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 and 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.
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.
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.
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.