Armageddon

Security at the airport was primarily provided by the army, but Mack had a small force of his own soldiers; after checking over at the hangar to make sure the Megafortress was nearly ready to go, he turned his attention to his ground force. He saw the apprehension in their eyes when he told them they were authorized to shoot to kill.

“But that won’t be necessary, Mr. Minister,” said the captain in charge of the detail, trying to reassure the men.

“It damn well may be necessary,” said Mack. “Anyone comes up to that gate and doesn’t stop when you challenge them, you shoot them. Make sure we have patrols around the whole perimeter, and double-check with the army. Tell them this is serious shit. Got me?”

The captain looked as if he had swallowed his lips. Mack looked at his soldiers—all eight of them, none older than twenty-three. They were well trained, thanks largely to the British, who had supplied instructors from the Special Air Service or SAS, the British inspiration for America’s Delta Force. Still, these were kids who had never had to fire their weapons in anger before; there was no telling how they would do until things were really on the line. Mack sensed that he should tell them something, leave them on a high note. Colonel Bastian did that sort of thing all the time, not so much with a speech but with his voice. Mack tried it now, making himself sound a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.

“Your job is to keep this place safe,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

“Yes, sir,” said the captain.

“Good,” said Mack. He snapped off a salute, then walked back toward the hangar, wishing he could have come up with something more eloquent.

The Megafortress crew had arrived at the hangar and was suiting up. Mack called the two pilots over and told them he was coming aboard as commander and would fly, but both men were needed in the aircraft. The scheduled pilot looked relieved—which bothered Mack quite a bit, since in his mind that meant the man wasn’t aggressive enough. He himself would have thrown a fit if he were replaced, even by Dog himself.

Mack got his gear and went to check with the acting head of the ground crew. They were just topping off the tanks, moving a little awkwardly, both because of the hour and the fact that the plane and its systems were still unfamiliar. Mack longed for the snap of the air force’s Dreamland maintainers—God protect the airman, let alone a sergeant, who wasn’t in exactly the right place when Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was scrambling to get one of his aircraft ready. But you didn’t really appreciate the job Chief Parsons and his people did until they weren’t there to do it.

Mack went over to the crew with the idea of telling them to move faster. As he approached, a look of horror spread over the face of the sergeant supervising the fueling operation.

Yelling at the man wasn’t going to get the job done any faster or better, Mack realized as he opened his mouth. Once more, Dog popped into his head as a model. He changed his message to something he hoped was encouraging—”Let’s do it, boys”—and gave them a thumbs-up.

Whether that worked or not, Mack couldn’t tell. He walked under the big aircraft and went up the fold-down steps into the belly, landing on the stripped-out Flighthawk deck. Then he climbed up to the flight deck, where he was surprised to find Deci Gordon, the Dreamland radar expert, at one of the operator stations.

“Deci, you coming with us?” said Mack.

“Figured you’d want me to.”

“Yeah,” said Mack. He started toward the pilot’s seat, then stopped, realizing from Deci’s frown that he’d somehow managed to say the wrong thing.

How would Colonel Bastian handle it? Mack asked himself.

Just like that, or even simpler, with a nod. But somehow, what worked for Bastian didn’t work for Mack. Mack turned and saw Deci frowning at him.

“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you came with us,” said Mack. “I really would.”

Deci looked at him, as if expecting a trick. Not sure what else to do, Mack nodded and climbed into the pilot’s seat.

They were off the runway in twenty minutes, which would have been a decent time for a scrambling Dreamland crew, Mack thought. McKe

“Dragon One to Jersey,” said McKe

“Roger that,” said Mack. His patrol circuit took him over the ocean; Deci and the radar operator handling the surface contacts ID’d a freighter approaching from the west about ten miles away; it was the only sizeable ship except for Brunei coastal patrols in the area.

“Say, Mack, I think I have the Sukhoi again,” said Deci. “Planes we picked up the other day. Coming up toward the coast.”

“Feed me a vector,” said Mack.

San Francisco

10 October 1997, 1810

Dog had pla

It was at that moment that he heard the voice from across the room.

“Tecumseh Bastian, what are you doing in San Francisco?”

He closed his eyes, but he knew it was useless. His ex-wife had somehow managed to ruin the one perfect romantic moment of his life.

“Karen, how are you?” said Dog, turning in the direction of the voice.

Dr. Karen Melenger was sitting with three other women at a table near the side of the room. She rose, came over, and made a show of kissing his cheek. Dog stepped back and, with as much politeness as he could muster, introduced Je

“Your girlfriend?” said Karen. She held out her hand as if she were the Queen Mother and expected it to be kissed.

Dog thought he saw a smirk in the corner of Je

It was a remarkably smooth lie, thought Dog, and even Karen seemed taken in. But Je

Dog cringed, knowing Karen would accept—sooner, rather than later.

“Tomorrow night would be perfect,” she said. “The convention ends in the afternoon, but I’m not flying back to Las Vegas until Sunday afternoon”

“How lucky,” said Dog, nudging Je

“Where are you staying?” Karen asked.

“At a hotel,” said Dog. “We’ll call you.”

“We’ll I’m at the Max,” said Karen. It was naturally one of the most expensive hotels in the area. “You won’t forget?”

“No.”

“Je

“Tecumseh is definitely responsible for his own actions.”

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” said Karen.

Brunei

11 October 1997, 1013

“They’re still over Malaysian territory,” Deci told Mack as he turned the Megafortress in the direction of the Sukhois. “No indication they see us. Range is one hundred and fifty miles. They’re doing about five hundred knots, still at twenty-two thousand and twenty thousand feet, respectively.”

“You have that on your screen, Jalan?” Mack asked the copilot.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. What we’re going to do is run as close to them as we can but still stay over Brunei territory. It’s going to take us one loop down at the south before they’re in range to pick us up”