Armageddon d-6

by Dale Brown

  “There’s a spot where you can put us down over there,” Danny told the pilot, pointing to the clearing.

  “Terrain’s rough back to that tree,” said the pilot. “If you have to take her out with a stretcher you’re going to have a hell of a time.”

  “Maybe we can take her out somewhere else,” said Danny. “If we go east a little.”

  They looped around the area, looking for a better spot. There didn’t appear to be one, at least not nearby.

  “Let’s see what the situation is,” said Danny. “We’ll just have to work it out on the ground”

  The helicopter tipped toward the trees, the pilot weaving back toward the clearing. He eased the Quick Bird into a hover about twelve feet from the ground and Danny and Boston quick-roped down.

  The slope was more severe than Danny had thought from the air, and he slipped against one of the rocks before he’d taken more than a step. He tumbled down, bouncing against a boulder.

  A pair of hands grabbed him from behind and helped him to his feet.

  “That little helicopter’s going to carry all three of us?” asked a woman, shouting at his face.

  Danny flipped up the visor on his helmet. “You’re McKenna?”

  “Brunei Air Force Air Commodore McKenna, thank you very much. You know, you look like a Star Wars space trooper in that armor. Very impressive.” She put her hands on her hips. “So, we getting out of here or what?”

  Chapter 70

  Southeastern Brunei

  Exact location and time unknown

  By the time the truck finally stopped it had been nighttime for hours and Mack had fallen into a fitful sleep. The guards shook him awake, unlocking the chain that had kept him attached to the truck bed and prodding him out. His neck and the back of his head were sore, the muscles mangled by the awkward posture of his body.

  They put a blindfold on him, and then removed the manacles from his hands. Mack, cold and stiff, lost his balance as he was led off the truck and fell against one of his captors. He felt, or thought he felt, the metal of a pistol near his side, but before he could grab for it he was yanked to his feet.

  “Hey!” he said. “Don’t push. I can’t see where the hell I’m going. And my legs are all screwed up.”

  A set of hands took him by the shoulders and steered him to the right. Mack’s feet kicked against some stones and he nearly tripped again. Another hand pushed him from the left side; he found himself walking over a smooth path. After twenty paces he was stopped. He heard a lock being turned and then felt something, probably a rifle barrel, prodding his legs to step upward. He made it up some steps and into a building, where he was led down a hallway. His captors left him in the middle of a room; Mack waited a few seconds before reaching for his blindfold and peeking out.

  The room had a small mattress on the floor near the corner. There was a window at the left side of the room, covered with a simple curtain.

  Mack slipped back to the door, sidling next to it to listen; there were people in the hallway, talking softly. He walked quietly back across the room to the window; he couldn’t see anything through it. He tried tugging at it to see if it would open; when it didn’t give way easily he gave up for the moment and sat down on the mat.

  Mack rubbed at his wrists where the manacles had been, then began kneading the back of his neck, trying to work out some of the cramps. When he heard the truck drive off, he got back up and went back to the door. This time he didn’t hear anything, and so he put his hand on the doorknob and slowly twisted it open. His heart began thumping wildly. He sensed that his captors had gone off and left him. Cracking open the door, he peeked out but saw no one in the hall.

  Mack pulled open the door and took a step out of the room — only to find an AK47 in his face.

  A man shouted at him in Malaysian or some other language. Mack couldn’t decipher the words but the intent was pretty clear — he threw his hands out at his side.

  “I have to take a leak,” he claimed. “Bathroom. Bathroom” The voice repeated whatever it had said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Once again the words were repeated, this time slow enough for Mack to realize they were English.

  “Step outside the room,” said the voice in his thick accent, “and you will be shot.”

  “I have to pee,” insisted Mack.

  “There is a can in the room for you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said, finally retreating.

  Chapter 71

  Aboard “Penn,” approaching Malaysian Air Base, north of Meruta

  14 October 1997, 0600

  Dog borrowed — “shanghaied” was probably more accurate a word — two Air Force Special Tactics Squadron members from a unit in Korea and flew them south to the Philippines to help the Dreamland team set up operations at the secret Malaysian air base near Borneo’s southern coast. The men, adept at creating airfields out of strobe lights and chewing gum, parachuted off Dreamland’s MC-17 and helped guide the Megafortress in. The airstrip was just barely long enough for the EB-52, but Dog figured the risk was worth it; it would cut nearly two hours off each way as they patrolled from the Philippines but also allowed for rapid response to any developing situation.

  And situations were developing. The sultan’s army had retaken two posts on the southern border with Malaysia and now seemed in firm control of the southwestern third of the country. Police units in the towns on the northern coast that had not fallen to militants had rallied over the course of the day. A number of telephone and power lines that had been cut had been restored. Loyal forces had won a major battle with guerillas near Kapit, killing over a hundred. Neither LADS nor the patrolling Megafortresses had detected any Malaysian army units assisting the terrorists, and in at least one instance a Malaysian army unit had helped the Brunei police force pursuing a group of rebels over the northeastern border.

  On the other hand, the militants had spent the preceding day tightening their grip on the area around the capital. They controlled the shoreline and had appropriated at least two small patrol boats, operating them on the river.

  The LADS system provided low-powered radar coverage of much of the kingdom. It also provided video coverage of much of the capital and several major road and waterways, along with the entrance to the harbor and the platform where Whiplash was. Two more units were en route from Dreamland; one was intended for the Malaysian air base, and the other would be used as a roving sentry. Twice as long as the others, the sentry carried better resolution cameras and could be flown higher and faster. It did not, however, include the LED technology that made the others almost impossible to see from the ground.

  Dog steadied Penn into her final approach for the runway, fighting the optical illusions that made it appear as if it were two different roads, a ravine, and a set of boulders. The men on the ground had cleared the obstructions and assured him that it was solid concrete covered by paint; Dog focused on the landing cues in his HUD and settled perfectly onto the runway.

  “And for our next trick, we land in downtown Las Vegas,” joked McNamara, his copilot, as they spotted one of the Special Tactics controllers playing traffic cop near the end of the runway. He had them turn on an apron to an access ramp at the side; from the sky it had appeared to be a pond, though up close the camouflage didn’t work nearly as well, making it seem more like an abstract painting by Mark Rothko. The trees bordering the ramp were real enough, as was a collection of jagged rocks; the path was too narrow for the Megafortress and so Dog had to park the plane there.

  Dog had picked up a three-man U.S. Army Special Forces team in the Philippines; the men had worked with the Malaysian military in the past and would assist with setting up security, which was to be provided by the local Malaysian forces for the time being.

  “All right, let’s get the plane squared away and assess the situation,” he told the crew and the soldiers below as they shut down the engines. “McNamara, you find out what the status of the C-17 is with our tech pe
ople and maintainers while I go talk with the locals. Don’t anybody go too far away,” he added. “I hear the snakes in the jungle can be pretty vicious.”

  Chapter 72

  Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia

  0800

  Dazhou Ti felt as if the terrace he was standing on had given way and he was now falling toward the sea. The smokestack of the tug that had brought him to the seaside town loomed below, a black whirlpool sucking him toward that abyss.

  General Udara had traveled to the seaside town to speak to Dazhou personally: not to berate him for losing the Barracuda, but to tell him that the war was over. The sultan was to be allowed to regain his kingdom.

  “Impossible,” said Dazhou, who had only finished notifying the kin of his dead crewmen an hour before. “Impossible.”

  “The president has decided,” said Udara.

  “No. No. My men have died.” The general was not a man to argue with, but Dazhou could not help himself. “No,” he repeated. “This cannot be. There is so much to be done — the Americans, we can defeat them. They’re paper tigers.”

  “You of all people should know they’re not,” said Udara. “They proved it in their encounter with your ship. This all helps us in the long run,” added the general, trying to remain upbeat. “Because the guerillas will be taken care of by the Americans. Leaving the maggot sultan and his family alone is a small price for ridding ourselves of the fanatics. Kuala Lumpur has spoken,” he said. He referred to the central command, not the prime minister, and meant that the matter was closed.

  “No,” said Dazhou.

  Udara’s patience was now exhausted. His face flushed, its brownish tint becoming nearly purple with his rage.

  “You will accept your orders, Chinaman!” he thundered. “You will do as you are told!”

  “My men,” Dazhou said. “They must be revenged”

  “You will do as you are told. You are lucky, Dazhou, that I remember the contributions you have made, and your own glory under fire. Because otherwise I would pummel you with these two fists.”

  Their faces were so close that Dazhou felt the heat of the general’s rising blood. He knew that the proper action now — no matter what he really intended — was to feign submission, to pretend to be willing to go along with his orders. But he could not control his emotions sufficiently to make an accommodating gesture, even a small one. The best he could do was keep himself from yelling back at the general.

  “Do you understand me, Dazhou?” said Udara.

  “I have no ship,” he managed finally.

  The general took a step away. “Then the matter is settled.”

  Dazhou didn’t respond. Udara had not berated him for losing the Barracuda, but this was completely in character for the general. Since he had nothing to do with its creation or operations, Udara looked on it as just another weapon, little more than a jeep or armored car that could go to sea.

  Kuala Lumpur would have a considerably different view. Dazhou’s options were clear. Either he ran, or he sought revenge.

  “Do you understand me?” Udara said, once more master of his emotions.

  “I have no ship,” Dazhou repeated. “And no men.”

  Udara nodded grimly. “War is a difficult thing.”

  Somehow, Dazhou managed to nod, rather than telling the general what he really thought of his easy cliché.

  Chapter 73

  Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)

  1000

  Sahurah’s head throbbed constantly, a sharp thump at the top and right side, God’s drumbeat calling him to task for his failures.

  How could he doubt the wisdom of his teachers?

  How could he think that the devil American was as honorable and holy as he?

  Sahurah tried to set the questions aside, tried to ignore his transgressions, his many failings. He had to concentrate on his duties. Brothers were streaming into the city, each one willing to do what needed to be done, but each needing to be shown his responsibilities step by step. Sahurah had selected several deputies, but they still turned to him for orders. He had become the most important person in the capital, after the imam.

  Success had been incredibly swift; not even in his dreams would Sahurah have thought things would go so well. And yet, when he thought of this, when he saw the obvious sign that Allah had blessed them, his head pounded even more. He wanted — what did he want?

  His place in Paradise. Nothing beyond that.

  One of his lieutenants, a young man named Dato, appeared at the door and was searched by the two bodyguards who had attached themselves to him since the attack at the airport. Dato had come from near Djakarta, and a slight accent of the poorer districts around the Indonesian city lingered on his tongue when he spoke.

  “Fifty more brothers have come to watch the road to the south,” said Dato in Malaysian. “We need weapons”

  “What about those at the police station?”

  “The weapons there have been given out.”

  “The armory?” asked Sahurah.

  “What wasn’t blown up by the nonbelievers is so antiquated we have no ammunition for it,” explained Dato.

  The pain in Sahurah’s head subsided as he focused on the problem. “We can give them trucks, and the supplies taken from Tutong. Deliveries have been promised from our allies. But we cannot wait; send the men while you search for weapons. I would expect a counterattack soon.”

  Another of Sahurah’s men came to the door. This was Paduka, a native of the capital who had proven invaluable in finding sympathetic friends.

  “Two pilots,” announced Paduka triumphantly. “Including one who worked for Air Defense Minister Smith.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Captain Yayasan. He’s in the hallway.”

  “Is he a sincere believer?”

  “We have spoken many times before today,” said Paduka. He told him of an encounter the pilot had had at the start of the offensive when he had feigned cowardice to avoid shooting at a unit of brothers.

  “He would have done better to have shot down the other plane,” said Sahurah at the end of the story. “Bring him in. Let me talk to him.”

  “Just him? Or both men?”

  “Just him.”

  Sahurah turned to the table where a map of the area had been laid out. He showed Dato where the brothers were to be deployed. A network of reinforcements had to be established. They had machine-guns mounted in several pickup trucks; they could bring firepower within a few minutes if attacked.

  They lacked heavy weapons; Sahurah was hardly a military strategist, but he understood that this was a great weakness.

  Paduka and the pilot Yayasan stood silently as they finished. Sahurah turned to them. Yayasan was a short man, no taller than five-three; his face had sharp, tight angles.

  “You believe?” Sahurah asked.

  “I–I do,” said Yayasan.

  The hesitation reassured Sahurah. He glanced at the pilot’s hands. His fingers moved as if they were on fire.

  Sahurah recognized that the man would crumble under pressure, and that as much as his faith may have accounted for his decision not to fire on the brothers the other day. He could be used, but very carefully.

  “Could you teach the other pilots how to fly the large American plane?”

  “My lord, of course.”

  The top of Sahurah’s head pummeled him. “I am not a lord. I am nothing but a servant. Address me as ‘Commander’.”

  “Pardons, Commander.” The pilot’s fingers vibrated ever more violently.

  “What do we need?” asked Sahurah.

  “I would have to examine the aircraft, Commander.”

  Sahurah nodded, then looked at Paduka. “There is a man at the terminal, he piloted a 747. He told me last night he would be able to fly the large aircraft. Yayasan will teach him. And the other man you found.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  The guards at the door snapped to attention. Sahurah turned to see the imam an
d the Saudi. An entourage of bodyguards and others flooded into the room behind them. Though the room was fair-sized, it now seemed crowded.

  “Imam,” he said, bowing his head.

  The imam gave him a tired smile and touched his shoulder. “Sahurah, my young friend, you have done well.”

  Sahurah felt himself blush. “The Americans have formed an alliance with the Malaysians,” said the Saudi, speaking in Arabic. “It was not unexpected. But now will come the test”

  Sahurah turned to him. This was the first time that the older man had addressed him directly. His voice seemed thin, almost frail, and yet his eyes were steely. Their gaze held Sahurah, and for a moment his pain retreated.

  “We will triumph because Allah is on our side,” said Sahurah. “It is a holy war, and our cause is just.”

  The Saudi said nothing. He did not smile, and his eyes did not blink.

  This is what faith looks like, Sahurah thought. These are Allah’s eyes, shining through his holy servant. If only I were worthy of such a gaze.

  The imam tapped his shoulder gently. “Prepare then, son,” he said. “Prepare well.”

  Sahurah bowed, and for a moment everything else in the world receded. When he put his head back up, the imam and the Saudi, along with their entourage, had gone.

  Chapter 74

  Southeastern Brunei

  Exact location and time unknown

  One thing he had to say for captivity: it sure made him hungry. Mack had eaten all of the slop they’d given him for breakfast — or lunch or dinner, whatever meal it was.

  He could tell from the window that it was daytime outside, but he’d fallen asleep earlier and couldn’t be sure how long he’d slept. The window had been nailed shut from the outside; now that there was light he could see one of the nails at the very top where it had come through the casing. The glass panes and wood between them would undoubtedly give way if he hit them hard enough. But the sound would undoubtedly alert the guard near his door, and there was no telling how many others were posted around on the outside. He couldn’t see anything out the window except for vegetation.