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.
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.
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.
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.
“Your marines,” said Sahurah.
“Any second,” said Mack.
Sahurah turned to one of the men at the door and said something in Malaysian. The man nodded and left.
“You will be fed,” he told Mack. “A cot will be brought. If you are mistreated, the man who does so will be punished”
“That’s awful nice of you,” said Mack, unable to control his sarcasm.
“No, it is merely the way the law directs a prisoner be treated,” said Sahurah, interpreting the words, not the tone. “I remind you that if you attempt to escape, you will be executed.”
“That’s the law, too?”
“Yes,” said Sahurah. He bowed his head slightly, then turned and left the room.
* * *
THE PAIN IN HIS HEAD WAS SO INTENSE THAT SAHURAH HAD to pause in the hallway and rub the sides of his temples in an effort to get it to stop. He had much to do and could not afford to stop now, even for such pain. He needed to find men who could tell him about the aircraft here; he needed to survey weapons, to prepare defenses for a counterattack, to make sure all of the brothers were being fed, to find a way to welcome the new recruits who were sure to pour in to their lines now that the decadent order had been swept away.
The Brunei pilot and the others who had been with Smith had been shot in the cockpit unwisely by the brothers who took the plane. Apparently one of the soldiers who had followed Smith down the ladder had started to fire, and from that point on there had been little discipline among the attackers. It was a miracle that the American had been spared, though Sahurah did not know what exactly was to be done with him; surely he could not be trusted in the aircraft.
“Commander, the Malaysians who were sent to man the antiaircraft weapons are complaining about their air-conditioning.”
The voice sounded as if it came from the opposite end of the hallway, but when Sahurah turned he found the man who had spoken just a few feet away.
“What is their complaint?” asked Sahurah.
“The air-conditioning needs to function or their equipment will not,” said the man.
“Find Salem the Yemen and tell him that a technician is needed to repair it.”
“Yes, Commander;” said the man, spinning away immediately.
Sahurah once more closed his eyes. He wanted to rest. But God did not want him to, not yet. And he must accept the wishes of his Lord. He took a breath that filled his chest, then resumed his inspection of the airport.