“Sahurah—the devils are overrunning our defenses,” said the imam. “We have a pilot, and the passenger plane that was parked at the airport. Come. We will leave and return to fight another battle.”
Was this the devil tempting him? Or an angel sent to rescue him from damnation?
The imam bent down and looked at him quizzically. “Sahurah? Come, little brother. There is a time for everything. Now is our time to retreat.”
The Saudi seemed to frown.
“No,” said Sahurah. “I will stay and fight. It is jihad.”
“The Malaysians have turned against us,” warned the imam. “It is time to retreat. American warships are only a few hours away. We will regroup and wait. Our time will come again.”
“I must stay”
The imam frowned. The Saudi said something in Arabic Sahurah could not decipher.
“We must leave now,” said the imam.
“I stay to do the Holy One’s work.”
The imam nodded and then turned. Sahurah knelt, deciding to pray to the Lord that he had made the right decision. But words would not come; he could not even remember the simple prayers he had learned as a child. The throb at the side of his head chased all thoughts from his mind, and it was all he could do to stand and walk in the direction of the city.
Malaysian air base
1810
Thanks to Rubeo’s software hacks, Dog now had limited control of the LADS observation system and could switch through the video feeds. One of the airships near the oil platform had been destroyed, but a second one just to the southwest showed Dreamland’s two Zodiac boats. There were four people inside them—all of the Whiplash people, and Jennifer, lovely, beautiful Jennifer.
What if she had been in
Indy?
Two patrol boats were heading toward them from the west. The boats had left occupied territory, but it wasn’t clear if they contained terrorists or the vanguard of the sultan’s troops, who were pressing into the northern part of the country, vanquishing their foes.
“Dreamland Malaysia Base to
Penn,”
said Dog, keying into the communications line. “Breanna, our two Whiplash boats are running toward a pair of patrol craft of undetermined allegiance.”
“We’re on it, Daddy,” she said.
For once, Dog didn’t yell at her for calling him that.
Off the coast of Brunei
1815
Zen flew over the ship a few seconds after the bomb exploded. It looked from the air as if it were a child’s toy with a thick hole drilled through the top. The superstructure and hull had been badly mangled, and when he took another pass he saw the corvette-sized craft had already started to slide down into the water.
“They’re out of it,” Zen told Breanna. “Going for the Zodiacs.”
“I’m right behind you”
The Whiplash team was about five miles from the coastline and just over eight miles from the platform that had been destroyed. Two patrol craft were five miles from them on what looked like a direct intercept. Both were Russian-made Matka-class gunboats; they had been purchased a few months before by Brunei, but it wasn’t clear whose side they were on.
Zen tucked Hawk One down toward the water, streaking ahead of
Penn.
The Whiplash people in the raft had not answered any hails, and neither had the ships. Neither patrol vessel flew any flags.
“Think we can get them to turn around?” Breanna asked.
“If I had skywriting gear, maybe,” said Zen. He rode the Flighthawk down and then held her on her wing, taking a showboat turn in front of the Zodiacs.
“Still on course,” said Breanna.
He took another pass.
“I think somebody waved,” said Breanna, who was watching on her feed on the flightdeck.
“Yeah. Listen, let me take a run over the patrolboats. Maybe we can at least find out if they’re hostile or not.”
“Go for it.”
JENNIFER WATCHED THE FLIGHTHAWK SPIN OFF TO THE WEST. She leaned against the side of the boat, exhausted from the earlier climb and plunge into the water, not to mention everything that had come before. As she stared, the waves formed themselves into anthills in the distances.
Ships.
Ships!
“There’s something up ahead, ships in the water,” she yelled to Liu. “I think the Flighthawk was trying to warn us.”
Liu cut the engine and waved at Garcia and Bison to do the same.
BREANNA SAW THE FRESH CONTACT ON HER RADAR—A 737 had just taken off from Brunei IAP.
Terrorists leaving a sinking ship?
Or a jerry-rigged bomber planning an attack?
“Zen, we have a 737 climbing up from the airport,” she said. “Roger that. You sure it’s a 737?”
“Affirmative. Should we try and stop it?”
“Why ?”
“The terrorists were in control of the airport. It has to be them,” said Breanna. “They may have it set up as a bomber.”
“I can’t just shoot it down”
“We can’t just let them fly away.”
“I can put Hawk Two on it, and see if they’ll at least identify themselves,” he told her. “But then you won’t have an escort.”
“Do it.”
ZEN GAVE CONTROL OF HAWK ONE TO THE COMPUTER, telling it to overfly the gunships nearing the Zodiac, then switched his control set and pulled Hawk Two out from its post ahead of
Penn.
As he began to accelerate he saw that the 737 had turned northeast, heading out over the water. Its course took it away from the Zodiacs; they had to choose to go after one or the other.
To Zen, the choice was a no-brainer—his people were more important than a plane that might or might not contain terrorists.
But Breanna seemed to disagree.
“Zen, he’s not answering my radio calls and he’s picking up speed,” she told him.
“Yeah, listen, by the time we catch him we’re going to be out of range of Hawk One. I won’t be able to cover our people down there.”
“Maybe we can bluff him,” she said. “I can transmit a warning.”
Zen didn’t think that was worth her breath, but she tried twice anyway, trying to get the pilot to acknowledge. At the same time, she shifted her course to stay close to the Flighthawk pursuing the plane. Within a few seconds C³ warned that he was about to lose contact with the Flighthawk over the Zodiacs.
“Turn back, Bree,” said Zen.
“We have to stay with the terrorists’ plane.”
“They clearly have no hostile intent. Let them run away if that’s what they’re doing,” he told her. “We have to protect our own people. Tell the Filipinos to take care of it. We need to get west”
After what seemed an eternity, the plane lurched back toward the Zodiacs.
THE TWO SHIPS WERE MOVING AT A DECENT SPEED; THEY were now about two miles away. Both had weapons on the bow. “Think they’re friendly?” Jennifer asked Liu.
“I don’t know. They came out of the terrorists’ territory.”
“What are we going to do?” Jennifer asked.
“Wait for another signal from the Flighthawk,” he told her. “We can always run into shore if we have to.”
Jennifer looked at the ships. If they kept on their present course, they would come within a mile of them. Retreating seemed like a poor option, given that there might be more Malaysian ships beyond those that had attacked the platform. Nor did it seem like a good bet to try running out to sea.
Beaching wasn’t a no-brainer, though. As far as they knew, the shoreline was controlled by the terrorists and Liu was the only one who had a weapon.
Malaysian air base
1823
DOG HAD THE LADS CAMERA AT ITS MAXIMUM RESOLUTION. There were people moving around on the narrow deck near the gun at the bow.
Jennifer was in one of the boats. More than anything else he wanted to be there with her—with all of his people, but her especially.
The ships started to turn toward the Dreamland boats. “Bree! The ships are turning,” he blurted over the Dreamland com channel. “They’re going for the Zodiacs.”
Off the coast of Brunei
1825
Zen angled Hawk One toward the prow of the first ship, charging downward. He had only a few dozen bullets left in the guns. Hawk Two, still catching up, was another minute and a half behind.
The targeting pipper in Hawk One blinked yellow. He didn’t have a shot yet.
“THEY’RE COMING TOWARD US,” JENNIFER TOLD LIU.
“What’s the Flighthawk doing?”
“I don’t see it—wait, here it comes. He’s diving on them”
“Attacking?”
Jennifer stared at the small black dart diving toward the water. If he was attacking, she’d know in a few seconds.
THE MATKAS LOOKED LIKE SOUPED-UP AMERICAN PT BOATS, with a large single-barrel gun at the bow and a pair of large boxes on either side from amidships to the stern. The boxes housed anti-ship missiles in this case, though the vessels could also carry surface-to-air weapons. Zen put his nose on the rounded superstructure just aft of the cannon; it was no larger than the cabin you’d find on a good-sized pleasure boat back home, though rather than fiberglass it was padded with armor.
A man stepped from the cabin as Zen’s weapons indicator turned red. Zen saw him clearly in the center of the screen. He hesitated, then realized why.
The man was waving his hands.
No, he had both hands up.
Zen couldn’t see what was going on at first. He had to circle around and drop his speed, taking a pass from the rear. There were three men on the stern of the ship, all with their hands raised in the air.
“Hey, Bree, I think they’re surrendering.”
“To us or the Zodiacs?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, I hope it’s the Zodiacs,” she told him. “Because water landings are hell on the landing gear.”
VIII
P
ARADISE
R
EGAINED
Sultan’s palace, Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)
24 October 1997, 1120
THE CEREMONY TO HONOR THE DREAMLAND FORCE FOR ITS bravery and indispensable aid liberating the country was moving enough that every one of the honorees had tears running down his or her cheeks by the end.
All but one—Zen Stockard.
Maybe losing the use of his legs had made him cynical. But as he listened to the sultan’s speech and the promises to bring “gradual democracy” to the nation, the air force major found his skepticism growing. The sultan might want to do the right thing—most people had good intentions, Zen thought—but when push came to shove, giving away power and money took a heck of a lot more than words.
But he didn’t share the cynicism with anyone else. In fact, he found himself in a rather good mood as the ceremony continued, smiling as his friends were honored. Deci Gordon had grown a scraggly beard during his stay in hiding; except for that, he was in fine shape, accepting a medal for having helped a small contingent of local citizens retake a police station around the time the attack on the platform had been thwarted. Deci was given the keys to the police station; he joked that he hoped he’d never need them.
There were medals for everyone, from Dog to the maintainers who had pitched in and cleared the Badger wreckage from the field at Brunei IAP. Mack Smith seemed to become almost humble as the sultan honored him in what seemed to be a knighting ceremony, making him officially “A Constant Protector of the Kingdom,” a title that seemed to have been invented especially for the occasion, and one which apparently gave Mack a million dollar a year pension for life.
It figured that Mack would land with his boots in lucky shit.
Starship had taken the loss of Kick pretty hard. Zen didn’t blame him. Dog had already arranged some time off for the kid, and suggested that he spend it in Hawaii—where, it just so happened, the MC-17 was bound this afternoon.
And, another coincidence surely, the sultan of Brunei happened to own a nice hotel suite that wasn’t going to be used by the royal family for the foreseeable future.
Prince bin Awg, who before the revolt had had a reputation as a lightweight partier, had proved himself anything but. Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay had told Zen last night that the prince was working behind the scenes to make sure his uncle kept his promise about bringing democracy to the country sooner rather than later.
Maybe he would. He had proven remarkably resilient, even taking the destruction of his aircraft collection in stride. Zen decided he would try to keep an open mind—at least for the next eighteen hours they were to spend on Brunei.
“So you ready to resume our picnic?” Breanna asked him as the ceremony finally ended.
“I don’t really feel like picnicking,” he told her.
“You want to stay for the reception?” She glanced toward the side of the large palace room, where the crowd of dignitaries was heading toward the first of several large parties planned in their honor.
“Of course not,” said Zen. “Dog said we could slip out, and I’m taking him at his word”
“What then?”
“Why don’t we go to the restaurant at the hotel, sit in the quiet corner way in the back, have lunch—then go upstairs for some personal time in the room”
Breanna raised her eyebrows.
“You look good in that scarf,” Zen told her. She’d had to cover her head for the ceremony—even heroes were expected to be modest, at least when they were women.
“Maybe I’ll wear it at after lunch,” Breanna retorted.
“I don’t think so,” said Zen. And then, remembering their last telephone conversation before things got tight on Brunei, he added, “Maybe we can discuss the kid thing later.”
“The ‘kid thing’?”
“Yeah. We can talk about it.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant and honest at the same time. He wasn’t so sure about the former, but the latter was a must. “I haven’t made up my mind. We need to seriously talk.”
“We are,” she said. She bent over and kissed him.
“Fight fair,” he told her.
“Who’s fighting?”