Armageddon

“Pickup truck, two men I think,” said Jalan. “Empty.”

“All right, be cool,” said Mack. He had expected the weapons dealers to show some caution, but was nonetheless disappointed that they were coming forward in a truck that obviously didn’t have the goods.

The pickup stopped about thirty feet from Mack. It left its high beams on; he took two steps to the right, avoiding the worst of the glare.

“Minister Smith?” said a voice that sounded more Hispanic than Filipino.

“In the flesh. Where are my missiles?”

The truck door opened. Mack’s men snapped their weapons up behind him—a nice little flourish, thought Mack—but the man proceeded across the concrete calmly. Something red flared in front of his face: he was smoking a short, monstrously fat cigar.

“Minister Smith,” said the man, sticking out his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. José Cadero, purveyor of goods.”

“Where are mine?” said Mack, not taking the man’s hand.

“Ah, Minister, first we make sure we have the money, then we complete the exchange.”

“No goods, no money,” said Mack.

“Ah, no one is trustworthy these days. But, as you are a new customer, this is understandable.”

He turned around and started to reach into his pocket. Mack slapped his hand on the man’s arm.

Despite his small size, Cadero had a large and hardened bicep; it felt like a boulder in Mack’s grip.

“I just have to give a signal,” said the man mildly.

Mack let go. Cadero took out a small walkie talkie, pressed the transmit button, and said “Sí.” Another truck, this one with a loud, unmuffled engine, started in the distance.

“Cigar’?” Cadero asked.

“Not right now,” said Mack.

Cadero smiled and took a big puff. “I must say, an impressive aircraft.”

“You don’t know how impressive,” said Mack.

“Oh, I have seen reports. It is a superplane. Did you bring Flighthawks?”

“They’re overhead,” lied Mack.

“Impressive,” said Cadero, looking upward. “I understand they fly by remote control and fire thirty-millimeter ca

“Twenty millimeter. Similar to the M61 in F-16s and F-15s”

Cadero smiled. “I can get shells.”

“Let’s focus on the Sparrows and bombs for now.”

An ancient American six-wheeled truck rolled slowly down the runway. It had a flatbed at the back; several boxes were stacked atop of it.

“Six people, all with M16s alongside the truck,” said Jalan.

“Thanks,” said Mack. “Don’t blow them up unless I tell you to”

“Were you talking to me?” asked Cadero.

“Just my crew,” said Mack. “They’re a little jumpy in the plane. You understand. Long flight and all. They want to stretch their trigger fingers.”

Cadero smiled, but seemed somewhat less easy than before. When the truck stopped, Mack walked to it and climbed up with Cadero. The air-to-air missiles were in long wooden crates marked “bicycles” in English, a rather half-hearted attempt at camouflage. Two of Cadero’s men took a box down and opened it for Mack; the long, fi

Mack jumped down to the ground and took the attaché case from Brown.

“Check them all,” he told him. “Then get them loaded.”

“Yes,” said Cadero. “The bombs are in the smaller boxes at the front,” he added, pointing at the truck bed. “You must be careful of the fuses. As I told Commodore McKe

“She told me,” said Mack.

“She drives a hard bargain,” added Cadero. “But she said you would perhaps be interested in future purchases?”

“We definitely would,” said Mack. “Better air-to-air missiles, air-to-ground—”

“Better air-to-air? Than the AIM-7? Very difficult,” said Cadero.

“Aw, come on, you can’t steal AMRAAMs?”

Cadero became indignant. “These weapons were not stolen. They were purchased.”

“Not a problem,” said Mack.

“That is for me?” asked Cadero.

Mack handed the attaché case over. Cadero turned without opening it.

“Not so fast,” said Mack. “You don’t leave until I’m sure those weapons work.”

“But how will you be sure?”

“I’m going to fire one from the air.”

“But that could take hours”

“Only ninety minutes if Brown here does everything I’ve told him to do. Right, Brown?”

“Ninety minutes, Minister.”

“Come on. You can sit on the flightdeck. It’ll be the thrill of a lifetime.”

“Well, thank you, but—”

“If you don’t, my people in the plane will kill you all. Which seems kind of a rotten way to start a business relationship.”

Cadero took a puff from his cigar. Mack realized they were both acting; the question was, who was better?

“It is an impressive aircraft,” said Cadero finally. “And perhaps if I see it up close I will be able to make more recommendations for sales.”

“That would be welcome,” said Mack.

“But your man—he knows how to arm the missiles and arrange for them to be fired?”

“You better hope he does,” Mack told the Filipino. “Because if he doesn’t, you’re going out the hatch.”

Brunei

0600

McKe

Her wingman, Captain Seyed, checked in as she crossed over the water. Both planes were carrying bombs as well as full loads for the minigun.

“Dragon One acknowledges,” she told him. “We’ll go out toward the ships as pla

“Roger that,” said the wingman. While Seyed’s flying skills were as yet unrefined, the pilot had a gung-ho grin and a forward-leaning gait—no substitute for experience or ability, she realized, but positive attributes nonetheless.

The charred hull of one of the patrol ships floated on its side a few miles away, surrounded by small boats that were continuing to search for survivors. The ship carried a complement of sixty men; according to the morning brief, thirteen had been recovered.

Exactly none had been rescued from the other craft, which was somewhere beneath the oil slick further north. A set of oil derricks sat to the west, lonesome and uneasy sentries.

“Dragon One, this is AF Control,” said the ground controller back at their war room.

“Dragon One acknowledges, AF Control,” said McKe

“We have an urgent request—the palace is under attack,” said the controller.

“The palace?”

“Police units are responding.”

“Get a forward-air-controller over there on the double,” McKe

Dreamland

11 October 1997, (local) 1730

Dog stood in the center of the command room, waiting for the feed to come through from the White House situation room. Finally, the screen blinked, and Jed Barclay’s pimple-studded face appeared.

“Colonel Bastian?”

“Hi, Jed.”

“President wants to speak to you, sir.”

The screen blinked, and Kevin Martindale appeared at the front of the room.

“Tecumseh, thanks for cutting short your weekend,” said Martindale.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve just had a National Security meeting discussing the situation in Brunei. Terrorists have launched a concerted attack against the entire country. There are rumors, which no one has been able to prove yet, that Malaysia may be involved as well. ASEAN is having an emergency session this evening, our time, to discuss the matter. In the meantime, it may be necessary to evacuate American nationals. The nearest carrier group was up north watching ‘ China and it’s going to be some time before they can get there in force, but they’re en route. Because your people are somewhat familiar with the sultan, I’d like you to stand by to offer assistance if necessary.”