Armageddon

“Well no shit,” said the woman. “I’ve flown F/A-18s for the Royal Canadian Air Force, and for the last year I’ve been a contract pilot for a horse’s ass of an outfit trying to sell third-hand Russian-made crates of crap that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in. That light your f-ing fire?” said McKe

Well, she could talk like a pilot at least, thought Mack.

“I don’t have any F/A-18s,” he told her.

“I can fly anything,” she said. “Ask Prince bin Awg. He let me fly his MiG-19 and his Sabre last year. We went at it a bit and I waxed his butt good. I’d love to get behind the wheel of one of those,” she added, thumbing toward the Megafortress, which was just heading toward its parking spot in front of the hangar on the left.

“It doesn’t have a wheel. It’s got a stick, like a real airplane,” said Mack. “They put it in when they upgraded it.”

“Well kick ass then,” said McKe

Mack started toward the hangar to change, and McKe

“So? Am I hired?” she asked.

“Hired for what?”

“For a pilot.”

“What Russian planes did you fly?”

“Anything and everything.”

“MiG-29s?” asked Mack.

“Do it in my sleep.”

“How about Su-27s?”

“One or two”

“You fly them around here?”

“Nah”

“Out of Labuan?”

“Are you kidding? The Malaysians don’t operate jets out of there”

“Ever?”

“About six months ago we tried to sell a pair of MiG-29s,” said McKe

“What about the Indonesians? You fly Sukhois out here for them?”

“For the Indonesians?” McKe

“You have to sell where the money is.”

“You haven’t flown Su-27s on Borneo at all?”

She shook her head.

“You hear of either country having them?”

“You’d know better than me, Minister.”

Mack stopped. “Yeah, cut the shit. They have them?”

McKe

“I was jumped by two Su-27s this morning,” said Mack.

“Get out of town.”

Mack smiled sardonically. “They came up out of the south-west, from Malaysian territory, turned on their targeting gear to scare me, and took off.”

“They scared you?”

“Yeah, right.”

“What’d you do?”

“Gave them the finger and took their pictures,” he said. “I want to figure out who they are”

“I’ll look at it for you if you want”

Mack shrugged. It couldn’t hurt, though most likely it wouldn’t help, either.

“They could have come out of Kuching,” admitted McKe

“Who says I have spies there?”

“You have spies everywhere,” said McKe

“What, from a couple of Sukhois? Give me a break,” said Mack.

“Depends on the pilot,” said McKe

“If you were in the Sukhoi?”

“Either way”

“If you fly half as good as you talk, McKe

Brunei

1600

The time difference between the States and Brunei made it difficult for Brea

“Mark—what are you doing up at 2 A.M.?” she asked.

“It’s 3 A.M. here,” said Stoner. “There’s a twelve-hour difference. No daylight savings. We’re a half-day behind you. You said you had a question.”

“Couple of questions. Unofficially.”

Brea

“They came out of Malaysian territory?” Stoner asked when she had finished her summary.

“Looked like.” She didn’t want to be too specific, worrying that anyone listening in would be able to gather information about the targeting system’s abilities—and she had to assume that might include Malaysian spies.

“There are two Malaysian air bases, auxiliaries to civilian airports. Neither field is really set up to support military jets, at least not that I know.”

“Can you check?”

“Have you talked to the Department of Defense?”

“I filed a report, but no one seemed particularly interested. A pair of Sukhois doesn’t really rock their world.”

Stoner was silent for a moment, then he asked, “If I gave you an address, could you get to it this afternoon?”

“I think so “

“It’s in Kampung Ayer. Do you know what that is?”

“The island city in the bay off the capital?”

“Write this down.”

BREANNA FOUND MACK STANDING ON THE BACK OF A PICKUP truck at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean several miles southwest of the airport. A British-built truck sat nearby, with two Brunei air force sergeants working an old field radio in the back. Below the cliff was a narrow plateau of rocks just out of the water’s reach. Several pieces of plywood were set up as targets for an A-37B.

Brea

“I have to say, pretty good,” said Mack. “Tell her to nail the last target any way she wants,” he shouted to the men in the truck.

Not five seconds later, the Dragonfly rolled back toward land, heading dead-on for the beach—upside down. The last piece of plywood folded in half.

Not that anybody on land had seen. They’d all ducked for cover as she blew past, maybe six feet off the ground.

“New pilot?” Brea

“Yeah. I’m pretty desperate,” said Mack.

“He looks pretty good,” said Brea

“It’s a she,” said Mack. “And actually, her looks are, uh, not exactly on the measurable chart. But she’s a helluva pilot. Why are you here?”

“I’m doing you a favor,” said Brea

“We? Listen Bree, I’m due back in the capital in an hour to explain to my fellow ministers of defense how aircraft that don’t exist may very well have sunk that merchant ship. I don’t have time for a boat ride.”

“I called Mark Stoner and told him about your Sukhois. He told me to go out to see someone there.”

“Stoner’s the CIA spook who’s an expert on South Asian weapons?”

“One and the same.”

The A-37 buzzed back. Mack didn’t duck this time.

“I hate show-offs,” he said, jumping out of the truck. “Especially when they’re worth watching.”

KAMPUNG AYER WAS A WATER VILLAGE IN THE BAY OUTSIDE the capital. Buildings rose on stilts from the murky water, whose pungent odor matched its mud-red tint. Until today, Brea