Armageddon

“The prince and I have discussed his request, but I am staying with my people where I belong;” a

“Good,” said McKe

Bin Awg frowned but told the others what he knew of the situation in the rest of the country. Small army and police units were continuing to resist in the area south of the capital. Many men had gone underground and were said to be loyal, waiting only for leadership. The army’s third brigade had been untouched by the first wave of the attacks, and had set up a defensive perimeter around Medit in the southern part of the country, where it had been conducting maneuvers. It had armored perso

The navy had lost its two Russian patrol ships as well as two other smaller coastal patrol boats. Some of the remaining vessels had rendezvoused in the South China Sea under command of the assistant defense minister for the navy.

The prince recommended that the sultan join up with the main army group, which was roughly fifty miles away across a rough jungle.

“We may be able to bring in a helicopter at nightfall,” said the prince.

“How about getting some fuel for my airplanes?” said McKe

“I don’t know if we can find any. Fuel is hard to come by.”

McKe

“Get it up here by boat. We’ll carry it up to the airfield. Or better yet, use those helicopters you have. Get us some ammunition for the guns and we’re in business.”

Prince bin Awg started to speak, but the sultan cut him off. “Make it so,” he said.

The prince bowed his head.

Brunei International Airport

12 October 1997, 2100

Mack Smith folded his arms and pushed his back against the chair in the small room in the basement of the civilian terminal building. The side of his face had swelled where he’d been hit earlier; his lower lip sagged and his nose felt like it had been broken. But he was otherwise physically okay.

His pride sure hurt like hell. Taken by surprise on the tarmac by jerks in white pajamas with beach towels on their hair—how the hell was he ever going to live that embarrassment down?

Mack had been interviewed twice; in both cases the interviewers’ English was so poor that he hardly understood them when they asked his name, let alone their other questions. The men ended up shouting at him, but seemed under some restraint not to hit him. He’d simply waited them out until they left.

Mack figured that eventually the sultan would rally his troops and retake the airport. The question was how to survive in the meantime. He’d been a prisoner before—and in fact, had been captured by real Islamic madmen and transported all the way from Somalia to Libya. These guys were amateurs in comparison.

The hallway outside the room was carpeted, and Mack had no warning that someone was approaching until the door opened. A thin man in his mid- or late twenties entered the room. Unlike the others, he wore khaki fatigues and had on a bulletproof vest. He seemed confident, his step deliberate. Two of the pajama-boys with submachine guns came in behind him, standing by the door and pointing their weapons at Mack.

“You are an American:’ said the man. His English had an accent that sounded similar to the accents the Brunei officials Mack dealt with had; it was polished, and vaguely British.

“That’s right,” said Mack. “What are you?”

“I am Commander Sahurah Niu,” said the man. It was a simple declaration, not a brag. “Your name is what?”

“Mack Smith.”

“Smith is a very common name.”

Mack shrugged. “That’s what I’m told.”

“You are a pilot?”

“Sure”

“You flew the large aircraft?”

“Yup.” There was no use lying about that.

“Yup?”

“Means yes,” said Mack.

Sahurah’s eyes seemed to search Mack’s face, as if he were trying to look for clues that his prisoner could be trusted.

Yeah, trust me, Mack thought to himself. Trust me so I can screw you big time.

Once I come up with a plan.

“The big aircraft—it is a bomber?” asked the man.

“No,” said Mack. He wasn’t sure how much information Jalan or the other pilots would give the guerillas, so he had to be careful with his lies. But he wanted to steer them away from the possibility of using the aircraft as an offensive weapon.

On the other hand, if they thought it might be useful, maybe they’d put him in the cockpit A few high-g maneuvers and he’d be free.

“It’s a radar plane,” said Mack. “It, uh— the radar searches for other aircraft. It’s like an early warning system. It can be very useful when you’re under attack.”

“It contains no weapons?”

“Defensive weapons,” said Mack. “It can defend itself.”

Sahurah changed direction, asking how long Mack had been in the country.

“Couple of weeks,” he said.

“Where did the sultan go?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“We control the city. We will find him. When will the Americans come?”

“Which Americans?” Mack asked.

“Your marines,” said Sahurah.

“Any second,” said Mack.

Sahurah turned to one of the men at the door and said something in Malaysian. The man nodded and left.

“You will be fed,” he told Mack. “A cot will be brought. If you are mistreated, the man who does so will be punished”

“That’s awful nice of you,” said Mack, unable to control his sarcasm.

“No, it is merely the way the law directs a prisoner be treated,” said Sahurah, interpreting the words, not the tone. “I remind you that if you attempt to escape, you will be executed.”

“That’s the law, too?”

“Yes,” said Sahurah. He bowed his head slightly, then turned and left the room.

*   *   *

THE PAIN IN HIS HEAD WAS SO INTENSE THAT SAHURAH HAD to pause in the hallway and rub the sides of his temples in an effort to get it to stop. He had much to do and could not afford to stop now, even for such pain. He needed to find men who could tell him about the aircraft here; he needed to survey weapons, to prepare defenses for a counterattack, to make sure all of the brothers were being fed, to find a way to welcome the new recruits who were sure to pour in to their lines now that the decadent order had been swept away.

The Brunei pilot and the others who had been with Smith had been shot in the cockpit unwisely by the brothers who took the plane. Apparently one of the soldiers who had followed Smith down the ladder had started to fire, and from that point on there had been little discipline among the attackers. It was a miracle that the American had been spared, though Sahurah did not know what exactly was to be done with him; surely he could not be trusted in the aircraft.

“Commander, the Malaysians who were sent to man the antiaircraft weapons are complaining about their air-conditioning.”

The voice sounded as if it came from the opposite end of the hallway, but when Sahurah turned he found the man who had spoken just a few feet away.

“What is their complaint?” asked Sahurah.

“The air-conditioning needs to function or their equipment will not,” said the man.

“Find Salem the Yemen and tell him that a technician is needed to repair it.”

“Yes, Commander;” said the man, spi

Sahurah once more closed his eyes. He wanted to rest. But God did not want him to, not yet. And he must accept the wishes of his Lord. He took a breath that filled his chest, then resumed his inspection of the airport.

Aboard EB-52 “Pe