Armageddon

The VIPs started drifting away toward the LADS landing area, watching the six-foot aircraft slide downward. Zen snickered as the aircraft’s controllers—it was flown entirely from the ground—pulled one last trick out of their hats: the LED system flashed, making the airship disappear into the background for a moment. Then the crowd of onlookers seemed to appear in the sky; as they settled down, they were replaced by a message: “Welcome to Dreamland.”

The VIPs applauded heartily.

“Everything’s PR,” said Zen, shaking his head.

“Yes,” said Ray Rubeo. Rubeo was the head scientist at the base, and its resident cynic.

“You should be happy, Ray,” Zen told the scientist. “Your computer beat me.”

“A draw is not a victory,” said Rubeo. He put his hand to his ear, squeezing the tiny gold earring there. “You flew well, and probably were only held off because your two students cheated.”

“Want to go for two out of three?”

“Another time, Major,” said the scientist, walking away.

DOG SPOTTED JENNIFER WALKING TOWARD ZEN’S STATION AS the blimp dropped into a hover. He turned to Major Natalie Catsman, his second in command, and asked her to take over for him. She nodded.

“I have to tie up a few things, but I’ll meet everyone for lunch,” he a

She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a light blue T-shirt.  Even in those simple clothes, even with her hair military-short, she was beautiful, ravishingly beautiful.

And she was angry with him, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

Dog waited while Je

“Good morning, Jen,” said Dog, finally breaking in. He saw her whole body stiffen, inexplicably tensing up. Dog ignored it, turning to Zen. “You flew very well, Major. Your guys did a good job, too”

“I almost got your blimp,” Zen said.

“Either way, we would have looked good,” said Dog. “You going to be at lunch? The congresspeople can’t get enough of you.”

“I’ll do my bit for the team.”

“I appreciate it.” Dog turned to Je

She shrugged, then followed as he walked toward the hangar.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“You weren’t at the apartment when I came back.”

“I had to work.”

“I’m sorry I had to leave. I know you were trying to make it a surprise. I just …”

The words stopped coming. He wanted to tell her—what, exactly?

That he loved her, damn it. But he couldn’t get that to come out of his mouth. Maybe it was because he was her boss, maybe it was because he was a good decade—well, decade and a half—older than her.

Maybe it was because the sun glinted off her hair and made her look like an angel. He just couldn’t say anything worthwhile. And so he said nothing.

“I’ve got some work,” she said. Her hand reached to her shoulder, as if to flick back her hair. It was an old habit, one she hadn’t completely erased. Something flashed into her face—pain maybe, a grimace of recognition.

“Di

“I don’t know,” she said, turning.

He watched her walk away, feeling as impotent as he ever had in his life.

Brunei, near the capital

10 October 1997, 0600

Sahurah saw him as he walked from the house.

How young he is, thought Sahurah. Sixteen or seventeen.

The boy turned and went up the path. Sahurah waited a moment longer, then began pedaling his bicycle in the opposite direction, riding away from the small, well-kept house where the recruit lived with his mother and father and five sisters.

An only son in heaven. The parents would be proud.

Sahurah reached the intersection and turned right, pedaling more slowly now. The center of town was on the right. He took the turn and continued past the mosque, not daring to raise his eyes as he turned up the drive of an office building and pedaled around the dirt lot. There were no cars, and Sahurah saw no one. He rode back to the road, saw that the string was still tied to the post—a sign from the two men he had posted as lookouts that all was well. Then he turned right again and went to the end of the street, turning into the driveway of the last house and riding into the back.

The property had not been occupied for some time—it belonged to the mosque—and the jungle had begun to reclaim the yard, pushing close with large trees and brush. Sahurah put his bicycle down in the weeds where it could not be seen, then walked up the back steps into the house.

The recruit was in the back room as instructed, sitting in the middle of the floor.

He was smoking a cigarette. Incensed, Sahurah went to the young man and grabbed it from his mouth, throwing it against the wall.

“Where did you get that?” Sahurah demanded in Malaysian.

The recruit was so terrified he could not speak. Sahurah looked down at his face and again thought to himself, he is young.

Too young.

And yet some might have said that of Sahurah himself only a few years before.

“Stand, and let me look at you,” Sahurah said roughly.

The recruit rose and turned around. How old was he? Sixteen? Fourteen? Old enough to be a soldier in jihad?

But this was not Sahurah’s concern. The imam had already decided, and his own job was simple. He did not even need to know the boy’s name.

“Come with me,” he told the recruit, walking to the next room. He knelt at the side of the floor and removed two boards, then pulled up a small case. He unsnapped the lock and opened it. A small weapon sat inside.

The gun was an INDEP Lusa submachine gun. Made in Romania, the weapon fired nine-millimeter bullets. It measured only seventeen inches with its stock folded, and weighed barely five and a half pounds. The barrel could be removed to make it lighter and shorter, even easier to hide; Sahurah decided to do this.

He had three magazines. Two would be used for training. “Come,” he told the recruit. “We have much to do, and only a short time.”

New Lebanon, Nevada

9 October 1997, 2005

“So when are you coming home?” Zen asked Brea

“Supposed to leave tomorrow,” she told him. “But it looks like I’m going to have to take a commercial flight to Japan. Since I’m going to be there anyway, I was thinking of staying in Tokyo for a day or two.”

“Why?” asked Zen.

“Because it’s Tokyo,” she said.

“Well, yeah, Tokyo.”

“Zen, sometimes I think you are the most boring person in the world. It’s Tokyo! There are temples there, museums, restaurants, sights—I’d even like to ride on the trains.”

“Like a sardine?”

“You wouldn’t want to look around Tokyo if you had a few days off?”

“Oh sure, if Godzilla was around.”

“What would you do?”

“Besides rushing home to the arms of my darling wife?” He took a sip of his beer.

“Don’t be a wise guy.”

“I’m not being a wise guy. If I were in Tokyo—I know what I’d do. I’d check out the Tokyo Giants. Supposed to be a great baseball team”

“Zen.”

“Well, not compared to American baseball, of course. But good for Japan”

Zen laughed as his wife made a flustered sound.

“All right, they could probably beat, say, the Cinci

“Be serious.”

Speaking of baseball, the Dodgers should be on by now. He put his beer between his legs on his lap and bent his head to hold the phone on his shoulder as he rolled his wheelchair into the living room.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Brea