Armageddon

During the nighttime, that is. They must be feeling their oats to operate during the day.

The nearest oil platform was only a few miles away. It’d be easy pickings for a missile or even a gun attack.

“Not getting an acknowledgment from the navy,” said Jalan.

“Get our ground control and give them the coordinates,” said Mack. “See who’s on alert—Dragonflies could probably take out that piece of tin with a couple of 250-pound bombs.”

“Minister—the vessel is targeting us with its radar,” said Jalan. “Its roof is opening”

Mack cursed as he realized what the strange craft was up to. By the time he leaned on the throttle the ship had launched two missiles at them. Mack fired off the last of his flares and poured on the dinosaurs, his heart pounding as the flat-footed Mega-fortress tried to pick up momentum against the SA-14s, small Russian heat-seekers similar to the American Stinger shoulder-launched anti-air missile. The weapons had a very limited range and small warheads; even so, the Megafortress’s tail caught some shrapnel as one of the warheads exploded.

Which really pissed Mack off.

As he banked back, he told Jalan to open up the bomb bay. “Minister?”

“Do it, Jalan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me the air-to-ground attack mode, standard bomb program one.”

The Megafortress’s computer hadn’t complained about firing the Sparrow missiles; while it had been designed to operate with the more advanced weapons, the system’s designers had realized there might be an emergency in the field and made sure the system was backward-compatible with earlier weapons. But now the computer refused to recognize that the missile was on its sling, even as Jalan and Brown tried the different air-to-ground attack modes.

“What about as a JDAM?” Mack asked, suggesting that the copilot tell the computer the missile was actually a guided bomb known as a JDAM or Joint Direct Attack Munition. The weapon was a modern version of an iron bomb, with a guidance system that could use either GPS coordinates or an internal guidance system to hit a precise point from relatively close range, usually no more than ten kilometers.

“Negative.”

And then Mack realized he was being far too clever.

“Reset the program back to the Sparrow parameters.”

Once the computer was ready, he brought up the targeting panel and told the weapons system that he had a bogey at low altitude.

Very, very low altitude.

The computer didn’t even hesitate.

“Target locked.”

“Fire at the motherfucker?’

“Unknown command”

“Fire Sparrow.”

“Launching.”

Off the coast of Brunei

0851

Too late, Dazhou realized he had misjudged his enemy. The big aircraft quickly ducked his missiles and locked its radar on him.

“Evasive maneuvers,” the captain said calmly, moving to the helm. “Active and passive countermeasures. Everything we have.” He gave the order to increase speed to maximum power.

The Barracuda slammed hard to the left and then the right. They thundered over the waves, tucking back to the south and picking up speed.

They were just touching two hundred when the missile struck the rear quarter of the craft.

Aboard Jersey, off the coast of Brunei

0854

“Missile struck the target,” said Jalan. “Starboard side at the rear.”

Mack put the Megafortress into a shallow dive, still wary. The ship was so strange that it could easily have some other trick up its sleeve—a laser anti-aircraft weapon, perhaps.

“He’s dead in the water,” reported Jalan as Mack banked a mile and a half from it. “Stern is settling. I think he’s taking on water.”

If he had had another missile loaded, Mack would have finished the stinker off. He debated getting in close and firing the airmines at it, but the weapon was designed to shred jet engines moving at high speed; it wasn’t particularly good at punching holes in anything thicker than an airplane fuselage.

And besides, he was down to three engines, had wing damage, and his fuel tanks contained a heck of lot more fumes than liquid.

“Tell the navy where that thing is,” Mack told Jalan. “We’re going home.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“And one other thing, Jalan.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You can call me Mack from now on. You’ve earned it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Minister.”

Off the coast of Brunei

0856

The disadvantage of a small crew became clear as Dazhou struggled to deal with the damage to the vessel. Automated pumps began bailing the compartments in the damaged section, and there seemed no question of sinking, but some of the control lines had been severed and even with its redundancies the Barracuda could no longer be steered. Two men crawled out through the access tu

That was small consolation at the moment. Dazhou had no option now except to call for help.

At least the Megafortress was gone.

Fools, thought Dazhou. They would meet again—and this time, he would be much better prepared.

Aboard Jersey, approaching Brunei IAP

0902

“This is Mack Smith aboard Brunei EB-52 One, Jersey. We are declaring a fuel emergency,” Mack repeated for the fifth or sixth time as he approached the airfield. “Repeat. I have a fuel emergency. I’m landing.”

“Still no answer from the tower,” said Jalan. “Maybe our radio was damaged in one of the attacks, because I’m not getting anything—no response at all.”

“All right,” said Mack. He had enough fuel to take one pass if he saw someone in the way, but that was it. The radar showed the air was clear, at least. He steadied into the approach, the airfield coming into view.

“Looks clear,” said Jalan.

“Yeah, okay.”

Mack kept expecting something to appear at the last second, even as the wheels hit the concrete. He didn’t relax until they were just about at the end of the long runway.

As they approached their hangar, he realized he didn’t see any of his security teams nearby, or even the maintenance people. In fact, the area looked deserted—none of the Dragonflies was on the ground.

As soon as they stopped, Mack left Jalan and the others to secure the aircraft. He hopped down the ladder, pausing on the Flighthawk deck, where his security team had spent a rather restless flight.

“All right, guys, let’s get the stuff unloaded and see what the situation is,” Mack shouted. One of the men looked a little green around the gills—and had a paper bag in his hand.

Poor guy, Mack thought to himself, lowering the ladder to the runway. He felt a surge of adrenaline, anxious to tell McKe

Too bad she wasn’t much of a looker, he thought as his feet touched the concrete. Hell, she was perfect in every other respect: maybe he should just close his eyes.

“That’s far enough,” said a voice behind him.

Mack, startled, started to turn.

The barrel of an AK47 caught him in the side of the face. A moment later, something hit him hard in the back of the legs. He cursed and reached for his gun.