Armageddon

Zen put down the sandwich and opened the cooler again, pretending to fish for something else while looking surreptitiously into the jungle. He hoped he’d see a curious child, a teenager copping a cigarette or some such thing, looking at the intruders with curiosity. But instead he caught the outline of a short, squat man with a large gun.

Someone sent by the prince to protect them?

Zen closed the cooler. Sliding his arm through the strap of the backpack, he sidled to the edge of the blanket, estimating the distance to the water.

Twenty feet.

They didn’t have a radio or cell phone. The Brunei air force was so ill-equipped it barely had enough survival radios for its flight crews; American cell phones didn’t work here. And besides, this place was paradise—nothing ever went wrong here.

Brea

“How’s the water?” he shouted. Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Maybe I will come in. What the hell. Might as well have a quick swim before lunch.”

He twisted around on his elbow, turning to drag himself toward the water.

If he’d had his legs, Zen thought to himself, he’d have confronted the son of a bitch beyond the trees, gun or no gun. But he didn’t have his legs, and the worst thing he could do now was let the bastard know he saw him. He went slowly toward the water, lumbering like a turtle.

As he reached the water line, something crashed through the brush above. A strong shove brought Zen to the edge of the surf; a second got him into six inches of water.

On his third push he felt his body start to float. Salt water stung his face, pricking at his nostrils.

Something rippled near him. He heaved his body forward and dove beneath the waves.

AS BREANNA WATCHED FROM THE WATER, THE BRUSH BEHIND the beach opened like a curtain. Three men came out from the trees, and then a fourth. Two had rifles.

Zen was at the water—Zen was in the water.

They were going to fire at him.

“No!” she shouted. “No!”

SAHURAH NIU GRABBED THE TALL ONE’S ARM AS HE FIRED.

“Wait,” he told Abdul, first in his own Malaysian, then in Abdul’s native Arabic. “Don’t waste your bullets while he’s in the water.”

“He’ll get away.”

“This will not be so. He is a cripple.” Sahurah Niu repeated his command not to fire so the others could hear. “Wait,” he added, pointing to the horizon. “The boat is coming. Do you see it?”

ZEN PUSHED HIS HEAD UP FOR A QUICK BREATH, THEN DOVE back down, stroking toward Brea

Where was his wife? He pulled his body in the direction of the rocks she’d been heading for. In the back of his mind he heard himself yelling at his body, as if they were two separate people, coach and athlete:

You’ve gone further and faster than this in rehab. Push, damn it, push.

The pressure in his lungs grew and finally he came up for a gulp of air. Bree was a few yards away.

“The rocks!” he told her. “That island on my left!” She hesitated.

“The rocks:’ he repeated.

“What’s going on? Who are they?”

“Come on.” He took hold of her, pushed her down under the water, then took a stroke away. When he was sure she was going in the right direction he dove down, following.

They reached it at the same time. The rock furthest from shore was shaped like a giant turtle shell and tottered at the top of a deep pile. Zen pushed around to the other side, opening the backpack as he did. He wedged his stomach against the side of the rock, balancing as he pulled the Ziploc bag with his service pistol out from the bottom of the knapsack.

“What the hell is going on?” Brea

“Trouble in paradise,” said Zen. He heard the sound of a motorboat. Turning, he saw a black triangle approaching from the eastern horizon.

“You’re going to have to go for help,” he told her.

“I’m not leaving you”

“You have to,” Zen told her. “Swim down the beach line to the spot where those houses we passed were. They can’t be more than a half-mile.”

“God, Jeff, it’ll take me forever to swim a half-mile. They’ll get you.”

“Get going then.”

“Come with me.”

“If we both go, they’ll just follow in the boat. Besides, I can’t get ashore.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Just fuckin’ go, Bree. Now!” He pushed her away awkwardly, holding the pistol, still in its plastic bag, up out of the water.

The look she gave him wounded him as badly as any bullet, but she ducked down beneath the water, stroking away. Zen pulled himself up against the rock, waiting to see what the men on the shore would do next.

SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND TO HIS FOREHEAD, SHADING HIS eyes. The two tourists were huddled at the edge of the cove, foolishly thinking it would protect them.

They had rehearsed this. The next steps were easy.

“Abdul, go through the trees and then to the first rock. Do not go into the water.” It was necessary to tell the Yemen this because he was a very simple man. “When you see that we have them, come back and meet Fallah at the edge of the beach, there”

Sahurah pointed to the eastern edge of the protected area. “Fallah, you will guard that side, in case they attempt to swim away. You may shoot them, but only if they are more than ten meters from us. Ten meters, you understand?”

“Of course.”

Adi looked at him expectantly. The motorboat was now approaching, moving toward the beach at a good clip, precisely as pla

“You and I will go in the boat,” Sahurah told the short one. “We will have to wade. Make sure the weapon does not get wet. If they do not come easily we will need it.”

BREANNA PULLED THROUGH THE WATER, PROPELLED BY HER fury. She was angry at Zen for sending her away, angrier still at whomever it was who was trying to kidnap or rob them.

Brunei was a paradise; how could this happen here?

The houses they had seen were no more than a mile away: 1,600 meters. One of her events in high school.

She’d never finished higher than third in it.

Brea

*   *   *

ZEN WATCHED AS THE BOAT CUT ITS ENGINES AND DRIFTED toward the shore. The thugs on the beach had rolled up their pants and started to wade out. One of them had a largish rifle, possibly a machine-gun like the M249 or Belgium Minimi, a squad-level weapon that fired 5.56-millimeter ammunition from magazines or belts, which could be held in a plastic box-like container clipped beneath the chamber area just ahead of the trigger.

They moved almost lackadaisically, obviously not seeing him as much of a threat. More than likely they didn’t know he had a gun.

The closer they got, the better his chances at hitting them with the pistol. On the other hand, the closer they got, the more difficult it would be to swim away.

But that wasn’t an option. They had a boat. He’d never outswim it in the open water. Nor would there be much chance of surprising them from the sea.

His goal wasn’t to escape. It was to distract them long enough that Brea

SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND DOWN ON THE GUNWALE OF THE speedboat as it came next to him in the water, trying to steady it before he pulled himself over the side. His ancestors had been fishermen, but Sahurah himself disliked boats; no matter how big, they seemed flimsy and unprotected against the awful power of the sea.