Starship appeared in the outer bunker area as Dog left. “Lieutenant,” said Dog, nodding at him.
The young man seemed to want to say something. Dog recognized the look in his eyes, the question—the demand, really, for something that would make sense of the deaths of his friends.
No words could do that. Dog simply shook his head.
“We have to carry on as best we can,” he told Starship.
Tears began to slip from the young man’s eyes, though he tried to fight them back. Dog felt a surge of sympathy for the young man, and yet he shared his impotence. He said nothing else, pressing his teeth together and walking toward the wrecked Dreamland Command trailer. Danny Freah had retrieved some of the backup radio gear and set it up in the shade behind it.
“I’ve just been talking to the Brunei army command. They’re about to attack the capital,” said Danny when the call ended. “They have the terrorists on the run.”
“What’s
Penn’s
status?”
“They’re trying to reach the drilling platform and find out what’s going on with the Malaysian ships. The Malaysian navy claims they’ve been hijacked by the terrorists. Colonel, the platform was hit by at least one missile. The helicopter managed to disable one of the ships but was shot down. Dreamland’s been watching the whole thing, but they haven’t been able to communicate with the Whiplash people since the attack. It may just be that they’re too busy”
Jennifer was with the Whiplash people aboard the platform. Dog resisted the impulse to ask if she was okay—he didn’t want to hear that she wasn’t.
“Penn
should be there in a few minutes. There’s a possibility the sultan’s forces will be in control of the capital by nightfall,” added Danny. “The people in the city are rebelling against the terrorists. They want their lives back.”
“I can’t blame them,” said Dog, sitting at the portable communications console so he could get an update from Dreamland Command. The console was actually an oversized laptop attached by wire to a satellite antenna.
“Colonel, the platform has been attacked,” said Major Catsman from the control center.
“I’ve heard.”
“We have control of the system, but we have to make some changes so that we can broadcast the signal over to you. Dr. Ruben has an idea of how to do it by changing the programming in your com units. He needs some technical people to implement it.”
“We have very limited personnel here,” said Dog.
“I’ll take what I can get, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo, appearing on the screen. The scientist’s frown seemed surprisingly reassuring on the small screen.
“All right, then,” said Dog. “Tell me what it is you want me to do”
Over Brunei, near the capital
1745
Sahurah had only been aboard two airplanes in his life, and never one like this. There was a gunner’s post in the center of the cabin behind the pilot and copilot stations; he sat in the seat, looking up at the blue vastness of heaven.
“There, Commander—armored cars on the ground,” said the pilot, Yayasan. “Look!”
Sahurah stared at the sky for a few more moments, soaking in the moment. He wanted to believe that God had sent for him—he felt it strongly. And yet it couldn’t be true.
“Commander?”
The pain at the side of his head returned. Sahurah lifted the microphone on his headset and responded to the pilot.
“The sultan and his troops are marching, Commander. We can radio the command to be prepared”
“Do so,” said Sahurah. He undid the wire that tethered him to the interphone system, and worked his way past the two pilots to the nose, which had an old-style window section for an observer.
He could see a long row of vehicles snaking toward the capital a few miles away.
Was this why God had called him, to stop the demon in his tracks?
“We will strike them,” he said after he plugged his headset in.
“Yes, Commander,” said Yayasan, his voice trembling. They had no bombs, but the guns were filled with ammunition. Besides the defensive weapons at the rear and atop and below the fuselage, the pilot could fire a twenty-three-millimeter cannon in the nose.
“Are you afraid, pilot?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“So am I. God will give us courage”
“Yes, Commander.”
“I will be there in a moment,” he told him, starting back.
Aboard
“Penn,”
off the coast of Brunei
1745
Even without the computer’s automatic identification library, Breanna would have recognized the aircraft synthesized in her radar screen. Only one plane like that flew over Brunei—Prince bin Awg’s famous Cold War era Badger, the same plane that Mack Smith had ridden to accidental fame in an encounter with the Chinese. She tried contacting the plane on the radio but it didn’t respond. The plane was fifty miles away.
“I see it,” said Zen. “But we better concentrate on the platform and those Malaysian ships.”
“I agree,” she said. “Should be in range in five minutes.”
“Keep up with me,
Penn”
“Keep up with yourself, Hawk leader,” she told him, touching the throttle to make sure it was at the last stop.
Over Brunei, near the capital
1746
McKenna saw the radar contact maybe sixty seconds before she saw the plane with her own eyes, the large Badger swooping down at tree-top level above the western outskirts of the city. She started to call back to the ground forces to make sure the Americans hadn’t liberated the big-tailed bomber but then realized it wasn’t necessary—bullets shot from the nose of the aircraft as it attempted to strafe the line of government troops surging toward the capital. McKenna watched the plane pull up awkwardly; its strafing had been ineffectual but that was beside the point. She leaned on her stick and put the MiG into a crisp turn that put her on the back of the big aircraft, perfectly positioned to shoot the Badger down.
Except that she had no bullets in her cannon.
“Son of a bitch,” she cursed.
The Badger added insult to injury by lighting the twin NR-23 in its tail, filling the sky with shells. McKenna buzzed over the plane, ducking another stream of bullets from a gun at the top as she dove across its path. The Badger reacted in slow motion, turning back toward the city.
“Come on, you chickenshit,” she raged at it. She goosed her throttle and streaked over the top of the plane just behind the wings, so close that she thought the tailfin would strike her. Bullets flew out from all of the plane’s guns, black streams of lead littering the sky.
“I’m going to take you down,” she said, swinging around. “Just wait.”
ONE BY ONE, THE RED LIGHTS ON THE WEAPONS PANEL CAME on, indicating that the cannons were no longer capable of shooting. Sahurah did not understand how this could be; he had only fired the weapons for a few moments. Surely the guns must carry more than a few hundred rounds of ammunition.
“Why are my guns not working?” he finally asked the pilot. “We had only a hundred rounds for each one,” said Yayasan. “You’ve probably fired them all.”
The plane shuddered and then pitched sharply to the right. Sahurah saw a silver dart thunder past the forward window.
“He’s toying with us,” said Yayasan. “He’ll shoot us down soon”
Sahurah looked up through the observation dome above the gunner’s seat. The sky remained as blue as ever.
“I’ll try to return to the airport,” said the pilot. “I can’t guarantee we’ll make it.”
“All right,” said Sahurah.
Suddenly he knew why God had called him to board the plane.
Malaysian air base
1750
Dog finished entering the string of digits and hit the return key. The screen remained blank.
“Is that dish antenna facing the right direction?” he yelled.
“Yes, sir,” said Boston. “Uh, Colonel, no need to shout, sir. I have the headset.”
“Sorry,” said Dog. He flipped the com channel back to Dreamland. “I have nothing, Ray.”
“Give us a minute,” said the scientist.
“I don’t even have the feed I had earlier.”
“Give us a minute,” repeated the scientist.
An image of the ocean popped onto the screen. It looked peaceful, but slightly out of whack—there was an oil platform at the left-hand side, and Dog thought the image’s perspective was pushed over. Then he realized the image wasn’t askew; the platform was.
There were two ships on the opposite side of the screen. Something flashed from one.
“Colonel, do you have an image?” asked Rubeo.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“It would appear the blimp that is providing the video image right now is being targeted,” added the scientist in his vaguely condescending voice. “We believe they knocked out the jammer when they struck the platform and now realize it is there. Press the ‘D’ and ‘E’ keys on your keyboard simultaneously.”
“Now?”
“Now, Colonel. After the screen flashes you should be able to select any image you desire. It may take a moment longer if they strike the blimp”
Off the coast of Brunei
1754
Dazhou watched as the second missile shot upward. From working with the
Barracuda,
Dazhou knew there were many different varieties of electronic countermeasures, but the ability of the American device—surely it had to be American—to so thoroughly confound the radar aboard the corvette seemed incredible. Not only was the shipboard radar convinced that there was an object hovering eight thousand feet overhead, but the guidance system on the missiles had declared it was there, as well. Yet both veered off to the west, obviously confused.
“Try firing the gun,” he ordered.
The twin forty-millimeter weapon began to revolve, firing its shells in a wide pattern. Black dots filled the sky.
Dazhou started to put his binoculars down in disgust. As he did, a gray rectangle appeared in the sky to the right of the stream of bullets. It was as if a panel had been knocked from a ceiling; it folded outward then blew into twisted spirals of black and red.
“A blimp!” said one of the officers nearby. “How did they make it invisible?”
“Clever Americans,” said Dazhou. “Prepare the missile to fire at the platform.”
“It is ready, Captain.”
“Fire.”
THE SHIFTING OF THE PLATFORM HAD TORN A LARGE GASH IN the deck on the second level, making it impossible to reach the ladder.
“We can go over the side,” suggested Bison, pointing to the rail. “Then climb around on that girder there.”
“Good!” yelled Jennifer. “Last one in the boat’s a rotten egg,” she said, sliding through the railing.
Jennifer had two advantages over the burly Whiplashers: She was considerably thinner and shorter than all of them, even Liu. She also wasn’t trying to hump packs of gear and guns. She made it down to the ladder before them, and tested it with the weight of one foot; it remained solid. But after two steps it started to slide away toward the ocean; Jennifer scrambled down two rungs and then leaned over to the girder, grabbing on as the ladder collapsed downward in slow motion.
“Whoa, shit!” yelled Bison above her.
“I’m all right!” Jennifer leaned around the girder, trying to find a way for the others to get down. The path to her pier was now blocked, but each of the others had a narrow work ladder that ended a few feet above the water. If Bison and Liu could climb up and then across the girder near them, they could make it to the easternmost pier and have the boat pick them up.
“Worth a shot,” said Bison as Jennifer explained it to them. “Either that or climb out to the pole at the center there and slide down”
“You’d have to go all the way back up to reach that.”
“That or fly,” he said.
Sergeant Liu began working his way over, picking through a mangled gate of metal and thick wires to reach a solid, open girder that ran about ten feet across open water. “It’s doable,” he said, starting across.
Jennifer watched as Bison followed. Taller than Liu and much bulkier, especially with his bulletproof vest, he had a hard time getting through the narrow passage a third of the way across.
“Get rid of the packs,” she told him, but either the sergeant didn’t hear or, like all Dreamland personnel, was pig-headed when it came to accomplishing a mission. He made it to the girder and began climbing across. About six feet out, the metal, which looked to be a good foot thick, snapped.
Jennifer watched in shock as Bison fell six feet, then stopped abruptly in midair. Her mind couldn’t comprehend what had happened—it looked as if God had reached down and grabbed him, holding him over the sea. Incredulous, she climbed back up to the point where the deck had snapped, then reached over to the nearby girder—it was only twelve inches, but the fall looked like forever. She reached it, pulled herself up, and began making her way toward Bison, going hand over hand on a three-inch pipe for twenty feet until she reached the metalwork directly over him.
A piece of jagged metal had snagged his vest and one of the backpacks; he was literally hanging by threads, his body twisting. “You with me, Bison?” she shouted down.
“I think.” He sounded dazed.
“You are one lucky motherfucker,” she said.
All of a sudden, Bison seemed to become fully aware of where he was. He started to reach for the metal that held him. He couldn’t quite get it.
“No,” said Jennifer. “I think you can climb up and grab the girder overhead, then come over to this pier and come down. It’s a better bet than jumping.”
“I don’t think it’ll hold.”
“The girder?”
“This metal. I think I’ll just unhook and jump.”
“It’s too far. And if you miss, you’ll smack into the metal below.”
“I ain’t going to fall.”
Bison pulled on the pipe, trying to swing.
“It’s not going to work, Bison,” said Jennifer. She could see from where she was that the gap between the Whiplash trooper and the metal was nearly ten feet—much too much to jump. “Go up.”