoulder of another road overlooking the sea. Within a few minutes, three cars passed, then two pickups with men in the rear. Finally, a battered black taxi pulled next to them. The imam sat in the back seat; the Saudi visitor sat next to him. Sahurah was told to sit next to the driver, and did so without comment. They drove for a while, taking a dirt road that tucked through the jungle and then doubled back to a promontory over the water. The driver stopped and got out of the car.

  “Report now,” said the imam.

  Sahurah told him everything that had occurred.

  The Saudi murmured something Sahurah could not hear. The imam answered, and then both men were silent.

  “You have done very well,” said the imam finally.

  He leaned forward. Sahurah felt something press him in the side. He turned and looked down, and saw that there was a small pistol in the imam’s hand.

  “Take it,” said the imam.

  Sahurah reached across his body with his right hand and took the pistol. It was a small, lightweight gun, a semi-automatic that fit easily in the palm of his hand. It occurred to Sahurah that he might take the gun and hold it to his head.

  “Kill yourself,” said the imam.

  Surely he had willed his leader to say that.

  “Sahurah? Did you hear me?”

  “To shoot myself?” he asked. “Will I be denied Paradise?”

  “To die as a soldier of jihad is to be made a martyr, if you are under orders,” said the imam. “No matter the circumstances.”

  Sahurah knew that suicide was a sin, but he also knew that there were conditions when death was not considered suicide. He had done nothing to prepare himself, however — his body was not clean or properly prepared, and he worried that perhaps he would not find Paradise if he complied.

  But he must obey. More importantly, he wanted to. He wanted to be finished with this tiresome, trying world, where he could not cleanse himself of evil thoughts and failures. He wanted to be beyond weakness and lust.

  “Are you afraid, Sahurah?” asked the imam.

  Sahurah put the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. When nothing happened, he realized he had pushed too lightly, and pressed again.

  And again.

  He felt the imam’s hand on his shoulder. “You are our bravest soldier, Sahurah,” said the imam gently. “Give me back the gun. From this moment on, you are to be honored with the title of Commander. How does that make you feel?”

  Sahurah stared at the weapon in his hands. He felt cheated, but he could not say that. A finger of pain began clawing up the back of his neck.

  “Your future is the future of us all,” added the Saudi in Arabic. “You will bring great glory to the soldiers of God.”

  Chapter 19

  Dreamland

  9 October 1997, (local) 0830

  Zen was working now. Sweat poured down his back, drenching his undershirt beneath the flight suit. A crowd of onlookers — including three congressmen and their staffs, along with some Pentagon and army VIPs — were watching from only a few feet away as he worked his Flighthawks through an exercise designed to demonstrate the future direction of aerial warfare. It was an all robot engagement — Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews and Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby were at the sticks of their own U/MF-3 Flighthawks, trying to keep Zen’s Hawk One and Hawk Two from getting past them on the test range to the northwest. They were doing a reasonably good job of it, too; Kick’s Hawk Three was closing in on Hawk Two, with Star-ship’s Hawk Four right behind. A large flat screen directly behind Zen showed the positions of all of the Flighthawks, and even provided a score as calculated by the computer.

  “The Super Bowl of the sky,” joked one congressman. He and the others were eating it up.

  Starship and Kick were aboard the Megafortress Raven which was flying overhead. Zen sat down on the tarmac beneath a specially rigged tarp, the center of attention. There was just enough wind and crowd noise around to interfere with the boom mike, prompting the computer to ask him to repeat every third or fourth voice command.

  Zen squeezed the throttle slide on the back of the joystick controller, pushing Hawk One to accelerate past the two Flighthawks trying to close in on him. He got past Kick, but Starship was very much on his game today — he anticipated what Zen would do and managed to get right on his tail.

  It took Starship another ten seconds or so to finally lock Hawk Two in his gun sights and take him down. It was a little longer than Zen had hoped — hey, these guys were his star pupils — but all in all, it was a respectable show.

  Unfortunately for his pupils, Zen had suckered them into that encounter so he
could sneak Hawk One to the target. He let the computer take over Hawk Two and concentrated on bringing Hawk One up the deck and nailing the target aircraft. He now had a clear path; the other planes were too far to interfere.

  Except that he couldn’t find his target, which should be dead ahead at two thousand feet.

  The computer beeped at him. He was being tracked by a ground radar near the target aircraft. If he didn’t confuse the radar within five seconds, the defensive system would fire a pair of improved Patriot missiles and nail him.

  “Jam it,” he told the computer.

  While the computer filled the air with electronic static, Zen threw the Flighthawk into a hard turn, firing off chaff and flares, as well. He actually only needed the chaff, which was composed of shards of metal that confused the radars, but the flares made for a good show. He heard a few oohs and ahs behind him.

  Zen’s speed had dropped below three hundred knots, and he was now vulnerable to a fresh hazard — a pair of Razor antiaircraft lasers, which were using a new optical sighting system that could not be foxed by standard ECMs, chaff, or flares. Zen leaned forward, waiting until the lasers began to revolve in his direction before starting a series of sharp evasive maneuvers, literally zigzagging back and forth across the sky. The laser system was a half-step too slow to hit the Flighthawk at very close range, but Zen knew he couldn’t do this all day; he really needed to find his target, and now.

  The computer beeped at him, but it wasn’t marking an X on the target board — it was warning him that he was about to be pounded from above. Zen slapped his stick and dove away as Starship flailed down in a desperate attack, followed not more than two seconds later by Kick.

  In anything other than an exercise, the laser would have destroyed their Flighthawks, but it had been programmed to look only for Zen’s aircraft, and they flew through the air untouched. Zen shook them with a flick of his wrist, but he’d not only lost time but his orientation on the battlefield. He started to turn right, then caught a glint of something on his left.